A midsummer night's dream @fr0stf4ll - Tumblr Blog

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 26

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 7k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; I think you guys start to understand that i'm a bit dramatic so keep that in mind ready this chapter. To be fully honest I started to write this chapter at least the main parts back in december (only chapter 13 was out at the time lol ) and ever since i just couldn't wait for the story to get this far to keep writing it. It's pretty hard this chapter is a lot don't get me wrong but thank you for those who keep reading this story, you guys are amazing ! love you all and see you soon <333

previous ✧

The sky— lit up.

Azriel skidded to a halt mid-run, chest heaving, blood still dripping from his side, lungs burning from the cold and panic and grief. But he looked up.

And the world stopped with him.

Every warrior. Every beast. Every creature and soldier still standing on that blood-soaked battlefield followed his gaze—drawn by instinct, by something older than fear.

Because the darkness was lifting.

The veil that Koshiev had draped over the sky, that choking void of lightless night—it began to unravel. Like torn silk. Like the last breath of a dying god.

And through the shreds of that eternal dark—

Stars began to fall.

Not like meteors.

Like blessings.

Like tears shed from the sky itself.

Silent. Slow. Glowing embers of stardust, they drifted down toward the battlefield. Toward the carnage.

And they touched the fallen.

Every body.

Warriors. Fae. Illyrian. Beast. Mortal.

Each one kissed by a soft pulse of starlight as the dust found them—wrapped them in silver-blue light, like a burial shroud spun from the cosmos.

Azriel’s breath caught.

His knees nearly gave out.

Because it wasn’t just beautiful. It was divine.

Like the heavens had come down to say: I see you.

The creatures—Koshiev’s beasts—froze.

Not one moved.

As if something in that light struck a chord they could not withstand. As if they recognized it—and were afraid.

Even they could feel it:

Life had entered the land of death.

And it terrified them.

Azriel dropped to his knees. He didn’t know why. Didn’t care. His blade clattered to the ground beside him.

He was crying before he realized it.

Because the stars weren’t just falling.

They were singing.

Soft. Wordless. A vibration in the soul.

The sound of every heartbeat that had stopped echoing one last time in the air. A farewell. A promise.

And in the middle of that silence—

Azriel whispered your name. And begged the stars to tell him where you were. If you were among the fallen. Or if you had become the light that was now falling to them all.

Even Koeshiev had stopped.

The death god stood still in the center of the battlefield, scythe slack in his hand, his inhuman form drawn tight, rigid. His head tilted back—toward the sky.

Toward the stars that were falling.

And for the first time, Azriel saw it.

Something human in him.

Not rage. Not cruelty.

But shock.

Fear.

A flicker of awareness in those ancient, depthless eyes. As if some force far greater than him—far older than death itself—had stepped into this realm and laid a hand on his shoulder.

And whispered: Enough.

Azriel couldn’t look away.

And then—

A soundless pulse rippled through the air.

Like the world inhaled.

And the battlefield shifted.

It began slowly.

Cassian’s severed wing—still lying in the mud across the field—shuddered. Twitched. And then, like summoned by an invisible hand, it lifted, flew, and reattached to his back in a flash of light and crackling magic.

Cassian screamed—not in pain, but in life. His eyes flew open, the dirt and blood smearing his face cracking as his skin repaired, muscles knitting back together with unnatural speed.

Nesta’s body arched—her breath returning in one violent gasp. Her fingers clawed the earth as silver light flared in her veins like wildfire being reignited.

Helion, lying limp with his arm gone—sat up. His golden magic swarmed around him like a cyclone, and before their eyes, his missing limb reformed—bone, muscle, skin—until it was whole again.

Kallias rose from a heap of broken ice and bone, frost swirling beneath his feet. His eyes glowed with a wild, dangerous blue.

Tamlin, still upright in death, breathed. His chest expanded. The arrows fell from his fur one by one, his monstrous body beginning to mend, eyes sharpening with fury and clarity.

Thesan and his mate—both dead—were wrapped in starlight. Their bodies began to stitch together, their heads lifting, lungs filling. His mate reached for him with trembling fingers. He took his hand.

And across the field—every soldier. Every broken warrior.

Rose.

Not staggering.

Not limping.

They stood.

As if some invisible will—a god not of death, but of life—had filled them like puppets on a string. But they weren’t hollow.

No.

They were focused.

And that was when Azriel realized:

They weren’t thinking about the ones they loved.

Rhysand and Feyre weren’t thinking of Nyx. Their bond had gone silent—eyes burning only with the will to fight.

Eris wasn’t thinking of his court. Of power. Of succession.

Varian forgot Amren’s name. Forgot her eyes. Forgot the promise they’d whispered in a garden weeks ago.

Kallias didn’t remember Viviane’s kiss that morning.

And Azriel—Azriel forgot you.

The bond still existed.

But it was like a veil had fallen over it.

As if the fire of your love had been temporarily blacked out by something ancient and absolute.

By the one command rising in every mind, every blood-fueled heart:

End this war.

End the god of death.

Their eyes glowed faintly—each one. Not with magic of their courts.

But with something else.

Something not entirely their own.

As if, just for this one final battle, life itself had possessed them.

And demanded justice.

The stillness broke—

Like a dam collapsing.

It began with a cry. A single voice—Azriel didn’t know whose. But it was war.

And the field erupted.

Soldiers surged forward from every direction, reborn with purpose carved into their veins. Fae warriors leapt onto beasts three times their size. Illyrian blades met scales and bone, their wings slicing through the air like thunder. Steel clashed with claw. Magic exploded like lightning along the ground.

Cassian flew above the fray, his newly reformed wing beating hard as he dove straight into a line of snarling creatures, his sword arcing in a wide, blazing sweep that cleaved through three in one blow.

Nesta moved like fire incarnate beside him—silver flames crackling along her arms, cutting through everything in her path, her face cold and merciless.

Helion screamed as he unleashed a wall of golden flame that spiraled into the dark creatures, incinerating anything it touched. Kallias followed it with a blast of jagged ice, freezing the ground beneath their enemies, locking them in place before Viviane shattered them with spears of wind.

Thesan and his mate moved as one—light and healing turned weapon. Every time a beast neared them, it was disintegrated in an arc of shimmering radiance.

Tamlin in his beast form tore through the enemy lines, his roars shaking the sky, fangs red with blood, rage pouring from his every step.

And at the heart of it all—

Koshiev stood.

Unmoving.

Watching.

But it was time.

The High Lords began to move.

Rhysand was the first.

He rose into the sky, violet power swirling around him, shadows and stars exploding from his palms.

Feyre joined him—her light a perfect counterbalance. Her wings shimmered with night. Her eyes were pure fire.

And then the others followed—

Helion, golden and fierce, forming the outer ring.

Kallias, frost licking at the air around him, his power a storm held just barely in check.

Tarquin, glowing blue-green like the ocean during a hurricane.

Thesan and his mate, rising last, each of them radiant, joined at the hand, forming the crown of the spell.

Seven High Lords. Seven cores of power. And one goal.

They formed a circle in the sky—above Koshiev, above the battlefield.

Magic began to gather.

It wasn't like any spell Azriel had ever seen.

It wasn’t a weapon.

It was a sentence.

A seal written in stars and blood and the will of all living things.

Koshiev looked up at them—and for the first time, his form shuddered.

He lifted his scythe—

But it was too late.

Their power crashed down like a comet.

Seven court magics braided together, swirling in a vortex that wrapped around the death god. A column of light and dark and fire and wind. It didn’t strike him—

It bound him.

Koshiev screamed.

The kind of scream that curdled blood. That splintered bone. That made the world itself tremble.

And Azriel, watching from below, knew—

They had him.

The death god was falling.

And for the first time in centuries—

Life was winning.

It was over.

There was no sound.

No cries. No cheers. No final scream from the death god. No hum of power in the air.

Just silence.

And stillness.

The wind did not blow. The snow did not fall. The battlefield lay frozen—not in ice, but in awe.

No one moved.

Because no one knew how.

How to understand what had happened. How to accept it.

They had won.

Prythian was safe. The death god was gone—sealed, ended, vanished. Every beast that had served him dissolved into ash. The air was clean again. The stars above remained.

And somehow…

Everyone who had died was alive again.

Thesan stood, pale but breathing, hand entwined with his mate’s. Cassian had both his wings, blood crusting on his skin but his eyes bright. Nesta stood at his side, shaking with adrenaline.

Tamlin knelt in his beast form, exhaling as if he’d just been reborn. Helion clutched his arm—whole again—and laughed through quiet, stunned tears.

They were all alive.

All of them.

Except—

Azriel.

Azriel didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He stood in the center of the battlefield, shadows whispering around him, and stared up at the sky. At the place where the death god had fallen.

And then he ran.

He didn’t care about the blood, or his broken ribs, or the shouting behind him.

He needed to find you.

He needed to feel you.

The others watched him go. Some cried. Some shouted his name.

But he didn’t hear them.

He would not stop until he felt the bond—

And then—

He did.

Or didn’t.

He froze.

Because Rhys was there, crying, crumpling against Feyre with Cassian and Nesta beside them. And when Rhys looked at Azriel, his eyes—glistening with tears—shifted.

Something passed through them.

And then—

“Az?” he said softly.

And Azriel knew.

He knew before he even reached your tent. Before he saw the body. Before he collapsed to his knees and screamed without sound.

He knew.

Because he couldn’t feel your heart.

Not slow. Not faint.

Nothing.

The bond was gone.

Not dimmed.

Not clouded.

Broken.

You were gone.

Truly gone.

And the moment he realized that—

Azriel didn’t feel like a warrior.

He felt like a man made entirely of emptiness.

And for the first time since the day he was born into flame and shadow—

He begged someone, anyone, to take his place.

A few moments before the sky lit with stars and life returned to the battlefield—

There was only darkness.

The kind that silenced breath.

That turned fire to ash.

The kind that made the strongest warriors freeze.

You stood in the center of the healer's tent, your body barely upright, one hand gripping the edge of the supply table for balance. Your magic had long run dry. The residue of what you’d burned to save the camp still bled quietly inside your veins.

The air had shifted. Not with cold or wind—but with something final.

And then the sky—

Went black.

Not like nightfall. Not like a storm.

But empty.

No stars. No moon. No warmth.

Just the overwhelming presence of something ancient and merciless.

Every healer, every soldier, every volunteer stopped. Looked up.

And knew.

They had lost.

That’s what everyone thought—what you thought.

This was the end.

Koeshiev’s army would arrive any second, sweeping over the southern hill with weapons and shadows and death at their back.

You could already see it, feel it.

The children in the small villages nearby. The elders who couldn't run. The families in their warm homes.

All of them—gone.

The Night Market in the Dawn Court—its glowing lanterns and laughter—extinguished. The ancient libraries of the Day Court, their priceless scrolls and knowledge—burned.

And after that?

Velaris.

The City of Starlight.

The place that had become your home.

You could see it as if you stood in the Sidra’s shadow—blood in the river, ash on the breeze, people crying in the streets as the end reached them with cold hands.

You saw Amren. Elain. Nyx.

You saw him.

Azriel.

And your heart shattered.

Because you knew—

If Koshiev wasn’t stopped here, now, today—

He would kill them all.

And none of your strength could stop it.

Your knees buckled. You collapsed beside the cot where a young Illyrian boy still bled out, your hand shaking as you reached for him—

Not to heal.

Just to hold.

To not die alone.

Because this…

This was how it ended.

Outside the healer’s tent, the world had gone still in its darkness. The kind of still that wrapped around your lungs and squeezed, that told you you were standing at the edge of something irreversible.

Inside, the wounded stirred in silence. Some prayed. Some wept. Some just held their breath, waiting for the screams to reach them.

And Ather—Ather had had enough.

He didn’t say anything as he grabbed his sword from where it leaned beside the tent entrance, blood still crusted along the hilt. His movements were too fast, too frantic, his breaths short and uneven.

He threw his coat on, adjusted his siphons—though he barely had the strength to use them—and stormed toward the flap of the tent.

“Where the fuck are you going?!”

Elira’s voice cracked.

She stood from the basin she had been scrubbing, her hands trembling, red from cold and blood. Her eyes were already rimmed with tears, shining in the darkness that filtered through the tent.

Ather didn’t turn. “I’m not going to sit here waiting to die.”

“That’s not your job,” she snapped. “You’re not a one-man army—none of us are! And if the High Lords fell, what the hell do you think you’re going to do out there with a sword and a limp?”

He stopped. His hand clenched around the hilt.

“Elira—”

“No! Don’t ‘Elira’ me!” Her voice cracked again. “You’re scared—we’re all scared—but don’t you dare go out there just to die pretending you did something. Don’t you dare.”

Ather turned around, and something in him—something barely holding it together—snapped.

“Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?!” he roared, voice echoing off the canvas. “Stand here while everything burns? While she dies? While they all die?”

He shook his head, stepping back like the words hurt him more than her slap could have. “I can’t do nothing. Not again.”

And Elira—

Elira lost it.

She shoved the tray off the supply table. It clattered to the ground, the crash startling the few healers left to their feet. She choked out a sob, covering her mouth.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know… but—”

Her voice broke completely.

Ather dropped the sword.

Walked across the space between them, still limping, and grabbed her—wrapped her in his arms like it was the last thing he would ever do.

Elira collapsed into his chest, crying now, hard and loud. She hit his chest once, weakly, then again. And then she just held on.

And Ather—

Ather held her like she was the only thing keeping him from breaking, too.

You looked around.

The tent was no longer a place of healing.

It was a place of mourning.

Not for the dead—no, the dead had not yet come.

But for themselves.

For what they all knew was coming.

Some healers had stopped working entirely. They stood in corners, arms wrapped around each other, silently crying as if that would be the last warmth they’d ever know.

Others had sunk to the floor, murmuring prayers to gods they didn’t believe in.

One warrior—his stomach torn open, already half in death—grabbed the sleeve of a passing healer and begged. Begged to be given a peaceful death now. Before the monsters arrived. Before the darkness swallowed them whole.

And no one—no one—knew how to answer.

You stood at the center of it all, and the crushing weight of it finally, fully, settled onto your chest.

All the effort. All the battles. The blood. The pain. The magic burned. The sleepless nights.

For nothing.

You would never go home.

You would never again sleep in the safety of that quiet room where Azriel wrapped his wings around you like a promise.

You would never walk barefoot through your garden, or hear Madja’s voice echo in the clinic, or hear the sound of Azriel’s laugh while reading over reports at the dining table.

You would never raise children in that house, with soft steps and lullabies echoing in the halls.

Never.

A single tear slid down your cheek.

Maybe—

Maybe you should have never come to the Night Court.

Maybe you should’ve burned that letter when it arrived—summoning you to Velaris, asking you to succeed Madja.

You could’ve disappeared. Far into the continent. Found a quiet life. A small home. Lived in peace.

No war. No screams. No gods of death tearing your world apart.

Just calm.

Just safety.

Just nothing.

But that would’ve meant—

No Rhysand and his quiet strength.

No Feyre and the way she always, always made you feel seen.

No Cassian’s jokes and booming laugh. No Nesta’s fire. No Amren’s knowing smirks.

No Nix.

No Mor.

And worst of all—

No Azriel.

No quiet moments pressed against his chest. No shadowy whispers in the dark. No way the world felt right when he held you.

No love that made you believe you were more than a healer, more than a tool, more than a survivor.

And you realized—

Maybe…

Maybe it was worth it.

Maybe it was worth dying.

For them.

For him.

For the love that changed everything.

Lila and Veras looked at you.

And they knew.

There was no point in asking if you were okay.

Because you weren’t.

You were not here.

Not really.

Your skin had gone so pale you looked half-ghost already. The blood had drained from your cheeks, your lips, your fingertips. You didn’t tremble. You didn’t blink too much or too little. You simply… existed, like something untethered.

And something was wrong.

So deeply, undeniably wrong.

You tried to look at them, to say something—but your body didn’t respond. Your lips didn’t move. Your limbs didn’t feel like they belonged to you anymore.

You weren’t thinking.

Not in words.

Not in thoughts.

Just a blank, cold awareness—as if your soul had stepped back and something else had stepped forward.

You turned.

And crossed the tent.

Each step quiet. Measured. No hesitation.

You walked past the rows of wounded, past the cots, past the last group of stunned volunteers frozen in grief.

You stopped at the weapons rack near the tent’s entrance, where one of the guards used to stand before he'd joined the defense line hours ago. His bow remained, propped against the canvas wall.

You didn’t even know why, not truly.

But you reached for it. Fingers closing around the carved wood like you’d always known it was meant for you.

It hummed in your hand.

And then—

You walked.

Through the tent flaps. Into the cold.

The snow did not touch you.

The wind did not move you.

Ather and Elira had still been half-embraced, tears drying on their cheeks when they saw you pass.

They froze.

Ather’s lips parted, confused, wide-eyed. “Y/N?”

Elira called your name, sharper, a rising note of panic. “Y/N—”

But you didn’t answer.

Didn’t hear them.

Your eyes were vacant. Your hair, stirred by something unseen, floated around your face like smoke. You looked like you belonged to the sky now—not the ground.

They tried to step forward. To follow.

But they couldn’t.

Their feet refused to move. As if something had rooted them to the earth.

As if every instinct screamed—

Let her go.

And so you did.

You walked alone into the night.

Carrying death. Or life. Or something in between.

You walked through the forest—

Not running.

Not stumbling.

Fast. Quiet.

As if the trees themselves parted before you, as if the world dared not slow your steps.

Snow fell gently from the canopy above—but it melted the moment it touched your skin. Your bare feet touched the frozen earth, and where they landed, life bloomed.

Delicate green tendrils curled out of the frost. Buds of light blossomed into flowers—soft, luminous things that had never grown in this forest before. Their petals opened for you alone.

But they were not meant to last.

With every step forward, the moment your foot lifted from the ground, death followed. The flowers wilted, crumbled into dust. The grass turned grey. Leaves blackened and curled in on themselves.

It was not cruel.

It was not beautiful.

It was balance.

Life and death rippled behind you in perfect symmetry, neither taking more than the other. The forest held its breath as you passed through it, the silence so deep it felt like the trees were watching.

There were no thoughts.

No fear.

Only purpose.

And that purpose burned like a star inside your hollow chest.

You were not yourself.

Not entirely.

You were something more.

You walked until the forest thinned—until it opened into wind and sky, until you stood at the edge of a high cliff, the breath of the mountain curling around your ankles.

From there, you saw it.

The battlefield.

The ruin.

The broken bodies.

The craters of magic still steaming in the snow.

You saw the blood. The monsters. The High Lords still fighting. The dead gods and the dying skies.

And yet—

You felt nothing.

No terror.

No sorrow.

No rage.

It all looked so small from here.

Like pieces on a board, scattered across a table that you no longer belonged to.

The bow was still in your hand, though you didn’t remember gripping it tighter. Your hair swayed softly behind you, untouched by the wind, glowing faintly beneath the starlight.

Because you were no longer just a healer.

No longer just a woman.

You were every birth and every burial that had ever been.

You were what came after the war songs ended.

And what waited before the first sword was ever drawn.

And now—

You would fulfill your purpose.

And the world would remember it.

You lifted the bow in your hand.

It felt weightless.

Right.

Like it had always been waiting for you. Like you had been waiting for it.

There was no thought. No hesitation. No grief, no goodbye.

Just… knowing.

As if every step you’d ever taken—every breath, every healing, every scar—had been leading here.

This was your purpose.

The one truth your soul had always carried but never spoken aloud.

You breathed in.

And placed your left hand gently over your chest—over your heart.

And pulled.

Your fingers closed around something not entirely physical. Not entirely magic. It glowed with a light unlike anything born from stars or fire or spellcraft.

An arrow.

Made not of wood or steel, but of soul.

Of you.

Its shaft shimmered with the silver-white pulse of starlight and shadow. Its fletching was made of threads that danced and twisted, alive with power. From its base, a chain extended—glowing, winding, trailing downward.

Into your chest.

Into your heart.

There was no pain.

No blood. No wound. No mark.

It was as if your body simply let it go—because it understood.

You nocked the arrow into the bow.

And you didn’t aim at the battlefield.

You didn’t aim at Koshiev.

You aimed higher.

Into the sky. Into the blackness he had cast. The endless void above that had swallowed stars and hope and every whisper of the Mother’s grace.

And you released.

The arrow flew.

A single, brilliant streak of light.

Straight upward—cutting through the dark like a blade through silk.

The chain extended behind it—pulling. Unwinding. Tugging on the essence of your being, drawing it upward with every heartbeat.

And still—

No pain.

Only release.

And when the arrow reached the top of the sky—everything changed.

The darkness shattered.

With no sound, no explosion—just light.

A sky full of stars reappeared like breath rushing into empty lungs. The moon returned. The blackness dissolved like dust caught in wind.

And in that moment—your entire soul followed the chain.

All of it.

You didn’t fall.

You didn’t scream.

You simply let go.

And every part of you that had ever been—

Was gone.

It hit you.

The moment the light cleared and the sky healed—it hit you.

Your knees buckled.

Your hand flew to your chest.

But there was nothing.

No heartbeat.

No warmth.

No life.

Your fingers pressed against skin that had already started to chill. And then—

Blood.

Not from a wound inflicted by a blade, but from the very place your soul had once lived.

It poured from your chest.

From your mouth.

From your ears.

From your eyes.

Red mixing with the tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

Because suddenly—

You remembered.

What you had done.

What that other presence—the divine push, the unstoppable purpose—had made you do.

You had fulfilled your duty.

You had saved them.

Everyone was alive. The darkness was gone. The war could be won now.

Prythian would live.

Azriel would live.

But not you.

You reached—

You tried to reach for him.

To feel the bond.

To feel even a whisper of his soul, of his warmth, of that quiet, steady hum that had become your constant.

But it was gone.

The bond was gone.

There was nothing left to hold onto.

No tether. No thread.

Just silence.

And in that silence—

You understood.

Koshiev hadn’t killed you.

You had.

To save them. To finish what no one else could. You had given your soul, your heart—yourself—so they could live.

So he could live.

And that thought—

That final, quiet thought—

Let them live.

Let him live.

Was the last thing that passed through your mind before the world tilted—

And you fell.

To the cold earth.

To the snow.

To silence.

Heartless. Gone. Free.

When Azriel arrived at the camp, his entire body was trembling.

His shadows whipped around him in agitation, nearly frantic. The world—the camp—was celebrating.

Warriors cheered, clutching one another with half-shocked laughter. Some of the wounded had risen from their cots, hugging healers, sobbing in joy. Magic sparked harmlessly in the air, glinting off the snow like stardust.

But none of it reached him.

None of it felt real.

He didn’t know if Rhys or Cassian had followed him—he didn’t care.

He couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding harder, faster, more violently as his eyes scanned the crowd.

And then—

He saw them.

Elira.

Collapsed into Ather’s shoulder, sobbing. Her whole body wracked with grief, as if it was trying to tear itself apart. Ather held her, but even he looked shattered, his jaw tight, his gaze cast to the sky like if he looked up hard enough, he could keep the tears from falling.

But it wasn’t just grief.

It wasn’t shock.

It was knowledge.

And when Ather’s red-rimmed eyes finally found Azriel’s across the chaos, the shadowsinger stopped breathing.

Because there was no celebration in that look.

No relief.

Only mourning.

Only one, small, heartbroken nod.

Azriel ran.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

He ran like something inside him had cracked open—like the ground beneath him had vanished and only one path remained.

Through the tents.

Past the stunned, smiling faces.

Through the edge of the camp and into the trees.

His shadows screamed in his ears, tugging him, guiding him, howling with urgency.

He didn’t know where he was going.

He didn’t need to know.

He just needed to see you.

Even if it was too late.

Even if he already knew—he knew—

That he was only running to say goodbye.

Azriel crashed into the forest like a storm.

Branches tore at his arms, his face, snagged in his hair. The trees blurred past him, limbs reaching like twisted fingers—as if the forest itself was trying to stop him. As if it knew what lay ahead, and in some broken, ancient wisdom, it begged him not to look.

The snow beneath his boots shifted with every step, uneven and thick, threatening to slow him, to trip him. His wings ached. His lungs burned. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Because something deeper than instinct was dragging him forward.

Dread.

Not the kind that whispered in the dark.

The kind that screamed.

The kind that tore through his bones, clawed through his ribs and settled behind his eyes like fire. His shadows circled him in tight, frantic spirals—they didn’t guide him now. They mourned. They knew.

And every step deeper into the trees made it harder to breathe.

It wasn’t just panic.

It was the forest.

Alive. Heavy. Silent.

Like it had held its breath the moment you passed through it and never exhaled.

Azriel stumbled, caught himself on a trunk slick with frost. His hand trembled. His knees nearly gave out. His heart thudded once—loud and sharp—and then began to race again.

He was close.

Too close.

But the air felt wrong. Too still. Too sacred. As if he didn’t belong here anymore. As if whatever lived here now wasn’t for him.

And that only made him run harder. Faster.

Because he would belong anywhere you were.

Even if it was already too late.

And then—

He saw you.

Lying still at the edge of the forest clearing.

The snow around you had melted into a soft, glistening bed of frost-kissed grass. And where the cold once reigned, white lilies had bloomed, hundreds of them. Silent. Unmoving. Grown in a perfect circle around your body.

As if the earth itself had crowned you in mourning.

The moon hung directly above, casting its silver light over your skin, your hair, the gentle slope of your shoulders. The bow lay beside you, untouched. The chain from the arrow had vanished.

And you—

You looked peaceful.

Like you were only sleeping.

Like you had never cried.

Like you had never bled.

Azriel stopped moving.

Stopped breathing.

For a moment, the shadows around him vanished—fled.

Because they couldn’t look.

“Y/N…” he whispered, and the word cracked in his throat. Broke something inside him.

He didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know how to move forward.

Because if he took one step closer—

It would be real.

If he looked too long—

He’d see the truth.

That there was no rise and fall of your chest. No fluttering of lashes. No warmth left in the air where you lay.

So he moved slowly.

As if a single wrong step would shatter the moment.

As if touching you too soon would make you disappear.

And still—

He came to you.

Because he had to.

Because you were his.

He fell to his knees.

Hard. Uncontrolled.

The impact jarred through his entire body, but he didn’t feel it.

Because his arms were already around you.

And the moment your weight fell into him, the moment he pulled you against his chest and felt how still you were—

Azriel shattered.

A sound ripped from him.

Not a word.

Not your name.

A sob—deep, broken, raw. Like it had clawed its way up from the center of his soul.

“No. No, no, no…”

His hands clutched at you—your back, your arms, your hair. Anything he could hold onto. Anything that still felt like you.

Your skin was cold.

Your lips were pale.

Your body—too still.

“Y/N—please—”

He was begging now. Desperately. Incoherently.

“Wake up—please just—gods—wake up—I can’t—I can’t do this without you—”

He rocked you in his arms, pressing your body tighter to his, as if that alone could warm you. As if his heart might be strong enough to beat for both of you.

Tears streamed down his face, soaking into your hair.

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Because this was it.

You were gone.

You had done it—you had saved them. All of them.

And he hadn’t been able to stop you.

Azriel pressed his forehead to yours, his whole body trembling.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I should’ve stopped you—gods, I should’ve known…”

And the spiral began—

His mind spinning out.

What if he’d flown faster?

What if he’d never let you fight?

What if he’d held you tighter that morning?

What if he’d just—

been enough to save you?

And for the first time in his long, brutal life—

Azriel didn’t know how to survive this.

His hand trembled as he reached for your face.

There was blood dried on your cheeks—where it had run from your eyes. It had mixed with your tears. With his tears now.

Azriel wiped it away with the gentlest touch he had ever given anything in his life. Fingers shaking, breath catching on every movement.

But nothing changed.

You didn’t stir.

Didn’t sigh.

Didn’t lean into the warmth like you used to.

And then his eyes dropped—he couldn’t help it—to your chest.

To the hollow space where your heart should have been.

There was no beating.

There was no spell that could reach that far. No magic that could regrow what had been given away.

He couldn’t even try to bring you back.

Because there was nothing left to bring back.

Just your body.

Cold. Beautiful. Gone.

Azriel made a sound like something inside him cracked open.

And he pulled you to him again, hugging you tighter—so tightly that if you’d been alive, it might’ve hurt. But you weren’t. And he couldn’t let go.

He buried his face in your hair, in your neck.

And sobbed.

“You’re dead,” he choked. “You’re really—gods, you’re really gone.”

And it was his fault.

His fault.

He should’ve protected you. He should’ve known. Should’ve followed you that day in the healer tent. Should’ve pulled you out, flown away with you, dragged you far from this war, this fate.

He should’ve left with you before any of this happened. Kept you hidden. Kept you safe.

You were his mate.

And he had failed you.

He held you like he could still change it.

Like if he just held tight enough, hard enough, the Mother would give you back.

But you stayed still.

Cold.

Gone.

And Azriel cried harder than he ever had in his entire life.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there.

Holding you.

Rocking you gently in his arms, whispering things you couldn’t hear anymore. His tears had stopped falling only because he had no more left to give.

And then—

Warmth.

The softest breeze stirred through the forest, brushing over his wings, his shoulders, the back of his neck.

Not cold like the mountain winds. Not biting or cruel.

But warm.

A breath. A sigh. A touch.

And it wrapped around him.

Azriel’s head lifted, his face still streaked with salt and blood.

And that’s when he felt it.

You.

Your body in his arms—had become lighter.

He looked down—

And froze.

Tiny fragments of light were lifting from your skin.

Softly. Slowly.

Bits of gold, silver, and starlight lifting like petals into the air. Not violently. Not like dust in a storm. But gentle. Like the world was releasing you.

You were disappearing.

Piece by piece.

Your skin. Your hair. Your fingertips. Your smile.

All of it—becoming light.

Azriel’s breath shattered.

“No. No, no, no, no—”

He tried to grab at the pieces—his hands flying out, trembling, desperate. Trying to catch them, to hold them in. Like if he could pull you back together with the strength of his love alone, you’d return.

But every fragment of you passed through his fingers.

Glowing. Soft. Weightless.

He sobbed again—crumpling forward as more and more of you dissolved. Your shoulder. Your arms. Your waist. Your legs.

“Please—please don’t go—”

He wasn’t even standing anymore.

Couldn’t even kneel properly.

He was folded over, on the ground, clawing at light with his fingers, too broken to breathe.

The last remnants of you—your light—floated slowly upward.

Into the sky.

And he was left beneath it, gasping for air, cradling nothing but the hollow where you used to be.

Where his heart had belonged.

“No… no, Y/N…”

The words fell from his lips like a breath he couldn’t hold. Like he was trying to wake from a nightmare and couldn’t remember how.

His eyes followed the last of your light as it floated up, disappearing into the moonlit sky like a star returning to its place among the heavens.

And in that moment—

Azriel looked lost.

Completely.

Utterly.

He stared upward, mouth parted, but no sound came. His chest heaved but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear.

It was as if the world had gone quiet around him.

Blind.

Mute.

Everything was gone.

And then—

Clink.

A single, soft sound broke through the silence.

So small.

So impossibly loud.

Azriel flinched.

His gaze dropped to the ground.

And there it was.

Your wedding ring.

Lying alone in the grass where your body had once been.

Still warm from your skin.

It had fallen when the last light of you had gone.

He stared at it.

Stared for far too long.

As if his mind couldn’t comprehend what it meant.

As if it couldn’t be real.

As if that tiny, shining thing was all that was left of the life he’d built with you—of the promises, the kisses, the whispered “I love you”s.

His hand reached out, shaking, hesitant.

And when his fingers closed around the ring, Azriel fell forward—

And screamed.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 25

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 6.6k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; Ok so this chapter was prettyyyyy hard for me to write and i really hope that you guys will enjoy it. To be fair it's rather violent and sometimes it looks better in my mind than on paper hehe. We are getting close to the end of this story but thank you for those who are still reading it ! Either way see you soon <333

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You struggled to stand that morning.

It wasn’t the exhaustion, though it clung to every part of your body like fog. It wasn’t the lingering pain in your muscles or the tremble in your magic from the day before. It wasn’t even the physical toll of nearly burning yourself alive to save the camp.

It was the air.

It was today.

The end of the war.

Or the end of everything.

You woke in Azriel’s arms, the tent cloaked in silence. His breathing was steady against your neck. His shadows were still curled protectively around you, as if they could keep time itself from moving forward. As if they could keep this day from arriving.

But it had.

The moment you opened your eyes, you felt it.

The world had changed.

It was like the air itself had turned colder—heavier. Like every breath scraped against your ribs. Not from pain. Not from fatigue.

But from fear.

Pure, unfiltered fear.

Today, every court would throw their full force at Koshiev’s army. No more strategy. No more delay. All the power of Prythian was gathering like a wave that would either wash him away or break everything trying.

You couldn’t breathe.

Not really.

Not when your heart had already started to break in ways it hadn’t even been wounded yet.

Azriel stirred beside you. His hand tightened around your waist before he even opened his eyes, as if he already felt the weight pressing down on your chest.

You turned toward him, barely able to meet his gaze.

His eyes were soft. Terrified.

Not for himself.

For you.

The moment your eyes met his, the floodgates opened—and you didn’t cry. Not yet.

But you moved into his arms like you’d drown without him.

And he held you.

He held you so tight, so fiercely, it felt like he was trying to fuse you to him. Like if he just held on hard enough, you’d both stay here. In this tent. In this breath. In this life.

Your hands gripped the back of his shirt. His face pressed into your neck.

You could feel him shaking.

You weren’t sure if it was him or you.

And when your lips found his temple, trembling and cold, you whispered, “I’m so scared.”

Azriel nodded against your skin.

“So am I.”

And still—you held each other. Held each other like it was the last time.

Because some part of you feared it might be.

You couldn’t stop crying.

Silent tears ran down your face, your throat clenched so tightly you couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. You were trying to be strong—you always had been—but here, in Azriel’s arms, with the weight of everything pressing against your chest, you broke.

“I don’t want this to be goodbye,” you choked out. “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and not find you there. I don’t want this to be the last time I touch you, or kiss you, or tell you I love you. I don’t want to die without—”

“Hey,” Azriel said, voice cracking. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your tears even as his own eyes filled with them. “Hey, don’t… don’t talk like this is the last time.”

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. Desperate, soft kisses that tasted like salt and hope and fear.

“We’re going to win,” he said, firmer now, anchoring himself in the words. “We found a way to hurt him—to really hurt him. It’s going to be hard, but we have a chance. And we’re not giving it up.”

You nodded through the tears, clutching his wrists like they were lifelines.

“When it’s over,” he whispered, “we’re going back to Velaris. Our home. Just the two of us. And I’m going to hold you every gods-damned night until the stars burn out.”

You let out a sob, and he kissed it away.

“So don’t cry,” he murmured. “Don’t cry, love. This is the closest we’ve ever been to going home. It might not be as long as the war with Hybern five hundred years ago, but it’s the hardest war I’ve ever fought.”

He pulled you close again, holding you like you were everything good he’d ever known.

“The first war I’ve fought with so much at stake.”

You buried your face in his neck, shaking.

“And I love you,” he breathed, the words trembling with emotion. “From the deepest part of my heart, from the moon and the stars and everything between them. I thank the Mother every day for bringing you back to the Night Court… to Velaris… and to me.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck.

And you stayed like that—wrapped in each other, scared and shaking and in love—as the day began to rise around you.

The final day.

It took everything in you not to fall apart again.

Even as Azriel helped you stand. Even as his shadows danced nervously around the room, mirroring the tremble you were trying to keep from your limbs.

Your breathing was shallow. Your hands were ice. And still—you forced your body to move, to dress, to try and look like someone who wasn’t barely holding the fraying threads of their courage together.

Azriel didn’t say anything as he tightened the straps on your outer cloak, or as he helped you pull your gloves on. His fingers lingered at your wrists. Not ready to let go.

Because he could feel it too.

The end was here.

You stood in front of each other for a long moment, staring. Your chests moved in unison, shallow and strained.

And then you stepped forward and rested your forehead against his. His hands came to cradle your face once more.

Neither of you spoke.

Not yet.

Because the moment you said the words—the moment you named the goodbye—it would be real.

But eventually, you had to leave the tent.

You both stepped outside, boots crunching softly in the frozen grass, the air colder than it had been in days. The sky above you was iron gray, thick with clouds.

And your hands were still linked.

Tightly.

Like you were holding back the tide.

The camp was alive around you—warriors preparing, generals shouting, healers lining up supplies. The sounds were dulled in your ears. Muffled. All you could hear was your breath, and Azriel’s.

Neither of you spoke.

You walked together in silence, step by step, until you reached the point where paths split—the one that led to the front lines, and the one that led to the healer tents and triage fields.

This was it.

Your battlefield was full of the dying.

His was full of the ones trying not to die.

You stopped walking.

And finally, finally—you looked at each other again.

You reached up and cupped his face. “Come back to me.”

His hands were already on your hips. “I swear it.”

He paused, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “But listen to me—if things go south… if anything starts to unravel, I will come find you. No matter what battlefield I’m on.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head, gently.

“I mean it. I’ll come to you. But you have to promise me something too.”

You blinked up at him, the world tilting.

“Don’t put yourself in danger. Not for anyone. Not even for me.”

Your throat clenched.

“I need you to live, Y/N,” he said, voice low and ragged. “I need you to come back to me too.”

And you did the only thing you could do in that moment.

You leaned up and kissed him, long and slow and desperate. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, and you kissed him again. One more time. One more.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips.

“I love you more,” he answered, voice barely steady.

A last touch.

A last glance.

And then you stepped away.

Each of you walking toward death, in your own way.

One to fight it on the field. The other to fight it in blood and breath and fading heartbeats.

And with every step, your bond burned like a promise between you.

Come back.

You found Ather and Elira not far from the central triage tent.

Ather was seated on an overturned crate, his wings half-folded and wrapped in protective cloth, one foot lightly bandaged. Elira stood beside him, arms crossed, giving him a pointed look as he tested putting weight on his injured leg.

“You are not going back out there until your foot is fully healed,” she said, brows arched in full healer authority.

“It’s mostly healed,” Ather argued, wobbling slightly as he took a defiant step. “It only stings a little. Which is basically normal pain, so—”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Charmingly stubborn,” he corrected with a grin.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped from your throat. “Looks like I caught you both mid-negotiation.”

Ather looked up, his entire face lighting when he saw you. “Y/N!”

He nearly toppled off the crate in his excitement, but Elira caught his shoulder just in time.

You walked over and crouched beside him, one hand brushing over the bandage on his ankle. “How’s the foot?”

He shrugged. “I mean… it hurts. But it’s better than I expected. Elira says no flying yet, but I’m not grounded forever.”

Elira rolled her eyes. “He’s been sulking like a baby bat.”

“Healing like a warrior,” he countered proudly.

The banter between them had the easy rhythm of siblings. Familiar, funny, grounding.

But beneath it—

You felt it.

In the way Ather's grin didn't quite reach his eyes. In the way Elira’s hand lingered too long on the edge of the crate, like she didn’t trust her knees.

You could smell it on them. Fear.

The same kind clinging to you.

And still, they smiled. Still, they joked. Still, they stood—like the rest of you—at the edge of the unknown, pretending not to tremble as the wind began to change.

You reached out and gave Ather’s shoulder a squeeze. “You did good, soldier.”

His throat bobbed slightly. “You too, General.”

Elira let out a soft breath and nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. “We all have to be.”

The wind had begun to pick up, carrying with it the distant murmur of boots, metal, and war magic. The three of you stood there for a breath longer, watching it all move in slow, ominous waves.

Then Elira said quietly, “Come on. Let’s get inside. You should eat something before the chaos starts.”

You nodded, and the three of you slipped back into the warmth of the healer tent. The smell of herbs, ash, and bandages filled the air, familiar and oddly comforting. Inside, the ward stones glowed gently against the cold, casting long, soft shadows over the cots and supplies.

Ather plopped onto his usual stool with a dramatic sigh, while you leaned against one of the long prep tables and crossed your arms.

He looked up at you with a smirk. “So… are we ever going to talk about the part where you used me as a magical getaway driver without any warning whatsoever?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You mean when I dragged you into an unprecedented power surge and teleported an entire military camp without so much as a heads-up?”

“That would be the one.”

“I did tell you to catch me,” you offered, grinning.

“I thought you meant metaphorically!” he cried. “Like emotionally! Not—‘catch me as I collapse from sky-shattering celestial magic while the enemy army’s right behind us!’”

Elira tried to look annoyed, but she was definitely smiling as she handed you both warm mugs of tea. “You were fine. Dramatic, but fine.”

You took a slow sip, the heat calming your throat. “Still… I owe you an apology.”

Ather blinked, surprised. “For what? Saving my ass and everyone else's?”

“For scaring the shit out of you. For not telling you what I was doing. For putting that much on your shoulders.”

He sobered slightly, the grin fading into something softer.

“You don’t have to apologize for being the one who saved us,” he said, shrugging. “But… thanks. Still terrifying, though.”

You chuckled and bumped his knee with yours. “Next time I teleport a city, I’ll leave a note.”

“Next time?” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

And just like that, the tension in your chest eased. Not gone.

But lighter.

You looked out across the tent.

At the rows of cots. The quiet murmurs of the healers checking pulses, changing bandages. The rustle of supplies being packed, redistributed, restocked. The warriors—some awake, some unconscious—trying to hold onto the fragile line between life and death.

Everyone was doing their best.

Even in fear. Even in exhaustion. Even in the face of the end.

You exhaled—long and slow. A breath heavy with dread, hope, and a strength you weren’t sure you had, but would find anyway.

Then you straightened your shoulders.

And got to work.

Back in Velaris, the wind off the Sidra was colder than usual.

Amren had never been one to believe in gods.

Not the Mother, not the Cauldron, not even the stars that hung above her like silent judges. She had lived too long, seen too much, to offer her faith so easily.

But ever since she had been forced to stay in the City of Starlight—when her friends, her lover, her family marched off to war—something in her had shifted.

And she began to pray.

Prayed not to be heard, but to feel like she was doing something. Anything at all.

She prayed that they would come back. That they would survive. Not untouched—no one survived a war untouched. But alive. Still themselves. Not too broken to recognize who they were. Who they loved.

She prayed for the fighting to end. For it to finally end.

The past weeks had been some of the most maddening, gut-wrenching days of her long, long life. And that was saying something for someone who had once called a prison cell home.

Because here—here in Velaris, in the quiet safety of the inner city—she had nothing.

No visibility. No place in the battle. No blade in her hand.

Rhysand sent messages every two days. Brief, calculated, intentionally sparse. Meant to comfort. Meant to inform.

But they told her nothing of what she really wanted to know.

They didn’t tell her if Cassian had slept. If Nesta was still holding herself together. If Azriel had gone quiet. If Y/N was still breathing.

They didn’t tell her if Feyre’s heart was breaking.

Rhys had told her everything.

He’d sent the message himself, earlier than usual, more detailed than most. The kind of update that didn’t feel like a strategy report—it felt like a farewell. That the armies would go all in today. Every court, every commander. No holding back. One final push to end it. One last battle to decide it all.

And in the middle of it—

Y/N.

What she had done.

How she had pushed past the threshold of what should have been possible. How she had called upon the stars, upon light and space and something older, to save them all.

To move an entire camp. A feat that should have broken even the most seasoned wielder of war magic.

But not her.

Not yet.

Amren had sat in her chair by the window of the riverhouse living room, Rhys’s voice still echoing in her mind through the threads of their bond. She hadn’t moved for a long time. Just stared at the city, at the glassy waters of the Sidra, at the lanterns flickering on in the early blue hours of morning.

Because she knew.

She had known it from the beginning.

There was something different about Y/N. Something too large, too steady, too divine to belong fully to this world.

She had known others like her in the span of her long, strange life. Only a few—rare and scattered, like starlight across centuries. People reborn not out of luck, but purpose. Chosen not for greatness, but need.

And their stories always ended the same way.

The Mother gifted power only when she demanded something in return.

That power—rooted in the stars, in balance, in life itself—did not give freely. It took. Slowly. Quietly. Until it left nothing but the purpose it had once served.

Amren had lived through empires and watched gods fall. She had held the broken bodies of people too good for the wars they died in. She had walked the long halls of forgotten temples and seen the names of starborn women carved into stone, never to be remembered by those who survived them.

She knew what Y/N was.

And she was terrified.

Terrified because in just one year, Y/N had carved herself into the very heart of their court. Not loudly. Not by force. But through quiet devotion, through relentless strength, through kindness that softened even the most hardened.

She had become family.

To Feyre. To Azriel. To all of them.

And Amren—Amren who did not bend, who did not beg—found herself praying.

Not to the gods of old. Not to the Cauldron. But to the sky itself.

Let her survive this. Let her come back. Let her not be taken as payment for a gift none of them asked for.

Because the Mother could be cruel.

And Amren knew, in the marrow of her bones, that this war would not end without blood.

She just didn’t know yet whose it would be.

They were at the River House.

The home that should have been filled with light and laughter, with the scent of jasmine from the garden and the sound of Nyx’s delighted giggles bouncing through the rooms.

But today, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Rhysand had told her hours ago.

The battle has begun.

Just those words. Nothing more. No update. No reassurance. The war was happening now. And there was nothing left to do but wait.

Amren sat in the front room, the city stretching far and empty beyond the glass doors. And in her arms, wrapped in the softest blanket the House could conjure, was Nyx.

The child hadn’t cried once since that message came.

He hadn’t babbled, hadn’t squirmed. His small fingers only gripped Amren’s thumb in an eerie stillness. Eyes too wide. Too knowing. Like he could feel the currents of magic shifting across the continent. Like he understood exactly what was happening.

Amren had watched him for minutes—maybe hours—barely breathing as the boy sat pressed against her chest. His head tucked under her chin. His breath steady.

He had the calm of a child watching a storm from a distance. Safe—but not untouched.

And then there was Elain.

Sitting quietly across the room, her hands resting in her lap. Her face soft. Serene.

Amren had expected her to weep. To pace. To break, like so many others had during wars before.

But Elain… hadn’t.

Not once.

She had moved through the last few weeks with the grace of a garden in winter—untouched, quiet, almost deliberatelycalm.

If it had been anyone else, Amren might have mistaken it for faith.

But it wasn’t that.

Not with Elain.

No—Amren was almost certain that Elain had seen something. Had looked too far down the thread of fate and chosen, with that eerie gentleness of hers, to keep it to herself.

Not out of malice. Not out of arrogance.

But because whatever she saw…

It was already decided.

And still, Amren watched her. Studied her. Waiting for something to break in that glass-smooth composure.

Waiting for her to react like a sister watching her family walk toward death.

But Elain just sat there.

Eyes open.

Mouth closed.

Like she’d already lived the ending.

And Amren—

Amren was left in the middle, with a child that didn’t cry, and a seer who didn’t scream.

And all she could do was wait.

Then Amren felt it.

Like a thread snapping in the distance, or a ripple slicing through the fabric of the world. A pull in her ancient bones—a pressure in her chest that hadn’t existed moments ago.

Power.

Old and endless. The kind that made her remember who she’d once been. What she’d once feared.

It coiled around the edges of the world like a storm front. And it wasn’t just power.

It was death.

The Death God had come to the battlefield.

And the sky responded.

She stood—her instincts sharper than they had been in centuries—and went to the window.

Her arms tightened around Nyx’s tiny frame, holding him like her own life depended on it.

There was nothing outside.

No sun.

No stars.

No moon.

No light.

Just darkness. Swallowing and complete. Not the night of Velaris—not the soft, velvet dark of starlight and dreams. No. This was the cold dark of nothingness. Of endings.

The kind of dark that came only when something terrible had been unleashed.

Amren’s heart twisted.

It was over.

The war. Or the world. Or someone.

She didn’t know.

Not until she turned back.

And saw Elain.

Smiling.

Staring out the same window. And smiling.

Her eyes shimmered like dawnlight. And not with tears.

But with wonder.

With relief.

“That’s it,” Elain said, voice soft, full of breathless awe. “It’s the moment.”

Amren stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “What do you mean, girl?”

Her voice was sharp, a hiss of fear she couldn’t suppress as she held Nyx tighter, one step back from the strange serenity before her.

Elain turned to face her. And smiled wider.

“The end of the war,” she whispered. “And Y/N’s death.”

Amren went still.

Not just her body—her soul.

Because the girl standing in front of her—sweet Elain, with her flowers and her soft voice and her gentle smile—she was not what Amren had thought.

There was nothing soft in the girl who had just spoken.

There was only truth. Cold, unshaken, inevitable truth.

And in that moment, Amren understood the mistake they had all made.

Elain Archeron was not just a quiet seer. Not just the delicate one.

She was a mirror for the future—and the end.

And the look on her face gave Amren more chills than the Cauldron ever had.

There was only ash around them.

Only darkness.

Only the screams of monsters and men and things that did not belong to this world.

Azriel didn’t know how long he’d been fighting.

Time had melted into blood and steel and the thrum of his siphons burning through the shadows around him. His blades were slick—always slick—and still not fast enough. Still not deep enough.

The battlefield stretched like a graveyard that had not yet accepted it was already full. Corpses of beasts and warriors littered the frost-hardened ground, steam rising in plumes as life left them.

He couldn’t hear his own breath anymore. Just the roar in his head. The roar of rage, of fear. Of something ancients creaming in his blood to keep going.

To find them.

To end this.

A creature lunged from the left—its body twisted and sinewed like it had been molded from bone and venom. Azriel spun low, wings folding tight, and drove a blade straight through its throat. Another hissed behind him—he turned and threw, a dagger sinking straight into a sunken eye socket.

It crumpled.

He didn’t pause.

Where are they?

The vessels. Koshiev’s tethered generals.

They were here. He knew they were here. The creatures had patterns—they moved in formation. As if being guided.

And Rhys had said—strike the generals, and the rest fall.

Please.

Let them fall.

Cassian’s roar cut through the chaos not far from him. Azriel didn’t look, but he felt the surge of power as his brother cut through a cluster of beasts like they were paper.

A flash of ice—Kallias. A wall of flame—Eris. A pulse of gold from Thesan’s mate. All of them, converging on this moment. All of them bleeding for this ending.

Azriel didn’t stop moving.

Another beast tried to cleave his wing—he ducked, drove an elbow into its chest, shattered ribs. Spun. Slashed across its jaw, then buried his other blade in the back of its neck until it stopped twitching.

He was covered in blood. He didn’t know how much of it was his.

It didn’t matter.

End this. End this. End this.

He saw it—then. One of them.

A general.

It stood taller than the rest, draped in shadow—not like Azriel’s, not true shadow. A void. A perversion. Its head turned slowly toward him, mouth stretching open far too wide in a grin that spoke in a voice not its own.

"You are too late, Night Court dog."

Azriel didn’t answer.

He moved.

Fast as breath. Siphons blazing, blades up. It lunged, but he was already inside its guard—already cutting. Left thigh. Right shoulder. Spin. Dodge. Neck.

The creature shrieked—Koshiev shrieked through it—and Azriel knew: this one mattered.

He drove a blade straight into its chest—and pushed. Hard.

Darkness exploded around them.

But he stayed anchored—through the bond, through his rage, through Y/N’s name echoing in his chest like a vow.

And when he twisted the blade, the creature collapsed.

So did a dozen more around him.

They crumpled like puppets whose strings had been severed.

Azriel didn’t breathe.

He just moved again.

Find the next. And the next. Until there were none.

Until this was done.

He barely felt the slice across his ribs. The gash on his thigh. His body screamed, but he ignored it.

More generals. More creatures. More blood.

So much blood.

He could feel death in the marrow of the battlefield. Wrapping around ankles. Pulling at the sky.

And he whispered between clenched teeth, again and again—

“Please… please end this.”

This was not war.

This was annihilation.

Azriel had fought in wars before. He had seen bodies broken beyond repair. He had watched friends bleed out beside him, had seen beasts rise from shadows with teeth like stone and eyes like fire.

But this—

This was worse.

Because Koshiev was here.

Not through vessels. Not through twisted creatures birthed from rot and shadow.

But in flesh.

Slender. Inhuman.

A form draped in darkness so thick it looked carved from death itself. And in his hand—no, grown from his hand—was a scythe longer than a faeblade, obsidian-black and singing with the scream of everything it had ever touched.

He didn’t walk.

He glided.

And everything—everything—in his path died.

Azriel didn’t know where to look, who to help, who to save.

He turned just in time to see Helion.

The Day Court High Lord stood surrounded by flame—his golden magic pouring from him in searing waves, lighting up the sky like a dying sun. His cloak had been incinerated long ago, his chest scorched and glistening with sweat and blood, but his eyes—

His eyes were defiant.

He raised both hands, magic roaring between them like a burning river, and let loose a blast so bright it blinded even Azriel for a heartbeat. It crashed into the wall of darkness surrounding Koshiev, pushed it back—

For a moment.

Then the darkness snapped forward like a whip.

And the scythe came down.

Clean. Effortless. Final.

It wasn’t a slice—it was an erasure. The way the blade moved, it didn’t just cut through flesh and bone—it deleted them. Unmade them.

One moment, Helion’s right arm was there—glowing with power, golden veins pulsing as he held back the tide.

The next—

It was gone.

From shoulder to air, a spray of blood erupted as Helion screamed—a sound that no one should ever make, primal and shattered and furious.

He staggered back, clutching the space where his arm had been, the bleeding stump spurting between his fingers, magic sputtering out of control as pain overwhelmed him.

“No!” Thesan shouted from somewhere behind, but the sound barely reached over the chaos.

Helion fell, knees hitting the broken ground with a thud, eyes wide and wild with agony.

And still—

He tried to rise.

Even with only one arm. Even with blood soaking the battlefield beneath him.

He tried.

Because that’s what they were all doing.

Not far from Helion’s collapsed form, another scream echoed—rougher, deeper.

Azriel’s head snapped toward the sound to see Cassian.

A monstrous beast—twice his size, all sinew and armor-like hide—had grabbed him mid-air. One clawed hand wrapped around Cassian’s back, the other around his left wing.

Cassian fought like hell, roaring, siphons blazing, sword swinging wildly—but the creature pulled.

With a wet, sickening snap.

And the wing—his wing—was ripped clean off.

The sound—

Azriel would never forget it.

The shriek of muscle tearing. The crack of bone splitting apart. The spray of blood that arced through the air like a burst of red mist.

Cassian screamed, a howl of agony and fury that tore through the battlefield.

He went down hard, slamming into the dirt, body twitching uncontrollably from the pain. Blood gushed from the ragged stump at his back, soaking the ground beneath him in seconds.

He tried to push himself up, but his arm gave out. His face was contorted—jaw clenched so tightly Azriel thought his teeth would break.

And beside him—

Nesta.

Lying still.

Too still.

Her silver blade lay inches from her outstretched fingers, half-buried in the mud. Her face was pale, smudged with blood and soot. Her hair was tangled across her cheek, mouth slightly open.

Chest barely rising.

Azriel’s heart dropped.

No movement.

No sign of her power.

Just a limp body, unmoving beside the broken wreckage of the male who loved her.

Cassian turned his head toward her with a guttural sob, arm dragging uselessly toward her hand. “Nesta—” he choked. “Nesta—”

But she didn’t answer.

Didn’t stir.

And in that moment, surrounded by death, it looked like Cassian would die reaching for her.

Without ever touching her again.

Rhys saw them.

Cassian broken and bleeding. Nesta unmoving.

And without thinking—without hesitation—he roared.

It wasn’t words. It was rage. Fear. Love.

Wings slicing through the chaos, Rhysand dove for Nesta—his power flaring violet and sharp like lightning coiled around a storm. He hit the ground hard, skidding toward her with every intent to shield her with his body, to drag her out if he had to.

But he never got the chance.

A beast, twisted and skeletal with a blade forged of bone and shadow, surged from the smoke to intercept him.

Rhys turned—too late.

The creature slashed across his side. Then plunged the jagged sword into his stomach with a sickening crunch.

Steel met flesh.

And Rhys staggered.

Blood poured from the wound in an instant, dark and hot, soaking through his leathers and pooling beneath him. He choked on it—spat red onto the battlefield as his knees hit the earth.

“Rhys!”

Feyre was there—already moving, already burning, her magic exploding outward in a wave of blinding light. The blast hit the beast full-on, vaporizing it in a hiss of flesh and bone.

The ground trembled from the force.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because Rhys collapsed.

She caught him—arms locking around his chest as they fell together, her power still thrumming, barely held back by trembling hands.

His eyes were fluttering. Lips parted. Blood staining his teeth.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, voice ragged. “Stay with me.”

But her words were drowned out by the screams.

The battle wasn’t slowing.

And Feyre—High Lady of the Night Court—knelt in the blood and ruin, shielding her mate with her body, eyes full of fire and terror, as the world fell apart around them.

Thesan saw Helion fall.

Saw Cassian ripped open. Nesta down. Rhysand bleeding into the ground.

And then he saw his mate—dragging himself across the battlefield toward him, blood slick on his legs, magic still sparking weakly at his fingertips.

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t think of his title. His court. His power.

He just ran.

Ran for the only person that mattered.

His mate turned toward him, his eyes locking with his across the carnage, his lips parting in a scream—

“Thesan!”

And then—

The scythe.

It came from the shadows like a whisper of death itself.

One moment, he was running toward him, arms open, hand reaching out—

The next—

His head was gone.

No flash of pain. No moment of resistance.

Just a slice.

Clean. Perfect. Horrific.

His body kept moving for a step, maybe two—before it dropped, lifeless, into the mud and ash.

His mate screamed—an animal sound, raw and world-ending—and with all the strength he had left, he threw herself forward.

Straight into the death god’s path.

“NO!”

It didn’t matter.

Koshiev didn’t blink.

Didn’t speak.

Just sliced.

And he was cut in half.

There was no blood-curdling magic. No final surge of power. No last words.

Only gone.

Two halves of the soul of the Day Court, lying meters apart in the dirt.

Unmoving.

And utterly, completely silent.

Tamlin was still standing.

But he shouldn't have been.

In his beast form, towering and monstrous, he looked like a god of war—fangs bared, claws dripping with blood, fur matted and soaked in red. But there was nothing divine left in him.

Only instinct. Rage. Adrenaline.

His body was riddled with arrows—too many to count. Black-fletched shafts jutted from his ribs, his back, his legs. One had pierced through his eye. Another stuck out of his throat like a broken branch.

And still he fought.

Still he moved.

Still he protected.

Lucien was beside him, face grim, blade slick with gore, his mechanical eye twitching as he tried to hold the line. But it was Tamlin—

Tamlin who shielded him.

Tamlin who took the brunt of every strike. Tamlin who lunged, snarling, into the jaws of every new creature that came for them.

His paws dragged in the dirt. His breaths were ragged, thick with blood. Every step he took left a trail of viscera behind.

But he didn't fall.

Wouldn't fall.

He let out one last roar—defiant, final—and charged a monster twice his size. Slammed into it with the full weight of a dying god.

They tumbled together.

And when the creature didn’t rise…

Neither did he.

Tamlin, already dead on his feet, had given everything he had left.

Not for glory.

Not for redemption.

Just to keep fighting.

Until the very, very end.

Azriel screamed.

He didn’t remember it—just the feeling of his throat tearing open as he reached the last of Koshiev’s generals and drove his blade through its chest.

It died.

And the creatures around it began to fall. One by one. Crumpling. Dropping like puppets whose strings had been burned.

Was it over?

He panted, chest heaving, barely holding himself up. His wings were torn. His hands were slick with blood—his or someone else's, he didn’t know. He turned toward the others—

And then it happened.

The sky—

The sky went black.

Not clouded. Not stormed.

Erased.

It was as if someone had reached into the heavens and ripped them apart.

There was no sun.

No stars.

No moon.

Only void.

The kind of dark that had weight. That sank into your bones. That tasted like metal and ash. That made every breath hurt. Like your lungs were filled with water, and you were trying to scream with no air.

Azriel couldn’t see. Could barely hear.

It was like the world had been swallowed whole.

And in that stillness—just before whatever came next—

He knew

This wasn’t the end.

Not yet.

Azriel felt it before he saw it.

The chill in the air shifted. The shadows that had always been his suddenly cowered. Slithered away from him.

And then—

A presence behind him.

A hand—cold as the grave itself—settled over his chest. Over his heart.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

His magic froze. His mind went silent.

Koshiev.

The death god.

He didn’t appear with fanfare. He didn’t roar or scream or gloat.

He whispered.

“Hmm. No… you’re not her.”

The voice was silk and rot and eternity.

“But you feel like her.”

Then—

Pain.

A slice through his torso so fast, so deep, Azriel couldn’t even scream. His body bowed, blood pouring down his chest. The world tilted.

But something—

Something in him refused to fall.

Even as his vision blurred. Even as his knees buckled.

Even as death’s breath curled against his throat—

He reached.

Blind. Desperate. One last surge of will.

Truth-Teller.

His fingers found it. Black hilt, cold steel.

He grabbed Koshiev’s head—felt the resistance, the inhuman texture of that thing’s skin—and plunged the blade through its neck in one clean, brutal motion.

And for a moment—

For a single, suspended breath—

The world stopped.

The darkness wavered.

The cold receded.

Koshiev’s head fell from his body.

Azriel collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, blood still spilling down his side.

He did it.

He’d killed the death god.

The war was over.

They had won.

He turned—

Ready to shout, to fall, to finally rest—

But the sky…

The sky was still black.

The monsters were coming back

The generals were rising again

The blood was still raining.

And the head in his hand—

Wasn’t Koshiev’s.

It was Eris Vanserra’s.

Still warm.

Still bleeding.

Still real.

Azriel stared at it. Hands shaking. Eyes wide.

“No,” he whispered.

Then he heard it—felt it—like ice sliding down his spine.

A voice, closer now.

“Did you truly believe it would be that easy to kill me, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel dropped Eris’s head, horrified.

Horrified at what he’d done.

Horrified at how deeply they had all misjudged the power they were facing.

Because Koshiev had not only deceived them—

He had played them.

And now, Azriel understood:

The war wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

It was the end.

Azriel stood in a graveyard of gods and monsters. Not one carved from stone—but from flesh. From war. From everything they had fought to protect and failed to save.

All around him was death.

Rhysand lay on the ground a few paces away, unmoving, Feyre cradling him, her body bloody and shaking, her hands glowing faintly with magic that was too drained to fix what was broken.

Cassian was still breathing, but barely—his wing gone, one leg twisted under him, trying to crawl toward Nesta, who hadn’t moved in minutes.

Nesta, limp and pale, blood trickling from her temple, her silver blade shattered beside her.

Tamlin, still in beast form, was a corpse standing—arrows piercing every vital organ, his massive body locked upright, steaming in the cold air like a monument to failure.

Helion was unconscious from blood loss, the stump of his missing arm wrapped only loosely in scorched cloth. Thesan and his mate… their bodies were already cooling.

The battlefield had fallen silent.

No more generals.

No more warriors.

Only the sound of wind moving through death.

And still—Koshiev stood.

Still tall. Still untouched. Watching it all with no eyes but endless knowing.

Azriel fell to his knees, hands digging into the blood-soaked dirt.

They had lost.

They hadn’t won. They’d never even come close.

Just like all the others before them.

Koshiev had won.

Again.

But then—

Azriel’s breath caught.

Y/N.

Where was—

And then it hit him.

The way Koshiev had touched his chest. The way he’d said you feel like her.

It wasn’t him the death god was searching for.

It was her.

Of course it was.

Azriel staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his side, his wings too torn to lift him.

“No,” he rasped. “No no no no no—”

He started running.

Tripping. Falling. Bleeding.

Crawling when his legs gave out.

He had to get to you. Had to.

He didn’t care that his vision was going black around the edges. That his body screamed with every step. That shadows no longer came when he called.

He ran.

And then—

He felt it.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 24

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence, smut

notes;

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Later that day, the armies of Prythian managed to regroup and return to the newly relocated camp. The journey took significantly longer due to the abrupt shift south, deeper into the wild terrain near the Winter Court. The chill was brutal. Snow and biting winds swept through the hills, and the air itself seemed to gnaw at the bones of every soldier. Warriors were slower to recover, their bodies taxed not only by battle but now by exposure to relentless cold.

The main strategy tent, now reinforced against the elements, was a haze of breath and frustration. Maps covered the central table, ink bottles shaken by the trembling of warriors still riding the edge of exhaustion.

Helion slammed his palm against the table, rattling cups and causing one of the candles to flicker violently. "When is this going to fucking end? No fucking progress! We're only losing land and warriors. Day after day, and we’re no closer to forcing Koshiev to retreat."

Kallias, seated across from him and draped in his court’s fur-lined cloak, lifted a hand. "Calm down, would you? You screaming about it won’t make the snow melt or win the war faster."

"Easy for you to say," Helion shot back. "You’re used to this gods-forsaken cold. My soldiers are freezing their asses off every night, and now we’re fighting on ice while trying to hold ground we didn’t choose!"

Cassian leaned against a support beam near the map, arms crossed tightly. "This location is not ideal, I won’t deny it. But it’s safe. The wards are holding, the new defenses are working. It’s the best option we had after the attack."

"And yet we’re still losing," Helion growled. "No matter how safe this place is, we can’t keep pulling back. Every step south is a step closer to losing this war."

Rhysand’s face was carved from stone, his violet eyes unreadable. "We can’t afford to fracture now. We’ve lost ground, yes—but we haven’t lost the war. The new plan is already in motion."

Thesan, seated with his mate quietly beside him, added with a calm yet sharp tone, "The moment we start panicking is the moment he wins. Koshiev wants chaos. He wants this anger. Stay sharp, or stay silent."

There was a tense silence.

Beron, from his dark corner of the room, finally spoke. "He’s bleeding us out, little by little. And if we don’t find a way to cut off his advance soon, it won’t matter what camp we hide in."

"Then maybe," Helion muttered, running a hand through his golden curls, "it’s time to stop hiding."

The murmurs that followed weren’t loud, but they were enough to signal that the table had reached a dangerous tipping point.

Rhysand’s voice was quiet, but cold as the wind outside. "We hold. We adapt. And we plan the strike that will cost him. We don’t charge into death for the sake of pride."

Another silence. One heavier than the last.

War pressed down from every direction. And even here, in what should have been their most secure circle, the strain was beginning to show.

Then Cassian stepped forward, dropping a thick, scorched helmet onto the center of the table with a dull thud.

"We might have found something."

Several heads turned sharply.

"What is that?" Helion asked, frowning.

Rhysand answered, his tone edged with calculation. "One of the helmets carried by what we believe are Koshiev’s generals—or what passes for generals in his army."

Cassian nodded, expression grim. "The moment I killed him, every creature around him dropped. Just collapsed. Like something inside them had been snuffed out."

He looked around the table. "We think these creatures are vessels. Koshiev’s vessels. He’s divided his power among them, enough to control the battlefield remotely. Kill a vessel—kill the hive it commands."

The room went quiet, all eyes now locked on the battered helmet.

And for the first time in days, the silence wasn’t just heavy.

It was hopeful.

Beron scoffed. "Well, at least now we know what to aim for. Let’s go do a hide and seek with them—amazing. Let’s just wait for them to find this new camp and try to destroy it while we play scavenger hunt."

Tamlin turned sharply toward him. "Would you stop saying nonsense, please? If all our soldiers are alive today, it’s because the camp got moved. If it being 25 kilometers off course disturbs you, you are more than welcome to retire, old man."

There were a few stifled chuckles around the table. Thesan arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Kallias didn’t bother to hide his smirk. Even Rhysand’s lips quirked slightly. Viviane gave Tamlin a rare look of appreciation, and even Tarquin shook his head at Beron with thinly veiled annoyance.

Beron’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.

Helion cut through the rising tension. "Either way, thank you for this discovery. I’m sure that if we all take it into account, it will bring us to the source of the problem—and we’ll be able to manage it."

The quiet that followed was one of agreement, however reluctant.

For the first time in days, they had a thread to pull. A target.

And the beginnings of a plan.

The tent flap shifted before anyone could answer. Cold wind swept in—and with it, Lucien.

Heads turned sharply as he stepped inside. He looked terrible. Mud-spattered, cloaked in exhaustion, his russet eye dull with fatigue while the golden one flickered, agitated and grim.

Rhys stood straighter. “You’re back.”

Lucien nodded once. “From the mortal lands. And we’ve learned something.”

He didn't bother to sit. Just stepped toward the table and dropped a sealed scroll onto the maps. “Vassa’s connection to Koshiev… it helped. She felt it—like a thread, fraying. And we traced it back.”

“What did you find?” Feyre asked, already reaching for the scroll.

Lucien’s jaw tensed. “You were right about the generals. But it’s worse than you thought.”

He glanced at Cassian, at the scorched helmet on the table.

“Koshiev isn’t just sending them orders. He’s dividing his soul among them. He’s literally fragmenting pieces of himself—planting them inside these ‘vessels.’ That’s why killing them weakens his entire force.”

A heavy silence fell.

“He’s tethered to them,” Lucien continued, voice low. “Every one we kill is a piece of him cut away. A slow bleed.”

“Which means,” Rhys said slowly, eyes narrowing, “we can kill him. If we sever enough pieces—”

“He’ll be vulnerable,” Lucien confirmed. “Maybe even mortal.”

Rhysand leaned forward again, gaze sweeping the room. "What about the healers? How are we doing on this battlefield?"

It wasn’t Y/N who answered.

Veras, seated beside Thesan and wrapped in Winter Court furs, lifted his chin. "Well, other than the fact that we’re missing our head, things are pretty smooth. Well—not really—but we’re dealing with everything. Supplies are good. We just had a harder start that night since everyone arrived much later due to the camp displacement."

Thesan’s brow furrowed. "Where is Y/N?"

Veras replied without missing a beat, "She’s fine. Just resting. She used a lot of her powers."

Beron let out a short, amused laugh under his breath.

No one looked at him.

Except Cassian, who slowly turned toward him, gaze darkening, jaw tight. He didn’t speak—he didn’t have to. The warning in his stare was clear: say one more thing and see what happens.

Helion cleared his throat sharply and muttered, “Idiots never know when to shut up.”

Kallias gave Beron a bored glance, unimpressed. “If laughing at the wounded is what you bring to these meetings, no wonder your court can’t hold a border.”

Tarquin leaned back in his chair with a visible roll of his eyes. “Let’s not waste more breath on someone who hasn’t contributed a single useful thing to this war.”

Beron didn’t answer. His narrowed eyes flicked from face to face—but he knew better than to push it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was unified.

And Beron, for once, didn’t speak again.

Rhysand rested both palms on the table, voice firm. “The front line is going to move. That’s no longer a question—it’s a certainty.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“It’ll be closer to here,” Cassian added, nodding toward the newest map spread across the table. “We’re too deep in now, and pulling back further would mean sacrificing not just land—but momentum.”

Thesan’s mate leaned forward, tapping one of the southern points on the border sketch. “Then we’ll need to reinforce the new perimeter immediately. Especially if Koshiev’s forces shift direction faster than we can react.”

Tarquin frowned, arms crossed tightly. “How close are we talking?”

“Days, maybe less,” Cassian answered. “We’ve seen the scouts on the ridge. They’re already testing our new positions.”

“And if the front gets any closer,” Helion muttered, eyes narrowing, “we’re looking at a camp that won’t just house healers and war councils—it’ll become a battlefield.”

Kallias exhaled, the cold in his breath curling like frost. “Then we better make damn sure we’re ready for that.”

“There are civilians,” Viviane reminded gently, “injured who can’t be moved again. If this becomes a fight zone—”

“We defend it,” Rhys cut in. “We dig trenches, raise shields, rotate shifts. Whatever it takes.”

“And the healers?” Thesan asked. “They’re exhausted.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Helion muttered.

“But we won’t abandon this ground,” Rhysand said. “We hold this line—if only to prove to Koshiev that Prythian does not kneel.”

A silence followed.

Not of doubt—but of acceptance.

War was coming closer.

And they would have to meet it head-on.

And on the other side of the camp, far from the voices and the maps and the growing weight of the war council, Azriel was still holding you in his arms.

You hadn’t stirred.

He had barely moved either.

One hand traced slow, silent circles on your back, over the marks and tattoos that now lived there—stars and shadows and sunbound magic still faintly pulsing in your skin. His other arm remained wrapped tightly around you, as if letting go might unravel something he wasn’t sure he could piece back together.

He had been like that for hours.

His thoughts weren’t loud—they were still. Heavy. Looping over themselves like smoke trapped in a sealed room.

Maybe this had been it.

The moment Elain had seen.

You had looked like her vision. Pale. Blood trailing from your ears and mouth. Your body limp, crumpled under the weight of your own magic. You had been too quiet. Too cold. And he had held you then just like this. Terrified he would never feel your heart beat again.

Maybe the vision was fulfilled.

Maybe the worst was over.

Maybe the Fates were done playing with his soul.

But still…

Azriel pressed his lips to your temple, gently, like it might soothe his own storm.

He knew better.

The only moment he would stop worrying was when this war was over. When the last arrow had been fired, the last creature cut down. When Koshiev was gone. When the blood was washed off every stone and every hand that had fought.

When you were both back home. In Velaris. In your bed. With the windows open and the scent of night-blooming jasmine curling through the room. Your laughter replacing the echo of battlefield screams.

Only then would he stop holding his breath.

Only then would he believe you were truly safe.

He felt it—just the faintest shift.

Your fingers twitched. Your breathing hitched, shallow and uncertain.

Then, your voice, hoarse and confused: “Az?”

His heart clenched. Relief crashed through him like a wave, and he leaned in immediately. “Yes, my love?” His voice was barely more than a breath.

You blinked, the weight of sleep and pain still thick in your limbs, and then—suddenly—you sat up, eyes wide and wild.

“Oh gods—the camp. Where are we? Why—did I do it? Is everyone safe?!”

“Hey—hey, calm down.” Azriel moved quickly, guiding you back down with steady, gentle hands. “Calm down, you need to rest. You nearly burned yourself out, Y/N.”

He eased you onto your side so you could still see him. One of his wings stretched over you like a protective shroud, wrapping you in warmth and safety, shutting out the world.

His shadows curled around the edges of the cot like quiet sentinels.

“You did it,” he said, voice softer now, reverent. “You teleported the whole gods-damned camp. Everyone is safe.”

His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing the line of dried blood beneath your eye. “And on the name of the Mother, next time you do something like that—I wouldn’t mind a word of warning.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours. “When I arrived at the old location… I thought you were dead. Or taken.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just closed your eyes, leaned into his touch, and let his presence hold you together.

Because right now, that was the only thing in the world that didn’t feel like it was still unraveling.

You stayed like that for a moment—his forehead resting against yours, his wing draped over you like a second skin, his hands never leaving your body, as if you might vanish again if he so much as blinked.

Eventually, you let out a small, raspy sigh. “I think… I might owe Ather an apology.”

Azriel pulled back slightly, raising a brow. “Oh?”

You winced, your voice still scratchy with exhaustion. “I may have… dragged him with me to the edge of the camp. While the enemy was coming. Didn’t tell him the plan. Told him to catch me right before I collapsed. And then teleported the entire camp with zero warning.”

Az blinked, processing.

“And I mean zero warning,” you added, eyes wide. “Just full celestial implosion. Blood. Light. Probably a traumatic spiritual experience.”

Azriel blinked again, and then huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “So that’s what that was.”

You snorted softly, curling closer to him. “Yeah… he’s probably never going to speak to me again.”

Azriel shook his head, trying—and failing—not to smile. “I saw him, actually.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “You did? Oh no. Is he okay?”

Azriel’s lips twitched. “He was fine. Just, you know… a little dramatic.”

You burst out laughing, which made your ribs hurt, and you had to clutch your side with a groan. “Ow—don’t make me laugh. I’m too broken for that.”

Azriel chuckled and leaned in to kiss your cheek, letting his nose trail against your skin. “He might have collapsed dramatically in a chair and yelled about seeing his ancestors. Elira told him to shut up.”

“Oh my gods,” you wheezed. “I did break him.”

Az smiled against your temple. “He called you terrifying, you know.”

“Aw.” You patted your chest. “I’m so proud.”

You both laughed, softly this time. Carefully. But it felt good. Right.

Azriel’s arms tightened around you, pulling you more fully into his chest.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” you murmured, even as your fingers reached up to trace the edge of his jaw.

“You were,” he said. “Too long. Even a minute’s too long when I think you’re gone.”

You kissed his collarbone, right above his heart. “I’m here, Az. I’ll always come back to you.”

He exhaled, shaky and slow, and let his hand rest over yours.

“I’ll hold you to that, love,” he whispered.

And for a few precious minutes, with the storm held just beyond the tent walls, you both let yourselves breathe.

Your lips brushed his collarbone again, and he tilted his head down—his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that could have burned away the snow outside. His thumb ghosted over your jaw, rough fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek.

You leaned up.

And kissed him.

Slow. Deep. Lingering. Like you were searching for something in his mouth, and like he already knew the answer.

Azriel melted into it for a moment, his hand slipping behind your neck, his thumb stroking your pulse like a grounding point. Your fingers curled into his chest, over his heart, and you kissed him again—this time with a little more need. A little more urgency. A silent please.

You pressed closer, shifting your body so your thigh brushed his. Azriel inhaled sharply, breaking the kiss, his forehead falling against yours.

“Y/N,” he said softly—gently, but firm. “No. We can’t.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Why not?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face. “Because you nearly died. Your body is still recovering. You’re weak, and your magic is barely holding together. I—” He exhaled, jaw clenching. “I can’t risk hurting you.”

You searched his face, your hand lifting to cradle his cheek. “You won’t.”

“Y/N—”

You shook your head, stopping him. “I need you, Az.”

Your voice was quiet, not seductive—but raw. Full of something desperate and aching.

“I need to feel you. Not because I want sex, not like that. I just—I need to feel alive. I need to know I’m still here. That you’re still here. That we’re not losing each other in this war too.”

Azriel stared at you, his throat bobbing with emotion. You leaned in, pressing another soft kiss to his lips, barely more than a breath.

“Just let me hold you,” you whispered. “Let me have you. Just for a little while.”

And gods—he couldn’t say no to that. Not when your voice cracked like that. Not when you looked at him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

Azriel didn’t move at first.

Even after you whispered those words—I need you, I need to feel you—he held you tighter, like part of him still feared this was a dream he’d wake from.

But when you kissed him again, slowly, with a trembling sort of hunger behind it, his restraint broke. Not in a rush. Not with urgency. But in the way a dam slowly begins to crack under the weight of everything it’s been holding back.

He shifted just enough to hover above you, never leaving the warmth of the covers or the nest of his wings that still cocooned you both in shadow. His hand moved to your cheek, thumb brushing softly over your skin. “Are you sure?” he murmured, voice rough with emotion.

You nodded. “I need you, Az. Like this.”

The look he gave you then—pure, reverent, devastated—would have stolen your breath if you hadn’t already given it to him long ago.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing softly against yours. You whimpered softly into his mouth, arching your back just slightly, enough to press your chest to his. The friction alone made you sigh.

Azriel’s hands trailed down, slow and careful, worshipful. He treated your body like something sacred—his fingertips drawing lines of fire across your ribs, your hips, the curve of your thighs. When he dipped lower, he watched your face the whole time, as if your breath were more important than his own.

Your legs parted with instinct, and he settled between them, keeping nearly all his weight off you, his arms bracketing your sides. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, voice ragged.

You nodded again, breath hitching when his fingers slid between your legs, brushing lightly, learning what your body needed all over again.

He took his time—circling, teasing, coaxing soft gasps from your lips as you clung to his shoulders. His shadows curled behind you, as if they, too, needed to hold you together.

When you were ready—so ready—he paused, his forehead resting against yours. His voice shook when he said, “I don’t think I can ever let you go again.”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Stay.”

And then he was inside you—slowly, so slowly, as if he thought the world might shatter if he moved too fast.

The stretch was deep, the joining perfect. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear as you moaned his name, quiet and reverent.

Azriel moved with a rhythm that was more love than lust—deep and rolling, his lips murmuring against your throat, your shoulder, your chest. You felt him everywhere. You were him in that moment. No war. No pain. Just this.

His name broke from your lips again when his pace deepened, and he groaned against your skin. “You feel like home,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You are my home.”

Your release built like a wave—slow but powerful—drawing tighter and tighter around him. And when you shattered, you did it with his name in your mouth and his breath on your skin.

He followed a moment later, with a broken gasp, burying himself in you as your hands clung to his back like lifelines.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. He just shifted enough to lie beside you again, still inside you, still holding you like the world outside the tent no longer existed.

Your heartbeats slowed together.

His wing covered you both once more.

“I love you,” he said, barely audible.

You smiled into his chest, kissed the space over his heart, and whispered, “I know.”

And this time, there was no fear when you closed your eyes. Just warmth. Just him. And the bond pulsing steady and sure between you.

Both of you had woken sometime after midnight, the quiet outside your tent laced with the low murmurs of guards rotating shifts and the whistle of wind slipping through snow-dusted canvas.

Azriel had tensed before you’d even stirred.

We’re coming, Rhys’s voice echoed down the bond.

Azriel groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face.

Don’t start, came the immediate follow-up. Shut the fuck up. We’re worried about her too.

And that was that.

Now, Azriel sat above the covers, dressed in a fresh tunic, hair still damp from washing, his hand laced with yours. You remained under the blankets, warm and bundled, exhaustion still a weight behind your eyes, but you’d dressed the best you could. You were not facing the inner circle in nothing but sweat and shadows, not even half-dead.

The moment was quiet.

Until four heads popped through the flap of the tent in perfect sync.

You blinked.

Azriel sighed heavily. “Gods.”

Feyre’s face was tight with concern, her hair windblown, cheeks flushed. Mor peeked in beside her, grinning like she couldn’t help it. Cassian looked too big for the tent, ducking awkwardly and nearly elbowing Rhys in the face as he pushed in behind them.

“Are we interrupting?” Mor asked sweetly, eyeing the way Azriel was cradling your hand. “Because it definitely smells like afterglow in here.”

Cassian snorted. “MOR.”

Rhys gave her a deadpan look. “Can you not?”

“Come in,” you croaked, a laugh threatening your sore ribs. “We’re not glowing, we’re just... alive.”

Feyre rushed to your side, slipping her hand over your shoulder. “Barely,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “You scared us.”

“Good,” you smiled. “I like to keep things interesting.”

Cassian crouched by the foot of the bed, looking you over with sharp eyes despite his casual posture. “You’re pale as death. But impressive as hell.”

“I’m starting to think your standards for compliments are a little skewed,” you murmured.

Rhys finally stepped forward, arms crossed, his expression more tightly guarded—but Azriel knew him too well. There was fear in his eyes. Deep and quiet.

“I thought we lost you,” Rhys said softly.

Azriel tensed beside you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I thought so too,” you admitted, voice quieter than before.

Mor crossed the tent and plopped herself gracefully on the edge of Azriel’s cot, leaning toward you with her signature half-smile. “Next time you want to move a mountain or a camp, please remember to include a note. Or a sparkly warning. Or maybe, like, a firework.”

“I’ll consider it,” you said, blinking heavily.

The silence after that wasn’t empty.

It was full. With worry. With love. With relief.

They had come for you.

And gods, it felt good to be found.

Once the initial flood of emotion passed, they all found places around the tent—no one in a hurry to leave. Mor spun a chair backward and draped herself over it like a queen at ease. Cassian sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against a chest with his arms resting on his knees. Feyre stayed close to you, perched gently at your side on the edge of the cot. Rhysand settled across from her, lounging on a folded blanket, his elbows braced on his thighs, violet eyes watchful.

The air was warm despite the frost outside. Comfortable, in a way only battle-worn bonds could provide.

You shifted beneath the covers and looked to Rhys. “So… what’s the plan now? For the rest of the war?”

Cassian and Rhysand exchanged a look.

“It’s going to be full force,” Cassian said. “Every court. Every general. Every soldier. Coordinated deployment. We can’t keep pulling punches.”

Rhys nodded. “We’re launching everything. A simultaneous strike. No more stalling. No more waiting for him to bring the fight to us.”

Your brows furrowed. “That’s dangerous.”

“It’s necessary,” Rhys said gently. “We don’t have the luxury of time anymore. If we don’t act now, Koshiev will keep spreading—feeding. The front line is already crawling forward again.”

You sighed, the weight of the words settling into your chest. You squeezed Azriel’s hand above the blankets, and he gave you a quiet, steady pressure in return.

“So that’s it then,” you murmured. “A final push.”

Cassian’s voice was quiet. “The beginning of the end.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. “Where’s Nesta?”

Cassian leaned his head back against the chest behind him. “She’s still with the Night Court priestesses. Gwyn got hurt pretty bad—took a hit during the last surge. Nesta and Emerie are staying by her side.”

The guilt was instant. Your stomach twisted. The thought of Nesta keeping watch while you laid here useless—

“I’ll go tomorrow,” you said, trying to sound firmer than you felt. “I should be fine by then.”

No one corrected you. No one told you to rest.

But the way Azriel’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand told you everything.

A soft shuffle of boots outside the tent made everyone turn.

The flap lifted.

And in stepped Nesta.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said dryly, glancing around at the stunned expressions. “Is this some kind of Night Court meeting I’m not allowed to join?”

Laughter broke out immediately.

Cassian smirked and patted the space beside him. “Perfect timing, we were just talking about you—and Gwyn.”

Nesta sat beside him, her body language still cool, but her eyes warmed slightly as she looked your way. “She’s doing better. Veras is with her now. Emery stayed behind to help. They’ll both be here tomorrow if Gwyn’s fever breaks.”

You nodded, relieved. “Good.”

A quiet settled over the tent again, heavy but no longer tense.

Then Rhysand looked around the circle, his gaze slow and contemplative. “I realized… we haven’t done it yet.”

You raised a brow. “Done what?”

Everyone stilled—knowing exactly what he meant.

Rhys slowly reached his hand out to Feyre.

You pushed yourself upright with effort, teeth clenched at the ache in your ribs, but Azriel moved without question—adjusting to help you lean against him.

You placed your hand gently in his.

Then you reached out and grabbed Mor’s hand. Azriel holded yours and Cassian’s. Cassian turned to Nesta and laced their fingers together. Nesta reached for Rhys. Rhys gripped Feyre’s. And Feyre leaned forward to clasp Mor’s free hand.

The circle was full.

And though there was no magic in the air, no battle music or thunder of distant armies—something settled in that moment.

An oath.

Unspoken, but real.

No matter what happened tomorrow—this was their line in the sand. This was their family. And nothing would break it.

Rhys looked around the circle, his fingers tightening slightly around Feyre’s.

He took a breath.

“I didn’t think we’d be here again,” he said quietly. “Not like this. Not after everything we went through the first time. And yet…”

His eyes moved from one face to the next—lingering on each of you like he was trying to commit every detail to memory.

“And yet we’re still here. Still fighting. Not just for peace—but for each other.”

He glanced down for a moment, exhaling as if the weight of centuries sat on his shoulders.

“I’ve lost people in war. Friends. Family. Parts of myself. I carry those losses every day. But the part I didn’t expect—the part that no battlefield ever prepares you for—is how much harder it is to live after it’s over.”

No one moved.

“No one tells you that survival doesn’t always feel like winning,” he continued, voice soft. “That there are days where the silence is worse than the screams. Where guilt feels heavier than any sword. That rebuilding something beautiful sometimes hurts more than watching it fall.”

Feyre’s eyes glistened. She didn’t look away.

“But despite it all—because of it all—I look at this circle, and I know this is the only fight worth having. Not for power. Not for pride. But for love. For choice. For the people who make all the pain bearable.”

His voice caught, just slightly. “You are my family. My strength. My hope. Every single one of you.”

He looked to Cassian, then Mor. To Azriel. To you. Then Nesta. Then back to Feyre.

“I would rather walk into a thousand wars with you than spend a single day without you in a world ruled by fear.”

The silence that followed was heavy and golden, like the pause at the end of a prayer.

And then—

Cassian sniffed loudly. “Oh shut up, Rhys. You’re making me all emotional.”

A ripple of laughter broke through the solemn quiet—relief and affection threaded through it. Feyre rolled her eyes but smiled. Mor chuckled and wiped at one corner of her eye. Even Nesta looked down, her expression softening.

Azriel didn’t laugh—but he smiled. Just a little. Just for you.

And you, still curled into him, felt the warmth of every soul around you. Hands still linked, hearts still beating.

Whatever came tomorrow—

You would face it together.

Because you where the night court.

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lvgvcy-deactivated20260523

sometimes you just gotta lay on the floor

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 23

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; hello everyone ! hope that everyone is doing great, here is the new chapter of this story. Tbh it was the funniest for me to write i just love Ather's character, i hope that you will have a great time with him too ! Either way please enjoy this chapter, i'm finally with less work so i'm able to be more regular with the posts, really don't hesitate to comment because that motivates a lot !!! see you soon everyone <3333

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Azriel

The front line was soaked in blood—mud and ash caked over scorched stone, crimson pooling in trenches, staining armor, painting the battlefield in a shade of death that would never wash out. Smoke curled from splintered trees, from the bodies of fallen beasts and warriors alike, and above it all… the scent of rot. Of magic too old and wrong for this world.

Azriel spun, blades flashing as another creature lunged out of the mist—misshapen, all teeth and shadow. Not quite dead, not quite living. He ducked, slashed once, and the thing crumbled to the dirt in a heap of shriveled bone and tar-thick blood.

But it didn’t scream when it died. It didn’t bleed right. They never did.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

Another wave came—Koshiev’s army was relentless. There was no breath between attacks, no lull to regroup. These monsters, these vessels, didn’t tire. Didn’t think. They just moved. With precision, with hunger. Azriel had already managed to cut down dozens of them. And still—they kept coming.

Whatever technique Koshiev had used to twist these things into being, it was working. Azriel wasn’t even sure what half of them had once been. Animals? Fae? Humans? Nothing moved like them. Nothing bled like them. And every time he killed one, another emerged from the fog—dark as pitch, limbs that bent the wrong way, eyeless and snarling.

He’d seen horrors before. He’d fought in more wars than he cared to count. But this?

This was something else.

This was the kind of fight that whispered in the back of your skull, that made you wonder if you were going to wake up screaming weeks, months from now—if you were lucky enough to survive.

He didn’t know how long they’d been fighting. Hours? Days?

He didn’t know how many vessels were still out there. How many Koshiev had sent. How many more would come.

And that—not the monsters, not the blood, not even the screaming—

That was what scared the shit out of him.

Because for the first time in centuries, Azriel couldn’t see when this war would end.

And if he couldn’t see the end…

Then maybe there wasn’t one.

Steel clanged on steel. Wings battered against wind and ash. Azriel moved like shadow incarnate, slicing through one creature’s throat and twisting away just in time to avoid the snapping jaws of another. Every inch of him was slick with sweat and blood—most of it not his. His siphons burned, casting dull light through the smoky battlefield, and his magic strained with every strike.

He didn’t pause. Couldn’t.

And then he spotted him—Cassian, a whirlwind of blade and brute force, carving a path through the ranks with fire in his eyes and blood streaking his armor. Relief crashed through Azriel’s ribs. He veered left, wings flaring as he cut down another beast and landed hard beside his brother.

Cassian glanced his way. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to kill a few hundred things on the way,” Azriel panted, ducking as Cassian cleaved through a malformed thing that howled in a voice that wasn’t its own.

They barely had a moment to breathe.

A soldier—a young male from the Summer Court—was three feet away from them, eyes wild with fear but still holding his line. Azriel barely had time to call a warning before the air shifted.

It didn’t come from the front.

It came beneath.

With no warning, the ground under the soldier cracked open like a mouth—dark magic shattering the stone, tendrils of something black and slick grabbing him by the waist and dragging him down. Not slowly.

Snapped. Like a trap closing. His scream split the air—and then half his body was gone. The rest followed in a wet, crunching sound that would stay in Azriel’s ears for the rest of his life.

The crack sealed shut a moment later. As if the earth had never opened.

Both Azriel and Cassian froze—just for a breath.

“Mother’s fucking bones,” Cassian said under his breath, eyes wide, face pale beneath his war paint.

Azriel didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He just stared at the bloody smear on the stone where the male had stood.

Whatever that was… it wasn’t a beast.

That was Koshiev.

That was intent.

And it was only getting worse.

Just as the blood from the soldier’s death had finished soaking into the dirt, the message came—sharp and sudden in Azriel’s mind.

"The camp was attacked.”

Rhysand’s voice, clipped and strained, cracked across the bond like lightning.

Azriel froze.

So did Cassian.

“What?” Cass barked, already turning toward him, reading the horror written across his brother’s face.

But Azriel wasn’t listening.

Because a second later, he felt it—

Nothing.

The bond—your bond—was still there but quiet. Too quiet. As if something had pressed down on it, smothered it into silence. No thoughts. No emotions. No heartbeat pulsing at the edge of his soul.

Just a void.

Azriel’s entire body went ice-cold.

Cassian swore, grabbing his arm. “Go. I’ve got it here—go find her.”

That was all he needed.

Azriel didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

He vanished.

Through shadows, through sky, through sheer, frantic will—he soared above the battlefield, the world a blur of smoke and fire below. He didn’t stop to rest, didn’t pause to calculate. He pushed every thread of his power to its edge, moving like a dying star across the sky, desperation cutting through him like a blade.

You were silent. And Azriel had never, ever, been more afraid in his life.

The world stopped.

Where there should have been tents, noise, faelight, the copper-sweet scent of blood and burn salves, there was… nothing.

The camp was gone.

Not destroyed. Not burned or broken. Just… gone.

Azriel landed hard, boots hitting soft ground where your tent used to be—where the medical pavilion, the triage rows, the healer quarters should’ve stood. Now, there was only grass. Dirt. Wind whispering through quiet trees.

As if none of it had ever existed.

As if you had never existed.

A choked, broken sound tore from Azriel’s throat.

A sound that wasn’t meant for battle. Wasn’t meant for war.

It was the kind of sound that was made only when the world ended.

He stumbled forward, eyes wide, lungs locked. His heart beat so loud he thought it might rupture, then collapse entirely.

No movement.

No scent.

No bond.

“No…” he whispered, knees nearly giving out beneath him. “No, no, please…”

Was this it?

Was this how Elain’s vision was supposed to happen?

Not even a goodbye.

Not even a fucking chance to hold you one last time. To say he loved you. To feel your skin beneath his hands. Your lips against his.

He had just kissed you hours ago. Just whispered promises against your skin. And now?

Now there was only emptiness.

Azriel fell to one knee, hands in the dirt where your tent should have stood.

His jaw clenched. His throat burned. And for the first time since he was a boy in a cell, helpless and broken and bleeding—

Tears pricked his eyes.

He stepped forward slowly, like walking through a dream that made no sense. The kind of dream that clawed at your ribs and left you gasping when you woke up. Except he wasn’t waking up. This was real.

The bond still felt wrong. Not severed—but quiet. Blurred. Faint. Like you were behind thick glass, miles away, or like someone had submerged your presence in water and he was clawing to reach it.

It didn’t look like an attack. There were no bodies. No smoke. No blood.

But with what he knew of Koshiev’s power… anything was possible.

Then—

A flicker of cold. Of movement.

His shadows.

The ones that had refused to leave you, the ones that had stayed curled at your side even as he left.

His shadows whipped around him in a frenzy—restless, searching, calling.

And then—one of them touched the side of his neck.

Insistent. Pulling.

South. Far south. Not just meters—kilometers.

Azriel’s breath caught. His eyes widened.

The shadows didn’t say you were taken. They said: find her.

He stood in a single movement. Wings flaring, heart thundering.

You had moved the camp. You’d teleported the entire thing.

And his shadows had stayed behind to guide him home.

He didn’t hesitate.

He launched into the sky like a shadow-made storm, burning through the wind with only one thought echoing through him:

Find her. Now.

Azriel landed so hard he cracked the earth.

The camp was there—intact. Tents standing, faelights flickering, familiar shadows moving through the rows. The scent of healing salves, steel, and blood still hung in the air—but it was all real. Safe.

You’d moved it.

You had moved the whole gods-damned camp.

He didn’t pause to marvel at how. He just ran.

Straight into the healer’s tent, shoving the flap aside so fast the wood creaked.

He scanned the space—until his eyes locked on the Illyrian boy he’d seen shadowing you since the start of the war. The one who never left your side. Ather.

The male was slumped on a chair, one wing pinned with two vicious black arrows, sweat beading on his pale forehead. Elira—Azriel recognized her immediately from Velaris—was tending to the injury, hands glowing faintly.

It didn’t matter.

Azriel was on him in a breath.

He grabbed Ather by the collar, hauling him forward with enough force to jostle the cot. “Where is she?! Where, is, she?!” he roared, voice a lash of pure, frantic fury. Each word came with a shake that made Ather whimper in shock.

The boy was already ashen, eyes wide with remembered horror—and now, staring into the face of a raging shadowsinger, he looked moments away from passing out.

Elira grabbed Azriel’s arm hard. “Calm down, would you?! You’re going to kill him, and he’s the one who saved your wife!”

Azriel froze.

Elira scowled. “Y/N is fine. She’s sleeping. In your tent. She used too much power and passed—”

She didn’t finish.

Azriel was already gone.

Elira sighed, dropping her head back with a groan. “Aaaaahhhh, men…”

“I know, right…” Ather muttered, grimacing as she resumed stitching the damage to his wing.

A few hours before

“For fuck’s sake… fuck this shit.”

It was all you could say as you stared into the distance, where dust clouds were beginning to rise—heralds of the coming enemy. Your heart thundered against your ribs, not from fear, but from calculation. From the pressure that cracked through your spine like lightning.

You took one breath.

Then another.

Then turned toward Ather.

“Your wings—are they strong enough for you to fly with me?”

He blinked at you, confused. “I mean… yes? Not for long distances, though. I—I’m not as strong as the more experienced Illyrian, but I can fly.”

You didn’t wait.

You were already walking. Past the first row of healer tents. Past the storage pavilion. Past the outer sentry post. Toward the edge of camp. Toward the enemy.

Ather scrambled after you. “Wait—wait—Y/N, what are we doing? Are we evacuating? Is this, like, some sort of fallback protocol? Are we running away? Should I be writing a goodbye note? Do you have one? We should maybe have left that for Azriel, don’t you think?!—I mean, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to skin me alive. I don’t want to die being skinned—”

You smacked the back of his head.

“Ow!”

“Shut up.” You didn’t look at him as you stopped at the very edge of camp, just before the first trees of the old forest. “Be ready. The moment I finish, grab me and fly south. As far as your wings can take us.”

He stared at you. “Finish what? What are you—”

You didn’t answer.

You inhaled deeply, letting the air burn through your lungs, as if it could hold your ribs together for what was coming. You reached—up, out, in—and found the celestial threads humming all around you. You had always called the moon your ally. Gentle, intuitive, unwavering. But the sun? The sun roared. The sun commanded.

And today, it answered.

Light surged in your chest. The very air shimmered with it. Around the entire camp, the sky itself rippled—golden, blinding, a silent warning to whatever forces approached.

It felt powerful. It felt alive. It felt raw.

And it felt like it might break you.

Your knees trembled. Your breath grew shallow. You could taste copper.

Blood slipped from your nose first.

Then your ears.

The magic clawed through you, not gentle like moonlight but searing like solar flame. Your fingers twitched as the spell stretched wide—so wide. You were folding space. Bending the air, the soil, the living threads of every healer, every tent, every goddamn cot and supply chest. You were taking everything.

Ather’s voice rang beside you, panicked and high and desperate. “Y/N—they’re close, they’re so close! I can see them, we don’t have time! Finish it! For Cauldron’s sake—please—”

You couldn’t hear him fully anymore. The rush of blood in your ears was a tidal wave. Your limbs shook violently now. Your vision swam.

The ground quaked beneath your feet as hundreds—maybe thousands—of enemy soldiers approached. The woods rustled with their shadows. The ground thundered. Your power stuttered once. Once.

And the clock screamed in your mind—NOW. NOW. NOW.

You screamed with it.

Light erupted.

A violent, blinding flash engulfed the camp.

And then— Silence.

The entire camp vanished.

Every healer, every patient, every supply—all gone.

Ather blinked—just once—before you crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Y/N!”

He barely had time to catch your limp body before the enemy force burst through the trees, crashing into the clearing where a camp had once stood.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He clutched you tight and launched into the sky, wings howling in protest as he lifted you into the air. Below, the enemy spread through the empty earth like ants—searching, confused, too late.

Blood trailed from your nose, your ears, your fingertips.

You didn’t stir.

But you were alive.

And he was flying—because you told him to.

Ather flew harder and faster than he ever had in his life.

The wind tore at his wings. The weight of your limp body in his arms made every pump of his muscles feel like fire. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Because he knew. He knew the monster below had seen him. That it had looked right at him with those eyes that weren’t eyes—black pits of death that knew.

And it knew who he carried.

The moment the camp had vanished, the forest had exploded with chaos. He’d barely cleared the treetops before the shrieking started—inhuman and guttural. And then the arrows came.

The first one missed his right wing by a hair.

The second lodged in his boot.

The third he had to dodge mid-air or it would’ve gone through you.

“Cauldron-fucking-DAMN IT!” he snarled, twisting sharply, wings howling as he dove behind a burst of trees, bark exploding behind him as more arrows sliced the air.

He held you tighter—gods, you were so still—and it made him sick. Sick with fear, sick with rage, sick with the crushing truth that he had no idea where he was going.

Because of course you hadn’t told him.

Of course you’d passed out like a martyr before saying, “Hey Ather, the whole camp is going to rematerialize southwest near a large, helpful clearing.”

No.

No, instead he was half-dead, flying through a fucking nightmare, with arrows hissing past him and hell only knew how many monstrous things tracking his scent and yours, and he was flying blind.

He should’ve never said he liked working with you.

He should’ve kept his mouth shut, kept his distance, and stayed on the front lines where people just died quickly.

Now he was going to die slowly, on fire, probably, and you—gods, he didn’t even want to think—

But then.

Then.

A shadow flickered out of nowhere.

Small. Quick. Familiar.

Ather nearly wept.

“Oh, bless you, you little shit,” he gasped, adjusting his hold on you as the shadow darted in front of him, curling like smoke toward the south.

He didn’t question it.

Didn’t dare.

He followed the shadow like it was the only star in the sky. Arrows still flew. The enemy still roared below.

And all Ather could do was pray—

That he wasn’t flying into a trap. That the shadow was truly Azriel’s. That the gods—or hell, anyone—were still watching over you.

“Just hold on,” he whispered against your hair, voice cracking. “Please hold on.”

And he flew. Bleeding. Cursing. Terrified.

But he flew.

He didn’t know how long he’d been flying.

Hours. Days. Maybe three years. In reality? Barely forty-five minutes. Probably less.

But tell that to his lungs, currently trying to crawl out of his chest cavity. Or to his wings, one of which had two actual fucking arrows in it. Or to his foot, which still had that charming little arrowhead lodged in it, singing sweet nothings up his leg every two minutes like some demonic lullaby.

He was sweating. And freezing. And panting like an animal that had already died once and just hadn’t gotten the message yet.

“Are you happy now?” he hissed into the air, glaring down at your completely unconscious face. “Is this what you wanted? Me—dying—like some overcooked pigeon because you wanted to heroic teleport an entire camp?!”

You didn’t answer.

Because, of course, you were still completely out cold.

“Of course you’re not answering,” he gritted. “Because that would be helpful. And you—you’re all about the dramatic silence, aren’t you? You just had to pass out with zero explanation.”

He adjusted his grip as another gust of wind tried to yank him sideways, groaning as his wing screamed in pain. “You know, I used to think you were cool. I really did. You’re badass, you’re powerful, you make people explode from the inside out—all the usual things that make a guy respect someone.”

Another sharp jolt of pain lanced through his leg, and he yelled.

“But this?! This is not cool!” He huffed, half-sobbing now. “This is war crimes level uncool. You are so lucky I like you.”

Still, the shadow ahead of him—his only lifeline—twisted through the sky, relentless and steady, leading him somewhere. Hopefully not the afterlife.

Ather clung to that flicker of shadow like it was holy.

“I swear to all the gods,” he muttered, breath hitching, “if you die after making me go through this—I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself.”

Another gust. Another fucking pulse of pain in his foot. He could feel the stupid arrow vibrating in his bone.

“Why the foot? Who aims for a foot?!”

You still didn’t stir. Just a limp weight in his arms, your brow faintly furrowed from power long since burned out.

He looked down at your face again. Blood had dried around your ears and nose. Your lips were pale.

And just like that, all the fury evaporated.

Ather’s throat closed up. “Don’t you dare leave,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if we’re halfway across the world—I’ll carry you the rest of the way. But don’t you fucking leave me, Y/N.”

He sniffed. “Also, your husband owes me a very expensive bottle of something very strong.”

And with that, wings still trembling, vision blurred from exhaustion and fury and sheer dumb hope—Ather followed the shadow onward. Toward safety. Toward the camp.

By the time Ather finally staggered through the perimeter of the relocated camp, he was done.

Done with flying. Done with bleeding. Done with holding you like a sack of divine potatoes while using one arrow-impaled foot to drag his soul across whatever-the-fuck terrain this was.

“AAAAUUUGGHHHHHH,” he groaned—loudly, dramatically, sweat pouring down his temple, wobbling so hard he was seeing three of every tent. “I swear to the Cauldron if I collapse now, after ALL OF THAT, I want a statue built of me!”

His left wing twitched violently. His arms burned. His foot—don’t even mention the foot.

He lurched forward, nearly tripping over air as he adjusted your weight in his arms. “Why are you so heavy?! I thought powerful people were supposed to be light with magic, but nooo,” he grunted, dragging his leg behind him like a dead fish. “It’s like carrying a sack of bricks soaked in divine energy and sarcasm!”

People were staring.

He glared at them. Actually glared.

“WHAT?! Don’t just stand there like a bunch of decorative pigeons, HELP ME, DAMMIT!”

Two startled volunteers ran forward to finally take you from his arms—Ather nearly sobbed in relief as he slumped forward, gripping the edge of the nearest table.

Elira emerged from the main tent just in time to see him faceplant into the nearest chair with all the elegance of a drunk wyvern.

“DON’T EVER leave me alone with her again,” he gasped between wheezing breaths. “I thought—I saw my ancestors, Elira. I saw them. They told me I was stupid. I AGREED.”

She blinked. “Ather, breathe.”

He wheezed harder. “You’re supposed to always be with her! Isn’t that your job? She’s terrifying. I mean—she glowed, Elira. She started bleeding from the nose and I thought, ‘Well, guess I die now.’”

Elira pulled up his sleeve and began dabbing at a particularly nasty cut. “You're being dramatic.”

“I am NOT—ow—being dramatic. I’m being traumatized!”

He slumped further, clutching his head. “She said, ‘Be ready to catch me.’ What does that mean, Elira?! Do I look like someone built for divine emergency teleportation?!”

He let out a long, miserable, guttural noise.

“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH—”

And that was the moment a dark hand gripped his shoulder and shook him hard enough that his brain nearly fell out of his nose.

Ather screamed.

Azriel stood over him like an avenging shadow, eyes wild, hair a mess, wings still dusted with frost and blood.

“Where is she?!” he demanded, already halfway turned, eyes sweeping the tent like he was seconds from vaporizing it.

Elira grabbed his other shoulder and yanked. “She’s fine! Calm down before you break him in half!”

“She’s in your tent,” she added more firmly. “Passed out. Drained, but safe. Lila and Telyan are with her.”

Azriel was gone before either of them could say another word.

Ather flopped back in the chair, limp as a boiled vegetable. “Men,” Elira muttered.

“I know, right?” Ather groaned, tossing an arm over his face. “And somehow, I’m the one screaming.”

And then he passed out. Just like that. In the chair.

Absolutely done.

Azriel was running—wind slicing past his face, shadows pulling ahead of him like panicked hounds on the scent.

Then, “Where are you? Where is the camp? What the fuck happened?” Rhysand’s voice cracked in through the bond like a blade.

Azriel didn’t slow. “I don’t fucking know how,” he snapped, mentally already halfway to the camp, “but the entire fucking camp was teleported. Twenty-five kilometers southwest.”

A pause. Then Rhys again, more tense this time: “What do you mean, teleported?”

Azriel’s wings flared wide as he shifted around a rocky outcrop. “I don’t have the time to explain it to you. Just pass the message.”

That silence—just a breath’s worth—was enough. Azriel felt the shift in Rhys’ energy. The worry.

“Take care of her,” Rhys said, quiet.

Azriel didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because that was the moment he found the tent.

He burst inside.

And the world stopped.

It reeked of blood. Her blood.

Teylan and Lila were hunched over you, carefully tending to wounds and soaking towels already stained deep red. Most of your clothes had been stripped—your skin pale and clammy, dark stains drying down your jawline, across your chest.

You were upright—but barely. The second the cold air of the door rushed in with him, you turned to the side and threw up, wet, violent, and full of something that was far too close to pure blood. Azriel’s heart stopped.

"What the fuck is going on?” His voice shook with raw fear, with rage barely tethered. “What happened to her?!”

He was already halfway to your cot, shadows thickening at his back like they were ready to destroy anything that stood between you. He didn’t care if it was a healer, a High Lord, or a god.

Teylan turned, startled by Azriel’s sudden presence. Lila was behind you, gently helping you lie back onto the cot, brushing your hair from your sweat-soaked face.

“She burned out,” Lila snapped, eyes blazing with equal parts panic and frustration. “That crazy, dumbass woman saved all of us by teleporting the entire fucking camp.”

“Lila!” Teylan hissed, not even bothering to hide the edge in his tone. “Language.”

“I don’t give a shit about her language,” Azriel growled, stepping forward, shadows flickering with every breath. “Is she going to be okay?”

He moved closer—but just as his hand reached out, Teylan blocked him with a firm arm.

“If you want to go near her,” he said flatly, “clean up first. She’s too weak, Azriel. And whatever blood or poison those creatures carried—you might be coated in it.”

Azriel looked down—realizing only now the black blood splattered on his leathers, the scratches across his skin that still oozed. He swore violently, wings twitching as he backed away with visible reluctance, gaze never leaving you.

You were still, your breaths thin and wheezing. Every inch of him wanted to be by your side. Touch you. Ground you. Protect you.

But Teylan was right.

So Azriel stepped back. Shadows curled around him like they ached, too.

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice like gravel. “The second I’m clean.”

And with that, he vanished into the dark again—leaving behind the wreckage of power, blood, and the woman he couldn’t, wouldn’t lose.

To say that it was the fastest Azriel had ever cleaned himself was an understatement. He had barely finished scrubbing the blood from his skin before he was throwing his leathers back on and sprinting back to the tent, water still dripping from the ends of his hair.

When he stepped inside again, breathless, heart thudding with that same cold fear still coiled in his ribs—Teylan and Lila were finishing up. The scent of blood had faded slightly, replaced now with clean bandages, salves, and bitter herbs meant to bring fevers down.

You were still in the cot, buried beneath layers upon layers of blankets, only your face visible. Pale. Still. A sheen of sweat remained on your skin, your lashes unmoving.

Lila turned to Azriel with a tired expression, her own hands red-raw from washing and healing. “She should be fine now. We gave her something to stop the internal bleeding and the vomiting. The fever broke once we got her temp stabilized.”

Teylan added, “She just needs rest. Sleep and food. That’s it. No more magic. Not until her power levels out again.”

Azriel nodded once, sharp and fast.

“We’ll handle the healers and the meeting for now,” Teylan continued. “But if anything—anything—changes, you call us. No matter the hour.”

Azriel gave another short nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

They slipped out a moment later, quiet as ghosts, leaving him alone with you.

He moved toward the bed slowly, eyes tracking every twitch of your brow, every shallow breath. You looked too small under the covers, too fragile. Like even the wind could break you now.

He dropped his clothes one by one until only his undergarments remained. His hair was still damp, plastered lightly to his forehead, but he didn’t care. He climbed into the narrow bed, careful not to jostle you too hard, and pulled you gently into his arms. You didn’t stir.

He shifted until your body lay sprawled across his chest, his arms wound tightly around your waist. His wings unfurled with a whisper and curled around both of you, cocooning you in warmth, shielding you from everything—light, cold, the world outside.

His shadows nestled close, quiet, grieving in their own way. He tilted his head down, brushed his lips across your temple.

You had teleported an entire fucking camp. Gods above. And it had nearly killed you.

Azriel held you closer.

He didn’t know how you did it—how you channeled that much power, how you still chose to give everything you had to keep everyone safe. He knew you were more than powerful. But this…

This had terrified him.

He buried his face in your hair and exhaled slowly, trying to steady the quake still sitting in his bones.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin. “I love you so gods-damned much…”

And he stayed there—his heart beating against yours, his wings sheltering you from a world at war—until sleep finally took him, wrapped in the fragile peace of your breathing.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 22

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; hey heyyyy ! What's up ? Here is the new chapter hope that you will enjoy it, see you soon !!!

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The tent was dimly lit, the soft glow of faelight lamps casting long shadows over the makeshift table in the center. It smelled faintly of salve, leather, and cold night air seeping in through the canvas. The war outside had stilled for now, the battlefield quiet but heavy—like the world was holding its breath before the next scream.

Azriel stood by your side, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, more to remind himself you were still here than anything else. Cassian lounged on a low bench, wings flexing occasionally, as if the tension hadn’t yet left his muscles. Mor sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes fixed on you.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, raising a sculpted brow. “FIRST, you don’t tell me about the wedding. SECOND, you casually make people explode from the inside? Really, Y/N?”

Cassian snorted. “Honestly, you should be more offended about the wedding. But the exploding thing is pretty impressive too.”

You rolled your eyes, untying the blood-crusted ties of your gloves and tossing them onto the table. “Don’t act like it’s a big deal, Mor.”

“A big deal? You annihilated someone in front of a tent full of healers and warriors.”

“I’ve been a field healer before. I might’ve spent the last few centuries traveling, but I’m not new to this.” You looked between them all, the calm in your voice layered with fatigue. “I just didn’t have much reason to train the more… violent applications of my skills since I got back to Velaris.”

Azriel’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing. You could feel the weight of his worry pressing through the bond like a second heartbeat.

Cassian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Still. That wasn’t healing. That was execution.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “He was already gone, Cass. If I hadn’t acted, more would’ve followed.”

That silenced the room for a moment.

Then the tent flap shifted, and Rhysand and Feyre stepped inside, both looking like they’d just come from a battlefield of a different kind—paperwork and High Lord politics. Rhys’s eyes swept the space quickly, noting the tension, the exhaustion, the way Azriel’s body all but shadowed yours.

“We heard what happened,” Rhys said quietly. “The camp’s still talking about it.”

Feyre gave you a small, tired smile. “You alright?”

You nodded. “I’m fine. Just tired. And angry.”

“That makes six of us,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys crossed his arms, his expression grim. “The report from Winter confirms it. Whatever that warrior was—it’s not isolated. They found another.”

Your blood turned cold.

“Then this isn’t infiltration,” Azriel said darkly. “It’s strategy.”

You turned toward Feyre, your voice gentling. “And Nyx?”

Feyre’s face softened instantly. “He’s safe. In Velaris with Amren and Elain. They won’t let anything happen to him.”

Rhys added with a faint smile, “He’s still asking for his mama every five minutes and trying to climb onto the furniture he shouldn’t. Elain says he keeps throwing his stuffed illyrian toy at the windows like it’ll fly.”

Before any of you could say more, the flap opened again.

Nesta stepped in, face flushed from the cold night, a faint streak of blood drying on her temple. Her braid was loose over one shoulder, but her posture was as composed and commanding as ever.

“I was with one of the priestesses who came with the Dawn Court convoy. She stayed behind when the ridge was hit, kept shielding the trainees until they were all out.”

You straightened. “Is she alright?”

“She’s alive. Barely. She asked for you.” Nesta hesitated, then added, “Just you.”

Azriel stepped toward you instinctively, but stopped himself.

You were already reaching for your satchel.

“I’m coming,” you said, sliding your gloves inside.

You turned to Azriel and kissed him—slow, grounding, his shadows curling softly around your calves as if they, too, didn’t want to let go. His hand hovered briefly at your waist before you pulled away.

As you crossed the tent, your voice rang out, firm and sharp as steel. “If any of you cross into the healer’s tent in a state that’s even close to death, I swear I will heal you and kick your ass the moment you wake up. Understood?”

Cassian raised his hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then, just before you stepped out—

“And you better go to sleep,” you said through the bond, your voice slipping into Azriel’s mind like the brush of lips against his ear. “If I catch you anywhere else, I’ll knock you out myself. Understood?”

His reply was immediate, soft and sure.

“I love you.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Me too. I love you. But rest. Please.”

You hesitated just at the edge of the canvas, eyes still on the night beyond.

“Come and join me when you can.”

“I will come back to you.”

And with that vow glowing quietly between you like a star in the dark, you stepped out into the cold.

Back in the healer’s tent, the night stretched long.

Too long.

The kind of night that had no edges—no clean break between hours, no breath between one emergency and the next. Only the endless, rhythmic churn of pain and magic, death and mercy. The kind of night where the only measure of time was the growing ache in your shoulders and the way your feet had long forgotten what comfort meant.

Reports came in, scouts and sentries confirming no new signs of Koeshiev’s influence since the attack. No other corrupted warriors. No unexplained disappearances.

You should have felt relief.

And you did. Somewhere beneath the layers of dread and fatigue, you clung to it like a thread of gold in the dark.

But even without possession, the night was merciless.

Because healers never stopped working.

During the day, you faced the aftermath of battle—burns, lacerations, broken bones, shredded wings. Warriors carried in by their comrades, covered in dirt and glory, smelling of steel and ash. But at night… at night, the battlefield changed.

It wasn't just about the wounded anymore.

It was infection.

Blood loss.

Organ failure.

Warriors who'd refused to stop fighting until the sun dipped past the horizon—and only then collapsed, nearly gone.

And worse: the fear.

Fear that Koeshiev had already gotten inside them. Fear that every shadow on the wall might not be cast by firelight, but by something else.

You caught it in the way the volunteers flinched every time someone jolted upright on a cot. In the too-quiet conversations. In the way even the veteran healers now kept their tools a little closer, their magic resting just at the surface of their skin.

It was chaos, barely hidden beneath protocol.

And you were its anchor.

Every few minutes brought something new—a shoulder that wouldn’t stop bleeding, a stomach wound that turned septic, a child, not more than sixteen, sobbing because the friend he’d trained with for years had bled out beside him on the ride back to camp.

You patched them.

You touched their hands.

You didn’t let your voice shake when giving orders.

And every time one of the other healers broke—choked on a sob, or froze, or backed out of a tent—you stepped in.

You reminded them what they could do.

What they had to do.

Because there was no one else.

At some point, you realized you hadn’t eaten.

Or slept.

You couldn’t remember the last time you sat down.

But when a healer stumbled near the basin, elbow deep in cauterization ash, you grabbed them by the wrist, steadied their breath, and guided them back to their patient.

“I’ve got you,” you said.

You weren’t sure who you meant anymore.

Dawn was a pale thing creeping under the edges of the tent. You only noticed it because the lanterns were starting to lose their dominance over the light. Your magic was threadbare. Your throat dry from shouting instructions.

You’d just finished binding the stump of a Winter Court soldier’s leg—his third surgery, and he’d lived—and were pressing clean gauze against the bandage when you heard them approach.

Footsteps. Steady.

Rodan and Veras entered together—dressed, alert, fresh.

You hadn’t realized how exhausted you looked until you saw them standing there, eyes sweeping over the room with practiced calm.

“We’ll take it from here,” Rodan said gently.

“You’re done for now,” Veras added, her magic already humming at her fingertips.

You nodded once, too tired to argue.

“Reports?” Veras asked.

“Already filed,” you rasped. “Everyone knows. They’re watching closely. No new incidents overnight.”

Rodan clasped your forearm in thanks. “Then go rest.”

You turned, then paused at the flap of the tent and raised your voice just enough to carry through the main rows of cots and healer tables:

“Great job tonight, all of you heading to rest,” you said, voice worn but steady. “You held the line when it mattered most.”

A few heads turned. A few tired smiles broke through.

You met eyes with the incoming shift—wide awake, still fresh, but already tensing.

“To the rest of you,” you said, voice sharpening. “Good luck. And keep your heads clear. You know what’s out there now.”

A murmur of acknowledgment passed through the tent.

You let the flap close behind you.

And finally—finally—you allowed your knees to weaken, your breath to shake, and your heart to slow from its relentless, controlled rhythm.

You found him in one of the tent they'd given the Night Court—just past the outer edge of the war camp, quiet and dim and mercifully private. A single lamp glowed on a low table beside the bed, casting Azriel’s back in warm, golden light as he lie, wings stretching around the bed.

You paused in the entrance, your heart stuttering just slightly at the sight.

The intricate sun and moon tattoo danced across his shoulder blades, ringed with stars and shadows, black ink woven in elegant arcs that pulsed faintly with your bond. That mark was yours. Yours. Etched across the planes of his powerful body—the one that had fought for centuries, borne blades and broken wings, bled for people who never knew his name.

And now it bore you.

His mate.

His reason to come back.

You smiled faintly, one hand resting at your chest. For a moment, you didn’t speak—just looked. At the strong, broad shoulders, at the mess of dark hair still damp from a quick scrub, at the tension that hadn’t fully left his spine even now.

Then he turned slightly, sensing you through the bond.

He didn’t smile.

Not at first.

He just held out a hand, palm up, like a silent question.

You stepped inside and began peeling off your coat, your leathers, your blood-spattered tunic. Your voice was quiet. “I stink, Az. Let me clean off first.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he said, voice raw, barely above a whisper. “Please... Please, just come next to me.”

The tenderness in it broke something loose in your chest.

You didn’t say anything else—just stripped down to your underthings and crossed the tent. The moment you sank onto the bed, Azriel reached for you.

And held you.

No hesitation. No fear.

Just arms that wrapped fully around your waist and pulled you closer to him, his face buried against your neck, his breathing uneven.

You exhaled against his shoulder, letting your body collapse into his. He was so warm. So solid and strong—muscle and shadow and quiet strength pressed into your front like an anchor in a storm. His wings tucked around you slowly, as if they, too, had been waiting for your return.

Your fingers slid into his hair, combing it back gently, and you looked down at him—at this male who had lived through so much, carried so much, and still found a way to love you fiercely.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

Not at first.

Because love didn’t always need words. Not when your entire body hummed with it. Not when the tattoos on your backs still glowed faintly with the promise of forever. Not when his heartbeat answered yours, steady and low and there.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m here.”

“I know.” His breath caught. “But I needed to feel it.”

You didn’t move from his arms, didn’t shift an inch. Just wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders and held him the way he so often held others—silent, steadfast, and without conditions.

And in that fragile, holy quiet, both of you finally let the war go for just a moment.

His thumb was tracing slow circles at the base of your spine, right where your skin met the edge of the moon tattoo you shared—two halves of a constellation woven in shadow and light.

“You know,” he murmured against your temple, voice gravelly with sleep and emotion, “you scared the shit out of me tonight.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. “What, you thought I could only make small stars?” You arched a brow, a faint smirk teasing at your lips. “I’m hurt that you underestimated me, love.”

Before he could respond, you leaned in and kissed him—slow and soft, a brush of apology and affection all at once. His hand slid up your back, holding you like you might disappear.

Azriel exhaled against your lips, shaking his head slightly. “Never. I would never underestimate you.” His voice dropped, low and full of quiet awe. “But you never seem to stop surprising me.”

You smiled into the hollow beneath his jaw, resting your cheek there, listening to his heart—its steady, familiar rhythm like a balm.

He kept speaking, his voice quiet and close.

“And when I saw you across the tent—when I felt that magic rise from you, sharp and impossible—I knew I couldn’t lose you. Not now. Not ever.”

You hummed in response, eyes already drifting shut. The weight of the night, of war, of everything you’d poured into saving lives—it was too much. And now, in his arms, your body was surrendering at last.

Azriel kept talking. He told you about the moment he realized Koeshiev was near. About how your scent cut through the battlefield like a lifeline. About how he wanted a lifetime of quiet nights just like this.

But you didn’t hear the end of it.

You were already asleep, curled against his chest, your breath soft against his skin.

He pulled the blanket over both of you, kissed your forehead once, and held you tighter.

The shadows flickered low around the tent. Outside, the camp was still, the world holding its breath between battles.

And inside, where two matching rings glinted faintly in the dim lamplight, love kept the dark at bay.

You woke alone.

Or—mostly alone.

The bed beside you was empty, the warmth of Azriel’s body long since faded from the sheets. But a few of his shadows lingered in the quiet of the tent, coiled loosely near your pillow like sleeping cats. One flicked lazily toward you as you stirred, brushing lightly against your shoulder in greeting.

You smiled.

It wasn’t the same as having him there, but it was something. A tether. A message.

I’m still here.

You let yourself breathe slowly, your body aching in places you hadn’t even known could ache. The cot creaked softly as you stretched, muscles sore, bones heavy. But the moment your hand brushed the edge of your blanket, a memory hit—soft lips on your forehead just before dawn. A whisper of a kiss. The faint scent of night-chilled leather and cedar.

Azriel.

You’d barely been conscious at the time—more shadow than person—but you remembered now. He had leaned over you in the gray-blue hush of morning, brushing your hair gently off your face before pressing his lips to your skin.

“I love you,” he’d whispered, so quiet you might’ve believed you dreamed it.

“I’ll be back soon.”

And then he was gone, into the shadows once more.

Now, you reached out and lazily curled your fingers through the one shadow still hovering near your wrist. It twirled around your fingers, almost playfully.

“I miss him too,” you murmured.

The shadow hummed low in response, then curled protectively around your hand, a living promise that he hadn’t gone far. You closed your eyes again for a breath, your heart swelling with the quiet ache of love—and the knowledge that even in war, even in absence, he always left a piece of himself behind to watch over you.

Just like you always waited for him to return.

The days that followed blurred into one another—blood-soaked, fire-scarred, and utterly relentless.

The fighting grew more violent. More deadly. The enemy adapted faster than any of them had anticipated. What had once been waves of chaos now struck with calculated precision. Koshiev’s forces didn’t just want victory—they wanted to break them. To drain their hope. To rip apart their defenses piece by piece, both on the field and in the minds of those holding the line.

You found yourself drowning in the aftermath.

Each hour brought in more wounded than the last. Bodies twisted, burned, mauled. Arrows laced with something foul—poison that defied your most sacred herbs. Magic-wrought injuries that refused to close. Some soldiers arrived already gone, carried in only so their comrades could say goodbye before being burned or buried.

The tents became a graveyard of sounds: the wet gasp of someone trying to breathe through crushed lungs, the steady hum of spells cast without pause, the shouted orders of healers desperately trying to make sense of the carnage.

Your hands didn’t stop moving.

Neither did your mind.

Between battles and triage, you were pulled into meetings—war councils so tense they felt like battlegrounds of their own. You sat beside Rhysand and Feyre, giving updates on morale, magical depletion, healer rotations, and most grimly of all, the body count.

And through it all… you barely saw Azriel.

You passed him in corridors, exchanged glances during strategy briefings, sometimes caught a fleeting brush of fingers when seated side by side—but your shared tent was almost always empty. When you came back, exhausted and covered in someone else’s blood, the sheets were cool where his body should have been. And when he returned, silent and tight-lipped after flying patrols or delivering reports, he often found your side of the bed untouched, the faint imprint of your pillow the only proof you’d been there.

A few times, your paths crossed. A look. A kiss barely long enough to soften the ache. A whispered, “Are you okay?” with no time for an answer. Then one or both of you was gone again.

You hated it.

But you understood it.

Because war didn’t stop for love—not even the deepest kind.

Ather remained faithfully by your side.

He had shed that awkward nervousness, hardened by fire and sweat. The young Illyrian had thrown himself into the healer camp’s chaos with stubborn resilience. You rarely needed to bark orders anymore—he knew where to be. Knew how to lift, how to bind wounds, how to keep someone breathing until you got to them.

He never wandered far from you.

Sometimes you caught him watching you in those breathless pauses between patients—not out of worry, but something like fierce admiration. Not because you were perfect, but because you endured.

One night, during a particularly grim hour—when the screaming didn’t stop, when the air smelled like ash and blood and rot—you caught Ather staring at you after you saved a soldier missing half their chest.

You were soaked in blood. Magic flickered at your fingertips like a dying flame. And you were trembling.

He said nothing.

Just reached into your kit and handed you a clean cloth.

And you nodded—grateful.

It was late when they brought him in.

Not unconscious, not bleeding out—but wounded enough that two soldiers flanked him on either side, wary and watchful. Rhysand walked under his own power, but his jaw was tight, his breathing controlled in that way that told you he was forcing it to be.

You were elbow-deep in stitching a gash along a Dawn Court archer’s thigh when you saw him enter.

You swore under your breath, handing the rest of the work off to Elira with quiet instructions before pulling your gloves off. Rhys met your eyes across the tent with a nod of acknowledgement, but you could see the pain etched just beneath his calm veneer.

You didn’t waste time. You waved him toward an empty cot and grabbed your satchel of salves and spells, already bracing yourself for whatever this was.

“It’s not serious,” he said as you approached, even before you could open your mouth.

You gave him a withering look. “That’s what every warrior says right before they collapse.”

Rhysand offered a half-smile, more tired than amused. “I wouldn’t make your job harder if I didn’t have to.”

You crouched beside the cot and examined the deep gash slicing across his ribs, just under the left arm—clean, but long, and still bleeding sluggishly.

He winced as you began to clean it. “Took a blade meant for someone else,” he admitted. “Could’ve been worse.”

“It always could’ve been worse,” you said flatly, inspecting the edge of torn flesh. “But this… this should’ve been avoidable.”

Rhys’s silence said he agreed.

You applied pressure first, then gently began weaving a slow healing spell into the wound, your magic carefully coaxing the tissue to knit. Rhysand’s breathing evened out under your touch, the lines at the corners of his mouth softening.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the tent filled the silence—murmured voices, the clinking of glass vials, the soft rustle of sheets, the occasional pained grunt or gasp. You’d gotten used to the noise. It had become the heartbeat of your days. But now, next to Rhysand, it felt suddenly louder. More pressing.

“How long has it been now?” you asked softly, eyes still focused on your work.

He exhaled slowly. “Twenty days.”

You nodded. “Feels like a year.”

He chuckled faintly. “Only a year? You’re generous.”

The smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “We’re barely holding them in the Middle. If they push west…”

“I know,” he said, his voice dropping low. “If they reach Summer or Dawn… it changes everything.”

You leaned back, just for a moment, to give the wound time to settle. “You think they will?”

Rhys hesitated. It was rare to see him unsure. He was a High Lord, a general, a politician, a brother. But now, in the flickering half-light of your tent, he looked tired. Tired in his bones. In his soul.

“I think… they’re waiting for something,” he said at last. “Koeshiev isn’t stupid. He’s testing our limits. The moment one of us cracks—he’ll pour through like water through stone.”

You nodded again, slowly beginning to wrap his torso with clean bandages. “We can’t crack.”

“No,” Rhys agreed. “We can’t.”

You worked in silence for a few beats more before you spoke again, quieter now. “Do you think we’ll survive this?”

Rhysand’s eyes found yours—dark, steady, and laced with something you couldn’t name. “Yes,” he said.

Then, after a pause, “But I don’t think we all will.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

You finished tying off the bandage, brushing the back of your hand gently against his arm. “We’re losing people every day. Not just soldiers. Civilians too. The healers are breaking. I’m breaking, Rhys.”

His hand found yours.

“You’re not alone.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You hadn’t cried in days. If you started now, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

“Sometimes I think I came back just to watch everything I care about burn,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “You came back to stop that from happening. And you’re doing that. Every minute you hold this tent together. Every life you save. You are not a bystander in this war. You’re one of the reasons we still have a chance.”

You let that settle between you. The weight of belief. The burden of hope.

“You and Feyre…” you began softly. “You still get to hear about Nyx?”

Rhys nodded slowly. “When we can. He’s safe. Elain and Amren have been godsends.”

“I miss him,” you admitted.

“He misses you, too.” A pause. “We tell him stories. About you. About the brave healer who will come home when the war is done.”

Your throat tightened. “You shouldn’t give him that promise.”

Rhys’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with certainty. “It’s not a promise. It’s a truth. You will come back.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know if it was true.

And so you squeezed his hand once more, and stood, gathering your tools. “You need rest. Don’t even think about flying for a day or two.”

He smirked. “You sound like Madja.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As he rose to leave, Rhysand turned back, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “You’re not allowed to fall apart yet, Y/N.”

You looked up at him. “I know. I’m not done putting everyone else back together.”

And with that, the High Lord of the Night Court stepped back into the war—and you turned back toward the next wound, the next hour, the next weight to carry.

The light filtering through the tent was harsh—midday sun beating down on canvas already stained with blood and soot. The air was thick with the sour tang of magic, sweat, and the sterile sharpness of your salves. Outside, the sounds of distant battle rumbled like an oncoming storm, but inside, the healer’s quarters were a steady, brutal rhythm: shouting, stitching, casting, binding. The steady tick of life slipping away and being yanked back by sheer force of will.

You and Ather moved in tandem now, no longer needing to speak much—his hands were already reaching for what you needed before you asked, his movements sharp and sure, even if his face betrayed the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re getting too good at this,” you muttered, your voice rough from hours of shouting over pain and command.

“I’d rather be bad and somewhere else,” he replied, setting a bone back into place while you channeled healing light through the soldier’s crushed leg.

You gave him a grim smile. “Fair.”

Beside you, Ather dropped onto a stool with a huff, barely keeping upright as he cleaned his blade and flexed a bloodied hand.

“Back when they told me I was being assigned to healer duty…” he started, voice rough, low enough to barely rise above the din of the tent, “I was furious.”

You glanced over, just once. He didn’t stop.

“I wanted to be on the front lines. Swinging steel. Earning glory like the others.”

You nodded slowly, turning back to check the stitches on a soldier’s side. “Changed your mind?”

Ather gave a short, humorless laugh. “Now? Now I’m sure I’m actually going to do something useful here. Something that matters. Something that might even last.”

He looked at the healer’s tent around him—at the volunteers working, the quiet moans of pain, the hands that shook but didn’t stop tending wounds.

“I’d rather stand here and fight with you than die in some muddy field without even knowing if I mattered.”

You didn’t say anything, but the words lodged deep in your chest, reverberating. A quiet, shared understanding. No glory. No songs. Just service. Just survival.

That was all the moment allowed.

Because the tent flap whipped open a heartbeat later, and a soldier—bloodied, wild-eyed—stumbled in, gasping like the air had been ripped from his lungs.

“The west line—they’re through! They’ve broken through the ridge—they’re coming, they’re coming now!”

Chaos.

For one long second, everything was too quiet. Every healer froze. Every patient stopped groaning. And you—your body went cold.

Not because of the scream. But because of the wave of wrongness that swept over you a heartbeat later, like an icy shadow curling around your spine.

You shoved the soldier you were tending to into Elira's hands. “Secure the wounded. Now.”

“Y/N—”

“NOW!”

The tent exploded into motion. Healers scrambled. Patients were dragged toward the reinforced center line of the camp. Weapons, usually hidden beneath cots or bundled in corners, were being unsheathed with trembling hands.

You stepped outside just in time to hear the first horn blow—not one of theirs.

Enemy.

You turned to Ather, who was already at your side, sword drawn. His siphons were glowing a sharp, determined green. The tree line far in the distance writhed with movement, dark shapes swarming like ants cresting a hill. The enemy wasn’t here yet—but they would be. And soon.

The air was wrong again. Heavier. Charged.

Ather stepped up beside you, jaw tight, eyes forward.

You stared ahead, squinting at the horizon, hands balled at your sides.

Then you muttered, too loud for him not to hear—

“For fuck’s sake… fuck this shit.”

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 21

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 5.7k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; Hello everyone ! What's up ? Here is the new chapter hehe hope that you will enjoy it, it's war and it's much darker than usual ! Either way see you soon !!!

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While the High Lords gathered again in council—voicing plans, drawing borders, debating how to proceed—you had already begun.

There had been no ceremony. No formal decree placing the burden on your shoulders. But the moment war returned to Prythian, the weight of leadership found you.

Because they trusted you.

Because you knew what to do.

You had not fought in the last two wars. The Cauldron’s destruction and Hybern’s fall had happened while you were across the sea, in faraway lands where the stars were different and pain wore unfamiliar faces. But that didn’t mean you hadn’t seen war. You had tended to battlefields choked in ash and blood. Had screamed over wounded soldiers while enemy horns still blew in the distance. Had wrapped yourself in healer’s robes that smelled of iron and rot and clung to your skin like a second, cursed layer.

You hated war.

But you understood it.

And now, it was here.

The healer’s camp was rising fast—just a few miles behind the front line where Winter and Day were already locked in skirmishes with Koshiev’s first wave. The scent of cold pine from Winter’s edges mixed with the mineral tang of cracked stone and blood. White tents fluttered in the wind, ropes anchoring them against the rush of messengers and supplies. Ward lines had already been carved into the frozen earth by Dawn Court mages—barriers to keep out wild magic and corrupted air.

You stood in the center of it all, barked orders flowing from your mouth without hesitation. Assignments. Triage formations. Inventory checks. You moved with your sleeves rolled to your elbows and a thin smudge of soot on your cheek. No glamour. No grace.

Just the quiet, practiced command of someone who knew exactly how to keep people alive.

You hadn’t seen Azriel in hours.

He had left before dawn, shadows coiled tight, heading toward a newly forming reconnaissance post along the northern edge of the mountains. But even now, as you stalked between tent rows, checking for weaknesses in the shielding wards, you reached for the bond.

Are you safe?

No answer yet.

Az, you tried again, gentler. Talk to me.

Still nothing.

You pushed the worry down. Forced your hands to keep working.

The news from the front was grim. Winter’s line had bent but not broken—yet. Kalias’s forces were strong but outnumbered. Day had pushed in with their elite firecasters, but it wasn’t enough. Koshiev’s creatures weren’t just soldiers. They were nightmares with no rules, no blood, no soul. And worst of all—they multiplied.

All courts would be needed soon. Every ounce of power. Every blade, every spell. Every hand.

Including yours.

Elira jogged up beside you, her braid wild and armor already streaked with dust. “We’re short two crates of blood-root poultice,” she reported. “And Mira says the third tent’s warding is fluctuating—probably due to that crack in the shielding line from earlier.”

You nodded. “Have Theylan reinforce the tent wards and get a courier to Day’s supply wagons. Tell Mira to prep a shadow-safe triage zone. Just in case.”

Elira didn’t question the order. She ran.

The camp was quiet.

Not with peace, but with anticipation. A silence that pressed down like a storm waiting to break.

They stood in front of you—rows of healers in varying uniforms and colors, pulled from every court. Some wore finely-stitched robes of trained mastery. Others were volunteers, barely trained, still trembling beneath their armor. The head healers from each court flanked the edges, arms crossed, their expressions grim and expectant.

You stood on the rise just above them, wind tugging gently at your coat, eyes scanning the sea of faces.

No one spoke.

You took one breath. Then another.

And began.

“This is not the first war Prythian has seen. But it may be the last.”

The words echoed across the camp, cutting the wind clean.

“We are not soldiers. We do not wield blades, or lead charges, or set the sky alight with power. But make no mistake—we are the last barrier between survival and death.”

You let that sink in. Faces shifted. Straightened.

“We are the difference between a soldier going home… or not. Between fear and hope. Between despair and dignity.”

Your eyes swept over them.

“Some of you are experienced. You’ve done this before. You know what it’s like to have blood under your nails and someone screaming in your arms. Others… this will be your first time.”

You didn’t soften the words. You wouldn’t insult them with lies.

“You will see things you’re not prepared for. You will have to act when you’re terrified. And you will fail. Sometimes. But you will get back up. And you will keep going. Because that’s what we do.”

You paused, letting the silence settle.

“We are healers. And in this war, we will be the ones holding the line after the swords have fallen.”

A few heads bowed. Some lifted higher.

You continued, voice steady.

“Field healers—you’ll move with the battalions. Stay behind the front lines, but close enough to extract the wounded. Do not overextend. If you go down, that’s one more soldier who won’t make it back.”

“Stationed healers—work in shifts. Exhaustion kills more people than wounds do. Maintain the wards. Sanitize everything. No exceptions.”

“Beginner volunteers—you are not expendable. You’ll stay within the rear perimeter, aiding the senior staff. Watch. Learn. Prepare to step in when we fall.”

You let your gaze rest on each court’s representatives.

“Work together. No court lines. No territory pride. We fall, Prythian falls. It’s that simple.”

Then, more softly, “And take care of each other.”

The wind carried your words out to the camp.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then heads nodded, quiet murmurs passed through the rows, and slowly—one by one—they began to disperse.

The camp had emptied slowly, one healer at a time, until only wind and silence remained. You stood at the edge of the central tent, the weight of the speech still clinging to your shoulders like a wet cloak. You’d done it. You’d held the line. For now.

You exhaled, slow and quiet, stepping out into the cold air.

And before you could take another breath, someone grabbed your hand.

Firm. Warm.

You barely registered the blur of shadows before you were pulled away from the tent, tucked between two supply wagons hidden by hanging tarps and crates of medical stock.

“Azriel—” you began, startled.

But he said nothing.

He just held you.

Arms wrapped tight around you, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in like it might be the last time. And maybe, for him, it already felt like it was.

You didn’t speak. Just stood still as his arms locked around your waist, grounding him, tethering him.

Because through his eyes, you were someone else today.

Not just the mate he loved. Not the quiet, steady presence who returned home late with herbs still in your sleeves, smiling softly.

No.

You were war now.

Dressed in healer’s leathers, your expression hard and drawn, your eyes darker than usual—shadowed not by fatigue, but by responsibility. You had stood before your army of white-robed medics like Rhysand did before soldiers. A ruler. A guide. Someone who knew what needed to be done, no matter the cost.

And that terrified him.

If he could have left you in Velaris, locked you in your shared home and surrounded you in layers of safety, he would have.

If he could have taken you far away—beyond the continent, beyond Prythian—he would have flown you there himself.

If he could have stayed by your side every second of every day, watching, guarding, keeping you from even a breath of danger—he would have never let go of your hand again.

But he couldn’t do any of that.

And for the first time in centuries, Azriel was truly, deeply afraid.

He had faced death before—welcomed it, even. But now, the idea of loss wasn’t about him. It was about you. About the ring you wore. About your laugh in the halls of your home. About the way you curled into his chest each night and whispered promises for a future neither of you dared to speak aloud in daylight.

He had asked you, days ago, to show him the vision.

Elain’s vision.

The one you had tried to keep to yourself.

At first, you refused.

You had shaken your head, eyes stormed with something unspeakable, telling him it was better not to know. And Azriel had accepted it. He hadn’t pressed.

But you knew.

You knew that somewhere in him, he needed to see it.

And when you finally showed him—when you shared that memory with him under the moonlight in your home—you had spent the entire night afterward wrapped together in silence. No words. Just warmth. Just the bond. Just the sound of his heart beating under your ear.

It had nearly broken him.

Because now he couldn’t walk through a room without wondering if it would be the last time he saw you in it. Couldn’t touch the door of your bedroom without thinking of what it meant. Of what your home truly was to him.

Azriel had loved his brother. He loved Feyre with a loyalty no bloodline could break.

But this—

Their gift.

This was cruel.

Because what if fate’s promise held true?

What if the only sanctuary you’d ever shared became your mausoleum?

The place where your children should have laughed.

The place where he should have held you through your last pregnancy, and then your last gray hair, and then your last breath—but not like this. Not soon.

Azriel came back to himself when your hands found his face—when the cool press of your wedding ring met his cheek and sent a shiver through him so sharp, it felt like a breath of winter wind through his ribs.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

His golden eyes opened slowly, and the storm behind them flickered with something raw.

“I know…” he said softly, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, Az.” You gave him a tired, aching smile—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for loving me.”

His arms tightened around you, one hand curling into your hair, the other pressing into your lower back like he could hold you through the coming days just by pulling you close enough.

“I’m just so scared…” His forehead dropped to yours. His voice was barely audible, but it trembled with the force of what he didn’t say.

“Me too, love,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

You kissed—slowly, tenderly, like a promise wrapped in a farewell. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just real.

Your hands slid up to cradle his jaw as you pulled back just far enough to breathe.

“Please be safe,” you whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “Please don’t do anything reckless, Azriel. Don’t sacrifice yourself. Be careful. Please. I beg you.”

He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. Like you were light and sky and warmth and everything worth surviving for.

“I should be the one saying that to you, my love.”

You gave a shaky laugh, kissed him again—softer this time.

“I’ll be waiting for you here,” you said, placing your hand against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. “But I’ll always, always be here, Az.”

Your fingers curled, pressing gently against his heart.

And he covered your hand with his.

“I need to go,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I’ll see you later.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You smiled through the burn rising in your eyes.

“I love you, Azriel.”

One last kiss. Long. Wordless. Trembling with everything you both couldn’t say.

And then—

He stepped back.

And vanished into shadow.

The emptiness that followed wasn’t just physical. It was like something vital had been pulled from your chest. Your heart beat quieter without him near.

This was war.

A war against a death god.

And you knew—deep in your bones—that anything could happen now.

The tent was no longer quiet.

By the time you returned, the healer’s ward was already filling—low moans, hushed voices, the rustle of canvas and armor echoing beneath the enchanted lighting. The scent of blood and antiseptic clung to the air. Winter and Day soldiers lay on cots or mats, some wrapped in early bandages, others awaiting triage.

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved with the ease of someone who’d done this too many times to count, rolling your sleeves back up, scanning injuries, checking for critical signs. Elira met your eye with a quick nod as she finished stitching a leg wound nearby.

And then—

You noticed him.

A young Illyrian male standing just inside the tent’s entrance, eyes wide, shoulders tense, wings twitching slightly at his back. He wore light leathers and bore the faint shimmer of four green siphons—freshly earned. His sword was sheathed, his posture not quite relaxed, but trying.

He stepped toward you quickly and bowed. Deeply.

You raised an eyebrow. “And who are you, boy?”

He straightened a little too fast. “Ather, my lady… I mean, Y/N—I was… I was assigned to stay with you. To protect you.”

He winced like the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“I don’t mean to say that you’re unable to protect yourself—I know you are—it’s just… these are the orders I received. From General Cassian.”

You blinked once, then smirked.

Reaching out, you clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder. He stiffened beneath your touch, wings twitching again.

“Get some confidence, Ather,” you said, voice even but not unkind. “You won the Blood Rite and earned your siphons. You think they’d assign you to me if you weren’t worth something?”

His mouth opened slightly in surprise.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” you added dryly. “But this is war. And even if you aren’t standing on the battlefield with the others, make no mistake—this is my front line. And I expect you to treat it that way.”

Ather swallowed. Then stood straighter, pulling his wings in tight.

“Y—yes, my lady.”

You arched a brow.

“And keep the formalities for your general. I’m not Cassian. Call me Y/N.”

He nodded, face flushing slightly. “Yes… Y/N.”

You gave a faint, approving nod, already moving toward the next cot, where another healer was struggling with a chest wound. “Good. Now grab gloves and help Elira with the prep table. We’ve got work to do.”

Ather followed close behind as you made your way to the first table.

The tent was a battlefield in its own right—an organized mess, every cot filled, every healer moving like a piece of some frantic, well-oiled machine. There was a rhythm to it, one cot cleared, another filled. Bandages soaked through and replaced before the blood dried. Hands never idle. No time to hesitate. No room for mistakes.

You barely stopped walking as you began issuing orders. “Elira, get the bloodroot paste to Section B—head wound on cot twelve. Mira, I need fresh ward lines traced around the eastern perimeter, too many fractures in the shielding. Sylwen—double-check our poultice stock. We’re burning through it faster than expected.”

You paused at a table near the center.

The moment you saw him, you knew it was bad.

A Dawn Court warrior—barely conscious, his skin slick with sweat, blood pooled beneath his ribcage and leg. Deep lacerations, some down to bone, others... gaping. His tunic had long since been cut away, revealing claw-like tears across his chest and stomach. His breathing came in shallow rasps, and he was seizing slightly, his limbs spasming against the cot.

You moved fast, sleeves already rolled, hands glowing with the faint shimmer of healing focus. “He's crashing. We need to close the abdominal tear before he bleeds out.”

You snapped your fingers. “Ather—make yourself useful and hold him still.”

He jumped, rushing to the other side of the cot. His hands hovered for a second too long.

The warrior bucked violently.

You nearly screamed. “I said keep him still!”

Ather startled but slammed his hands down, pinning the warrior's shoulders. His eyes wide, focused now.

And if he’d dared to close them in that moment, he would’ve sworn he heard Cassian’s voice—Cassian’s authority—in your tone. That same raw edge. That same absolute command that didn't ask, but ordered.

You weren’t a front-line general. But here?

Here you were one.

The only one.

You worked fast—threading together muscle with magic, applying pressure spells, stitching layers that no blade could ever reach. The warrior moaned, head thrashing.

“Just a little more,” you murmured, hands steady. “Hold him, Ather—don’t let go, no matter what.”

Seconds passed like minutes.

Minutes like hours.

And hours like days.

Between screams and the metallic scent of blood, you could hear the frontlines burning. Distant, but not far. Explosions of power. The eerie wail of creatures that didn’t belong in this world—sounds that scraped against bone.

The wounds were changing, too. The warriors that arrived looked like they’d been clawed open by death itself. Eyes wide with terror. Some couldn’t even speak. Others begged you not to let them go back.

Your jaw clenched as you moved to the next patient.

Dammit.

Was this what Finn had seen in his final days?

Your hands didn’t stop.

But the thought lingered.

Are we going to win?

You didn’t have the answer…

The hours blurred.

Time lost meaning between the blood, the screams, and the never-ending arrival of new wounded. Healers moved like ghosts—silent, fast, leaving trails of red and magic behind them. And through it all, you stood at the center, a fixed point in the storm.

Every time the tent’s flap opened, your breath hitched.

You looked.

And every time, some part of you prayed.

Please, not Feyre. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not Mor. Not Nesta. Not Thesan. Not Azriel.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You knew every soul that passed through your hands deserved your prayers. But you couldn’t stop the relief—the guilt-tinged exhale—when it wasn’t one of them.

When it wasn’t him.

Still, you kept moving. Kept healing. Kept leading.

At some point, Ather had stopped trailing you like a shadow. You’d stopped noticing exactly when. He had begun helping—quietly, steadily—moving supplies, holding pressure, assisting other healers. Close, but no longer hovering over your shoulder like he feared you'd vanish if he blinked.

Still, you caught him lingering now and then, eyes flicking back to you too often.

You didn’t even pause your stitching when you muttered, “Make yourself busy, Ather. You’re disturbing me more than anything hovering like that.”

“But—”

“No but. I’m sure Elira could use help hauling supply crates.”

He faltered, uncertain.

Before he could answer, Elira snatched him by the elbow. “Come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No one’s going to jump at her throat in the next fifteen minutes.”

You allowed a small smile to slip through as they vanished behind the warded flap.

You didn’t even hear Teylan approach until he was at your side, voice low and calm. “It’s slowing. You should rest for a bit. Tonight’s going to be worse. You need to be ready.”

You exhaled, long and weary. “You’re right. But if anything changes, wake me.”

He nodded, watching as you made your way toward the corner of the tent. You sank into a wooden chair, back stiff, arms crossed over your chest.

“I meant rest on a bed, Y/N,” Teylan said dryly. “One that doesn’t creak like it’s older than Prythian.”

You closed your eyes. “You already know I’m not leaving. Go do your job and let me sleep.”

He sighed, quiet resignation in every breath, but turned without arguing.

Later, when Ather returned, mud on his boots and blood on his forearm, Teylan gestured toward you.

“You should rest too, kid. Tonight’s going to be long.”

Ather nodded, but his eyes were on you—still and silent in your chair, arms folded like wings, head tilted just enough to show the curve of exhaustion on your face. You didn’t look asleep.

You looked like a statue.

Not crumbling, not wounded—just enduring.

A silent guardian holding the whole tent together by the sheer weight of your presence.

And so Ather sat on the ground beside you, back against the canvas, his siphons dim, hands resting in his lap.

Like a soldier next to a queen.

Like a believer at the feet of a goddess.

Night fell quickly.

One blink, and the pale glow of the warded healer’s tents was all that lit the field.

The fight had ended—for now.

You only knew it because the wounded had stopped pouring in long enough for your hands to stop shaking. The frontlines had held, barely. You’d heard from several warriors—some feverish, some lucid enough to still tremble—that the creatures were unlike anything they’d ever faced. Restless. Vicious. Mindless. As if they’d been created only to move, to rip through flesh and bone until nothing was left.

But even they had their limits.

And so the tide pulled back.

Azriel had sent word to you through the bond. I’m fine. Just that.

You’d felt it when he said it—meant it—and the grip around your lungs finally loosened. Others had checked in as well. Rhys. Cassian. Feyre. Mor. Thesan.

They were alive.

And for the first time since Azriel vanished into shadow, you could breathe again.

You’d begged him, silently through the bond, to rest after the debriefing. Just for a few hours. Just to let his body recover. But he had ignored you—completely, maddeningly ignored you—and you felt the moment he turned toward the camp instead.

He’s coming.

Because of course he was.

Because he was Azriel.

The wounded began to arrive in full.

Not the lightly injured ones—the ones treated by volunteers and beginner healers, wrapped and sent to recover.

No.

Yours.

The ones that looked like death itself had clawed them apart.

The first warrior was screaming so loud his voice cracked and turned to silence. A massive gash had torn down his back, ribs visible with every strained breath. Another was carried in missing both legs—burned black up to the thigh, the flesh hissing with rot that hadn't even had time to set properly.

And then there was him.

You didn’t know his name—didn’t need to.

The male was barely conscious, blood slicking his entire body, and half his face—

Gone.

Burned or melted or clawed, you couldn’t tell. The skin was missing from the left side entirely, leaving muscle, sinew, and exposed teeth where his cheek should have been.

Elira had made it halfway to the cot before she turned and ran behind the tent to empty her stomach.

The scream that followed was not the warrior’s—it was one of your junior healers, who dropped a bowl of antiseptic and stumbled backward with wide, horrified eyes.

You turned on her, your voice like ice.

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Out. If you can’t stomach the sight of what war brings, you have no place in this tent.”

She flinched. Then bolted.

You didn’t watch her go. You didn’t have time to feel guilty. You moved to the warrior, gloved hands already glowing, already assessing what could be done, already speaking to Mira—who, to her credit, stayed standing, though she was ghost-pale.

“Clamp that artery—there. No, the other one. Yes. Hold it. We’re going to need a skin stabilization spell until the regrowth solution arrives from Day.”

You looked up briefly. “Elira,” you called sharply without turning. “If you're finished vomiting, I need you back now.”

A groan from the other side of the tent confirmed she was crawling her way upright.

There was no time. No room for weakness. Not now.

Every scream from the cots blended into the next. The moans. The gasps. The silence of the ones who didn’t make it.

You stood over the cot, looking down at the warrior.

His chest barely rose and fell, eyes half-lidded, glazed. Blood soaked through the hastily tied bandages at his side, pooling under him, dark and steady. His leg was gone—torn clean above the knee—and the healing magic you’d poured into him had only been enough to dull the agony, not stop the inevitable.

“There’s nothing we can do,” you said, your voice low but firm. “It’s already too late. We don’t have the time to save him.”

Behind you, Ather stood still, frozen. His mouth opened, then shut again. Finally, he whispered, “Can’t you even try? He must have a family… people waiting for him. Can’t you—”

You turned to him slowly, exhaustion and clarity sharp in your eyes.

“Look at him, Ather.”

He did.

“He can’t even keep his eyes open. His body’s already slipping away—he’s lost too much blood, and the trauma is beyond what any of us can repair in time. He’s not conscious anymore. I already gave him peace, eased the pain. But I can’t bring him back. Not without burning through what’s left of my strength.”

You drew in a tight breath, steadying your voice, not for your sake—but for his.

“And look around you.” You gestured at the dozens of cots, the groaning wounded, the frantic pace of your fellow healers. “We are surrounded by dying people. If I waste the last of my magic trying to save one life already fading, then four or five others—people I could save—will die before I can get to them.”

Ather’s eyes darkened, jaw clenched, throat tight with unspoken grief. You stepped closer, your voice soft but unyielding.

“This is war, Ather. He fought for what he believed in. He died like a warrior. Do not pity him. That would only make his sacrifice meaningless.”

“I’m sorry…” he breathed, barely able to meet your eyes.

You placed your hand gently on his shoulder, the gesture firm and grounding.

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s always hard the first time. And the times after that too.”

You squeezed his shoulder once before stepping back.

“Let’s go. We still have work to do.”

You barely took two steps when you heard her.

“Y/N! I need your help here!” Lila’s voice tore across the tent, panic sharp in her usually even tone.

You ran.

The moment you reached her, you understood why.

The male on the cot was massive, one of the front-line warriors—probably Illyrian by the faint curve of his wings, but it was hard to tell under all the blood. He convulsed violently, mouth open in a silent scream, limbs thrashing so hard the cot legs dragged against the ground.

Deep gashes ran across his chest and abdomen, torn open like something had clawed straight through armor and flesh. His side was bleeding too fast, the skin around the wound pulsing, too raw, too red.

“Shit,” you breathed, already moving.

“Hold him down!” you barked, and Ather rushed to your side without hesitation. He and another healer grabbed the warrior’s limbs, pinning him with every ounce of strength they had.

“He’s tearing his stitches,” Lila said, breathless. “Every time I try to stop the bleeding, he thrashes again. I can’t keep the pressure.”

You grabbed gauze and antiseptic, pressing hard into the wound, ignoring the blood that splattered your sleeves.

“He’s in shock—his body’s trying to shut down. We need to stop the bleeding now or we lose him.”

You looked to Lila. “Give him ten drops of mountain bell tonic. It’ll slow the adrenaline spike. Once he stills, I’ll stitch and seal.”

She moved immediately, hands no longer trembling.

The warrior bucked again, and you nearly lost your grip.

“Ather!” you snapped. “Hold him. I need him still.”

“I am trying—”

“Try harder!”

Your voice cut through the chaos, hard and fast, and for a second, the tent went silent. Ather's back straightened, his arms locking tight around the warrior’s shoulders.

You weren’t on the battlefield with the warriors.

But here?

You were a general.

You worked quickly. Gauze. Thread. Needle. Magic humming quietly through your fingertips—not a spell, not a cure, just enough to hold the pieces together.

Every second mattered.

And outside, the battle still raged—distant screams, strange cries echoing through the hills, the kind that didn’t sound fully human. The kind that made your blood turn to ice.

You didn’t look away from your patient.

But the thought echoed somewhere deep inside you.

Dammit.

Are we going to win?

You tied the last knot with a flick of your wrist. The bleeding slowed.

The warrior stilled.

Lila exhaled, slumping slightly beside you. “You got him,” she whispered.

“No,” you said. “We bought him time. That’s all.”

But your hands were steady. You didn’t let them shake.

You looked up to find Ather watching you—not afraid, but something close to reverent. Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“Stop staring,” you said softly. “Go grab fresh bandages.”

“Yes, Y/N.”

And he ran.

You turned to the next cot without pause.

Because this was war.

And there were more lives to save.

The warrior’s convulsions had stopped. His breathing had evened. You exhaled slowly, lowering your blood-slicked hands from his chest, and gave a faint nod to Lila. She stepped back, relief softening her features just slightly.

You turned to grab the salve kit behind you, ready to finish cleaning and sealing the edges of his wounds.

You didn’t even hear them come in.

But they were there—Azriel, Cassian, and Mor, stepping into the tent in search of you. You felt them before you saw them. Azriel’s heartbeat, once familiar and steady, stilled for just a second. Cassian’s body tensed like a coiled blade. Mor’s breath caught behind her te

And your own body—

Froze.

Your spine stiffened, your hand hovering mid-air. You didn’t need to look to know.

You’d felt it before.

The cold rush of knowing—ancient and visceral—sank into your spine like a blade of ice. That same crawling sensation you’d felt on the continent, that moment at sea with Azriel.

Koeshiev.

You had only enough time to hear the unnatural rasp of Ather’s sword being ripped from its sheath—not by him.

Azriel’s heart slammed against yours through the bond.

Y/N—

Lila’s eyes went wide.

But you—

You were faster.

You spun. Pivoted hard. Grabbed the warrior by the arm and yanked him off balance with brutal precision. His body jerked mid-lunge, and you twisted, shoving your palm into his chest.

There was a beat.

A breath.

And then—

Silence.

The man’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

A horrible stillness clung to the tent as blood spilled across the canvas underfoot. You stood above him, breathing hard, your hand still raised, your glove darkened.

You wiped the side of your face, a crimson smear marking your cheek.

“I didn’t think this would happen this soon,” you muttered, the words more breath than voice. “Fuck.”

You turned.

All eyes were on you.

Cassian. Mor. Lila. Ather. Azriel—his shadows writhing like smoke and storm across the floor. Everyone stared like the air had been sucked from the tent.

Even the wounded were silent.

You stepped forward, calm as steel.

“This isn’t just a war of blade and blood,” you said. “This is infiltration. Corruption. Whatever Koeshiev has sent into Prythian, it’s already here. And this—” you gestured to the body on the ground, “—is only the beginning.”

You looked at the healers, your voice low, but resonant.

“From this moment on, if anyone acts strangely—zones out, speaks in riddles, loses time—you report it immediately. I don’t care if it’s your mentor, your commander, or your closest friend.”

You didn’t need to explain what had happened.

They had seen.

“Do not hesitate. Do not second-guess. Because the next time, you might not get the chance to act.”

You swept your gaze across the tent one final time.

“This is war,” you said. “And war doesn’t give second chances.”

No one spoke.

Then Lila, quietly, “Is it going to happen again?”

You looked her in the eye. The truth sat like a knife on your tongue.

“Yes.”

Azriel was the first to reach you, already stepping past the others with shadows still curling at his heels. His eyes swept over your face, your arms, your hands—checking for wounds, for blood that wasn’t yours. His gaze was clinical, protective, frantic beneath the surface.

Cassian arrived next, brows furrowed. “Are you alright? What the fuck happened in here?”

Azriel didn’t speak. He was still looking, like if he could just see deep enough, he’d figure out if something inside you had cracked.

Mor hovered nearby, her golden eyes unreadable, flickering between the body on the ground and your blood-streaked face.

“I’m fine,” you answered hoarsely. “It wasn’t him anymore. It was already too late.”

Cassian glanced at the corpse. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t flinch. You just looked up at him.

“Don’t be surprised, Cass,” you said, voice steady. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. If we’re dead, the warriors die too. Take out the healers, and the front lines bleed out behind us. Koeshiev doesn’t just want to fight—he wants to rot us from the inside.”

You turned sharply, finding Ather and Lila frozen near the edge of the tent, still wide-eyed.

“You two—” your voice cracked through the tension like lightning, “—the instructions are clear. Go through every single person in this tent. If anyone seems off, anything, I don’t care how small—you call for me. Immediately.”

They both nodded.

Lila was pale but focused.

Ather still looked shell-shocked.

You turned, reached for Azriel’s hand, and without a word, pulled him out of the tent with you.

The air outside was colder now. Sharper. The moon was high above, casting pale light on the fields and distant fire-lit hills. Your fingers didn’t loosen their grip on his.

Inside, the others were still frozen around the aftermath.

And Ather—

He looked down at the body. At the blood slowly drying into the floor. At the hollow cavity of a man who had stood just minutes ago.

“How…” Ather breathed, barely able to speak. “How did she—”

Lila didn’t blink. “She made all his internal organs explode, that’s how...” she said simply, quietly.

Ather’s stomach flipped.

But he didn’t look away.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 20

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 5.6k

Trigger warning; //

notes; hey hey, i don't have much to say beside that heavier chapters are coming ! It as been hard for me to write the high lord meeting, so i hope that you guys will enjoy it <3 either way, enjoy this chapter and see you soon (i didn't take a month this time woohoooo). With love xoxo

previous ✧ next

The palace of the Dawn Court shimmered in the morning light, its rose-gold spires catching the rising sun like blades made of stained glass. As Feyre's magic gently released you from the winnow, your boots met polished stone warmed by early sunlight. The air here always smelled of citrus blossoms and parchment ink—refined, bright, and impossibly clean.

You adjusted your dark, embroidered coat, the glint of starlight threading catching in the folds as you stepped forward beside Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian. The wind tugged gently at your sleeves, a soft whisper against your skin, but the moment the great doors to the council chamber swung open… all warmth vanished.

Only two High Lords were present.

Thesan, robed in pale gold and deep plum, stood near the central table, his expression uncharacteristically grim. Helion lounged beside him, though even the usually radiant High Lord of Day looked subdued. He tapped his fingers against the table with practiced boredom—but his eyes, sharp as molten amber, never stopped scanning your group.

“Rhysand,” Thesan greeted, inclining his head. “Feyre. Cassian. Y/N.” His gaze lingered on you—sharper, more personal.

“Thesan,” Rhysand replied smoothly. “Helion.”

“Glad to see you well,” Helion murmured, his voice low, as if anything louder might shatter the air.

“I’d like to speak with Y/N, if you’ll excuse us,” Thesan said without preamble. His tone was polite—but it wasn’t a request. He was already stepping toward you.

Rhys merely nodded. “Of course.”

You followed Thesan through an arched side hallway of pale stone, the hush between you broken only by the distant sound of water from the ornamental fountains outside. When he finally stopped beneath a stained-glass window depicting the phases of the moon, he turned to face you fully.

“Rhysand’s letter reached me last week,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “He said you were attacked. On your way back from the last healer summit.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the tightening in your throat. “We were ambushed near the coastline. Azriel and I where injured. It wasn’t random.”

“I didn’t think it would be,” Thesan said, folding his hands. “Whoever it was—they knew when you’d be returning. Knew where you’d be.”

Your silence said everything.

Thesan’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I should have ensured more protection for your journey. It won’t happen again.”

You were about to respond when the sound of familiar footsteps echoed behind you.

You turned, already smiling.

“About time,” you said softly, as Thesan’s mate appeared at the end of the hall.

He looked much the same as always—sharp-eyed and calm, dressed in layered robes that spoke more of intellect than status. His smile grew as he stepped forward.

“I didn’t get the chance to see you last time,” he said, pulling you into a tight embrace. “And I hate that it’s under these circumstances that I’m finally able to.” His voice was warm and familiar, laced with a concern that didn’t have to be spoken aloud.

You closed your eyes for a moment, grateful for the embrace. “I’m fine,” you lied gently. “More or less.”

“More or less is better than not at all,” he murmured, pulling back to look you over. “I heard about what happened. I’m glad you’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Me too.”

Behind you, the shift in the air told you more company had arrived.

You turned to glimpse Kalias entering the chamber, his white hair tied back, eyes like fresh ice as he nodded a silent greeting. His consort followed close behind, offering a short bow. A ripple of soft robes and dark skin marked the arrival of the Summer Court delegation next—Tarquin, solemn as ever, his ocean-colored eyes sweeping the room with quiet calculation. Beside him walked Cresseida, her expression guarded but calm.

Thesan was still speaking—his voice low and measured, laced with the quiet control of someone trying not to let his worry show. His mate stood just behind him, arms crossed, brows drawn tight as they listened to your account of the ambush, and everything that followed.

You didn’t need to repeat the letter from Rask. The silence between the three of you, heavy with understanding, was enough. Thesan’s gaze flicked to the map projected behind you, then back to your face. “If what Azriel confirms matches what you received,” he murmured, “then we may be preparing for a war far beyond our comprehension.”

You were about to answer—another calm, clinical assessment—when you felt it.

A hand, firm and familiar, slid around your waist.

You stiffened, your heart leaping before your mind could catch up.

You turned—almost disbelieving.

Azriel stood beside you.

His shadows curled at his feet like restless smoke, still humming with residual adrenaline. His hair was wind-tossed, his expression carefully neutral. But the moment your eyes met his, you felt it through the bond like a punch to the ribs.

He’d seen it.

The continent was gone. Just as the letter had warned. Just as Finn had written.

Are you alright? your voice whispered through the bond, tentative. Scanning his face. Not for wounds—those were healed—but for the shadows still clinging to the edges of his expression.

His hand slid up your back, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. Better now that I’m with you, came the answer. Quiet, steady. Raw in a way he didn’t show anyone else.

You nearly flushed at the intimacy of it—but you didn’t pull away.

Thesan’s lips curved into something between sympathy and amusement as he stepped back. “It seems,” he said lightly, “that a few things have changed since our last conversation.”

You gave him a slow, knowing wink, laughed under your breath and stepped away, Azriel’s hand still pressed to the small of your back as he guided you across the room.

The meeting chamber had grown louder in the interim. Tarquin was seated now, calm and composed beside Cresseida, who scanned the gathered High Lords with sharp eyes. Kalias sat across from them, his consort murmuring something low in his ear.

You and Azriel returned to Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian, taking your place just as the chamber shifted again.

The room quieted as the doors opened once more.

The Autumn Court entered with a gust of cold wind and silent contempt. Beron walked at the front, his face unreadable. His sons followed, shoulders squared with practiced arrogance. But her seat—the Lady of Autumn’s—remained empty.

Your chest tightened. You had hoped… even though you’d known better.

She wasn’t here.

You didn’t have to say anything. Azriel’s fingers tightened on your side. His voice in your mind again—I know.

The room was nearly full. Quiet had settled over the gathered High Lords like a silk-draped blade—soft but perilous. Each court’s colors shimmered faintly in the golden light filtering through the high glass ceiling, casting strange reflections on polished stone.

And then the final doors opened.

Tamlin walked in like a storm with nowhere to go. Broad-shouldered, clad in green and gold, his expression unreadable—but colder than you remembered. He carried the weight of a High Lord long scorned, long humbled, but not softened.

But he wasn’t alone.

At his side walked Lila.

Her silver and green gown shimmered like dew-soaked moss, and her honey-blonde hair was woven into a crown of tiny braids. Her presence startled more than a few heads—Feyre’s brows lifted slightly; Helion leaned forward with open curiosity. Even Beron’s thin mouth twitched in mild surprise.

Lila, however, didn’t seem to notice the stir.

She caught your gaze across the room and instantly broke into a wide, eager grin. With both hands, she shook them in the air, fingers fluttering with fervent energy as she silently mouthed, Hi!

You gave her a discreet, fond smile and inclined your head, warmth blooming in your chest. Even here, even now, her energy was a comfort.

Then you felt it.

A stare—hot and heavy.

Your eyes flicked to the source, and when they met Tamlin’s, a shiver threaded down your spine.

His gaze was unreadable—part disbelief, part irritation, and just a sliver of something surprised. Perhaps at your presence. Perhaps at who you were seated beside.

Azriel’s fingers pressed lightly into your thigh beneath the table.

Reassuring. Possessive. Calm.

You didn’t break eye contact with Tamlin. Instead, you smiled at him—small, measured, not unkind.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he looked away, clearly annoyed.

What was that? Azriel’s voice slid through your mind, velvet-smooth.

He’s still mad I nearly burned his estate to the ground, you replied dryly.

You felt Azriel’s quiet laugh in your chest more than heard it—warm and dark like midnight smoke. His thumb traced a slow, lazy circle against your leg. He didn’t say anything more, but his shadows swirled around your ankles, content.

Once the last murmurs settled and all High Lords had taken their seats, Rhysand stood.

All eyes turned toward him.

His crown shimmered faintly above his brow, a subtle illusion of shadow and starlight. Feyre sat tall and poised beside him, her expression calm, but steel glinted behind her gaze.

Rhysand’s voice rang out with practiced clarity. “Thank you all for coming on short notice and thank you Thesan for hosting once again. I know how rare it is to gather the courts like this—especially under these circumstances.”

Silence met him.

Only the crackle of the hearthfire and the faint rustle of wings disturbed the stillness.

“We received a letter,” Rhys continued, “from Finn, Head Healer of the former kingdom of Rask. It was delivered just before the kingdom fell.”

A pause.

“He is dead now. Along with Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan.”

A murmur rippled through the table. Lila’s face blanched slightly. Kalias stilled. Even Helion sat forward.

Rhysand let the silence linger before continuing.

“In the letter, Finn warned us: Koeshiev’s assault has already begun—and his power is greater than we feared. He’s fractured himself—divided across multiple fronts, and wherever he goes, monsters follow.”

He turned, nodding once toward you.

“And this report was confirmed yesterday by Azriel, my spymaster, who scouted the remains of the continent and witnessed firsthand the destruction left behind. It matches Finn’s warning in full.”

Your stomach tightened.

Azriel didn’t speak. But the tension in his body, the way his hand stayed firm on your thigh, said enough.

Rhysand’s violet eyes swept the room. “We’ve tracked traces of Koeshiev’s presence near the central stretch of Prythian—between the Day and Dawn courts. We believe this is where he will strike next. Where this war will begin.”

The room exhaled. Cold and slow.

The meeting had begun.

And soon, the blood would follow.

The light filtering through the domed ceiling had shifted, golden morning softening into something cooler—muted, expectant. Rhysand’s voice still echoed faintly in the chamber as he stepped back and gave the floor to you.

You stood slowly.

Your hand slipped from Azriel’s under the table, but the warmth of his presence remained beside you, his shadows humming faintly as you moved into the center ring.

Every High Lord turned to look.

“The threat of Koeshiev did not begin with the fall of Rask,” you began, your voice clear, steady. “Nor did it begin with the warnings you’ve received in the past weeks. His presence has always been on the continent—quiet, buried beneath surface unrest and shifting borders. I know because I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

You glanced around the table, your gaze settling briefly on Helion, then Kalias, then Thesan.

“For centuries, we attributed the whispers of plague, sudden madness, and widespread illness to chaos. Coincidence. Local failures. But they weren’t. He was testing us—drifting beneath the surface like poison in a river.”

You paused, letting the room absorb that.

“It’s only after the Hybern war, after the Cauldron was shattered and reforged, that something seems to have changed. Perhaps that power shift awoke him, or perhaps he simply grew confident in our complacency. Whatever the reason… he’s not hiding anymore. And his reach has spread to Prythian.”

A beat.

“You must have heard from your own healers. Epidemics. Strange sicknesses that resist known cures. A rise in stillbirths, shadow fevers, or diseases with no clear origin. These are not natural. These are Koeshiev’s doing. The signs are already here.”

There was a long silence, broken by the inevitable.

Beron leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers. “And you base all this on coincidence and interpretation? Isn’t it possible your experience has led you to see threat in every shadow, healer?”

The word was nearly spat, but you didn’t flinch.

You turned toward him with the same serene composure you’d held since the meeting began, and your voice, when it came, was calm. Too calm. It unsettled him.

“Do you believe your healers are incompetent, High Lord?”

Beron blinked. “What?”

You took a step closer. “Do you trust them?”

“Of course I do,” he snapped. “How could I not?”

“Then you should have no trouble trusting me,” you said smoothly. “I was the one who reformed your court’s outdated triage systems and centralized your supply networks. I’m the one who trained your head healer, Rordan.”

A muscle ticked in Beron’s jaw.

“I remember your court well. I remember your arrogance, too,” you added, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “But I also remember Rordan. He was bright, determined. He wanted to change things. I took him under my wing, and I gave him the tools to do it.”

Beron’s mouth opened—then closed.

The chamber had gone still.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then stepped back, your gaze never leaving his.

“If you trust your court,” you said gently, “then trust the people who shaped it.”

Beron didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed but quiet now. He would not challenge you again—not today.

You returned to your place beside Azriel, and as you sat, his fingers brushed yours beneath the table. There was something warm and proud flickering through the bond.

You were born for this, his voice whispered across your mind.

But you didn’t respond—not with words.

You only smiled.

The map projected at the center of the table shimmered under Helion’s spellwork—an ever-shifting landscape of Prythian and the bordering ruins of the fallen kingdoms. Pale threads of magic marked the fault lines, the contested zones, the wilderness between courts that no one had truly ruled in centuries.

That wilderness was now the battlefield.

“What’s the current population near the Dawn and Winter borders?” Hellion asked, his voice clear but tight. “If we begin evacuations today, can we move them safely before the front line shifts?”

Thesan stepped forward, eyes dark. “We estimate nearly fifteen thousand within the eastern third of my court. Farmers, old temple towns, small villages. Most of them won’t leave without proof that danger is coming.”

Kalias nodded grimly. “Same here. Some have lived on those outskirts for generations. We can move them, but it won’t be easy. And the roads aren’t safe.”

“That’s not the only issue,” Rhysand interjected, his voice cutting cleanly through the rising tension. “The terrain is wild. Unclaimed. Full of creatures most of us haven’t seen since before the War. I think that’s exactly why Koshiev is going there.”

A beat of silence.

“Because he can control them,” Rhys finished.

Your stomach turned, the thought settling over the room like fog.

Helion leaned forward, arms crossed, the light from the map casting flickers over his sharp features. “How much time do you think we have?”

You glanced at Azriel—he gave the barest shake of his head.

You answered for them both. “If we’re lucky, a week. Two or three days more realistically. He’s already moving. The longer we wait, the more ground we lose before the first blade is even drawn.”

A heavy silence followed. Tarquin looked toward his generals, who had remained mostly silent until now, and gave a subtle nod.

“We’ve already begun preparing safe zones,” he said. “We’ll receive as many as we can. The Summer Court will open its coastal strongholds.”

Helion nodded. “And the Day Court’s inland cities are ready to shelter the rest. Our envoys left hours ago—we’ll have the ports and gates open within the day.”

There was a brief pause. The kind of pause that only comes when everyone in the room knows that no matter how many choices they have, none of them will lead to peace.

“Then it’s decided,” Rhysand said, voice cold steel. “Refugees will be moved to Summer and Day starting within the next two days. Evacuation notices are already being sent.”

“And the armies?” Cassian asked, arms crossed.

“They’ll mobilize within the same window,” Rhysand confirmed. “We start pulling border patrols today. Frontline formations go into place by the fifth sunrise.”

No one argued.

Even Beron, for once, kept silent.

By the time the meeting drew to a close, the sun had climbed high overhead, casting thin lines of light across the chamber floor. The tension that lingered in the air was different now—sharpened, ready. The kind of quiet that comes before swords are drawn and choices made permanent.

You stood beside Azriel as the High Lords began to rise, exchanging clipped nods and muttered commands with their advisors. Tarquin paused briefly beside you, eyes thoughtful.

“You’ve done well,” he said quietly. “Let’s hope we have time to make it count.”

You offered a faint smile. “We’ll make the time.”

He nodded once and moved on.

The grand chamber began to empty.

Chairs scraped gently against the polished floor, and low murmurs filled the space as courtiers and commanders clustered in quiet groups. Rhysand and Feyre moved together, already discussing deployment strategy with Thesan and Kalias. Cassian had veered off toward one of the Dawn generals. And Azriel…

Azriel’s hand rested gently at the small of your back, his body close as the two of you began making your way toward the corridor Thesan had assigned the Night Court delegation.

The bond between you hummed—low, steady, warm. You could feel the ache behind Azriel’s focus, the exhaustion from what he’d seen, what he wasn’t saying. But for now, he was calm. Focused on your next steps.

Then a voice stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You turned, startled by the sound of your name from that mouth.

Tamlin.

He stood a few paces behind you, still cloaked in the green and gold of the Spring Court, his face unreadable. Azriel immediately tensed beside you. You felt Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian all pause at the edge of the hallway, heads turning, brows rising ever so slightly.

“I’d like to speak with you,” Tamlin said, eyes flicking to Azriel, then back to you. “Alone.”

Surprise cracked through the tension.

You glanced at your court, offering them a soft, reassuring smile. “I’ll join you soon. Go ahead.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on yours. Are you sure?

I’m fine, you answered through the bond. Go.

He gave a short nod, hand sliding away from your back, though his shadows brushed your fingers in a lingering touch before he turned to follow the others.

Tamlin waited until they had gone before gesturing toward one of the side balconies. You followed in silence.

The wind was crisp, laced with the faint floral sweetness the Dawn Court always seemed to carry. The marble beneath your feet gleamed like moonstone, and the sky stretched endless above you—soft with clouds and streaked with the lingering light of early afternoon.

“I didn’t expect to see you at that table,” Tamlin said at last, stepping up to the balustrade. He didn’t look at you yet, his eyes on the horizon. “But I suppose it makes sense. I’d heard you’d settled in the Night Court.” A dry huff of a laugh escaped him. “Rhysand’s collecting powerful warriors like usual."

You didn’t bite at the jab. Just folded your hands in front of you.

“I heard,” you said gently. “And I wanted to say—I never had the chance to apologize. For leaving the Spring Court the way I did. Abruptly. Without any explanation.”

Tamlin looked at you then. His eyes were tired, the green dulled with wear and something far older. “It’s fine. Centuries have passed. Worse things have happened to me and my court since.”

You nodded once, accepting it. There wasn’t much else to say to that. The past was a graveyard full of ghosts neither of you needed to dig up again.

A beat passed before you asked, “How can I help you, Tamlin?”

His jaw worked for a moment. Then—quietly, surprisingly vulnerable—he said, “I’m sick.”

Your spine straightened slightly, instincts sharpening.

“Something’s wrong with my magic,” he continued. “And you’re the only one I know who might be able to help.”

You stepped closer, your expression softening. “What do you mean? What’s happening?”

He exhaled slowly, resting his hands on the edge of the balcony. “I’m sure you’ve heard—about me barely shifting back to my fae form over the last year. Well… it wasn’t on purpose. I couldn’t come back. I could feel myself in there, but it was like I was drowning. Like there was too much weight to fight through, and I just... stayed under.”

You were quiet. Let him speak.

“Lila helped. Of course she did. She stayed with me, brought me back more than once. But I don’t know if it’ll happen again.” His voice dropped lower. “And I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to come back next time.”

A silence stretched between you, the wind brushing gently through your hair, tugging at the edges of your coat.

“You lost control,” you said softly. “You weren’t weak. You were drained. That kind of magic, that kind of bond to the land… it reflects the state of the one who wields it. Your body didn’t shift because your soul didn’t know where it was supposed to go.”

Tamlin flinched—barely, but you saw it.

“It’s the kind of wound time heals more than anything else. But I’ll send you something. Tonic blends. Soothing tinctures. They’ll help with the physical drain, even if they can’t mend the deeper cracks.”

His shoulders dropped, just slightly. As though someone had let the tension out of a too-taut bowstring.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, genuinely.

You gave him a small nod.

Without another word, he stepped back, shadows curling at his feet. In a blink of golden light, he winnowed—vanishing into the air, leaving only the scent of Spring in his wake.

You stood alone for a moment longer, letting the wind wash over you, the memories, the past.

Then you turned and walked back inside.

The room assigned to the Night Court delegation was comfortably large, with arched windows and a private balcony that overlooked the eastern spires of the Dawn Court. The golden afternoon light pooled lazily across the floor, casting the whole room in a warm, sleepy glow—though no one here seemed remotely interested in rest.

Helion was lounging in one of the cushioned chairs near the fire, half a glass of dark wine swirling in his hand, his golden robes draped carelessly off one shoulder. Rhys sat near the hearth, Feyre beside him with a ledger open on her knee. Cassian leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, while Azriel stood in the corner, shadows slinking lazily near his boots, gaze fixed on the open door.

“I have to admit,” Helion was saying, his voice languid with curiosity, “I didn’t think she’d ever settle in one place. Let alone one court.”

Cassian grinned. “You’re not the first to say that.”

“She spent years in Day,” Helion went on, raising his glass slightly as if in toast. “Brilliant, sharp, too curious for her own good—always trying to find the exact limits of every spell, every theory. I saw her maybe three times. And each time I thought she’d vanish again in a month. Imagine my surprise when I heard she was in Velaris for good.”

He gave Azriel a pointed look, then smirked knowingly. “Well… I suppose she found a reason to stay.”

Cassian snorted from where he was leaning near the window. “What, did someone propose her that time too?”

Helion turned his head with an exaggerated look of scandal. “Oh, you really think you’re the first one to notice her, General?”

Cassian blinked.

Then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, are you saying—?”

Helion gave him a slow, wicked grin. “I didn’t say anything. But thank you for confirming you assumed I had.”

Feyre groaned. “Cauldron save us.”

Cassian raised both hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright. Just kidding.”

Helion winked. “So was I.”

Maybe.

Then the door opened, and conversation halted.

You stepped in.

As if the room had shifted with your arrival, everyone turned toward you at once. Helion’s grin stretched wider as he lifted his glass in greeting. “Speak of the stars.”

Your eyes swept the room, immediately clocking Helion, who raised his glass again.

“What’s up, Helion?” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“Your reputation precedes you, as always,” he purred.

You made your way to the open balcony door, letting the cooler air brush your face as you leaned against the frame. Azriel shifted subtly at your return, his shadows curling in greeting. You met his eyes briefly before Rhys’s voice drew your attention.

“What did Tamlin want?”

“He’s sick,” you said quietly. “His magic is… turning on him. He told me he’s been unable to shift fully for almost a year. It’s like he’s being drowned from the inside.”

Silence.

Cassian’s posture straightened. Feyre’s brows knit slightly.

“He asked for my help,” you continued. “For a treatment. Something that might make it bearable.”

“Can you treat it?” Rhys asked.

You gave a slight shrug. “I’m not a psychologist.”

Cassian blinked. “A what now?”

“A mind-healer,” you explained, glancing over your shoulder. “He’s depressed, basically.”

A long pause followed.

Even Helion went quiet.

You turned fully back toward them, letting the silence settle for a heartbeat longer before lifting your shoulders in a small sigh.

“Anyway,” you said.

The conversation continued—shifting to strategy, rotations, logistics—but the weight of your words lingered. The acknowledgment that even High Lords weren’t immune to breaking.

Then a knock.

Rhysand lifted a brow just as the door opened and Thesan stepped inside, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“Am I interrupting?”

Helion smirked without turning. “Always.”

Thesan’s eyes scanned the room briefly, unsurprised to find the Day Court lord here. “Of course you’d be here already.”

Rhysand rose from his chair, equally surprised and amused. “You don’t usually involve yourself with matters outside Dawn.”

Thesan gave him a cool look. “Don’t be flattered, Rhysand. I’m not here for you.”

Feyre snorted softly, and even Azriel allowed himself a shadow of a smile.

You watched the two High Lords face each other, different in every way—light and dark, formality and flair—and felt the weight of what was coming settle deeper into your bones.

It had begun.

And every alliance, every scar, every old wound… would matter.

You stood near the edge of the balcony, your eyes locked on the horizon. The golden light of the Day Court filtered through layers of clouds, soft and impossibly calm—mocking the storm you all knew was coming.

Your thoughts drifted, disjointed. Worry. Strategy. The weight of healing. The ache of what might never come to pass.

Behind you, you felt the curtains move.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Azriel stepped up beside you, silent as always, his shadows dancing faintly around your feet. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the quiet stretch between you, like a bridge no one wanted to break.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, his voice low, intimate.

You gave a soft exhale. “As okay as I can be. The war is so soon…”

Azriel didn’t answer, but he wrapped his arms around you from behind, pulling you gently into his chest. His warmth sank into your skin, his breath brushing your temple. You tilted your head slightly and kissed his cheek, letting your fingers rest lightly over his arms.

Then you sighed. “You know what…”

You turned, heart pounding with sudden clarity.

Crossing the threshold into the room again, you didn’t hesitate. “Thesan.”

Everyone looked up.

He raised a brow. “Yes?”

“Is the chapel under the palace finished? I remember you were renovating it last time I visited.”

Thesan blinked, caught off guard. “We completed it last month. Why?”

“Perfect.” You reached back, catching Azriel’s hand. “Az, let’s get married.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Cassian choked. “Huh?”

Rhys and Feyre both gaped, their mouths wide open.

And then—

Helion burst out laughing. Full, delighted laughter that echoed off the stone walls. “Oh, I missed you.”

You turned to face the room fully, hand still in Azriel’s. “The war’s coming. Tonight might be the last night we’re all alive and together. So let’s go.”

Azriel looked at you like you’d just given him breath—something fierce and vulnerable blooming across his face. His hand tightened around yours.

“Yes,” he said, voice barely audible over the stunned murmurs. “Yes. Cauldron, yes.”

Thesan shook his head, smirking. “If you had told me three hundred years ago this would be happening, I’d have laughed in your face.”

“Same,” you said, half-laughing, half crying.

Cassian groaned. “Az, Mor is going to kill you for not being here for your wedding.”

“She’ll get over it,” Az answered, grinning. “No one killed Rhys and Feyre when they snuck off and married on their own.”

Feyre flushed. “That’s not the same.”

“You sure?” Rhysand added, recovering enough to smirk. “Because I remember someone yelling at us for weeks.”

Helion was still chuckling into his wine. “I’ll officiate, obviously. Someone has to add beauty to this mess.”

Thesan rolled his eyes. “No. I will officiate. It’s my court. My chapel.”

Azriel just looked at you like nothing else mattered. And maybe it didn’t.

You leaned into him, heart steady now. “Let’s do it before I change my mind.”

Azriel pulled you closer, forehead against yours. “I’m not giving you the chance.”

And just like that—amidst war plans, political tension, and the ache of everything unknown—a new vow was about to be made.

Because there was no perfect time.

Only now.

The sun had only just risen when you returned to Velaris.

The city was quiet in that way only early dawn allowed. Lamplight still glowed faintly on the cobbled streets, while the first rays of day slipped between rooftops and stirred the Sidra to soft silver ripples. The Night Court slept—but not you. Not Azriel.

The door to your home closed with a whisper, and the silence that followed felt reverent. Like the world itself had paused to make room for the gravity of what had just passed.

Married.

You were married.

You barely made it to your room before the exhaustion caught up to you both. No ceremony feast, no grand toast. Just a long, quiet embrace in the foyer. Just the look in his eyes. Just the feeling of his fingers brushing the ring on your hand.

Now—

Now you lay tangled together in your shared bed, in the golden hush of dawn.

The covers were kicked low, your limbs strewn across his, your head tucked beneath his chin. Azriel’s arms cradled you like he’d been waiting an eternity to do so—his touch loose in sleep, but never far. One of his wings was draped half over your frame, heavy and warm, as if trying to shield you from time itself.

The matching rings on your fingers glinted faintly in the morning light. Silver for you. Shadow-forged black for him. But the engraving was the same—an eclipse surrounded by stars. A symbol of everything you were together: not light, not dark, but both. Balanced. Whole.

And on your skin…

A new tattoo wrapped across your back, covering every inch of the old scars. You had barely looked at it until now, but with Azriel’s hand lazily trailing over your spine, you could feel the shapes it had etched into you—every line tenderly inked, every star a memory made permanent.

A crescent moon arched over your left shoulder blade, soft and glowing. A golden sun rested against your right, radiant and warm. Between them stretched a night sky of constellations and falling stars, weaving across your spine like a trail of light. Shadows danced along the edges—Azriel’s shadows, inked into the design, merging with light where your shoulder met your arm. The ink curled down across your side and wound over your hip, tracing old pain with new meaning.

And on Azriel—

The same sun. The same moon.

Inked over the brutal scars on his hands, wrapping around his knuckles and wrists in silent reverence. The stars stretched across his forearms like armor—like wings—and threaded with shadows that mirrored yours.

You didn’t need to look to know it was the same.

You could feel it.

The bond between you pulsed gently—low and soft and sacred. Like your souls had curled into each other during the night and refused to part.

Azriel stirred slightly beneath you, his lips brushing the crown of your head. You shifted just enough to meet his gaze, and he opened his eyes, golden and soft.

You touched foreheads, your noses brushing. The quiet between you was thick with everything words could never quite hold.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice raw from sleep.

“I love you,” you whispered back.

And you stayed like that.

Two broken creatures, bound together in silver and ink and shadow and flame.

The morning after your wedding was the last moment of peace you would know for a very long time.

The few calm hours of sleep that you got were the last ones you would have for a long time.

Before the sun reached its zenith, Rhysand’s message had arrived.

Koshiev’s armies had invaded Prythian.

They had crossed the eastern threshold with no warning, no mercy—ripping through the borderlands like a storm of teeth and ash.

This was the beginning of the war.

And maybe, just maybe…

The beginning of the end.

Of your end.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 19

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 7.5k

Trigger warning; death, smut

notes; yooo, it’s been a month, I knowwwww, but bear with me! one day I will finish this story lol. I've just been so freaking busy it's insane. Either way, thank you for sticking with me and continuing to read this story, it really means a lot. I'm already nearly done with the next three chapters, so it shouldn't take me too long to post the rest this time. hope you’re all doing well. With love, <333

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Y/N,

I don’t have time I’m sorry, I hope this reaches you in time.

I’ll be dead by the time you read this.

Rask is gone. Montesere and Vallahan too. Koeshiev came for us first, wiped us out before we even had a chance to fight back. The war is already lost here, but you still have time. You can still prepare the High Lords before it’s too late.

His power is beyond anything we imagined. Creatures—things not meant to exist—are crawling out of the dark. They are unstoppable. There is no end to them.

Last night, the prince fell. We couldn’t protect him. We couldn’t protect anyone.

We figured out one thing before the end—Koeshiev has divided himself. He’s fighting on multiple fronts at once. I don’t know how, but he is everywhere. It’s not just him—it’s him, multiplied.

Please, stay safe. Win this war. We didn’t stand a chance, but you do. You know now. You can be ready.

I would’ve loved to see you again. To visit the Night Court.

Maybe in another life.

With love and sorrow, Finn Head Healer of the fallen Kingdom of Rask.

The silence in Rhysand’s office was thick, suffocating. The air itself seemed to still as he finished reading the letter aloud, his voice even, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the parchment.

Azriel’s hand was wrapped tightly around yours, grounding you. You weren’t sure who was holding on to whom more.

“Are you sure this letter can be trusted?” Cassian was the first to break the silence, his voice tense. “It could be a trap. A manipulation.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Yes,” you murmured, forcing yourself to speak steadily. “The bird that brought it belonged to Finn.” You took a shaky breath before continuing, “In Rask, the messengers are assigned at birth. They won’t obey anyone else but their bonded owner. If Finn’s bird was sent here… it means Finn himself sent it.”

Rhys nodded grimly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Any other element that can prove that it’s him that wrote it?” he pressed.

You exhaled, bracing yourself. “We all have a way to verify our identities in confidential letters. Finn’s was—” your voice caught for just a second before you forced yourself to finish, “—to always sign his letters with ‘With love and sorrow.’ It was something he said only when a life was lost under his care.”

The words felt heavier than they should, knowing that it had been his own life he was referring to this time.

Feyre inhaled sharply. “That means it’s real.”

Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened.

“When was this sent?” he asked, his voice cold, calculated.

You hesitated before answering. “Two days ago.”

Another stretch of silence.

Two days.

Two days, and in that time, Rask—along with Montesere and Vallahan—had fallen. Erased. (Ps : Rask, Montesere and Vallahan are the 3 kingdoms next to prythian that you can see in the map in the begining of each ACOTAR book ;))

And Koeshiev had already set his sights on Prythian.

“We don’t have time,” Rhysand said, his voice sharp, his hands braced against the desk as he surveyed the room. “The High Lords need to be warned—immediately.”

Cassian exhaled heavily, crossing his arms over his chest. “We already sent out invitations for the meeting, but that’s not soon enough.”

Rhys nodded, his violet eyes dark with urgency. “Then we move it up. We resend the summons and make it clear—this is not just a political gathering. This is war.”

Azriel, still gripping your hand in his, spoke next. His voice was quiet, but the weight of it settled over everyone. “I’ll alert my spies. If Koeshiev has truly divided himself, we need to pinpoint his movements, track where he’s attacking next.”

You felt Azriel’s thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over the back of your hand, an anchor amid the storm brewing in your chest.

Feyre turned to you, concern etched in every line of her face. “Y/N… you’ve seen what Koeshiev is capable of. Do you know anything about how he’s splitting himself?”

You swallowed, your thoughts racing. “I knew he was powerful. I knew his presence in the continent was growing stronger, but this?” You exhaled sharply. “This is something else. Finn was right—Koeshiev isn’t just bringing death. He’s making nightmares real. He’s multiplying his reach, his destruction.”

The room fell into heavy silence, the weight of your words pressing down on everyone.

Then, Rhysand straightened, his violet gaze glinting with cold determination. “We move fast. We send word to every High Lord and their commanders—this meeting isn’t happening in weeks. It’s happening now.”

Cassian nodded, already thinking ahead. “And we don’t just warn them. We prepare. We need battle plans, contingencies—every court’s strongest warriors.”

Azriel’s voice was steel. “We don’t wait for him to come to us.”

Rhys’s gaze flickered between all of you before he gave a single, resolute nod. “Then let’s move. Prythian will not fall the way Rask did. Not while we still have a chance to stop him.”

No one hesitated. No one argued.

The morning after the meeting felt like the calm before the storm. There was no time to waste. Cassian had already left for Illyria to start rallying the warriors, and Rhysand, Feyre, Mor, and Azriel were en route to the Court of Nightmares, ensuring the Darkbringers were prepared for what was coming. Meanwhile, your role had become clear—Prythian didn’t just need warriors. It needed healers.

You stood in the center of the clinic, a dozen faces looking back at you. Some held determination, others apprehension. The weight of what was coming pressed down on everyone.

“We need to start preparing now,” you said, your voice firm and unwavering. “Letters are already being sent to the other courts’ head healers, but we have to focus on what we can control. That means supplies, reinforcements, and training.”

Elira nodded, arms crossed. “What exactly are we looking at? We’ve handled skirmishes before, outbreaks, but a full-scale war?”

A murmur rippled through the healers, some shifting uneasily.

“What we’re looking at,” you continued, “is the worst thing Prythian has seen since Hibern. Maybe worse.” The words hung heavy in the air. “Koeshiev has already decimated three entire kingdoms. He won’t stop. And when he reaches us, we will be the last line of defense for our people.”

One of the younger healers, swallowed hard. “What if we’re not enough?”

The question struck at the core of the doubt lingering in the room. You stepped forward, meeting each of their gazes. “Do you think I would have asked you to be here if I didn’t think you were the best?” Silence. “Do you think Madja would have trained you if she didn’t believe you were capable?”

Their postures straightened slightly.

“Doubt won’t serve us,” you pressed on. “This isn’t just about bandages and salves. This is war. And I have no intention of letting us be the ones unprepared when it comes to saving lives. You are the most skilled healers in this court, possibly in all of Prythian. But if you waste time second-guessing your abilities, then all we’ll be left with is death.”

A heavy pause, then Elira spoke, her voice stronger this time. “So, what do we do first?”

A breath of relief filled your chest. “We start by taking inventory. We need to send out orders for more medical supplies, and we need to figure out who among us is willing to train others in emergency care.”

The young healer nodded. “We could request help from the priestesses at the library. Some of them already work with us, but there are more who might be willing.”

“Good. Send word to them.” You turned to another healer, Mira. “We need lists of the most commonly used potions, tinctures, and enchanted salves. What can we store in bulk? What do we need that’s rare?”

Mira nodded. “I’ll get started on that.”

“And the letters to the other courts?” Elira asked.

You reached for the stack of parchment waiting at the desk. “I already sent them out last night. We’ll see who responds.”

As if on cue, a small, enchanted scroll materialized on the desk, the seal of the Dawn Court shimmering under the light. You grabbed it, unrolling the delicate parchment.

"Y/N,

We received your letter and are already making preparations on our end.

The healers of the Dawn Court are gathering supplies, and we will dispatch our best healers to join you when the time comes.

I trust your judgment, and we stand with you.

–Teylan, Head Healer of the Dawn Court."

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Teylan and her team are preparing.”

A few sighs of relief filled the room.

“That’s one,” you said, your gaze sharp. “Now, we wait for the others. In the meantime, let’s make sure we’re ready, too.”

The healers straightened, determination setting in.

You had work to do.

The soft glow of dawn seeped through the windows of the clinic, casting long shadows across the floor. The scent of herbs, parchment, and ink filled the space as you and the other healers remained hunched over ledgers and supply lists, exhaustion weighing on your limbs. The hours had slipped away unnoticed, your hands still ink-stained from writing letters, your mind buzzing with strategies and preparations.

It wasn’t until the familiar sensation of shadows curling near your skin that you looked up.

Azriel stood in the doorway, his gaze flickering over the room, taking in the dimly lit chaos and the lingering tension in the air. His golden eyes softened slightly as they met yours, but his voice was firm when he spoke.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

Elira, who had been scribbling down yet another inventory list, groaned. “We still have—”

“You still have time,” Azriel cut in, stepping further inside, his shadows darkening in emphasis. “But not if you all pass out before the war even starts.”

The other healers exchanged tired but knowing glances. You exhaled, rubbing the bridge of your nose before nodding. “Everyone, get some rest. We’ll continue later.”

Murmured protests came from a few, but eventually, they relented. You could feel the exhaustion in their movements, the weight in their steps as they began to pack up their materials.

Azriel stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your lower back. His warmth seeped through your tired muscles, grounding you. “Let’s go home.”

You nodded, knowing there was no point in arguing. “I’ll be back later,” you reassured Elira, who only waved a hand at you, barely lifting her head from the desk she had collapsed onto.

Azriel guided you out of the clinic, his hand never leaving your waist. The cold air outside was crisp against your skin, a welcome change from the stifling warmth inside. The streets of Velaris were eerily quiet at this hour, the city still wrapped in the last moments of sleep before the day began.

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Azriel observed, his voice quiet as you walked together. “Tell me what you’ve set up.”

You inhaled deeply before answering, trying to push past the haze of exhaustion clouding your thoughts. “We’re coordinating with the other courts’ healers. Teylan from Dawn is already preparing her team same for Day, Summer and Winter, and we’re waiting on responses from the others. We’ve started gathering extra supplies—salves, potions, anything enchanted that can help with healing.”

Azriel nodded, listening intently. “And the priestesses?”

“We’ve requested their assistance,” you confirmed. “Some have already agreed to help train others. We’ll need more hands when the injured start coming in.”

Azriel’s expression was unreadable, but his grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Good. You’re thinking ahead.”

You glanced at him, studying the tension in his jaw, the way his wings flexed slightly as if restless. “What about you? How did things go under the mountain?”

A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes before he exhaled. “As expected.”

“Which means?”

Azriel looked at you, his thumb brushing absently over your hip as he considered his words. “Keir is cooperating. Barely. But he knows what’s coming, and even his arrogance won’t blind him to the threat. We secured reinforcements from the Court of Nightmares, though they’ll only act when absolutely necessary.”

You scoffed. “Typical.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Azriel admitted, his voice edged with fatigue. “But I won’t trust them until I see them bleed for this court.”

Your fingers brushed over his hand, entwining them with his. “And Illyria?”

Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Cassian is handling it. But it’s difficult. Some of the warlords are still bitter, reluctant to follow orders—even if it’s to protect their own people.”

Frustration laced his voice, and you could feel the weight of it pressing on him. You squeezed his hand gently. “They’ll follow Cassian. They know his strength.”

Azriel gave a small nod, his thumb tracing the back of your hand absentmindedly. “They don’t have a choice.”

Silence settled between you for a moment as you walked, the tension of the past day pressing heavily on both of you. The war was no longer just a looming shadow—it was real, and it was coming.

Finally, Azriel spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I don’t like how much this is weighing on you.”

You turned to him with a small, tired smile. “I could say the same about you.”

Azriel let out a soft huff of amusement, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” you teased, nudging him lightly.

His golden eyes softened, and instead of answering, he pulled you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

And with that, the two of you walked the rest of the way, hand in hand, knowing that the next battle—whether on the field or in the shadows—was drawing closer with every step.

The moment the door closed behind you, Azriel had you in his arms, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine. His hands gripped you tightly, as if letting go wasn’t an option, as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him to prove you were still here.

The kiss didn’t stop.

You barely registered when he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, his strong arms holding you against him as if nothing—not war, not death—could pull you away from him. His lips trailed across your jaw, down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You gasped when he nipped at the sensitive spot beneath your ear, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

By the time he reached the bedroom, your breathing was already ragged. Azriel gently laid you down, hovering above you, his golden eyes burning with something desperate, something unspoken. He kissed you again—deep, slow, as if savoring every second, every taste.

Your hands roamed his body, fingers tracing the scars you had come to love, memorizing him, grounding yourself in the feeling of his skin beneath your touch.

Azriel’s clothes were gone before you could even process how quickly it happened. Your own followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he helped remove them, as if the idea of even a second wasted was unbearable. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice almost a plea. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched at the way he said it, like it hurt him, like every second spent away from you was agony.

“I love you,” you whispered back, your hands cupping his face. “I always will.”

His lips crashed into yours once more, his body pressing against yours, his warmth consuming you entirely. Every touch, every kiss felt like a silent promise—one of devotion, of defiance against the cruel fate looming over both of you.

Azriel moved with slow, deliberate movements, his lips brushing against your collarbone, trailing lower, his hands mapping every inch of your body as if committing it to memory. When he finally sank into you, you both gasped, the feeling overwhelming, the connection deeper than anything words could describe.

It was slow at first, as if savoring each other, but it didn’t take long for the urgency to take over. His grip on you tightened, his pace turning desperate, as if trying to burn the memory of this moment into both of your souls.

You clung to him, your nails dragging down his back, his name a breathless whisper against his lips.

It was overwhelming—the intensity, the raw emotion between you. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, your bodies moving in perfect harmony.

And then you felt it—a tear slipping down your cheek, not from pain, but from the sheer weight of it all. The love, the fear, the knowledge of what was to come.

Azriel stilled above you for a brief second, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. You opened your eyes and saw it—his own tears, barely held back, glistening in the moonlight.

“Oh, Az...” you whispered, your hands cupping his face, brushing your thumbs over the wetness on his cheeks. He let out a shaky breath, his lips parting as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

You let out a small, breathy laugh at how ridiculous you both must look—completely lost in each other, in the emotions neither of you could contain. Azriel huffed a quiet, broken laugh in return, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, his hands tightening on your waist.

But neither of you stopped.

If anything, the moment only grew more intense. The emotions, the tears, the quiet laughter—it all bled into something deeper, something unbreakable.

His name left your lips in a breathless moan, his pace growing uneven as he buried himself deeper into you. Your bodies trembled together, every movement, every thrust, every kiss pushing you closer to the edge.

And then, as if you had become one, you both shattered together.

His forehead dropped against yours, his grip on you unrelenting as he rode out the waves of pleasure with you, his body still pressed against yours, buried so deep inside you it felt impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

For a long while, neither of you moved.

Your hands found his again, fingers intertwining as you both breathed each other in, the bond thrumming with love, with reassurance.

Azriel kissed you softly, as if grounding himself in the reality that you were still here, still his.

The air in the room was warm, thick with the remnants of your love-making, the sheets tangled around your bodies as if they, too, refused to let go. You lay sprawled across Azriel’s chest, his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you as if you might slip away if he loosened his grip even the slightest bit. His forehead rested against yours, his breath fanning over your skin, steady yet heavy, as if he was memorizing the way you felt against him.

His fingers traced slow, idle patterns along your back, sometimes pressing into your skin as though grounding himself in the reality that you were still here. That, for now, fate had not stolen you from him.

But the truth lingered between you both.

The little time you had left.

Azriel exhaled deeply, the rise and fall of his chest shifting you with it. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet—weighted.

“I need to leave soon.”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly to look at him, your fingers already pressing into his skin as if to protest.

“To the continent,” he clarified, his thumb brushing over the small of your back in a soothing motion. “I need to confirm what’s in that letter. I need to see what’s left… if anything is left.”

Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay composed.

Your hand came up to cup his cheek, your thumb tracing the sharp planes of his face, committing the moment to memory. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again, dark and unwavering.

“Be careful,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “And—” you hesitated, resting your forehead against his, “never close your side of the bond. I need to know. Whatever is happening, I need to feel it.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened. “I won’t.” His voice was steady, resolute. “I swear to you, love. I won’t.”

You exhaled softly, closing your eyes, letting yourself drown in the feeling of him, of the warmth of his body against yours.

“I wish we could run,” you admitted after a long moment, voice barely above a whisper. “That we could disappear, go far away from this war, from all of it.”

Azriel’s hands stopped moving on your back, his silence stretching between you both. You knew he had thought about it too. Knew he had imagined what it would be like if you both could just vanish, live a life without the looming shadow of war, of death.

But you sighed, shaking your head against him. “But we can’t.”

His lips pressed against the crown of your head, a lingering, aching kiss that held more meaning than words ever could.

“I’ve seen fights,” you murmured, your hand trailing down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I’ve seen rebellions, conflicts, bloodshed.” You paused, your voice dipping lower. “But I’ve never been in a war where I could lose so much.”

Azriel’s hand found yours, lacing your fingers together, holding on as if that alone could defy fate.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I hate that we’re here. That we don’t have a choice.”

Your lips brushed against his jaw before you whispered, “I love you.”

His eyes darkened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “I love you more.”

No more words were needed.

The weight of the world pressed down on your shoulders, but here, in this bed, wrapped in Azriel’s arms, you allowed yourself to forget—just for a little while.

Sleep found you both soon after, your bodies tangled together, holding on as if time itself could be willed to slow down.

A few hours later, the gentle shifting of the bed pulled you from sleep. The space beside you was no longer as warm, the absence of Azriel’s body stirring something deep inside you before you even opened your eyes. You felt him move, felt the way the sheets rustled as he quietly slipped from your side.

Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers wrapping around his wrist before he could move too far. You tugged lightly, just enough for him to hesitate, just enough for him to turn back toward you.

Azriel sighed softly, lowering himself back onto the bed, folding you into his arms. You buried yourself into his chest, inhaling his scent, memorizing the way he felt—warm, solid, unwavering.

“I need to go,” he murmured, pressing his lips into your hair.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice still thick with sleep. “I know.”

You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze in the dim morning light. He cupped your cheek, running his thumb over your skin before leaning in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss. It was slow, full of emotion, neither of you willing to let go just yet.

When he finally pulled away, it was only because he had to. His forehead rested against yours for a beat longer before he stood, leaving your arms empty and cold.

Still wrapped in the sheets, you sat up against the headboard, watching him move through the room. He was meticulous, as always—the way he strapped each piece of leather into place, the careful, methodical way he secured his weapons. There was something deeply intimate about watching him prepare for what lay ahead.

“How long will you be gone?” you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Azriel tightened the buckle on his vambrace before glancing at you over his shoulder. “It depends, really,” he admitted. “I’ll go straight from the continent to the Dawn Court for the meeting.”

You nodded, shifting slightly, pulling the sheets around you. “I’ll see you after the meeting then.”

Azriel paused, turning fully to look at you. His brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean? You’re coming to the High Lords’ meeting.”

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned. “I… what?”

“We talked about this,” he reminded you gently, stepping closer to the bed. “Since you were the one who received the letter, it’s better if you’re there. You already know most of the High Lords, and they trust you.”

You swallowed, processing his words. You hadn’t expected this. You’d thought you would stay behind, continue preparing for whatever was coming—but it made sense. If there was ever a time to step into that room, to stand before all of them, it was now.

Azriel watched your expression carefully, waiting for your response.

Finally, you exhaled, nodding. “Alright. I’ll be there.”

A small, satisfied smile ghosted his lips.

You slid out of bed, pulling one of Azriel’s sweaters over your bare skin, along with a simple pair of pants. The fabric was soft, still carrying his warmth, and it settled something deep in your chest. Today would be spent in the clinic, behind your desk, preparing remedies and potions—but that didn’t mean you couldn’t carry a piece of him with you.

As Azriel adjusted the last of his gear, you stepped up behind him, circling your arms around his waist. Carefully, you tucked your head between his wings, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there.

Azriel stilled for a moment, then exhaled, turning in your hold to capture your lips once more. His hands found your waist, his grip firm but tender, as if he wanted to anchor himself to you before he left.

After a long moment, you pulled away, moving toward the small chest near the dresser. You dug through the vials inside before retrieving a small bundle, turning to press it into Azriel’s palm.

“Take this,” you said softly. “It’s a mix of tonics and remedies. They might be useful if anything happens.”

Azriel looked down at the small bundle in his hand, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gently tucked it into his belt. “You always think ahead,” he murmured, a hint of admiration in his voice.

You smirked, brushing a hand over his chest. “Someone has to.”

Azriel chuckled, shaking his head, before leaning in for one last kiss—slow, lingering, his lips speaking the words neither of you dared to say out loud.

Then, hand in hand, the two of you made your way downstairs. The morning air was crisp, the sky still painted in soft hues of pink and gold.

At the doorstep, Azriel turned to you, his gaze searching yours.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, his voice quiet but firm.

“I know,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Just don’t take too long.”

He smirked before pulling you into one last embrace, his lips finding yours once more before he finally stepped back.

And then, with a powerful beat of his wings, he was gone.

You stood there, watching him disappear into the sky, waiting until his figure became nothing but a speck against the horizon.

Only then did you turn, stepping back inside, feeling the emptiness settle in his absence.

The house was silent. Unnaturally so.

The fire had burned out, leaving nothing but smoldering embers in the hearth, and the air inside carried the ghost of warmth from the night before. Ydle was gone, delivering messages, and with him flew Roman—the bird that had once belonged to Finn.

Roman had been restless since his master’s death. Unlike Ydle, who had always been independent despite his bond with you, Roman seemed… lost.

You had watched him pace along the windowsill that morning, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for Finn. But his bond—his connection to the man who had raised him, trained him—was severed.

He knew. Somehow, deep in his little avian soul, he understood that Finn was gone. And now, without him, he was adrift.

A sigh left your lips as you turned away from the empty house, the stillness pressing in around you.

You grabbed your coat, pulling it snug around you before stepping out into the cold morning air.

There was no time to dwell on grief.

The clinic pulsed with an energy that had not been there before. It wasn’t the usual hum of healers moving between patients or the comforting rhythm of controlled chaos. No, today was different. The air was charged, thick with tension, as if the walls themselves could sense what was coming.

And you had not stopped moving. Not once.

There was no time to breathe, no time to pause. Each passing moment felt like another grain of sand slipping through an hourglass that was already running too fast.

Stacks of letters covered the table in your office, delivered from every corner of the continent and beyond. Some from the head healers of other courts, seeking guidance on how best to prepare. Others from those confirming their readiness—brief, calculated, full of sharp-edged efficiency that spoke to the severity of the situation.

Each letter demanded a response, and each response required thought, strategy, and precision.

What herbs were best suited for rapid healing in battle conditions? Which would preserve the most energy for healers without exhausting their supply?

What tonics should be prioritized? The fast-acting pain relievers, or the more potent elixirs designed to keep warriors on their feet long after their bodies should have collapsed?

How many stretchers? How many healers? How many bandages, vials, sutures?

How many would be needed if—when—the war came knocking at your doorstep?

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your desk, your nails pressing crescent moons into the worn wood.

It wasn’t just logistics. It was lives.

And the weight of it sat heavy on your shoulders.

Still, you pushed forward, moving from one task to the next with unwavering determination. You wrote back to Teylan, the Head Healer of the Dawn Court, acknowledging her confirmation that their healers were mobilizing. You sent word to Rask's remaining medical units, inquiring about their current state after Koeshiev’s attack.

You met with the other healers at the clinic, gathering them in a quiet room, outlining the next steps with a precision that left no room for hesitation.

Some of them looked nervous—understandably so.

“We are the most skilled healers in this court,” you told them, your voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping into your bones. “And we are going to prepare for this war with the same discipline and knowledge that we apply to every patient who walks through these doors.”

“But,” one of them hesitated, shifting uneasily, “this is war. We’re not trained soldiers. What if… what if we can’t handle it?”

You met their gaze evenly, unshaken. “Would you rather be unprepared when people are dying at our feet? Would you rather look down at a soldier in agony and know you don’t have the tools to save them? Because I won’t accept that. I won’t accept that from myself, and I won’t accept that from any of you.”

Silence filled the space between you, but the weight of your words settled deep.

This wasn’t just about fear. It was about responsibility.

Finally, one of the elder healers—an Illyrian woman with sharp eyes and a steady hand—nodded. “Then we make sure we’re ready.”

A murmur of agreement spread through the group. And just like that, the doubt faded.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders, and returned to work.

You moved through the day in a blur—checking inventories, counting supplies, overseeing preparations. Ink stained your fingers from endless letters, and your legs ached from the constant motion.

But still, you didn’t stop.

Because there was no room for failure. Not this time. Not when the war was already at your doorstep.

By afternoon, there was something else you needed to take care of—something that required a conversation with Rhysand.

With a stack of papers tucked under your arm, you made your way to the River House. The walk was brisk, the cool air sharp against your skin, but it kept you awake, kept you grounded.

When you arrived, you barely had time to lift your hand before the door swung open for you.

Not by magic.

By the house itself.

A small smile ghosted your lips as you stepped inside, the warmth immediately wrapping around you like an old friend. The place had always carried a quiet sentience, as if it knew who belonged here and who didn’t. And today, it welcomed you like one of its own.

Without hesitation, you made your way through the halls, past the grand sitting room and the sunlit atrium, heading straight for Rhysand’s office.

The doors were already slightly ajar, as if expecting your arrival.

Inside, Rhys was seated at his desk, a pen in hand, reviewing a document with the same sharp, focused expression he always wore when dealing with matters of war and strategy.

At the sound of your steps, he looked up. His violet eyes met yours, and with the barest lift of his brow, he smirked.

“Come in, Y/N,” he said smoothly. “I had a feeling I’d be seeing you today.”

You entered Rhysand’s office quickly, your steps brisk, purposeful—but gods, you were exhausted. And judging by the way Rhys was rubbing his temples, leaning back in his chair, he was just as drained as you.

Still, when he saw you, he straightened slightly, offering a small smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to burden you for too long,” you smirked, settling into the chair across from him.

Rhys let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You never bother me, Y/N.”

You exhaled, placing the stack of letters you had been carrying onto his desk. “I just came to update you quickly before heading back to the clinic. I sent messages to the healers in the Night Court, outlined the emergency protocol, and made sure we have supplies ready. I also tasked Cassian with delivering the instructions to Illyria while he’s there. I would’ve gone myself, but…”

“You don’t have the time,” Rhys finished for you, nodding. “I know.” His violet eyes darkened slightly with understanding. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

You waved off the gratitude. “This is my home too, Rhys. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect it.”

His smile was small but genuine before he leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “The High Lords have responded—most of them, at least.”

Your expression turned serious. “Most?”

“Tamlin hasn’t responded.”

You sighed, unsurprised. “Of course he hasn’t.”

Rhys reached into the stack of letters on his desk and slid one toward you. “But you might be interested in this.”

You picked up the letter, recognizing the elegant handwriting before you even opened it. Lila.

Your eyes flickered over the parchment, scanning its contents. She had confirmed Tamlin’s presence at the meeting, which was something, at least. But the rest…

Your grip on the letter tightened.

“She’s worried,” you murmured. “The Spring Court is barely holding itself together. Their armies are still fractured, their stability fragile.”

Rhys nodded grimly. “Which means Tamlin might not be as much of an asset as we’d hoped. If his court isn’t prepared, he may not have much to offer in terms of military support.”

You set the letter back down with a sigh. “Then we’ll have to plan around that.”

Rhys studied you for a moment before saying, “Azriel must have informed you, but you’ll be coming with us to the meeting.”

You nodded. “Of course. I expected as much.”

“Feyre is working with Nesta, Amren, and some of the priestesses in the library, trying to find anything that could give us an advantage.”

“That’s good.”

“Cassian will be back from Illyria later tonight,” Rhys continued. “Lucien went to the human lands to meet with Vassa and Jurian.”

Your brows furrowed slightly at that. “Do we trust him?”

Rhys hesitated for a brief second before nodding. “Lucien is many things, but he isn’t a liar. And he has his own reasons to want Koeshiev stopped.”

You considered that before nodding.

“What time are we leaving?” you asked.

“Tomorrow morning. We’ll all meet here before heading out.”

“Sounds perfect.”

You hesitated for a moment before asking, “Who’s staying behind in Velaris?”

“Mor, Amren, Nesta…” Rhys paused for a beat. “And Elain.”

You nodded, keeping your expression unreadable. “Good.”

“And Nyx?”

“Amren is positively delighted to keep him safe.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I can imagine.”

Rhys returned the smile, but there was something heavier beneath it. A shared understanding of the weight pressing on both of you.

“See you tomorrow, Rhys,” you said as you stood.

“Y/N.” His voice stopped you just as you reached the door.

You glanced back.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You gave him a small, steady smile. “Don’t thank me for trying my best to protect my home.”

His expression softened, and he simply nodded.

As you descended the stairs, the warmth of your brief smile faded slightly when you entered the living room.

Elain was there, playing with Nyx.

She looked up when she noticed your presence, her delicate fingers still curled around one of the babe’s tiny hands.

For a moment, you and Elain simply acknowledged each other with a glance—no words, no forced pleasantries.

There were far more important things to focus on than whatever was simmering between you.

So you left, walking out the door without a second thought.

The exhaustion clung to your bones as you stepped away from the clinic, the weight of the long night pressing down on you. You hadn't returned home at all, caught up in the endless planning, the intricate strategies of war and survival. Organizing field healers, establishing protocols for emergency treatment both on and off the battlefield—it had consumed you.

It would never be perfect. No amount of preparation could make it so. But you could ensure that the Night Court—and all of Prythian—stood the best chance possible.

With a final round of instructions given to Elira and the other healers, you exhaled a slow breath, knowing that for the next two days, they would handle things in your absence. After the High Lords’ meeting, depending on its outcome, the real movement would begin.

The streets of Velaris were quiet as you walked home, the familiar city bathed in cold starlight. It was late, and the warmth of the Sidra’s glow barely took the edge off the winter chill. Your fingers tightened around the lapels of your coat as your thoughts drifted—to Azriel.

You could still feel him through the bond, even with the distance between you. He was focused, sharp, immersed in whatever he was doing on the continent. But even so, you had sent him waves of love and reassurance since he had left—little nudges to let him know you were still here, still thinking of him. And each time, he had answered, a soft pulse of warmth in return, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that tethered you together.

Still, a dark thought crept into your mind as you neared your home. When you were no longer here, what would that feel like for him? When all that was left of you was an echo through the bond, a connection to something that no longer existed—

You clenched your jaw, shaking off the thought before it could take root.

You had just reached your front door when a knock echoed from the other side.

Frowning, you hesitated only for a moment before opening it.

Mor stood there, wrapped in a thick cloak, her golden hair slightly tousled by the wind. She looked at you with those keen, knowing eyes—like she already understood everything you hadn’t yet said aloud.

“Hey, stranger,” she said with a small smile, though there was something behind it. A softness. Concern.

You blinked in surprise before stepping aside to let her in. "Mor," you greeted, shutting the door behind her. "What are you doing here?"

She unfastened her cloak, shaking the chill from it before draping it over a chair. “I came to help you get ready for the High Lords’ meeting.”

Your brows furrowed. "You didn't have to—"

Mor cut you off with a look, her arms crossing as she leaned against the table. “Yes, I did. I know you've been drowning yourself in work, Y/N. You’re prepared, but I also know you haven’t stopped for even a second to think about what’s coming next. And I know,” she added before you could protest, “that Azriel told you, but I wanted to hear it from you. Are you ready for this?”

You swallowed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t think any of us are truly ready.”

She nodded, her gaze searching yours. “Fair. But are you ready to face them? To walk into that room not just as a healer, but as someone they need to listen to?”

You hesitated.

Mor sighed, pushing off the table. “You’ve built relationships with the High Lords. They trust you. You are not just Azriel’s mate, not just a healer, not just the person who got that letter—you are a force in this war, and they need to see that.”

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling deeply. “I know, Mor. I just—” You paused. “It’s all happening so fast.”

Mor’s eyes softened. “It is. But that’s why I’m here. To go over everything with you, to make sure you walk into that room knowing exactly what you need to say.”

And just like that, the two of you got to work, combing through every possible scenario, every question that might arise—because, you would not just be speaking as a healer.

You would be standing before Prythian’s most powerful leaders, ensuring that they understood exactly what they were up against.

Mor studied your face carefully as you took in the outfit, the soft silk cascading over your body, the embroidered stars and moons shimmering under the dim light of the room. The deep blue fabric contrasted beautifully against your skin, the high neckline regal yet delicate. But it was the open back that made you hesitate.

You turned slowly, glancing over your shoulder at the reflection in the mirror. The scars on your back were there—undeniable, raw remnants of the past. You had grown used to them, learned to live with them, but seeing them now, so exposed, left you feeling vulnerable.

Mor noticed the shift in your expression. She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “If you’re not comfortable, we can try something else,” she murmured, her voice softer than usual.

You looked down at where her fingers rested, warmth radiating from her touch. Then, without hesitation, you reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “No,” you said, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty. “I love it.”

Mor searched your face for any sign of doubt, but when she found none, she squeezed your hand back, her signature smirk returning. “Good. Because you look incredible.”

You let out a soft laugh, running your fingers over the delicate embroidery on the pants. “Did you really have a backup outfit just in case?”

She shrugged dramatically. “Please, do you know who I am? Of course I did.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, turning back to the mirror as she stepped behind you, adjusting the fabric slightly. “You’re going to make an impression,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice.

You let out a breath, nodding slightly. “I know.”

Mor met your gaze in the reflection. “And you’re going to do just fine.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you, Mor. For everything.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t get sentimental on me now,” she teased before pulling you into a quick hug. “Now, let’s finish getting you ready, because, you’re walking into that meeting not just as a healer, but as someone they need to listen to.”

You nodded, determination settling in your chest. The meeting was coming fast, but for now, you allowed yourself this moment of quiet preparation, of friendship, of certainty.

Because no matter what awaited you in that room, you would be ready.

As you sat in front of the mirror, Mor’s gentle hands moved through your hair, styling it with a precision that only she could manage. The soft tug of her fingers, the quiet hum of her concentration—it was grounding, a moment of calm before the storm.

One of Azriel’s shadows lingered near you, curling faintly around your wrist like a whisper of reassurance. You didn’t know if Azriel had sent it or if it had simply decided to stay with you of its own accord. Either way, its presence was comforting, as if a piece of him was with you, holding onto you even from miles away.

Mor soon moved to your face, her gaze sharp as she worked. The exhaustion from the past few days had taken its toll, but by the look of satisfaction on her face as she pulled back, she had managed to make you look like you had actually rested.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, admiration in her voice. “You are beautiful, Y/N.”

You met your own gaze in the mirror, eyes scanning over the work she had done. The long, dark lines of exhaustion under your eyes had vanished, replaced with a soft glow that made you look almost ethereal. She had done an incredible job, as always.

A small, grateful smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you, Mor.” You leaned over and kissed her cheek.

She grinned, hugging you from the side before pulling away with a playful smirk. “Alright, alright. Enough of that. Go get your shoes—we need to leave, or you guys are going to be late.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you grabbed them, slipping them on swiftly before the two of you made your way to the River House.

When you entered, everyone was already gathered, finalizing preparations.

The sight before you was breathtaking—every single one of them dressed in their finest, the weight of their roles as warriors, rulers, and protectors settled heavily over them.

Rhys stood near the fire, his wings out, the dark crown atop his head a striking contrast to his violet eyes. Feyre stood beside him, a vision in an intricately designed gown, her crown sitting elegantly atop her golden-brown hair. She truly looked like a queen tonight.

You exchanged greetings, small smiles and quiet words passing between the group. Feyre and Rhys kissed Nyx one last time before Feyre turned to you, her fingers finding yours.

“Ready?” she asked, squeezing your hand.

You nodded, inhaling deeply. “Ready.”

Rhys reached for Cassian while Feyre took your hand, and in a single breath, darkness enveloped you.

The High Lords' Meeting awaited.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 18

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; //

notes; what's up everyone I'm back ! Sorry for making you all wait for the next part of this story but here it is. Well to be honest I had my final theses to finish and i had to do more hours at my job, thus why i couldn't find any time to write hehe my bad everyone... The next part should be out next week I hope but I still have a lot of stuff to do so I'm sorry for not being able to post every week like before (don't worry i'm not going to wait one month to post the next chapter). Still I hope that you enjoy this chapter seen you soon <3

previous ✧ next

The morning sunlight trickled softly through the sheer curtains, painting golden streaks across the bedroom. The world outside was slowly waking, but inside your new home, everything was still, warm, untouched by the demands of the day.

Azriel’s arms were wrapped tightly around you, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. His bare chest was pressed against your back, his slow, steady breathing tickling the nape of your neck.

You shifted slightly, the movement pulling a sleepy groan from him as he buried his face into your hair, inhaling deeply before pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. His lips lingered there, tracing faint patterns against your skin before he murmured, “Morning, love.”

You turned in his arms, facing him, your fingers instinctively reaching to brush through the strands of his dark hair, still tousled from sleep. He hummed at the sensation, eyes still half-lidded, but the golden warmth of them was locked onto you, taking you in as if he was memorizing every detail of this moment.

Soft kisses followed—his lips brushing over your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, before finally capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. You sighed into it, melting into him, savoring the simple beauty of waking up in his arms, in your home, together.

It had been a few days since you had moved in together, and the feeling of belonging here, of belonging with him, was settling deeper into your bones. The space felt lived in now—small things that made it yours and his. Books stacked near the fireplace, the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air from the mornings before, his shadows curling in familiar corners of the house, as if even they had begun to think of this place as home.

Azriel traced his fingers over your cheek, sensing the shift in you through the bond. His touch was soothing, coaxing, as if urging you to speak.

“There’s something on your mind,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Go ahead, love.”

You met his gaze, searching for the right words, your heart thudding just a little harder.

After a beat of silence, you asked, “Have you talked with Elain?”

Azriel’s brows pulled together slightly, his thumb pausing on your cheek. “About what?”

“About… us,” you clarified, your voice quieter now. “After what happened during Solstice.”

His expression didn’t change, but through the bond, you felt the slight shift—the moment of realization.

“To be honest no,” he admitted, voice steady. “I quickly took my distance from her at the time. And in the end… I think we both gave it away that nothing would ever happen between us.” His fingers tilted your chin up slightly, his golden eyes unwavering. “You can be sure of that.”

You nodded, exhaling softly. But Azriel could feel that his words, as firm as they were, didn’t completely settle whatever was lingering inside you.

His gaze sharpened, studying you more intently. And then, his mind drifted back to yesterday—to Elain, to the look she had given you when she thought no one was watching. A look so sharp, so cutting, that it had surprised even him.

His grip on you tightened slightly, protective, his voice lower now. “Did something happen with Elain?”

You sighed deeply and lay back down, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not that something happened,” you murmured. “She just made it very clear that she doesn’t like me… or the fact that we’re mated. But it’s fine.”

Azriel sat up beside you, his golden eyes darkening as he looked down at you. “No, it’s not,” he said firmly. “It’s not fine.” His fingers traced your jaw before cupping your face, his warmth grounding you.

“What… what did she tell you?”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply before you finally said, “Last week, when I went to examine her, she told me that I was going to die soon… and that there’s no point in us being mated because after my death, you’d go back to her.”

Azriel’s entire body tensed, his wings shifting behind him, his grip on you tightening as his breathing grew sharper. His pupils dilated in shock and rage, his golden irises burning with disbelief.

“What the fuck is wrong with her?” His voice was low, almost dangerous, vibrating with an anger he rarely allowed himself to show.

Before you could say anything, he grabbed you tightly, pulling you against his chest, his hold almost desperate. His shadows curled around you instinctively, as if they, too, wanted to protect you from the weight of Elain’s words.

“Why would she say something like that?” he whispered, as if trying to make sense of it.

You sighed against him, closing your eyes as you pressed a hand over his heart. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just feel… stupid. That what she said affected me so much that I wasn’t capable of bearing it.”

Azriel pulled back slightly, his fingers threading into your hair as he forced you to look at him. “No,” he said sharply. “You are not stupid. Don’t you dare think that.”

You swallowed, a lump forming in your throat, but you forced yourself to keep speaking. “Listen, there’s no point in being mad. It was her decision to say what she did, and if she wants to stay in that mindset, then let her be. I don’t care what she thinks.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable, but you could feel it through the bond—the anger simmering beneath his skin, the protectiveness that roared to life inside of him. He was ready to say something, ready to argue, but you shook your head gently, stopping him before he could start.

“Az,” you said, your voice softer now. “She’s Feyre and Nesta’s sister. I don’t want to create any problems between them because of me. At the end of the day, I know that you are with me, not her. That’s what matters the most.”

Azriel let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening on your waist. You sent warmth through the bond, love, reassurance—reminding him that no matter what Elain said, no matter what she thought, it didn’t change what you had.

He exhaled, his grip loosening just slightly as he leaned his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For what she said. She’s out of her mind.”

Your lips twitched into a small, tired smile. “I know.”

He lifted your chin gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek, and in a voice filled with certainty, he said, “I love you.”

Your heart swelled at the words, and you cupped his face, stroking his scarred cheek with your thumb. “And I love you more,” you whispered back.

Azriel kissed you, slow and deep, as if trying to erase every doubt, every cruel word Elain had spoken. And in that moment, with his hands holding you so carefully, so reverently, you knew—nothing would ever come between you and him. Not war. Not fate. And certainly not Elain Archeron.

The crisp winter air nipped at your cheeks as you walked through the lively streets of Velaris, arms full of various supplies for the clinic. The city was still blanketed in snow, but the sun shone brightly above, casting a golden hue over the rooftops, making the ice glisten like tiny diamonds. Despite the cold, the day felt... good. Light.

You exhaled a soft breath, your boots crunching against the frost-covered cobblestones as you stepped out of the apothecary, the scent of dried herbs and fresh tonics still lingering in your nose. Adjusting the bags in your arms, you took a moment to glance around, enjoying the familiar bustle of the Rainbow Quarter. Artists lined the streets, bundled in thick coats as they painted on their canvases, merchants called out their wares, and the ever-present hum of Velaris' heartbeat wrapped around you like a comforting embrace.

Then, as you turned a corner, your eyes landed on a shop you recognized. One Feyre and Mor had both mentioned before.

Rhysand’s favorite, apparently.

You arched a brow, glancing up at the elegant storefront, curiosity piqued.

Might also become mine, you know.

Azriel’s voice purred through the bond, the amusement in his tone unmistakable.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips. Shut up.

His laughter rippled through the bond, rich and warm, wrapping around you like a second layer of protection against the cold. The sound sent a flutter through your chest, heat pooling in your stomach despite the winter air.

You bit your lip, cheeks still slightly pink, as you shook your head and continued on your way, the bond between you humming with quiet contentment.

The journey back to the clinic was peaceful, the city embracing you in its steady rhythm. By the time you arrived, the sun had climbed a little higher, casting long, golden streaks of light across the marble floors.

Later this afternoon, Feyre would be coming in with Nyx for a check-up.

The bell above the clinic’s door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of herbs, parchment, and clean linen wrapping around you like a well-worn cloak. The warmth of the building seeped into your skin, a stark contrast to the crisp winter air outside.

Elira was already behind the counter, flipping through a ledger, but the moment she caught sight of you, she smirked. "Took your time, didn’t you?"

You huffed a small laugh, setting the bags down onto the nearest table. "I was running errands, not taking a stroll through the Rainbow."

Elira quirked a brow but didn’t press further as the two of you began unpacking the supplies. Together, you organized the back shelves, stacking vials of tonics, neatly arranging bundles of dried herbs, and sorting through various salves and bandages.

As you worked, the easy rhythm of your hands was met with a quiet conversation.

"Have you noticed it lately?" Elira murmured after a moment, her voice lower than before.

You paused, glancing up at her. "Noticed what?"

She exhaled through her nose, adjusting a row of bottles. "Something’s... off. The illnesses we’ve been seeing, the way injuries aren’t healing as they should. I know winter always brings its usual cases, but this is different. It’s like the land itself is holding its breath."

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the wooden shelf.

She wasn’t wrong.

You had felt it too—the slow, creeping unease, the way something dark seemed to lurk at the edges of your awareness. The war was coming, yes. But this was something else, something you couldn’t quite place.

"I know what you mean," you admitted, keeping your voice even. "It’s like the air is thicker, like something is waiting to break."

Elira hummed in agreement. Neither of you said more, but the weight of the conversation hung between you like an unspoken warning.

When the last bottle was set in its place, you exhaled, forcing yourself to shake off the lingering tension.

As you and Elira stepped back out into the main hall, your eyes landed on a familiar figure waiting near the entrance.

Feyre.

She smiled as she caught sight of you, Nyx tucked safely in her arms. The High Lady of the Night Court radiated warmth, her presence as grounding as ever.

Before you could say anything, she closed the space between you and wrapped you in a hug. You returned it without hesitation, the familiar comfort of her embrace making some of the weight in your chest ease.

When you pulled back, your gaze softened as you brushed your fingers gently through Nyx’s soft hair. The little babe cooed sleepily, blinking up at you with those striking blue eyes that were so much like his mother's.

Feyre chuckled. "He always does that when he sees you."

You smiled, heart swelling with affection. "I must have a soothing aura," you teased, winking at her.

As you and Feyre walked through the clinic toward the private examination room, your conversation flowed effortlessly, the familiar ease between you two a quiet comfort.

“How’s everything at the River House?” you asked, shifting the bag of medical supplies in your hands, glancing over at her.

Feyre sighed, shaking her head with a soft chuckle. “Busy as ever. Between Nyx, Rhys’s endless meetings, and everything else happening, it feels like there’s never a quiet moment.”

You smiled knowingly. “I can imagine. Though I don’t think you’d want it any other way.”

Feyre smirked. “You’re probably right. But I wouldn’t complain about a few uninterrupted hours of sleep.”

You laughed softly, nudging her with your shoulder. “If I could give you a healer-approved remedy for sleep deprivation, I would.”

“I’d take it in an instant,” she admitted, rubbing her temple. “Though, in fairness, Rhys and I brought this on ourselves. He’s been working late, trying to keep everything balanced while we prepare for the High Lords meeting, and I…” she glanced down at Nyx, her expression softening, “well, I’d rather be exhausted than miss even a moment with him.”

Your heart clenched a little at the tenderness in her voice.

As you neared the examination room, Feyre let out a quiet sigh. “Elain has practically moved in with us since she fainted. Not that we mind, of course, but…” she hesitated, glancing at you as if weighing her words carefully. “She’s been… distant. More than usual.”

You kept your expression neutral, focusing on opening the door to the room instead of the way your stomach twisted at the mention of Elain.

Feyre continued, her voice softer now. “I know she’s not the easiest to read, but it feels like something’s shifted in her.”

You nodded slowly, stepping inside and setting down the bag of supplies. “Maybe the vision affected her more than she wants to admit,” you suggested carefully.

“Maybe,” Feyre agreed, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Either way, I don’t know what to do other than give her space.”

You met her gaze, offering a small, reassuring smile. “That might be the best thing for now.”

The tension in the room lifted slightly as you motioned for her to sit, ready to begin Nyx’s examination.

You carefully took Nyx from her arms. The babe made a small noise of contentment as you cradled him, his tiny fingers wrapping around the edge of your tunic.

You began your examination, hands gentle but thorough, checking his little limbs, his heartbeat, and the way his magic thrummed beneath his skin. As you worked, you continued asking Feyre questions about Nyx’s recent behavior.

“Has he been sleeping any better?”

Feyre sighed dramatically. “Some nights, yes. Others, he acts like he has no concept of exhaustion.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That sounds about right. What about eating?”

“Oh, he’s got no issue with that,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s eating so much that I think he might outgrow his clothes in a matter of weeks.”

You grinned, adjusting Nyx slightly in your arms. “Sounds like he’s healthy and thriving.”

Feyre watched you with a quiet expression, her blue-gray eyes soft as you gently held her son. Then, she said something you hadn’t expected.

“You know,” she murmured, “you would make an amazing mother.”

Your hands stilled. A flicker of something passed through your chest—warmth and sorrow twisted into one.

You turned your gaze to her, offering a soft but sad smile. Feyre’s expression immediately fell, realizing her mistake. She stood quickly, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean—”

You shook your head, cutting her off before she could continue. “It’s fine, Feyre. Really.”

But she wasn’t convinced. She pulled you into a hug, her embrace warm and firm. When she pulled back, she gave you a look—not one of pity, but of understanding.

“If you ever need to talk about it,” she whispered, “I will always be here for you.”

You swallowed, nodding slightly. “The same goes for you,” you said quietly.

A small smile crossed Feyre’s lips before she straightened, sensing the heaviness in the room. “Alright, let’s change the topic before I start crying in your clinic.”

You chuckled, nodding. “Azriel mentioned that you had a big meeting today. Any updates on Koschei?”

Feyre sighed, rubbing her temple. “Nothing particular, which is actually what’s worrying. The silence feels more like a warning than a relief.”

You frowned. “And the High Lords meeting? When is it happening?”

“As soon as possible,” she answered. “We’re sending the invitations soon. Hopefully, it will take place shortly after that.”

You nodded in agreement. “The sooner, the better.”

You finished dressing Nyx back into his little tunic, smoothing down the soft fabric before handing him back to Feyre. “He’s doing great,” you assured her. “Nothing to worry about. But I’ll give you something to help with his teething pain.”

“Mother bless you,” she sighed, taking the small bottle you handed her.

As she gathered her things, she turned back to you. “Are you heading home now? If you’re done for the day, you should come with me.”

You glanced at the time, then grabbed your coat. “I should be able to leave.”

Feyre grinned, waiting as you shrugged into your coat. As you stepped back into the main hall, Elira caught your eye and smirked, winking at you.

“Have fun,” she teased.

You smiled, waving as you followed Feyre out the door and into the crisp air of Velaris.

The sun had begun its slow descent by the time you and Feyre made your way toward the River House. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, the reflection shimmering over the Sidra as the two of you strolled along its banks. The crisp evening air was refreshing, but the warmth of Feyre’s company made the walk all the more enjoyable.

“You should’ve seen Rhys trying to get Nyx to nap earlier,” Feyre laughed, shaking her head. “He thought flying him around in circles would help, but he just made himself dizzy while Nyx stayed wide awake, giggling the entire time.”

You snorted, grinning. “I would’ve paid to see that.”

Feyre’s arm was looped through yours as you both continued along the quiet streets of Velaris, laughter still lingering in the air between you. The city was peaceful in the evening glow, the golden light casting long, soft shadows along the cobblestone paths. The scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby shop wafted through the air, mixing with the crisp winter breeze. It felt like one of those rare moments where the world slowed, where the looming weight of war and responsibility didn’t press so heavily on your chest.

Feyre glanced at you, her expression still amused. “You know, I think I actually did Rhys a favor by not painting that moment. His ego might not have survived the humiliation.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Oh, please. His ego is unshakable. I bet he would’ve hung it right in his study as a reminder of Nyx’s first great victory.”

Feyre groaned. “You’re right. He’d probably show it to every guest who walked through the door.”

The thought made you both burst into laughter again, leaning into each other slightly as you walked. The bond of friendship between you and Feyre had grown stronger over the months, and moments like these made it easy to forget the weight of the things you both carried.

The River House finally came into view, its grand, elegant silhouette standing proudly against the evening sky. The windows glowed warmly from within, an inviting sight that made something inside you settle.

“You know,” Feyre mused as you reached the steps, “I never expected to love this house as much as I do. It felt too big at first, too polished. But now, with Nyx here, with all of us filling the space… it feels like home.”

You nodded, understanding the sentiment completely. “Home isn’t about the place,” you murmured. “It’s about who’s in it.”

Feyre smiled at you, squeezing your arm before you both stepped inside, the comforting warmth of the River House welcoming you back.

As you stepped into the warmth of the house, Feyre passed you Nyx before shrugging off her coat. You took him gladly, bouncing the babe gently in your arms as he cooed up at you. His tiny hands reached toward your face, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a soft, curious touch.

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest?” you murmured, smiling down at him.

Feyre chuckled as she draped her coat over the nearest chair. “You’re going to spoil him.”

You grinned. “I intend to.”

You carried Nyx around the living room, swaying gently as Feyre prepared tea. The warmth of the fire flickered softly, casting a golden glow over the space. When she returned, you both settled into the plush chairs, sipping the fragrant drink as your conversation continued.

As the evening stretched on, Nyx began to fuss slightly, his tiny hands curling into the fabric of Feyre’s tunic.

“I think someone’s hungry,” you noted, shifting slightly so she could take him back.

Feyre nodded, adjusting him against her as she settled in to feed him. You gave her space but didn’t look away, offering a small, reassuring smile when she glanced at you.

“Do you mind?” she asked softly.

You shook your head immediately. “Of course not.”

The scene before you was one of pure serenity. Feyre looked so natural, so loving—an image of a mother utterly devoted to her child. The tenderness in the way she held him, the soft murmurs she whispered as he latched on, the way her hand cradled his small head—it was beautiful.

Once Nyx had finished, Feyre gently burped him, humming softly as his tiny body relaxed into her arms. His eyelids drooped, and soon enough, he was fast asleep.

“I’ll go put him down,” she whispered, standing carefully.

You nodded, watching as she made her way toward his nursery, leaving you alone in the quiet warmth of the house.

But not for long.

The sound of the front door opening had you glancing toward the entrance, your lips curving as you saw Azriel and his brothers stepping inside. They were still in their leathers, the lingering bite of the night’s cool air clinging to them.

The moment the door opened and the sound of boots echoed against the floor, Azriel’s eyes found yours. It was instinctual, immediate—his golden gaze locking onto yours like a tether had pulled him straight to you. Within seconds, he had crossed the room, his presence surrounding you, warm and intoxicating in a way that made everything else fade into the background.

Cassian, ever the instigator, let out a low whistle as he watched Azriel move with singular purpose. “Damn, at least pretend to acknowledge the rest of us before you go running into her arms.”

Azriel ignored him, stepping in front of you, his large hands sliding to your waist as he pulled you close. The weight of his gaze, the sheer adoration behind it, sent warmth curling deep in your chest. He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and it took everything in you not to melt into him completely.

“Hello, my love,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rich and smooth, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You smiled up at him, your fingers curling against his chest. “Hello, darling.”

A loud, exaggerated gagging noise broke the moment, and you both turned to find Cassian clutching his chest dramatically. “Mother above, it’s disgusting how in love you two are.”

You arched an eyebrow at him. “You act like you’re any better when you’re with Nesta.”

Cassian smirked but didn’t deny it. “Fair point. But at least I have the decency to greet my brothers before making out in the middle of the room.”

Azriel shot him a dry look, his grip on you tightening just slightly. “Jealous?”

Rhys chuckled, smirking from where he leaned against the doorway. “Not all of us have someone waiting for us when we get home, Shadowsinger.”

Cassian let out a dramatic sigh. “Exactly! Look at poor Rhys. No fawning mate to greet him.”

“You mean my wife? The mother of my child?” Rhys deadpanned. “Who literally just walked into the other room?”

Cassian waved him off. “Semantics.”

Feyre reappeared at that moment, rolling her eyes fondly at the conversation as she took her seat beside Rhys. She cast you a knowing look before settling in, Nyx now sound asleep in his cradle nearby.

Azriel kept his arm around your waist as you both sat down, the tension in his shoulders easing as he settled into the space beside you. The warmth of the room, the gentle crackling of the fire, the quiet hum of conversation—it all felt so… right.

Cassian, naturally, had to add one last quip. “Just saying, Az, we used to be your priority. Now we don’t even get so much as a ‘hello’ before you’re making eyes at your mate.”

Azriel, without missing a beat, turned his head to meet Cassian’s gaze. “Hello, Cassian.”

Cassian blinked. Then, with an exaggerated scoff, muttered, “I hate you.”

The laughter that filled the room was easy, familiar, the kind that only came from true family. And as you leaned into Azriel’s side, your fingers brushing gently over his, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

As the easy conversation and laughter filled the room, a faint tapping against the window caught your attention. You turned your head, spotting the familiar flutter of wings outside. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you recognized the tiny figure attempting to get in.

"Ydle," you murmured, instinctively moving toward the window.

Azriel's gaze followed you, though his attention never fully left you. He had spent enough time observing every little detail about you to know when something shifted in your demeanor.

But as you stepped closer, a strange feeling settled in your stomach. The bird outside wasn’t Ydle.

Your smile faltered.

The creature was bigger, its feathers marred with soot and streaks of blood, its wings trembling with exhaustion. A slow frown crept onto your face as you took in the sight, your instincts immediately sharpening.

You quickly unlatched the window, opening it wide. The bird barely hesitated before staggering inside, collapsing against your hands with a pained, desperate chirp. You only had a moment to exchange looks with the animal, but the panic in its dark eyes sent a shiver through you. This wasn’t just an injured bird—it was a messenger.

One bearing bad news.

You cradled it carefully, pressing a gentle hand against its small body, feeling the rapid beat of its tiny heart. Its chest heaved with every breath, the poor thing on the brink of exhaustion.

“Feyre,” you called over your shoulder, your voice calm but firm. She turned to you immediately, her brows knitting in concern as she took in the sight of the trembling bird in your hands. “Could you bring some water?”

She nodded without question, swiftly moving toward the kitchen.

You lowered yourself onto the floor, settling the bird gently in your lap, your fingers moving with careful precision. You ran a soothing hand over its feathers, infusing the smallest trickle of magic into your touch, easing its trembling limbs.

Behind you, the boys were still lost in conversation near the fire, their voices a distant hum. But you could feel it—that familiar weight of golden eyes on you, unyielding and watchful.

Azriel.

He wasn’t listening to whatever his brothers were saying anymore. Not fully. You could sense it in the way the air shifted, in the way his shadows curled subtly toward you, as if drawn to your unease.

Feyre returned moments later, kneeling beside you as she placed a small dish of water on the ground. You gave her a grateful nod before gently lowering the bird beside it. It hesitated for only a moment before dipping its beak into the cool liquid, drinking in slow, measured sips.

Feyre’s voice was soft with concern. “Is Ydle alright?”

You swallowed, shaking your head slightly as you steadied the trembling bird. “It’s not Ydle.” Your voice was calm, but your pulse had started to race. “This is one of the messenger birds from Rask. One of the kingdoms on the continent’s border.”

The name alone was enough to catch Azriel’s full attention. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, his shadows shifting ever so slightly around him. He knew Rask, knew its reputation, its strategic importance, and more importantly, the threats that lurked around it.

Carefully, you reached for the small tube attached to the bird’s leg, working with precise, delicate movements to avoid disturbing the exhausted creature as it continued to drink. The seal on the message was intact but smudged with soot and something darker—dried blood.

Feyre rose quickly. “I’ll get some meat for him,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen.

Your hands felt cold as you unrolled the parchment, your eyes scanning the first few lines. You barely had time to register the words before your fingers tightened involuntarily around the glass of water you had picked up.

Crack.

The next thing you knew, sharp shards fell from your hand, scattering across the floor with a faint, crystalline chime.

The room froze.

Your hand came up over your mouth, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and silence, your eyes wide as they frantically reread the words—desperately hoping they had changed.

But they hadn’t.

Azriel was already moving, his voice sharp with urgency. “Y/N?”

Everyone’s attention snapped toward you. Cassian had already risen, his grin from earlier now replaced with a hardened expression. Rhysand straightened where he stood, his violet gaze honing in on you like a predator sensing an incoming storm.

“Y/N, what is it?” Feyre’s voice came from behind you, hesitant but firm.

You couldn’t speak.

Your hands shook as you lowered the letter, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet Azriel’s gaze, couldn’t say it out loud.

Because if you did, it would become real.

Azriel was at your side in an instant, his hands finding your arms, grounding you. “Look at me, love,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the tension in it.

You turned, barely seeing him through the haze of shock.

“What did you read?” he pressed gently, his golden eyes locked onto yours, brimming with concern.

Your lips parted, but the words lodged in your throat.

Because whatever was written on that parchment…

It was bad.

Really bad.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 17

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 3.5k

Trigger warning; //

notes; ok to be honest i'm not super happy about this chapter because it's a bit short but for once i wanted to keep it simple and "cute" i guess. Still i hope that you will enjoy it <3 i hope that all of you are doing fine and i wish you all a good week ! see you soon <3

previous ✧ next

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the room. You were curled up against Azriel’s chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a peaceful daze. His arm was draped over your waist, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back.

You sighed, your breath tickling the warm skin of his shoulder. “Az, we have to go.”

He let out a dramatic groan, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “No, we don’t,” he mumbled against your skin. His voice was thick with sleep, deep and slightly raspy, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You smiled, running your fingers through his tousled hair. “We do.”

Azriel tightened his grip around you, as if sheer force alone could keep you here. “We could just… stay a little longer. Maybe forever?” His wings curled around you protectively, sealing the two of you in a cocoon of warmth.

You let out a soft laugh. “Tempting, Shadowsinger, but I’m pretty sure Velaris would fall apart without us.”

He hummed against your skin, not convinced in the slightest. “Rhys can handle it.”

You arched an eyebrow. “The same Rhys who told you that he barely gets any sleep now that Nyx is teething? The same Rhys who let Cassian handle one diplomatic report and nearly started a war with the Summer Court?”

Azriel huffed out a laugh. “Sounds like a them problem.”

You nudged him playfully. “Come on, you know we have to go.”

He exhaled deeply, fingers pressing a little firmer into your skin. The weight of reality was creeping back in, settling between you both like a ghost waiting to be acknowledged.

Something felt off—not just about leaving this place, but about you. Azriel had seen it in the way you held yourself these past days, even in the safety of the cabin. You’d let go, let yourself rest, but there was a moment, just before sleep took you, when something dark passed over your expression. Something you hadn’t shared with him.

And he didn’t know what it was. Didn’t know who or what had caused it.

That fact gnawed at him, twisted inside his chest like a wound he couldn’t reach. His instincts screamed at him to demand answers, to find the thing that had broken you and erase it from existence. But he wouldn't push—not yet. Not until you were ready to tell him.

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head to study him. “You’re thinking too much,” you mused, dragging a hand down his chest. “Not that it’s unusual for you.”

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He lifted his hand, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek before murmuring, “I love you.”

Your heart fluttered, warmth spreading through your chest. “I love you too.”

And even though the moment was fleeting, even though duty called you both back to Velaris, Azriel swore he would hold onto this for as long as he could.

Stepping out of the cabin, the crisp mountain air brushed against your skin, the warmth of Azriel’s body beside you acting as the only shield against it. The past week had been… everything. Intense. Raw. Unfiltered. Just the two of you, with no shadows, no responsibilities, no impending war creeping into the edges of your mind.

And now, you were leaving it behind.

Azriel stood beside you, his body impossibly tense, his grip firm around your hand. His wings twitched as if preparing for a fight, as if something was lurking in the trees, ready to rip you away from him. You could feel the battle warring inside of him—the need to hold onto this moment, to keep you to himself for just a little longer.

You squeezed his hand, stepping closer so that your chest brushed against his. “Az,” you murmured, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “It’s okay.”

His jaw clenched, golden eyes flickering between yours. You reached up, placing your free hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“We had our time,” you whispered. “And we’ll have more of it. But for now, we go back to Velaris.”

Azriel exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just the slightest bit. But you knew him well enough to see that something else still lingered behind his eyes. A silent something he wasn’t ready to voice yet.

Not until you were ready to tell him what had really happened before you left.

Still, after a long moment, he nodded, and without another word, he winnowed you both back to Velaris.

The moment your feet touched the cobbled streets, Feyre was already waiting at the riverhouse steps.

She didn’t hesitate—just stepped forward and pulled you into a warm embrace. You closed your eyes for a second, grounding yourself in the familiarity of her scent, the comfort of her presence.

“It’s good to see you,” she murmured, pulling back slightly to search your face. “How are you feeling?”

Before you could answer, Cassian and Rhysand appeared behind her, grinning like absolute fools.

Azriel stiffened immediately, his arm curling around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His wings flared slightly, bracing, like he could already sense the nonsense about to unfold.

Rhys smirked. “You look well-rested, Y/N.”

Cassian nodded, arms crossed. “Yeah, would’ve expected you to be a little more… exhausted after a full week away.”

Your breath hitched slightly, heat creeping up your neck. “I—”

Rhysand’s smirk widened. “You know, if Azriel ever isn’t enough for you, you can always come to us.”

Before you could even react, Azriel moved.

He grabbed both of them by the collars and smashed their heads together.

Rhys cursed, stumbling back, rubbing his temple. “Motherfucker—!”

Cassian howled with laughter, even as he clutched his forehead. “So worth it!”

Feyre sighed, shaking her head as she reached for your hand. “Come on,” she chuckled, pulling you inside as the three of them broke into a full-blown brawl right there in the street.

You glanced back to see Cassian lunging at Azriel, who sidestepped effortlessly, sending the General stumbling right into Rhysand—who, of course, shoved him back with a sharp flick of his fingers.

“You’re such a territorial bastard,” Rhys taunted, rubbing his temple.

“And you’re an insufferable prick,” Azriel shot back, rolling his shoulders.

Cassian snorted, shaking his head as he cracked his knuckles. “You two are a damn delight.”

Then he lunged again, and the fight resumed.

Feyre groaned, muttering, “Stupid Illyrians,” under her breath as she dragged you through the doorway.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at the scene unfolding behind you.

As Feyre led you inside, she turned to you with a teasing glint in her eyes. “So,” she started, arms crossed, her expression far too knowing, “how was it?”

You tried to keep your composure, but the warmth rushing to your face betrayed you immediately. “It was… great,” you admitted, blushing more than you wanted to.

Feyre’s grin widened. “Just great?”

You rolled your eyes, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “You are not getting details.”

She laughed at your reaction, shaking her head. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you keep your secrets—” Then, as if she’d just remembered something, she pulled out a small box, wrapped in a delicate blue ribbon.

You arched an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “What’s this?”

Before she could answer, Rhysand strolled in behind you, his expression relaxed, making a half-hearted attempt to straighten his slightly messy hair and adjust his clothes.

Rhys pressed a kiss to Feyre’s temple before glancing at the box in your hands. “Open it,” he said with a smirk. “It’s our mating gift.”

Your breath hitched slightly. You blinked between them, touched by the gesture, before carefully undoing the ribbon and lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled against soft velvet lining, was a key.

You frowned slightly, picking it up and examining it. “A… key?”

Rhysand chuckled, sliding his hands into his pockets. “We thought that since you two are officially mated, it would be nice for you to have your own space.”

Feyre nodded, her eyes warm. “The townhouse has been practically vacant since we moved into the River House. So it’s yours.”

You barely had time to process their words before you felt Azriel’s presence behind you, his hands slipping around your waist, grounding you.

Your mouth opened slightly in shock. “Wait—what?”

You turned to Azriel, and he was smiling, the kind of rare, soft smile that made your heart ache in the best way. You looked back at Feyre and Rhys, emotions flooding through you all at once.

“You’re serious?” you whispered.

Feyre laughed as you threw your arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with gratitude. “Both of you.”

Azriel barely let you go before pulling you right back against his chest, his hold possessive, warm.

Feyre rolled her eyes at him, chuckling. “We just gave her to you, Az.”

Rhys smirked. “He’s always been territorial, but now? It’s just ridiculous.”

Azriel only hummed, perfectly content to keep you pressed against him, his shadows curling lazily around your wrist. You laughed softly, resting your hand on his chest.

And then—

Cassian burst through the doorway, ruffling his hair, his grin wide and unapologetic. “Alright, lovebirds, what did I miss?”

Rhysand clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, just gifting them their own house.”

Cassian’s eyes lit up. “Oh, finally! I was about to suggest giving them the cabin since I wasn’t sure that they would actually come back.”

Azriel shot him a look. You just sighed, shaking your head as they all laughed, warmth filling your chest.

As the conversation continued, laughter still lingering in the air, you turned your head slightly—something making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

And there she was.

Elain.

Standing on the staircase, fists clenched tightly at her sides, her face void of any warmth, her gaze sharp—so sharp that for a brief moment, even Amren would have looked friendly in comparison.

A shiver ran through you, creeping down your spine like a ghost’s touch.

You swallowed, pulse quickening. And then, with every ounce of composure you had, you turned your head back as if nothing had happened.

As if you hadn’t just been looked at like that.

But Azriel had noticed.

"Are you okay?" His voice slipped into your mind through the bond, laced with quiet concern.

You tightened your fingers around his, barely aware that you had reached for him in the first place. Maybe it was to reassure you, maybe it was to reassure him—you weren’t sure.

"Yes, love. Don’t worry."

The next few days were a whirlwind of change, marked by quiet moments of transition and the subtle, grounding presence of Azriel by your side.

Moving your things from the small apartment above the clinic into the townhouse felt surreal, like stepping into a new chapter of your life you hadn’t even realized you were ready for. You had lived above the clinic for all of your time here, so long that it felt strange to pack away the small, everyday things that had made the space yours.

Elira had watched with her arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face as you packed the last of your books into a crate.

“You look better,” she said, leaning against the doorway.

You glanced at her, arching a brow. “Do I?”

“Much better.” Her smirk widened. “I take it the mating bond is treating you well.”

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you rolled your eyes as you secured the crate with a strap. “Elira.”

She laughed. “What? It’s a big deal! Everyone here is thrilled for you. Even Madja muttered something about how finally you found someone to keep you in check.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. The other healers had passed by throughout the day, offering you quiet congratulations, some of them beaming at you, others teasing about how they always knew you and Azriel had something between you.

It was... strange. But in a good way.

For the first time in a long time, change didn’t feel like something to fear.

Azriel had been moving his things as well, transferring his belongings from the House of Wind into the Townhouse. Though he hadn’t outright said it, you could feel his reluctance through the bond, the way he lingered in his old space, taking in the familiarity of it one last time before finally closing the door behind him.

Now, as you stood in what was your new home, surrounded by stacks of books, clothes, and sentimental trinkets, you exhaled softly, feeling an unfamiliar but welcome sense of belonging settle into your chest.

Azriel walked up behind you, his hands slipping around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “You good?” he murmured, his voice low and soothing.

You leaned back into him, nodding. “Yeah. Just… taking it in.”

His grip on you tightened slightly, as if he understood exactly what you meant.

And with that, the two of you settled into your new space—together.

The warmth of the fire crackled softly in the background, casting flickering golden light across the cozy living room. You and Azriel sat curled up on the couch, his body relaxed beneath yours as your legs draped lazily over his, your head resting comfortably against his shoulder. One of his arms was looped around your waist, his fingers tracing absent-minded circles along your back in a slow, soothing motion.

Ydle, your tiny, feathered companion, fluttered nearby, his soft chirps filling the space between the two of you. Azriel’s shadows twisted and curled around the small bird, playfully weaving through the air as if teasing him, their smoky tendrils forming loops and gentle spirals. Ydle flitted between them, hopping from one dark wisp to the next, his wings ruffling in delight as he played the game they had created for him.

Azriel let out a soft chuckle, watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement. His shadows rarely took a liking to anyone besides himself, and yet, here they were, keeping the tiny creature entertained, as if he was part of them, part of you.

His golden eyes flicked toward you, warmth lingering in his gaze. “Where did you get him?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, curiosity woven into his tone.

You looked down at Ydle, his small form perched on the edge of the couch, tilting his head as if listening to your response. A fond smile tugged at your lips, warmth blooming in your chest as you reached out to run a gentle finger over his tiny head.

“Ydle?” you repeated, glancing back at Azriel before returning your gaze to the little bird. “He was a gift, actually. From a kingdom I worked for in the continent.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow slightly, intrigued, his fingers still tracing slow, idle patterns against your waist. “A gift?”

You nodded, your thoughts drifting back to that time, to the moment Ydle had become yours. “He was part of the king’s messenger nest,” you explained. “A small baby at the time, barely able to fly. The kingdom relied on messenger birds to carry their most important communications between cities and strongholds. Their bond with their birds was sacred—only the most trusted members of the court were given one.”

Azriel listened intently, his focus solely on you. “And they gave one to you?”

A soft laugh escaped you, shaking your head slightly. “Not at first. But after I helped them through an outbreak, they wanted to express their gratitude. I didn’t expect anything, but one day, Ydle just… followed me. No matter what I did, where I went—he wouldn’t leave my side.”

Azriel hummed thoughtfully, his thumb brushing idly along your arm. “He chose you.”

You glanced at Ydle. A smile pulled at your lips. “I suppose he did.”

Azriel’s expression softened, something unreadable flickering in his golden eyes. His fingers trailed up your back, a silent act of understanding. “He’s cute,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, filled with something gentler.

Your heart warmed at the rare tenderness in his tone. You shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into his embrace, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. “Yeah,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “He is.”

And for a while, you simply stayed there, tangled together in the dim glow of the fire, with Ydle’s quiet chirps and the soft rustling of Azriel’s shadows filling the space around you.

You leaned into him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. The warmth of his skin, the scent of cedar and night-chilled air surrounding you, was grounding.

Azriel exhaled softly, his lips brushing against your hair before he spoke, his voice low, hesitant yet filled with something hopeful.

“Should we have a mating ceremony?”

Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected question, your fingers stilling where they had been absentmindedly tracing patterns against his chest.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “You want to?”

His golden eyes searched yours, open, vulnerable in a way that few ever got to see. And then, without hesitation, he nodded. “Yes.”

A soft laugh escaped you, light and filled with something tender. “Of course I do.” You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “But… I don’t want a big gathering. Just a few people, maybe.”

Azriel smirked slightly, his hand slipping to your waist. “We could pull a Rhys and Feyre and just do the ceremony on our own.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest in mock scandal. “They really did that?”

His smirk deepened. “They did.”

A chuckle escaped you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Maybe not exactly like them,” you admitted, “but there are still a few people I’d want there.”

You took his hand, guiding it against your chest, pressing his palm over the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. His fingers curled slightly, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath them, his own pulse thrumming beneath your touch.

Your voice softened as you whispered, “I’m scared, Az.”

His brows furrowed slightly, his grip on you tightening in silent reassurance. You shifted, moving to straddle his lap, his arms instinctively wrapping around you, holding you close.

You exhaled, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “This house, the ceremony, all of this… I love it, I love us,” you admitted, your fingers tracing small patterns against the back of his neck. “But I’m scared of time. The war. Of not having enough time with you.”

Azriel sighed, his fingers pressing gently into your back, his chin resting atop your head as he whispered against your hair. “I know,” he admitted. “I know, love.” He pulled back just slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “That’s why we should enjoy every possible moment together. As much as we can.”

You lifted your gaze to meet his, your chest tightening at the raw devotion in his golden eyes. And then, as if saying it aloud would make it real, you whispered, “Let’s do a ceremony then. Let’s get married.”

Azriel’s breath caught for a moment, his hands tightening around you as if anchoring himself to the reality of your words. And then, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across his lips, filled with something unshakable, something that felt like a promise.

The moment your lips met his, you felt the words settle between you—real, permanent, yours.

The kiss started slow, deep, a steady press of lips that spoke of something more than just passion—something unbreakable. But then, as if neither of you could hold back any longer, it shifted, hardening with a desperate hunger. Azriel’s hands gripped your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, his fingers pressing into your skin as if he needed to memorize every inch of you.

You gasped against his mouth as he moved, pushing you back against the couch, his body hovering over yours. His weight, the heat of him pressing against you, sent a shiver down your spine. Your hands found his hair, threading through the dark strands as you pulled him closer, deepening the kiss.

Clothes were removed in a desperate haze of need, fabric tossed aside without care. Azriel’s lips trailed down your jaw, your throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses that set your skin ablaze.

A startled chirp broke through the thick air of desire, and you barely had time to register Ydle’s indignant protest before Azriel’s discarded shirt landed directly on him.

Azriel huffed a laugh against your skin, shaking his head as his shadows reacted instantly—slinking toward the small bird, lifting the fabric from him, and nudging open the window. Ydle fluttered his wings, ruffling them in what could only be exasperation before making his escape into the night, the cool air filtering into the room for only a moment before the window shut once more.

The only sound left in the house was the crackling fire, the soft rustling of sheets, and the whispered promises that passed between you and Azriel.

Together. Now. Always.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 16

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; smut hehe

notes; yo everyone, hope that you are doing well. nothing much here this chapter is maybe what you had been waiting for a while now. I'm not realllyyyy comfy writing this kind of content so i hope that you will like it. See you soon, with love <3

previous ✧ next

The cabin was bathed in a soft golden light, the fire crackling quietly in the hearth. The scent of pine and fresh mountain air still clung to the space, but it was the warmth of Azriel’s presence beside you that truly made it feel like home. You sat on the plush rug in front of the fire, a steaming cup of tea in your hands, while Azriel’s arm wrapped securely around you, grounding you in this peaceful moment. His thumb traced slow circles on your thigh, soothing, steady. His warmth seeped into your skin, calming the storm that had been brewing inside you for what felt like forever.

It had been so calm since you’d arrived. Azriel had kissed you gently, welcomed you with a softness that nearly broke you. His lips brushing against yours had been a reminder that you were here, safe. He had offered you a bath, telling you to take your time while he prepared everything.

When you returned, feeling refreshed and dressed in one of the oversized sweaters Azriel had given you, your damp hair falling in loose waves, you found him already waiting by the fire. He was in a simple tunic and soft pants, bare of his usual armor, his shadows curled lazily around him, blending into the flickering light. No siphons, no Truth-Teller strapped to his side—just Azriel. Vulnerable, unguarded, in a way you had rarely seen him.

It was comforting. And just a little overwhelming.

You sat down next to him, the quiet hum of the fire filling the space between you. For a while, you said nothing, content to simply exist together. But then, you shifted slightly, turning just enough to meet his gaze—and found that he was already watching you.

The intensity of his golden eyes stole the breath from your lungs.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Azriel’s brow furrowed, his hand stilling on your thigh. “What are you sorry for?”

You lowered your eyes, ashamed of the memory of your panic, of how utterly unraveled you had been. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” you murmured. “I lost control... I—”

He cut you off gently, his fingers tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him again. His touch was soft but insistent, and his eyes burned with an intensity that made your chest ache.

“Don’t ever apologize for that,” he said, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “Not to me. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I should be the one apologizing—for not being there sooner.”

You blinked, surprised by the rawness in his tone. Something inside you softened, and you reached up to take his hand, pressing it to your cheek as your eyes fluttered shut. His warmth was grounding, his touch so tender it almost broke you all over again.

Azriel watched you in silence, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, as if memorizing every detail of your face. When you finally opened your eyes, they met his again, and something unspoken passed between you—a shared understanding, a promise.

Without a word, you leaned closer, your hand slipping around his neck, drawing him toward you. His breath mingled with yours for a heartbeat before your lips met, slow and unhurried. The kiss wasn’t rushed or frantic—it was deliberate, filled with a quiet passion that made your heart ache. Azriel kissed you like he was afraid you might break, but you kissed him back like you were putting yourself back together.

His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, his touch careful, reverent. Time seemed to blur around you, the outside world falling away until there was nothing left but the heat of the fire and the steady thrum of the bond between you.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead rested against his, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes searched yours, his expression so full of affection and something deeper that it left you breathless all over again.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Always.”

You started blushing, the words catching in your throat before you could even get them out. It wasn’t like you to feel shy, but this… this was something else entirely. You glanced at Azriel, who was watching you patiently, his golden eyes warm and attentive.

“Well,” you began hesitantly, your fingers fidgeting slightly. “I mean, if you still want this… maybe I could cook something for you. But if you need more time, or if you don’t want to, I’d understand.” You bit your bottom lip, shifting your weight awkwardly. “With what we learned at dinner last time…”

Before you could finish, Azriel leaned in, silencing you with a kiss. It was gentle but sure, his lips soft against yours. You felt the tension drain from your body as his hand came up to cup your cheek.

“I would love that,” he whispered against your lips. “I would really love it, Y/N.”

You pulled back just slightly, your eyes meeting his. The air between you felt charged, both of you blushing, knowing exactly what this meant.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in to give him another kiss—shorter this time, but no less meaningful. His lips curved into a smile beneath yours, and you felt it all the way down to your toes.

Without another word, you stood, taking his hand in yours and tugging him toward the kitchen. His fingers intertwined with yours easily, naturally, as if they were always meant to fit together.

Azriel followed you, his thumb gently brushing over the back of your hand as you led him through the cabin. His touch was steady, grounding, and it made your heart flutter in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Once in the kitchen, you glanced over your shoulder at him. He was still holding your hand, his gaze steady on yours, as though he couldn’t bear to look away.

Azriel sat in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, his eyes never leaving you as you rummaged through the cupboards. His steady gaze was both comforting and distracting, a soft warmth pooling in your chest as you turned back toward him.

“Anything in particular that would make you happy?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “What should I cook?”

He shrugged lightly, a small smile playing at his lips. “Whatever you want. I’ll be happy with anything you make.”

You grinned, pulling out flour, eggs, milk, and sugar. “Does pancakes work for you?”

Azriel nodded, his smile growing wider. “Perfect.”

That smile—Mother above, it made your heart melt. Without thinking, you crossed the space between you and kissed him, soft and fleeting. His eyes closed at the contact, and when you pulled back, his lips were curved into a gentle smile that felt like it was just for you.

You returned to your task, starting to mix the ingredients, the sound of the whisk filling the quiet, cozy cabin. A few minutes passed before you felt Azriel move behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist, his head resting gently against the top of yours, and you stilled for a moment, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something almost reverent.

“For what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly toward him.

“For sharing this with me,” he said softly. “For letting me be your mate.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you couldn’t help but smile. You reached down, tapping his hip with the wooden spoon in your hand. “Well, let me finish making these pancakes first, so you can officially become my mate.”

Azriel chuckled, the sound rumbling softly against your back. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head before stepping to the side, to watch you again.

His eyes never left you, his gaze soft and filled with something far deeper than affection—something that sent a slow, steady pulse through the bond between you. The room felt warm and intimate, the fire crackling softly in the corner, but it was the weight of his presence that made it feel like you were cocooned in something sacred.

You focused on the pan in front of you, your hands steady even though your heart raced. Azriel was leaning against the counter, his wings relaxed, his golden eyes never straying from you, watching every movement like you were a mystery he was trying to unravel.

The warmth in your chest grew, the scent of vanilla and sugar filled the air, blending with the tension simmering between you—soft, undeniable, like a song reaching its crescendo.

After a moment, his voice dropped, quieter, more serious. "You know... I’ve never had this before."

You stilled, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Had what?"

"This," he said, gesturing around him, though his eyes remained locked on yours. "A home. Something... normal. Simple. Without shadows pressing in on every side."

Your heart clenched at the vulnerability in his voice, and you turned off the heat, wiping your hands on a cloth before walking over to him. His eyes softened as you stopped in front of him, placing your hands lightly on his chest.

"Well," you said quietly, your voice steady despite the thundering of your heart, "you have it now. If you want it."

His hand rose, cradling your cheek, his thumb brushing softly along your skin, grounding you. "I want it," he said firmly, no hesitation in his voice. "I want you. All of you."

The bond between you hummed, and something shifted in the air—a gentle pull, a thread weaving tighter, locking the two of you together in a way that made your breath catch.

You kissed him, slower than before, more deliberate. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, an acceptance, a tether. The bond flared to life, golden threads weaving through your souls, sealing everything you had been dancing around for so long.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the charged air.

Azriel naturally sat back into his chair, his eyes flicking from the plate of food to you. His brows furrowed slightly, his golden eyes filled with something hesitant.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “We don’t have to do this now, not if you’re not.”

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you stepped closer. “Az, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure. I want this. I want you.” Your hand gently brushed his shoulder before trailing down to his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

His lips parted slightly, his breath hitching at your words, and then he nodded, his eyes softening. “Okay,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” you whispered. “Now eat.”

Azriel chuckled softly, the tension easing just a fraction, though his gaze never left yours. He picked up the fork, still watching you as he cut into the pancake and took his first bite. His movements were slow, deliberate, and you swore the bond thrummed louder in the quiet room, demanding to be fully recognized.

The first taste was warm, sweet—but nothing compared to the flood of emotion that followed. The bond snapped fully into place, not a gentle click but a surge, a rush that stole the breath from his lungs.

Azriel stilled, his eyes widening slightly as he set the fork down. The warmth that spread through him was overwhelming: love, devotion, protectiveness—all crashing into him with the force of a tidal wave. He could feel you in a way he never had before, every part of your soul brushing against his.

Whatever control Azriel had been holding onto snapped. His golden eyes darkened, his shadows curling tightly around you as if they, too, could no longer hold back. In one swift movement, he pulled you into his arms, his grip firm, almost desperate. Your breasts pressed against his chest, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His lips crashed against yours with a wild hunger, the kiss deep and demanding, stealing the breath from your lungs.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and you met his intensity without hesitation, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. His breath was ragged, his control slipping further with every second. The bond between you surged, raw and electric, like nothing you’d ever felt before.

Azriel barely pulled back long enough to mutter, “I’ve waited for this, for you—for so long.” His voice was thick, filled with an aching need that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were about to respond when he gripped your thighs and set you down on the table, his hands sliding down your body with a possessiveness that left your skin burning in their wake. His lips never left yours for long—only pausing to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, and back to your mouth like he couldn’t stand to be apart from you even for a moment. His teeth grazed your lower lip, drawing a soft gasp from you.

Your fingers worked at his shirt, desperate to feel him, to touch every inch of him. The fabric fell away in seconds, revealing his bare chest, the hard muscles beneath his golden-brown skin flexing as he leaned into you again. His wings flared slightly behind him, their presence commanding as his body pressed against yours.

Your clothes followed just as quickly. His fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath his gaze. His eyes raked over you, his breath hitching as he took in every inch of you.

“You’re perfect,” Azriel whispered, his voice rough, filled with awe. His shadows wrapped around your wrists like silk as his hands caressed your waist, sliding up your sides with a reverence that sent a tremor through you. His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing every inch of exposed skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Azriel,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. Your hands slid down his back, feeling the hard lines of his body, your nails lightly scratching along the base of his wings. His reaction was immediate—his grip tightening, his head dropping to your shoulder with a guttural groan.

“You drive me insane,” he growled, his voice raw, filled with longing. “I can’t— I need you.”

“Then take me,” you whispered, your hands cupping his face, your eyes locking with his. “I’m yours.”

And that was all it took. The tension between you exploded into something wild, something untamable. His mouth was on yours again, hotter, more insistent. His hands roamed your body, claiming you in ways that left you breathless and wanting more.

Azriel’s grip on your thighs tightened, and in one swift movement, he pulled you further down the table, your bare skin meeting the cool wood beneath you. A small, surprised gasp escaped your lips, your body instinctively tensing at the sudden shift. His eyes—darkened and burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch—raked over you as if you were a feast laid before him. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze never leaving yours.

His lips found yours again, hungry and possessive, before trailing down your jaw and neck, each kiss a mark of devotion, a silent promise. His mouth moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down to your chest. He teased your breasts with his tongue, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as soft gasps escaped you.

When he reached your stomach, his fingers caressed your sides, drawing lazy circles that made your skin tingle. Then he kissed just above your hip bone, glancing up at you with a wicked smirk before lowering himself between your thighs. He spread you gently, one of your legs hooked over his shoulder as his hot breath ghosted over your most sensitive spot. His eyes locked on yours, a question, a promise, a warning—all in that single look.

You stopped breathing as his tongue finally met you, soft and deliberate, exploring every inch of you with precision that only Azriel could possess. His tongue worked you in slow, maddening circles, alternating between teasing and delving deeper until your head tipped back and a soft moan escaped your lips. His shadows wrapped around your wrists and ankles like silken restraints, holding you in place as he devoured you.

Your hands found his hair, gripping tightly, and he hummed in response, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through you. His tongue continued its torturous rhythm, his gaze never leaving your face as he drank in every expression you made. You could feel the pleasure building inside you, a heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

Your back arched off the table as the wave of pleasure threatened to pull you under, but just before you reached the edge, you pulled him up, your fingers tugging at his hair as your breaths came in ragged gasps. “Not like that,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. “I need you - inside…"

His face was glistening with your arousal, his lips curling into a smug grin as he leaned down to kiss you again, your taste still on his tongue. The kiss was wild and consuming, your teeth clashing slightly as your hunger for each other deepened. You grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him even closer, tasting yourself on his lips.

Azriel’s hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. He growled against your mouth, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.

You nodded breathlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you down the hall. Your lips never left his, the kiss growing sloppier, more desperate with each step. His hands kneaded your ass, squeezing just hard enough to leave you breathless again. His wings flared slightly for balance, brushing against the walls as he moved with purpose.

By the time you reached the bedroom, you were both dizzy with need. He pressed you against the doorframe for a brief moment, his breath mingling with yours as he nipped at your bottom lip, a soft growl escaping him. You tugged at his hair, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you.

He kicked the door open, walking you toward the bed without breaking the kiss. The air between you was charged, wild, and filled with a desire that had no end. Azriel’s hand slid up your back, holding you close as your lips moved against his like you’d never get enough. His breath was hot against your mouth, his voice a whisper of a promise.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Y/N,” he murmured, his eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable love that made your heart race.

The night was quiet, the world beyond the cabin lost to the soft hum of the wind against the mountains. The moonlight spilled through the window, casting silver shadows across the bed, illuminating the way your skin pressed against Azriel’s, the way your fingers traced lazy circles over his chest. You both lay tangled together, the air between you thick with the aftermath of everything that had transpired between these walls.

Your breathing was steady, content, as you pressed a featherlight kiss to his collarbone. The bond thrummed between you, stronger now, settled, as if it had always been there, waiting for you both to accept it. When you lifted your head to look at him, Azriel’s golden eyes were already open, watching you with something between awe and reverence.

"You’re glowing," he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek as if to confirm what he was seeing.

You blinked before letting out a soft laugh, glancing at your skin, where a faint luminescence pulsed gently beneath the surface. “It happens sometimes,” you admitted, amused by his slightly stunned expression. “It’s just my magic reacting to—” You hesitated, biting your lip. “To happiness, I suppose.”

Azriel’s grip tightened around you, pulling you even closer, his nose brushing against your temple as he exhaled deeply. “That’s beautiful,” he whispered.

You smiled against his skin, feeling the warmth of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand. The moment felt so… weightless, like something you had never thought you’d be allowed to have.

Slowly, you shifted, slipping one arm free from where it was pinned between your bodies. You let your power unfurl, a quiet hum beneath your skin, and with a simple flick of your fingers, a thousand tiny stars appeared, twinkling softly around the room like a constellation woven from moonlight itself.

Azriel’s breath hitched slightly, his grip on your waist loosening as he sat up slightly, taking in the spectacle around him. His shadows twined curiously through the floating lights, their dark tendrils weaving between them, as if testing their existence.

He was speechless.

You grinned, watching his reaction, letting the stars drift lazily around you both. “You look like you’ve never seen magic before.”

Azriel swallowed, his eyes flicking from the soft glow of your power to your face. “Not like this,” he admitted. “Not something so—” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as if struggling to find the right words. “So effortless. So… alive.”

You tilted your head, watching the way his shadows played with the light. “They’re just little stars, Az.”

“They feel like you,” he said simply, his voice low, reverent.

Something in your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone, the way he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You lowered your fingers, letting the stars slowly dissolve into specks of light, fading into nothingness. The room dimmed, left only in the moon’s glow once more.

Azriel’s hands slid up your spine, grounding you, keeping you close. “Tell me more about them,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your temple. “Your powers. How they work.”

You sighed, pressing your forehead against his, your souls threading together through the bond. “Where do I even begin?”

You took a slow breath, letting your fingers trace absent patterns against Azriel’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your touch. His warmth grounded you, keeping you anchored even as you spoke of something as vast and intangible as your powers.

“All of my strength,” you began, voice soft in the quiet room, “comes from the astres. The stars, the moon, the celestial bodies that exist far beyond our reach.” You glanced up at Azriel, who was watching you intently, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light. “I don’t create power—I pull from them. In a way, it’s limitless, but I’m only a vessel. I take that energy and transform it, shape it into something useful—healing, light, protection.”

Azriel’s thumb brushed over your hip, his silent way of urging you to continue.

“Sometimes, though,” you admitted, voice dipping into something more uncertain, “it feels like it’s not entirely mine to control. Like something else is guiding me, moving through me, making me act even when I don’t realize what I’m doing.” You exhaled, remembering the moments when your magic had surged beyond your command, when you had barely been conscious of what you were doing but had known, deep in your bones, that it was right. “It’s like… I become an extension of something greater. Something ancient.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened slightly, his brows drawing together in quiet thought. “Does it ever scare you?” he asked.

You considered his question for a moment before shaking your head. “No,” you admitted. “It should, I suppose. But it doesn’t. It never has.”

He studied you, his shadows curling faintly around your wrist, a silent comfort.

Azriel tilted his head slightly. “What was it like?” he asked. “The first time you felt it?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, first, I was already surprised to be alive,” you murmured, giving him a small, wry smile.

Azriel didn’t laugh—his expression darkened slightly at the reminder of what had happened to you, of the way you had died and been brought back.

“I wasn’t born with this power,” you continued, your fingers brushing lightly over his scars, tracing them absentmindedly as you spoke. “I had already been using magic to heal before, so in some ways, it felt… natural. But when it first came to me, it was like discovering a part of myself I never knew existed. Not something foreign or overwhelming—something calm, something that fit perfectly, like it had been waiting for me all along.”

Azriel nodded slowly, absorbing your words, his gaze never leaving your face. “Like it was always meant to be yours,” he murmured.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Silence stretched between you for a moment, comfortable and intimate. His fingers traced slow circles on your back, grounding you, as if he were committing every word you’d just spoken to memory.

Then, quietly, he asked, “And when it takes over? When you feel like something else is guiding you—does it still feel like you?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “In a way, yes. It feels like… an amplified version of myself. Like I’m still me, but stripped of hesitation, stripped of doubt. There’s only certainty, purpose. As if I’m acting on instincts older than I am.”

Azriel hummed in thought, his expression unreadable. “Then maybe,” he said slowly, “it’s not something controlling you. Maybe it’s just you, without fear.”

You blinked, taking in his words. He said it with such certainty, as if it was something he had long since accepted about you—even when you had yet to fully accept it yourself.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and you reached up to brush your fingers along his jaw, tracing the faint stubble there. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

Azriel leaned into your touch, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Only when it comes to you.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could say anything, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his wings curling slightly around you both, shielding you from the rest of the world.

The warmth of Azriel’s body beneath you was intoxicating. As you shifted, the sheets slipped from your shoulders, gliding down your skin like a whisper. His golden eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with emotion, traced every inch of you as if memorizing the way you looked in the early glow of the moonlight.

Without a word, you moved onto his lap, straddling him, your bodies pressing together, bare and unguarded. His hands instinctively found their way to you, gliding over your back, your waist, your thighs—touching, feeling, worshiping.

“I love them,” you murmured, taking one of his hands and pressing it against your cheek.

Azriel arched a brow, a slow smirk playing on his lips. “My hands?”

You nodded, your fingers running along the ridges of his scars, pressing soft kisses against his knuckles. “Yes. I love them.” Then, lifting your gaze back to his, you whispered, “And I love you.”

Azriel stilled, his breath hitching slightly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. But beneath that blush, beneath his momentary shock, something deeper flickered in his gaze—something primal, raw, unshackled.

His body reacted before his words did. You felt him harden beneath you, as if the weight of your confession had ignited something unstoppable in him, despite the fact that he had already been buried inside you not long ago.

“You love me?” His voice was hoarse, laced with something you couldn’t quite place—wonder, disbelief, need.

“Of course, I love you,” you said, your lips brushing against his, your chest pressing against his as you leaned in. “My mate.”

Azriel’s breath left him in a shuddering exhale, his hands gripping your waist as if grounding himself in your words. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly with the force of it.

And then, as if he needed to prove it, as if saying it wasn’t enough, he moved—his knees drawing up behind you to brace your body as he sank into you.

This time was different.

This time wasn’t about desperation, about hunger, about needing to claim or to be claimed. This time was slow, deep, reverent—like a prayer whispered between souls that had been searching for each other across lifetimes.

You could feel him, not just physically but in every part of you. Each slow thrust sent pleasure spiraling through you, not just your own but his too, your bond pulling every sensation, every whimper, every whispered "I love you" through your very bones.

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders as his lips traced every inch of you—your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, as if he needed to feel every part of you, to remind himself that you were real, that this was real.

The pressure built slowly, a slow, searing burn of pleasure curling low in your stomach. His name left your lips in a breathless whisper, and he groaned in response, his grip on you tightening, his body trembling beneath you.

When the release finally came, it wasn’t just an explosion of pleasure—it was a moment suspended in time, where your souls merged completely, where your bond pulsed with light, an unbreakable thread of connection weaving you together in a way that went beyond flesh and desire.

And yet, even as your bodies settled, as your breathing slowed, you knew this wasn’t the end.

Because the way Azriel looked at you—wild, hungry, full of love and something darker—told you that neither of you were anywhere close to stopping.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until the end of this week that you had together. Not when there was still so much of each other to explore, to cherish, to love.

The rest of the week passed in a blur—a feverish, all-consuming haze where time seemed to lose its meaning. It was intense, unrelenting, like your bodies and souls had been waiting centuries to collide, and now that they had, neither of you could stop.

When Azriel wasn’t buried inside of you, when his touch wasn’t marking you, when his lips weren’t trailing along every inch of your skin—it felt wrong. A deep, visceral pull that wouldn’t let either of you stray too far. The bond had settled into place, fully, wholly, and it demanded acknowledgment with every breath, every whisper, every desperate reach for each other in the quiet hours of the night.

Sleep was a luxury neither of you cared for, passing out only when exhaustion forced you to, limbs tangled, breaths mixing, hearts beating in sync. But even then, the moment consciousness crept back in, the hunger returned.

It was never enough.

The mornings were slow and indulgent, Azriel tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin as the golden light spilled into the cabin, casting your bodies in a warm glow. Afternoons were spent wrapped around each other, your laughter echoing through the wooden walls, tangled between soft kisses and teasing touches that inevitably turned into something more.

Nights… nights were madness.

It was a relentless cycle of need and pleasure, of whispered promises and gasped names, of bodies moving together in perfect, desperate harmony. You memorized each other with your hands, your lips, your mouths, until every inch of him was written into your soul, until your name was the only thing that left his lips in the throes of pleasure.

Going home would be difficult.

Returning to reality, to responsibilities, to the looming shadow of war—it all felt so far away here, in this sacred space of warmth and passion. Here, it was just you and Azriel. Just love and longing and the raw, unfiltered truth of what you were to each other.

Azriel lay awake, the room bathed in the dim glow of the dying embers in the fireplace. His arms were wrapped tightly around you, your breath warm against his chest, your body relaxed in the depths of sleep. But he couldn’t find that same peace—not when the weight of everything was pressing down on him.

You looked so serene in his arms, so utterly safe and untouched by the storm that raged inside his mind. But he knew better. He knew that whatever had broken you back in Velaris, whatever had driven you to that panic, had left fractures beneath the surface. And that knowledge alone haunted him.

The thought of your death terrified him in a way nothing else ever had. He had spent centuries walking alongside death, had faced horrors beyond imagination, had endured wounds both seen and unseen—but none of it compared to this. To the quiet, creeping fear that stole into his mind as he held you, knowing that one day, sooner than he could bear, you might not be here anymore.

He was ready to be with you until the very end. Until your last breath left your lips. Until the last beat of your heart.

And yet…

A sharp pang of sorrow pierced through him, unexpected and cruel. His mind drifted to Cassian and Nesta, to Feyre and Rhysand, to Nyx—their futures stretching long before them, full of possibilities, of love, of family. And then he thought of you. Of what little time he had been given.

When he had first seen you with Nyx in your arms, cradling the babe with such ease, such warmth, something deep inside him had stirred. Even then, when the bond had been new, when he had still been wrestling with the truth of it, he had thought of it—of the possibility that one day, it would be your child, his child, resting against your chest. The result of your love, your bond, your future together.

But that future might never come.

His throat tightened, his wings twitching slightly as he fought against the wave of sadness crashing over him. Not because of the idea that you might never bear his child, but because of how little time he had with you at all. The Mother had blessed him with a mate beyond anything he could have ever wished for—an extraordinary, brilliant, and fiercely strong woman. And yet, in the cruelest twist of fate, it felt as if she was mocking him, dangling the gift of you before him only to threaten to rip you away.

And the war…

The war that was coming, the battles ahead—it sent a shiver through him. He knew better than anyone what war did, what it stole, how merciless it was. And you… you would be at the center of it.

He tightened his hold on you, pressing you impossibly closer, as if he could anchor you here, with him, in this moment. You stirred, a faint hum leaving your lips as you shifted slightly, your eyes fluttering open.

You looked at him, bleary with sleep, but instantly concerned. “Az?” you murmured softly, reaching up to brush your fingers along his jaw.

He couldn’t answer—not with words.

Instead, he cupped your face and kissed you, slow and deep, pouring every unspoken thought, every fear, every desperate need into it. You melted against him, responding with the same intensity, as if you knew—knew exactly what was going through his mind, through his heart.

His hands roamed over you, memorizing every inch, every curve, every dip of your body as if committing you to memory. As if making sure you were real, here, alive. He needed to feel you closer, to remind himself that, at least for now, you were his to hold, his to love.

You whispered his name between kisses, your fingers threading into his hair, grounding him as much as he was grounding you.

And so he showed you—showed you with his hands, his lips, his body—that no matter how much time the Mother granted him, he would spend every second of it loving you. That even in the face of the unknown, of the inevitable, you were his, and he was yours.

Neither of you spoke of it.

The truth lingered between you, unspoken, a silent understanding.

For now, this was enough.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 15

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; anxiety, panic attack

notes; Hey everyone, hope you had a great week ! I'm back with a new chapter hehe. This chapter is covering pretty hard topics so please be careful while reading it. I think it's something that we all expected to happened at some point... Still I hope you will enjoy it ! bisous and see you next week ;)

previous ✧ next

The sky was painted in hues of deep blues and soft golds as the sun barely began its ascent over Velaris. The cool morning breeze brushed against your skin as Azriel landed smoothly in front of the clinic, his arms still securely wrapped around you.

You had kissed him before he left, your fingers lingering on his before he took off, his powerful wings spreading wide as he ascended into the sky. You watched him until he was no more than a speck in the distance, disappearing beyond the towering peaks of the Illyrian mountains.

A soft sigh left your lips. What the hell had the past few days been?

As you turned to enter the clinic, the warm scent of herbs and fresh linens greeted you. The usual quiet hum of early morning preparation filled the halls as healers moved about their duties.

And right at the front desk, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in playful accusation, stood Elira.

“Well, well,” she drawled, an eyebrow arching in amusement. “If it isn’t Y/N—or someone who just took her place because I refuse to believe that the Y/N I know suddenly started going out with someone and miraculously stopped working herself into an early grave.”

You let out a soft laugh, stepping past her and setting your satchel on the counter. “What can I say? Maybe I was kidnapped and replaced with someone new.” You smirked, shooting her a wink.

Elira gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “So, you mean to tell me that there is a version of Y/N out there still holed up in this clinic, working until collapse? And here I thought the world had ended when you left early last night.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes. “Well, that version of me is still in here somewhere, I assure you. I just… found some balance.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Balance? More like Azriel.”

You shot her a playful glare, but before you could retort, she slid a note across the counter.

“Speaking of which,” she continued, “you got a message from the High Lady this morning. Apparently, her sister is waiting for you today for an examination.”

You nodded, taking the note and scanning the brief, neat handwriting. Elain. Waiting for you at the town house today.

Elira watched your expression carefully before tilting her head. “What’s going on?”

You exhaled and leaned against the counter, tapping the note against your palm. “She had a vision last time. But unlike usual, this one caused convulsions.”

Elira’s expression shifted instantly, her usual playful demeanor replaced by concern. “Oh,” she said simply, straightening. “It’s the seer one, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you confirmed. “Elain.”

She frowned, rubbing her temple. “Convulsions are bad.”

“I know,” you murmured. “It’s rarely a good sign.”

Elira clicked her tongue, thinking. “Did she say what the vision was about?”

You hesitated.

Yes.

But saying it aloud—admitting that the vision had been about you—felt like opening a door you weren’t ready to walk through.

“She hasn’t shared all the details yet,” you finally said, voice measured.

Elira studied you for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Just be careful.”

You gave her a reassuring smile, then glanced around the clinic, feeling that familiar pull to stay and work through the growing list of tasks. But you had a promise to keep.

You grabbed your satchel and pushed off the counter. “Let me know if anything urgent comes up. Otherwise, I’ll be back later.”

Elira smirked, crossing her arms. “Sure, sure. Go off, be a real person for once. But if you start slacking too much, I will drag you back here myself.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Duly noted.”

With that, you headed for the town house, the weight of the day settling onto your shoulders—but beneath it, beneath all the uncertainty, a quiet warmth remained.

Because somewhere above the mountains, Azriel was flying.

And tonight, he’d be coming back to you.

The town house was still. A rare, peaceful quiet settled over the space, the kind that only came when the house was nearly empty. You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you, and let out a slow breath. The air carried the familiar scent of cedar and old books, a faint trace of lavender from the fresh-cut flowers Elain often arranged.

It felt... open. Welcoming in a way few places did.

For years, this house had been a place of gathering, of warmth, of family. And though you had never lived here, never truly claimed it as yours, it still held that same familiarity. Like a place that had always been waiting for you to step inside, to belong.

You glanced up the stairs. Nyx was still asleep, the silence thick enough to tell you that much. The others were all gone—Nesta training, the rest of the Inner Circle in Hewn City. That left only you and Elain.

You made your way through the quiet halls, the soft sound of your steps the only disturbance in the stillness. Reaching Elain’s door, you knocked gently.

A pause. Then, after a moment, her voice carried through. “Come in.”

You pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Elain was seated by the window, a book resting in her lap, her delicate fingers lightly tracing the edges of the pages. Sunlight streamed in, catching the golden hues in her hair, casting a warm glow over her soft features. She was beautiful. It was impossible to deny. No wonder Azriel had fallen for her.

You shoved that thought aside, forcing yourself to focus.

Offering her a soft smile, you spoke gently, “How are you feeling?”

She didn’t look at you immediately, her eyes still fixed on something beyond the window, something far away. But after a moment, she nodded slightly. “I’m fine.”

Not exactly convincing.

You exhaled, moving further into the room. “I’d like to take a look at you. Make sure everything’s alright after your last vision.” You gestured to the bed. “It’ll be easier if you lie down.”

Elain hesitated. Just for a second, but it was enough.

Then, she set her book aside and moved to the bed, sitting stiffly as you pulled a chair closer.

You worked in silence, your hands steady as you checked her pulse, her breathing, running your fingers lightly along the base of her skull to check for tension. She remained mostly still, barely responding, her posture rigid.

“Elain,” you murmured, trying to keep your tone patient, professional. “I need you to talk to me. Answer my questions.”

She gave a small nod but said nothing.

You sighed, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. If she didn’t want to cooperate, that was her problem. You were only trying to help.

“Did you feel anything unusual before the vision started?” you tried again.

A small shake of the head.

“Have you had any more since then?”

A pause. Then, another slight shake.

“Elain—”

“I don’t need a healer,” she interrupted, her voice quiet but firm.

You stilled.

Her brown eyes finally met yours, something guarded lurking beneath the softness.

You studied her for a long moment. Then, keeping your voice even, you said, “That’s not for you to decide. If your visions are causing convulsions, that’s something we need to address.”

She looked away. “It was a one-time thing.”

You held back a sigh, your patience thinning. “You don’t know that.”

Another beat of silence.

You didn’t miss the way her fingers curled slightly in the sheets, the tension in her shoulders, the way she was barely holding herself together.

And suddenly, you understood.

It wasn’t you she didn’t want here.

It was the fear. The vulnerability.

Elain Archeron, the one who had spent years trying to carve out something normal, something stable, was losing control over the one thing she had left—her own mind.

Softening your tone, you said, “I’m not here to force you into anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

For a moment, you thought she might let you in, might tell you something real. But then, she only nodded, a practiced, polite nod, and murmured, “I know.”

You watched her for another long moment before exhaling through your nose.

Fine. If she didn’t want help, you weren’t going to force it.

Something shifted in Elain’s expression. The soft, polite mask she had been wearing cracked just enough for something sharper, something venomous, to seep through.

Her brown eyes darkened as she spoke, her voice quiet but cutting.

"Do you actually think you can replace me?"

You stilled.

"For Azriel, I mean," she clarified, tilting her head slightly. "He loves me. He still does. I know that."

You didn’t move, didn’t blink.

Elain’s lips pressed together before she continued, her words deliberate. “He pulled away because of Rhysand—I know that. But you, Y/N, should remember one thing.”

The air in the room felt colder.

"You are going to die soon."

Her words were so matter-of-fact, so absolute, that they sent a chill down your spine. But you didn’t react. You kept your face carefully composed, unreadable.

Elain took your silence as permission to keep going.

"We both saw it," she murmured, her fingers brushing over the fabric of her dress. "The moment you will be heartless, dead. And when that happens—when you are nothing but a lifeless body—who do you think Azriel will turn to for comfort?"

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, but still, you didn’t let it show.

"Don’t get your hopes up," she whispered, her eyes gleaming with something almost triumphant. "He’s only sticking with you until then. After that, you’ll be nothing. No one will remember you, just a forgotten memory lost to time.”

Silence settled between you, thick and suffocating.

Slowly, you stood, keeping your expression blank, unreadable. You met her gaze with something colder, something far older than she could comprehend.

Your voice, when you finally spoke, was steady. Controlled.

“I don’t know what it is about your family that makes everyone treat you like a spoiled child,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “but I’m not here to do the same.”

A flicker of something crossed her face—shock, perhaps.

“I don’t know how you were raised,” you continued, stepping away from her bed, “but where I come from, people tend to show some respect to the ones who save their lives.”

Elain’s lips parted slightly, but you didn’t give her a chance to speak.

"Whatever is going on in that little head of yours," you said, voice cool, “you need to stop.”

She inhaled sharply, as if to protest, but you simply shook your head.

“Grow up, Elain.” Your tone didn’t waver. “I’m twenty times your age. I’ve seen enough girls like you to know that the only thing you sound like right now is a bitter, jealous fool.”

She flinched, but you continued.

“If you want to throw your life away, then fine. But when you collapse in your next vision, don’t expect me to be there to save you.”

You turned for the door.

Elain tried to say something, but you cut her off with one final, emotionless glance over your shoulder.

“And about Azriel?” You smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Like you said—I’ll be too dead to care.”

Then you walked out, leaving her in stunned silence.

Your mind was a battlefield, a relentless storm of thoughts crashing into each other, over and over, like waves against jagged rocks.

She was right.

Elain was right.

You were going to die.

The words echoed in your skull, bouncing off the walls of your mind, multiplying with each breath you took. The air felt heavier, the weight of inevitability pressing down on your chest until it was almost unbearable.

You are going to die soon.

Your fingers dug into the wooden surface of your desk, trying to ground yourself, trying to convince yourself that this wasn’t true, that you still had time. But the more you tried to push the thought away, the louder it became.

What if it wasn’t just a vision?

What if it was fate?

What if it was the Mother herself, setting a fixed end for you?

What if—what if everything you had built, everything you had worked for, everyone you had come to care for—what if it was all leading up to nothing? To an end that no one could stop?

You will be heartless.

You shuddered, suddenly hyper-aware of your own heartbeat, the rhythmic drum inside your chest. One day, it would stop. One day, it wouldn’t be there anymore. One day, you wouldn’t be here anymore.

Your breath hitched. The edges of your vision blurred as your hands began to tremble.

You needed air.

You needed out.

Now.

You grabbed your coat with frantic fingers, barely registering Elira’s voice calling after you as you shoved past her.

“Y/N? Are you—”

You didn’t answer. You barely even heard her.

Your feet carried you through the halls, down the stairs. You crashed into one of the younger healers, mumbling an apology you couldn’t even remember seconds later.

The doors to the clinic burst open, and you ran.

You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t care.

You ran through the streets of Velaris, past familiar buildings and warm lights, past the scent of fresh bread from the bakeries, past the murmurs of lovers walking hand in hand, past the echoes of laughter spilling from taverns.

None of it reached you.

Your thoughts were screaming too loudly.

You ran until the city disappeared behind you, until the cobbled streets turned into dirt paths, until trees surrounded you on all sides.

You ran until your lungs burned, until your legs screamed for you to stop, until the weight in your chest became too much to bear.

And when you couldn’t take it anymore—when the world felt like it was closing in, when your breath came in short, desperate gasps—you fell.

Your knees hit the cold, damp earth of a clearing.

The silence of the forest swallowed you whole.

You curled forward, gripping the ground as if it could hold you together. As if it could keep the panic from swallowing you whole.

But it was still there. The truth. The inescapable reality.

You were going to die.

The moment your knees hit the ground, everything shattered.

The world twisted, spinning and turning, the trees around you bending at impossible angles, the sky shifting and warping as if reality itself was breaking apart. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps—too fast, too shallow. Your chest tightened, a crushing weight pressing down on your ribs like they would crack beneath the pressure.

You are going to die.

The words thundered in your mind, over and over again, a merciless mantra that you couldn’t escape.

You are going to die.

And it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just the knowledge of your end—it was the inevitability of it. It was the way everyone else had already started preparing for it.

Azriel.

Azriel, who looked at you with that careful tenderness, with that unreadable depth. Azriel, who held you at night, who kissed you like you were his whole world.

He only pities you.

The voice slithered into your mind, venomous and cruel.

He doesn’t love you. Not like you love him.

You clutched at your chest, fingers digging into the fabric of your coat as your heart pounded against your ribs, too fast, too wild.

He will go back to her.

A choked sob left your throat.

He was always meant to be with her. He loves her. He will always love her. And when you’re gone, when your body is cold and forgotten, he will go back to her. Back to what was meant to be.

The voices were multiplying now, a cacophony of whispers, of taunts, of truths you had tried so hard to ignore.

None of them truly love you.

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, gripping the damp earth beneath you.

Rhys and Feyre? They are kind, yes. But it is only pity.

Your breathing hitched, your throat tightening as your fingers curled deeper into the soil.

Cassian, Mor, Amren? You are just another friend to them. Someone temporary. Someone to mourn for a brief moment before they move on.

No one ever truly loved you.

A violent shudder wracked your body, the weight of the words pressing down on you, suffocating you.

Look at you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, nails digging into your palms.

Who would ever want someone like you?

The breath you dragged in was sharp, broken, as if your own body was fighting against you.

Your parents left you.

Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea rising in your throat.

No one ever adopted you. No one ever wanted you. Not then, not now.

Your fingers dug into the ground so hard that your nails scraped against stone, the sharp pain barely registering against the flood of voices in your mind.

Even the Mother made a joke out of you.

A ragged sob tore through you.

She brought you back only to throw you away again.

Your body trembled, every breath a struggle, every thought a war you couldn’t win. You were drowning, suffocating beneath the weight of it all.

Maybe… maybe it would be easier to stop fighting.

Maybe it would be better to just… let it happen.

To accept what was coming. To let go.

Because what was the point?

What was the point of clinging to a life that had already been written off?

You clutched at your chest, gasping for air, for something, for anything to pull you out of this spiral. But there was nothing.

Just you.

Just you and the knowledge that this would end.

That you would end.

And there was nothing you could do to stop it.

The moment Azriel's arms wrapped around you, it was as if the world finally stopped crumbling.

You barely registered his presence at first, the overwhelming noise in your mind too deafening, too consuming. But his warmth—his touch—broke through.

“Hey, hey, Y/N,” his voice was urgent, but gentle, his grip firm as he held you against his chest. “Calm down, love. Just breathe.”

But you couldn’t. Nothing made sense. Your hands flew to your ears, trying to block out the voices, the relentless, merciless voices that wouldn’t stop whispering in your head.

Azriel’s hands came up to yours, gently but insistently pulling them away. “Look at me,” he urged, his golden eyes searching yours. “Just look at me, Y/N.”

You tried. Mother above, you tried. But your vision blurred with tears, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, and you could barely even comprehend how he was here—why he was here.

How did he find you?

Why had he come?

Your body shook violently, the last remnants of the panic attack wracking through you, but Azriel held you through it. Unmoving. Steady. His arms wound tighter around you, his warmth bleeding into your freezing skin.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured, his lips pressing against your hair, his voice an anchor in the storm. “In… and out.”

He breathed in deeply, exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest. You tried to follow, but your breaths still hitched, your body still trembling.

But he didn’t let go.

He rocked you slightly, his hands running up and down your back, brushing away your tears as they continued to fall. His fingers found your face, tilting your chin up to him, his thumbs swiping the wet trails from your cheeks.

“Shhh, love,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You’re safe. You’re here. Just stay with me.”

The last of your ragged breaths shuddered out of you, and you finally—finally—managed to look at him.

Azriel’s face was tight with worry, his brows furrowed, his golden eyes dark and searching.

“What happened?” he murmured, his voice so soft, as if one wrong move would break you apart again. “Talk to me.”

You swallowed hard, trying to find the words, but they lodged in your throat, thick and unbearable. Your lips trembled, your chest still rising and falling too fast.

Azriel’s hands cupped your face again, his thumb tracing your cheek. Then, gently, he kissed you—just a soft, featherlight press of his lips against your damp skin. Another on your forehead. Then your temple.

He was showing you love.

You weren’t sure when you started crying again, but it was different this time—less panicked, more relieved.

Azriel rested his forehead against yours, his own breathing uneven, his hands still holding you like you might slip away if he let go.

“Hey, love,” he murmured, his voice raw. “What’s going on?”

And this time, you could answer.

From the moment they had returned from the Court of Nightmares, Azriel felt it.

That gnawing sense of unease, like a shadow curling deep in his chest, whispering that something was wrong.

The mission had been exhausting—more so than usual. Politics with Keir and his wretched court always drained him, but today, today, all he wanted was to be with you. To bury himself in your presence, to hold you in his arms and let your voice fill the spaces in him that had long been hollow. It didn’t matter what you talked about—whether it was serious or something as mundane as the best way to brew tea. Whatever it was, you—your voice, your laughter, your warmth—felt like heaven.

Maybe that was why he had finally asked.

On the way back to Velaris, he had turned to Rhysand, voice quieter than usual. “I need a few days” he said. “Out of Velaris.”

Rhys barely reacted, his lips twitching. Knowing why Azriel wanted to leave so bad. “Do you think a few days will be enough for you two?”

Azriel had chuckled, shaking his head. “Fine. A week, then.”

It felt ridiculous, almost selfish, to ask for time away when the war was looming closer by the day. But he needed it. Needed time with you, time to figure things out. To figure you out. And, if he was being honest, to figure himself out, too.

Still, the momentary ease of their conversation did nothing to quell the growing dread in his chest. The feeling only got worse as they reached Velaris, a clawing urgency building inside him.

Something was wrong.

He didn’t even wait for the others to disperse before he turned on his heel and made his way to the clinic. His steps were fast, purposeful, shadows slithering around him, restless.

Then he saw Elira.

She stood near the entrance, looking stunned—almost frozen in place. Her eyes flickered to him, and she exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath.

“If you’re looking for Y/N,” she said, still slightly breathless, “she just left. Running.”

Azriel frowned, his heart slamming once in his chest. “Running?”

“I—” Elira hesitated, glancing toward the doors as if trying to make sense of what she had just seen. “I’ve never seen her like that. She just bolted. And to be honest, she’s been off ever since she got back from her visit with the High Lady’s sister.”

Elain.

A sharp pang of something cold flashed through him.

Then—

The panic hit him like a physical force.

Not his. Yours.

His breath caught as the bond roared to life, a wave of pure, suffocating terror slamming into him.

He didn’t hesitate.

Azriel ran.

He followed the thread between you, through the streets of Velaris, through the winding paths leading out of the city. His wings flared behind him as he took to the air, scanning, searching—until he found you.

Collapsed in a clearing, shaking violently, your breaths ragged, your hands clutching at your head as if trying to silence something only you could hear.

Azriel dropped to the ground without thinking, without breathing.

“Y/N,” he called, his voice sharp with urgency. You didn’t react, barely seemed to register his presence.

Then he was there, grabbing you, pulling you into his arms.

“Hey, hey—” His voice softened, but his grip did not. He held you, firm, grounding, his heart hammering in his chest. “Y/N, look at me.”

Nothing.

Your entire body was trembling, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Your hands flew up to your ears, fingers digging in as if you were trying to block something out.

His own panic flared, but he shoved it down, focusing only on you.

He shifted, wrapping himself fully around you, cradling you against him. His hands stroked your back, firm but gentle, his head dipping close to yours.

“Shhh, love,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your temple. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Just breathe with me.”

You barely responded, your body still shaking violently, your nails digging into his leathers.

“Breathe, Y/N.” His voice was lower now, softer. He inhaled deeply, exaggerating the movement, hoping you would follow. “In… and out. With me.”

His thumb traced slow circles against your skin, his wings curling protectively around you as he rocked you slightly. He pressed his forehead to yours, trying to draw you back, trying to pull you out of whatever hell had seized you.

“Please,” he whispered, voice breaking.

And then—

A breath.

A deep, shuddering inhale.

Your body still trembled, but the suffocating tension began to ease, the shallow gasps turning into something slower, steadier.

You blinked up at him, your eyes glazed over with panic, but you were there.

Azriel exhaled shakily, his hands moving to cradle your face. He wiped away the fresh tears that streaked your cheeks, his heart aching at the sight of them.

He kissed them away, soft, reverent presses of his lips against your damp skin.

“Hey, love,” he murmured, voice raw with emotion. He rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs brushing slow, comforting strokes along your jaw.

“What’s going on?”

Your breath hitched as you tried to speak, to put words to the chaos swirling inside you. But everything—everything—felt like too much.

Your hands clenched against Azriel’s chest, your fingers curling into the familiar fabric of his leathers as if holding onto him could anchor you. Your breath came fast again, shallow.

“I—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Everything just… it fell too much. I couldn't breathe, I— I—”

The panic started rising again, clawing its way up from the pit of your stomach, threatening to consume you whole. The words tangled in your throat, your chest tightening all over again.

Azriel felt it before he even saw it.

Your breathing hitched, your body tensed, and his arms tightened around you immediately.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice steady, soothing. “Don’t rush. You don’t have to hurry. It’s fine.”

He cupped your face gently, his scarred hands warm against your skin, his thumbs brushing away the tears that continued to fall silently.

“Breathe, love,” he whispered. “Just breathe.”

And then—

Azriel kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate or frantic, but firm. A grounding touch, meant to pull you from the edge of the abyss. His lips were warm, steady, patient. He kissed you with a quiet kind of intensity, as if willing you to feel every ounce of reassurance, every piece of him holding you together.

His hands moved slowly, one slipping to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair, while the other remained firm at your waist, keeping you here. With him.

Your entire body softened against him, the tension in your limbs slowly melting away as you inhaled him. The scent of night-chilled wind, cedar, and something uniquely Azriel filled your senses, grounding you, tethering you.

You clutched at him, not out of desperation, but because his presence, his warmth, him—Azriel—was the only thing in this moment that felt real.

The moment the kiss broke, he kept you close, resting his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the crisp air.

His golden eyes searched yours, still laced with worry but filled with something deeper—something you couldn’t name.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve always got you.”

Azriel brushed his thumb gently over your cheek, his gaze unwavering as he spoke, his voice calm and steady.

“You don’t have to talk about it now,” he murmured. “Not until you’re ready. And even if you never are, that’s okay too.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight.

“The past weeks have been insane for you, Y/N. It’s normal that at some point, you can’t keep hiding everything anymore.” His golden eyes softened, his expression unreadable yet filled with so much understanding it made your chest ache.

“Maybe you should take a break.” He exhaled, his hand sliding down your arm until he could lace his fingers with yours. “Maybe we should take a break.”

Your breath hitched slightly at his words.

You shook your head, your heart racing. “But Az… the war, the people, the clinic— I can’t leave like that, we can’t just leave—”

Azriel squeezed your hand, cutting you off gently. “For once, Y/N, stop thinking about everyone else and think about yourself.” His voice remained calm, composed, reassuring. “Because it’s killing you. Slowly, quietly, piece by piece. And I won’t just stand by and watch it happen.”

The truth of his words hit you like a crashing wave.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t demanding.

But he was right.

You had been holding everything in for too long, carrying too much. You were exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. And yet, you had convinced yourself that if you just kept going, if you just kept working, it would all be fine.

But it wasn’t fine.

And it hadn’t been for a long time.

Azriel’s unwavering presence, his certainty, the way he was looking at you now as if he would do anything to pull you from this downward spiral—it finally made something inside of you crack.

You took a shaky breath, blinking away the last remnants of tears before meeting his gaze.

Finally, you nodded.

“Fine,” you whispered. “Let’s go. The both of us. Far away.”

Azriel’s lips parted slightly, almost surprised at your agreement, but then—he smiled. A real smile, rare and breathtaking. And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a kiss of urgency or desperation. It was a promise.

A promise of escape. A promise of time. A promise of you and him, away from everything that had been weighing you down.

As you walked back through the streets of Velaris, Azriel kept you close, his arm draped securely over your shoulders, his wing shifting subtly to shield you from the cool evening breeze. The warmth of his body against yours, the steady weight of his presence—it was grounding, calming, as if the past hour hadn’t happened at all.

Your hand remained in his, your fingers entwined as you both moved through the city in silence. No words were needed. He knew. He felt it. Just as you felt the unspoken comfort he was offering.

When you stepped back into the clinic, Elira was already waiting. The moment she saw you, relief flickered in her features, but it was quickly replaced with something softer as she stepped forward, pulling you into a tight hug.

You let out a small breath, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Elira pulled back just enough to look at you, her expression filled with something between fondness and exasperation.

Azriel, still standing beside you, spoke up before she could respond. “We’ll be gone for a week,” he informed her, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Elira’s eyes flickered between the two of you, her gaze sharp yet knowing.

You exhaled, nodding. “I’m leaving the clinic in your hands, along with the paperwork. I made sure to—”

“You’re not about to list out every responsibility before you leave,” Elira cut in, placing both hands on your shoulders.

You blinked in surprise.

Her gaze softened. “Y/N, we’ve got it handled. You need this. And if there’s anything urgent, Madja is still in town. But please, just rest.”

A lump formed in your throat, but you managed a nod. “Thank you, Eli.”

She squeezed your shoulders one last time before stepping back, offering you a small smirk. “Now go before you change your mind.”

You let out a breath of laughter, hugging her quickly before stepping away, Azriel’s hand finding yours once more.

The moment you were outside, Azriel turned to you, his gaze searching. You barely had time to process before he was kissing you—slow, deep, a quiet confirmation that you were his to care for.

You melted into him, letting yourself be held, letting yourself take the comfort for once instead of offering it.

And then, before you could think too much, before your mind could try to convince you otherwise—

Wind whipped around you as Azriel pulls you against his chest before winnowing the both you out of Velaris.

The familiar pull of winnowing faded as your feet touched solid ground, the crisp mountain air immediately wrapping around you. You shivered slightly, not from the cold but from the sheer change in atmosphere—the quiet, the stillness, the peace that settled over you the moment you arrived.

Before you, nestled between towering pine trees and overlooking a breathtaking view of the Night Court’s vast mountain ranges, stood a cabin. The structure itself was modest, but it exuded warmth, comfort—sanctuary. The soft glow of faelights flickered inside, the wooden walls standing strong against the whispering winds. Snow dusted the rooftop, the steps leading to the front door barely visible beneath the pristine white.

You exhaled, breath visible in the crisp air, and turned slowly to take it all in. The mountains stretched endlessly beyond the cabin, their peaks kissed by the last lingering hues of sunset, fading into a velvety night. The stars had begun their slow emergence, blinking awake one by one, their glow reflected on the frozen lake in the distance. It was silent here—so utterly still that it felt as if the rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you behind.

Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, as if anchoring himself to this moment. You looked up at him, finding his gaze already on you. Something in his expression softened as he watched you take in the sight, the way your lips parted slightly, the way your shoulders seemed to lose some of their ever-present tension.

“You like it?” His voice was low, hesitant in a way that made your heart ache.

You turned back to the cabin, then to the vast, endless sky above, to the mountains that held secrets older than time. Likewasn’t the right word.

“It’s breathtaking,” you murmured.

Azriel’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, a silent understanding passing between you. No more words were needed.

This was what he had wanted for you—for both of you. A place away from the weight of war, of responsibilities, of everything that had nearly broken you. A place to breathe, to simply be.

He led you toward the cabin, his presence steady beside you. And as you stepped onto the wooden porch, a thought settled deep in your chest—

For the first time in centuries, maybe even forever, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You were finally choosing yourself.

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 14

paring; Azriel x reader

word count ; 8k

Trigger warning; fluff hehe

notes; What's up everyone, back again this week for a new chapter. This is one is cute, really cute but it was a pain in the ass to write after everything that happened in the previous one lol. either way, i hope that everyone is doing well. i have not much to say this week beside that i wish you will have a great time reading this chapter. See you next time <3333

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After a moment, the two of you left the garden, the cold air biting at your skin but doing nothing to dispel the warmth that seemed to radiate between you and Azriel. His shadows lingered around you like a protective veil, their faint touch against your skin a constant reminder of his presence. His hand was warm in yours, his thumb brushing softly over your palm in slow, soothing strokes.

As you walked back toward the house, you cast a glance over your shoulder at the garden. The snow had already covered the imprint of where you had knelt together, erasing any sign of the moment that had passed. It was as though it had never happened, yet you felt it etched deeply into your heart, a memory that would never fade.

The house was calm when you stepped inside. The dining table had been cleared, and the soft glow of the fire in the living room, accompanied by a few flickering candles, bathed the space in a comforting warmth. The echoes of laughter and conversation from earlier were gone, replaced by a serene stillness. It felt as though the house, too, had exhaled and settled for the night.

Without speaking, the two of you climbed the stairs, your hands still entwined. The gesture felt natural, grounding, and neither of you let go. When you reached Azriel’s room, it felt as though your feet had guided you there instinctively, and you stood together just inside the doorway.

You exhaled softly, your shoulders sagging as though the weight of the night had finally lifted. “I don’t think I’ve ever cried like that before,” you admitted, your voice tinged with both humor and lingering emotion.

Azriel’s worried gaze softened, and he stepped closer, gently cupping your face. He kissed each of your closed eyelids, the gesture so tender it made your breath catch. “Are you okay with staying here tonight?” he asked, his tone careful, as though he didn’t want to push.

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Ah, yes. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile. “Why would I mind?”

You returned his smile, the tension in your chest loosening as he turned toward the wardrobe. After a moment of rifling through his clothes, he pulled out a large, soft shirt and handed it to you. “You can change here if you want,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll step out to the bathroom.”

The simplicity of the gesture, the quiet respect in his tone, made you smile as you accepted the shirt. “Thank you.”

Azriel nodded and stepped toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back, his golden eyes searching yours for a moment as though reassuring himself that you were truly okay. Then, with a quiet click, the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the room.

You looked around the space, noting the minimal yet thoughtful touches—books neatly stacked on the shelves, the faint scent of cedar and something distinctly Azriel lingering in the air. You ran your fingers over the shirt in your hands, a soft laugh escaping you as you thought about how surreal the night had been.

The house was silent, the snow outside continuing to fall, but in this moment, wrapped in the calm and warmth of Azriel’s room, you felt... safe.

You quickly changed, the oversized shirt draping comfortably over you, and the scent of Azriel surrounding you felt like a protective cocoon. It was grounding, familiar, and it made your heart ache in the best way. A faint laugh escaped your lips as you noticed one of his shadows curling playfully through your hair, tickling your nose.

Stepping toward the window, you gazed out at Velaris, a city that looked like it had been plucked from the pages of a dream. The soft glow of lanterns dotted the streets below, casting a golden hue over the cobblestone paths that wound between the elegant, timeless buildings. The Sidra sparkled under the moonlight, its waters calm and steady, mirroring the endless expanse of stars above. The sky was impossibly clear, the constellations vivid and bright as if painted by some celestial artist. Everything about the view felt magical, like a promise of serenity in a world too often filled with chaos. For a moment, it was as though the looming threats had vanished, replaced by this pocket of quiet perfection. No war, no god of death, no impossible decisions. Just peace. A fleeting, precious peace.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you felt him—Azriel’s presence was unmistakable. His arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently back against him. The weight of his touch was grounding, steady, as if he was trying to anchor you to this moment. One hand rested firmly on your shoulder, his thumb brushing a light, comforting arc against your skin. The other circled you protectively, holding you close to him. His warmth seeped into you, chasing away the lingering chill of the evening.

You leaned back into his chest, letting out a soft sigh as his face came to rest against your shoulder. The light scrape of his stubble brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine, but his embrace held only comfort. It was intimate, but not demanding, as though he was content simply to be close to you. You closed your eyes briefly, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing calm the storm in your mind.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly, his voice low and velvety, carrying a weight of concern and curiosity.

You hesitated before answering, your gaze still fixed on the peaceful cityscape. “Everything feels so calm, so peaceful,” you admitted. “Like nothing is coming for us. Like I can just... breathe. It feels strange—almost wrong—to feel this safe.”

You felt his gaze on you, steady and unwavering, as though he was trying to memorize every detail of your face under the soft glow of the moonlight. His presence behind you was grounding, a silent reassurance that you weren’t alone in the chaos of your thoughts. Slowly, you turned in his embrace, meeting his eyes.

And oh, those eyes. They held so much—concern, yes, but also something raw and vulnerable. Admiration, reverence, and something deeper still, something that made your heart ache with its intensity. It wasn’t just affection; it was understanding, a quiet acceptance of everything you were, even the pieces you struggled to accept yourself. The bond between you hummed softly, pulling you closer in ways you couldn’t resist.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you kissed him.

This kiss was different. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, but deliberate, charged with an intensity that made your heart race. It was as though every word unsaid between you both poured into this single, searing moment. The bond thrummed stronger now, pulsing like a heartbeat, drawing you so close that the very act of breathing felt like a betrayal of the closeness you craved.

Azriel’s hands moved to your back, his touch firm yet tender as if afraid to let you go. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him even closer, and the kiss deepened. It was intoxicating—the way his lips moved against yours, the warmth of his body pressed to you, the way his scent enveloped you completely.

In one swift motion, he lifted you off the ground as though you weighed nothing. A small, surprised sound escaped your lips, and he smiled against your mouth. The gesture was fleeting but enough to send a shiver through you, softening the intensity just enough to remind you of the person behind all this strength.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, the world tilting as he carried you. His hands settled on your thighs, steadying you as he sat on the edge of the bed, his wings spreading slightly behind him for balance. The kiss didn’t falter. If anything, it grew more fervent, his lips claiming yours with a quiet desperation that mirrored the feelings you couldn’t yet bring yourself to name.

Straddling his lap, you cupped his face with trembling hands, your thumbs brushing against the sharp planes of his cheekbones. You broke the kiss, just barely, your foreheads pressed together as you both caught your breath. The silence was thick with emotion, the bond between you humming so loudly it felt like a third presence in the room.

Azriel’s eyes searched yours, his golden gaze filled with something you couldn’t quite place. A flicker of worry crossed his features, as if he was afraid this moment would shatter.

You shook your head softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. You cradled his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing gently over his skin. “It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure.

And in that moment, his entire world shifted. The way you looked at him—with love so unfiltered, so honest—made his breath hitch. He had spent centuries yearning for something like this, for someone to see him, all of him, and not flinch. To accept him, scars and all.

He kissed you again, this time slower, softer, but no less intense. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, a quiet declaration of everything he couldn’t yet put into words. His shadows curled around you like a cocoon, warm and protective, as if they, too, were trying to tell you what he couldn’t.

When the kiss finally broke, you both lingered there, your foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His hands rested on your waist, anchoring you in place, while yours tangled gently in his hair. The world outside the room seemed to cease to exist, leaving only the two of you in this stolen moment of peace.

Azriel gently turned you both, and you found yourselves lying on the bed next to each other, tangled in each other's arms. His fingers traced delicate, reassuring patterns on your back as he pressed soft kisses to your mouth, your forehead, your cheeks, and even the corners of your closed eyes. Each touch felt like a silent promise, as if he was ensuring that you were truly there, in his arms, in his bed, with him.

“Stop it, that tickles,” you murmured with a small laugh, squirming slightly under the light press of his lips.

He raised his head, a smile playing at his lips as he looked down at you, golden eyes warm and full of quiet amusement. “Does it?” he teased, chuckling softly.

“Absolutely,” you replied with a grin, your laughter filling the quiet room.

The intimacy of the moment felt right, but doing anything more tonight felt premature for both of you. The bond, the emotions of the evening—it was too much, too raw, too fresh. You both needed to let the night settle, to breathe and process before taking another step forward.

Azriel shifted, resting his head against your chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he never wanted to let go. Your fingers found their way into his hair, softly threading through the dark strands. For the first time in what felt like forever, Azriel felt completely at ease, the tension that usually resided in his body dissolving into your embrace.

“Are you hugging me like that because you want to feel my heartbeat,” you asked, voice tinged with playful mischief, “or because you like being in my boobs?”

His head snapped up, his golden eyes wide with surprise. “What?” he exclaimed, the disbelief clear in his tone.

You winked at him, laughter bubbling out of you. He stared at you for a moment before a grin broke across his face, and he began laughing with you.

“Both,” he finally admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk.

“Both?” you repeated, feigning shock, your grin widening.

“Yes, Y/N. Both,” he said firmly, his laughter softening into a contented smile.

As the laughter faded, your breathing became slower, softer. Azriel felt your hand still in his hair, your body relaxing fully against his. He tilted his head slightly to look at you, seeing your features softened in sleep. The sight sent a quiet pang through his chest—how lucky he was to have you here, to have this moment.

Azriel closed his eyes briefly, and then he felt the gentle brush of Rhysand’s presence against his mind. He let him in without hesitation.

How is she doing? Rhysand’s voice was quiet but full of concern.

Azriel hesitated before answering. It’s a lot, he admitted. And knowing her, she’s trying to process everything as quickly as possible so it affects her the least. But for now... she’s okay.

Good, Rhys replied, his tone firm but kind. I’m sure you won’t need my help for the moment, but if you both need anything, Az, please let me know.

Azriel paused, feeling a faint warmth in his chest at Rhys’s offer. Thanks, brother, he said softly, and he felt Rhysand’s reaction—an unspoken acknowledgment of the term—as the connection faded.

Azriel’s shadows curled protectively around the two of you, their touch gentle and comforting. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, settling further into the warmth of your presence. In that moment, with you in his arms and the world outside forgotten, he allowed himself to truly rest.

You stirred gently, the weight of Azriel’s arm draped over you grounding you in a way that made your chest ache with unfamiliar comfort. His embrace was firm yet tender, as though even in sleep, he feared you might slip away. Your head rested against his chest, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him enveloping you. His scent lingered around you, rich and comforting, mingling with the faint, familiar smell of his room.

The sunlight creeping into the room was soft and golden, casting delicate patterns over the walls and the bed. It spilled through the curtains, brushing against your face like a whispered reminder that morning had come. The city outside was just beginning to wake, its quiet hum blending seamlessly with the steady rhythm of Azriel’s heartbeat.

Your gaze wandered, taking in the relaxed expression on Azriel’s face. In sleep, he looked so different—his brow smooth, the faint shadows under his eyes softened. His lips were slightly parted, and his hair was mussed from where you had run your fingers through it the night before. He looked peaceful, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

You raised your hand slowly, careful not to wake him, and watched as the sunlight caught the edges of your fingers. Azriel’s shadows, ever curious, danced around your hand, their movements gentle and almost playful. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips, the contrast between the light and shadow a quiet reminder of the bond you shared.

The past few days had been a whirlwind. Azriel discovering the bond, Elain’s vision, the attack on your way back from Dawn—it all felt like too much. Even for you, someone used to balancing on the edge of chaos, this was overwhelming. And yet, here you were, lying in the arms of the person who had unknowingly become your anchor.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you let your gaze drift back to the sunlit room. What were you supposed to do now? Pretend you hadn’t seen what Elain had seen? Ignore the ominous shadow of the future looming over you? It was an option, sure, but it was far from an easy one. The perpetual threat of what was coming made it impossible to fully relax, even in moments like this.

You let your hand fall back to rest lightly on Azriel’s arm, your fingers brushing against his skin. His shadows seemed to respond to the movement, curling protectively around you both, as though they, too, were trying to shield you from the weight of it all.

For now, you told yourself, you could take this moment. Just this brief, fleeting moment of peace in the arms of someone who had become so much more than you had ever expected. The world outside could wait, if only for a little while longer.

Azriel shifted in his sleep, his arm tightening around you as his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, and the lazy movement made your heart flutter.

“Good morning,” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips.

He mumbled something incoherent in response, the sound low and gravelly, which only made your smile widen. You ran your fingers gently through his hair, his soft strands tangling around your fingers. The small motion seemed to comfort him, his hold on you firm yet tender.

You thought you could stay like this forever, wrapped in his warmth and the quiet safety he provided. Azriel seemed to drift back to sleep for a moment, his breathing evening out against your neck. But soon, he shifted again, his face lifting to yours. His sleepy golden eyes met yours briefly before he leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft and unhurried.

It was a simple gesture, but it sent a wave of warmth through you. You leaned into it before pulling away gently, stretching your arms above your head as you sat up. The morning light illuminated the room, and you were acutely aware of your messy hair and puffy face from the night before.

Azriel didn’t seem to care. He was still lying on his side, propped up on one elbow as he watched you. His gaze was so soft, so unguarded, that it made your chest ache.

“What are you doing today?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

You combed your fingers through your hair, trying to tame the wild strands. “I’m probably going to finish working on the last files you brought me last time. I forgot them here and didn’t had the time to come and get them. So I’m a bit late. Before lunch, I should head back to the clinic to check on things. If Elain is feeling better, I might examine her by the end of the afternoon or tomorrow, depending on how busy things are. Honestly, probably tomorrow. You ?”

Azriel nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve got a few reports to go through and some meetings with Rhys and my spies. Tomorrow, I’ll need to head to Hewn City, so we’ll need to prepare for that.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused at the nonchalant way he mentioned visiting one of the most dreadful places in the Night Court. “Sounds delightful,” you teased, earning a soft chuckle from him.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to you, his shadows swirling lazily around his shoulders. “Are we seeing each other tonight?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Well, it depends on my schedule,” you said with a playful smirk. “But I should be able to pencil you in.”

His lips quirked up at the corner. “Generous of you,” he replied dryly. “We could go out in Velaris, or stay in and do something here. Whatever works for you.”

The thought of spending a quiet evening walking through Velaris filled you with a sense of warmth. “Walking around Velaris sounds nice,” you decided, your smile softening.

Azriel remained on the bed, his gaze following your every move as you stood and leaned over him. Your hair fell in a curtain around your face, brushing against his cheek as you kissed him again. It was sweet and lingering, and when you pulled away, you noticed the way his shadows curled gently around your wrists, as if reluctant to let you go.

You stepped out of the bed, collecting your clothes from the night before since they were the only ones you had. As you moved around the room, you couldn’t help but notice Azriel’s gaze following you, his golden eyes filled with a quiet intensity that made your cheeks warm. You ducked into the bathroom, trying to shake off the flutter in your chest as you got dressed and washed up.

When you came back into the room, Azriel was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair slightly tousled, and his shadows swirling lazily around him. He looked up at you with a soft smile.

“Hungry?” he asked, standing as you approached.

“A bit,” you admitted.

“Good,” he said, already heading toward the door. “Let’s get breakfast before you leave.”

You followed him down to the kitchen, where the quiet warmth of the townhouse enveloped you. Azriel moved to the counter, rolling up his sleeves as he started to prepare something. You took a seat at the kitchen island, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him.

“You’re cooking?” you teased, a playful lilt in your voice.

He glanced back at you, a faint smirk on his lips. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

You laughed softly and leaned forward. “So, about this trip to Hewn City—what exactly are you and Rhys hoping to accomplish?”

Azriel’s shoulders stiffened slightly at the mention of Hewn City, but he continued cracking eggs into a bowl. “There’s been some tension with the Court of Nightmares lately,” he explained. “We’re going to remind them where their loyalties should lie. Nothing too dramatic, hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “With Keir, there’s no such thing as a simple conversation.”

Before Azriel could respond, you heard footsteps behind you. Turning, you saw Feyre, Rhysand, and Nyx entering the kitchen. Rhysand had Nyx cradled in his arms, the babe’s small hands clutching at his father’s shirt.

“Good morning,” Feyre greeted warmly, leaning down to hug you and kiss your cheek.

You winked at her. “Good morning.”

Rhysand shifted Nyx in his arms, giving you a sly smile. “Do you mind taking him for a bit?”

“Of course not,” you said, reaching out to take the squirming babe from him. Nyx immediately latched onto you, his tiny hands grabbing at your hair with a delighted gurgle.

As Azriel worked on breakfast, you balanced playing with Nyx and chatting with Feyre and Rhysand about the upcoming meeting in Hewn City. Rhysand eventually brought up the healer meeting and the detailed recap you’d provided him.

“Was it always like that?” he asked, tilting his head.

You nodded. “Pretty much, yes. Most of the time, Madja made me go instead of her to represent the Night Court.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow. “She did?”

“She never told you?” you asked, laughing softly at his surprised expression. “Well, besides the last hundred years—because I was on the continent, and then Amarantha happened. But usually, we either went together or I went alone.”

Azriel turned toward you with a plate of food and a steaming cup of coffee, setting them down in front of you. Feyre gently took Nyx back from your arms, giving you a chance to eat.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your eyes meeting Azriel’s as he leaned against the counter. He gave you a small nod, his gaze lingering a moment longer before he turned back to the others.

The warmth of the kitchen, the quiet hum of conversation, and the contented sounds of Nyx cooing in Feyre’s arms made the moment feel almost surreal. For the first time in days, everything felt... right.

You left the townhouse shortly after breakfast, the large stack of files balanced precariously under your arm. Feyre laughed softly as she watched you struggle, shaking her head in amusement. Azriel, leaning casually against the counter, smirked as you maneuvered toward the door.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Feyre asked, a teasing edge to her voice.

You grinned back at her. “I’ve got it, don’t worry. Just another day in the life.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “You’re carrying enough paperwork to bury an Illyrian camp. Impressive.”

You shot him a mock glare. “Keep making fun, Shadowsinger, and I’ll add your reports to the pile.”

Both of them chuckled as you waved and made your way out the door, heading toward the clinic. The brisk air of Velaris filled your lungs as you walked through the quiet streets. Despite the weight of the files, you couldn’t help but smile at the city’s beauty, the soft buzz of life returning to normal around you.

When you arrived at the clinic, the familiar scent of herbs and the gentle hum of conversation welcomed you. Healers bustled about, patients seated in the waiting area, and the overall atmosphere felt calm and controlled. You exhaled softly, relieved to be back.

Elira spotted you first, her face lighting up as she approached. “Y/N! You’re back. How are you feeling?”

You set the stack of files down on a nearby counter, rolling your shoulders. “I’m fine. Just a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the faint bandages peeking out from your shirt, her brows knitting together. “I saw Azriel’s wing the other day. Everything okay on the trip? We haven’t talked about it yet.”

Another healer, Aline, joined the conversation, her curious gaze darting between you and Elira. “Yes, tell us! How was the Dawn Court? Was it as beautiful as they say?”

You smiled, brushing off Elira’s concern with a wave of your hand. “Everything went fine, don’t worry. The Dawn Court was stunning—exactly as beautiful as they say, maybe even more. The palace is breathtaking, and Thesan’s hospitality is unmatched.”

Aline leaned against the counter, her eyes wide with curiosity. “I can only imagine. What about the healers? I’ve heard the Day and Summer Court healers are some of the best.”

You nodded, a warm smile on your lips. “They are. It was wonderful catching up with everyone. The collaboration between the courts has grown so much stronger over the years. It’s really inspiring to see.”

Elira tilted her head, a playful grin on her face. “And Thesan? How was he?”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes. “Still as charming and graceful as ever. He sends his regards, by the way.”

The three of you laughed, the lighthearted conversation a refreshing change after the tension of the past few days. As you discussed the various techniques and approaches you’d seen during the meeting, the healers listened eagerly, their excitement palpable.

The rest of the day passed quickly as you dove into your work, consulting with patients and organizing the files Azriel had brought you. The clinic buzzed with its usual rhythm, and for a while, you felt a sense of normalcy settle around you—a reprieve from the storm of emotions and events that had been swirling lately.

Back in your office, the organized chaos of the clinic buzzed faintly beyond the closed door. The soft light streaming in through the tall window illuminated the neat stacks of files on your desk. You pulled the chair closer, letting out a small sigh as you adjusted the lamp for better visibility. The familiar scent of herbs and parchment filled the room, grounding you as you began sorting through the documents.

Each file held the weight of decisions to be made: updates from the Dawn Court healer meeting, notes on new treatment methods shared between courts, and detailed reports from various Night Court healers. You carefully reviewed each one, annotating the margins with your thoughts and proposed actions. Your quill moved swiftly, the scratch of ink on paper blending with the faint sounds of the clinic.

Every now and then, a knock at the door would interrupt your focus. Healers popped in to ask for your opinion on a patient’s treatment plan, or to share updates on how things were progressing in the clinic. Despite the heavy workload, you welcomed these moments—they reminded you why you loved this work. Even in the chaos, there was purpose, and that purpose kept you grounded.

One particular case stood out, and you set the file down with a frown. It was from one of the Illyrian camps, detailing the ongoing challenges they faced. Supplies were running low but still manageable, and while progress had been impressive and made in spreading knowledge and materials, it wasn’t enough. Your mind wandered to Windhaven, the memories of your last visit there stirring unease in your chest. You would have to go back soon, as much as you dreaded it.

Between files, you found yourself slipping out of your office to assist in the clinic. A child with a persistent fever needed a careful examination, and an elderly woman with chronic joint pain sought relief. You moved seamlessly between tasks, your presence steady and reassuring. The healers you worked with were competent and kind, and it warmed your heart to see how well they managed everything in your absence.

Still, there was a heaviness lingering in the back of your mind. You hadn’t had time to check in on Elain yet, and the thought left an unsettling feeling in your chest. While Feyre had assured you earlier that she was resting, the memory of her vision—the way her body had convulsed and her eyes had gone stark white—clung to you. You couldn’t shake the image of what you had seen when you entered her mind, the darkness that had consumed the vision, the death it foretold.

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you stared at the document in front of you. The words blurred slightly, your thoughts drifting back to the moment Elain had slapped you. It wasn’t her fault, you knew that, but the weight of it all—her vision, your role in pulling her out, and what you’d seen—pressed heavily on your shoulders.

Forcing yourself back to the present, you straightened in your chair and picked up the next file. There was too much work to be done to dwell on the unsettling feelings. But even as you worked, the nagging thought remained: you needed to check on Elain. If not today, then tomorrow. You owed her that much.

By the time you finished the last document, the sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow across the room. The clinic had quieted down, and you sat back in your chair, staring at the neatly stacked files on your desk. Progress had been made, but the unease in your chest hadn’t abated. You knew it wouldn’t—not until you addressed everything that was hanging over you.

As you finished scribbling the last note on your parchment and set it aside, the soft knock at your door caught your attention. You glanced up just as Azriel stepped in, his presence instantly filling the space with a quiet, steady warmth.

"Busy saving the world again?" he asked, a faint smirk on his lips as his eyes darted to the towering stack of completed files on your desk.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head. "Something like that," you replied with a small grin. "I guess you could say I’m trying to keep the chaos at bay."

Azriel crossed the room, his steps unhurried, and perched on the edge of your desk. "You’ve been locked in here all day, haven’t you?"

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Are you keeping tabs on me, Spymaster?"

"Someone has to," he teased, his tone light but tinged with something deeper. "Otherwise, you’d probably forget to leave."

You laughed softly, pushing yourself up from the chair. "Guilty as charged. But I’m officially done for the day—well, almost. What brings you here?"

Azriel tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering to the nearly empty desk before meeting yours. "We made plans, remember?"

"Right," you said, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. "Our walk. I didn’t forget, I swear. I just... lost track of time."

He smirked, standing as you slipped into your jacket. "You’re lucky you have me to drag you out of here."

As you both stepped out into the clinic’s hallway, Elira spotted you and raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Leaving work before the middle of the night ? Who are you, and what have you done with Y/N?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face. "Very funny. I’m trusting you to keep everything under control while I’m gone."

"Go," Elira said, waving a hand dismissively. "You deserve a break. And maybe some fresh air."

"Don’t let her fool you," Azriel murmured as the two of you exited the clinic. "She’s probably relieved to have a break from you hovering over everything."

"Hey!" you protested, nudging him lightly as a laugh escaped you. "I do not hover. I supervise."

"Mm-hmm," he replied, his tone teasing but affectionate as his hand brushed lightly against your back, guiding you down the quiet street. The air between you felt warm despite the evening chill, and as you glanced at him, you found yourself smiling without even realizing it.

The streets of Velaris were alive with a quiet kind of magic that only came with the nighttime. The soft glow of faelights lined the cobblestone paths, their golden hues casting a gentle shimmer on the river that wound through the heart of the city. Above, the stars sparkled like tiny shards of diamonds scattered across a velvet canvas, their light reflecting off the spires and rooftops of the City of Starlight. It felt as if the world had slowed down, the rush of the day replaced by a serene rhythm, like the city itself was breathing in sync with the stars.

You and Azriel walked side by side, your steps in tune with each other, though neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn’t heavy; it wasn’t awkward. It was comforting—like a blanket wrapped around the two of you, shielding you from the chaos of everything else. Occasionally, his shadows would dart out, flickering like curious wisps before retreating back into him. Their presence was faint but constant, as if they, too, were enjoying the peaceful night.

The streets were mostly quiet now, save for the occasional soft laughter or distant hum of music spilling out from a café or a home. The scents of freshly baked bread, spiced teas, and blooming night jasmine drifted through the air, wrapping you in their warmth as you wandered further into the heart of the city. The river reflected the starlight, creating an endless mirror that seemed to stretch forever, and every now and then, you caught Azriel glancing at it, a small, almost wistful smile playing on his lips.

Your hand brushed his arm once—accidentally, at first—and you felt a jolt of awareness run through you. You weren’t sure why, but it felt like the bond, subtle and unspoken, was humming softly between you. A few moments passed before you carefully, almost nervously, slid your hand to gently rest on his arm, your fingers lightly curling around his sleeve. It was such a small gesture, but it felt like everything in that moment.

Azriel glanced down at you, his golden eyes catching the faint light of the faelights. His smile was soft, unguarded, and it made your chest tighten. "Comfortable?" he asked quietly, his voice warm and tinged with something you couldn’t quite name.

You nodded, a faint smile of your own tugging at your lips. "Yeah," you murmured, your gaze shifting to the stars above. "I think I am."

His smile widened just a fraction, and he turned his head to look at the sky as well. You could feel the muscles of his arm relaxing under your touch, as if your presence grounded him in the same way his did for you. The world around you both felt distant, as though this walk was its own little pocket of time, reserved for just the two of you.

As you walked, your steps carried you to a small bridge overlooking the river. You both stopped, leaning slightly against the railing to admire the view. The stars seemed impossibly close here, their light dancing on the water. The gentle sound of the current filled the air, mingling with the soft hum of life in the distance.

Neither of you spoke, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of meaning, of unspoken words and shared thoughts. Azriel’s shadows curled faintly around your fingers where they rested on his arm, and you let out a soft breath, feeling your heart settle into a steady rhythm that matched the peace of the night.

When you finally turned to look at him, his gaze was already on you, his expression calm but filled with a quiet intensity. The corners of his mouth lifted just slightly as he met your eyes. You weren’t sure if the warmth flooding through you came from the glow of the stars or from him, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

The walk was quiet for a while, the comfort of Azriel’s presence beside you a soothing balm to your thoughts. You glanced up at the stars, your hand still lightly resting on his arm. After a moment, you decided to break the silence.

“How was your day?” you asked softly, turning your head slightly to look at him.

Azriel glanced down at you, his expression softening. “Busy,” he admitted with a faint sigh. “The preparations for Hewn City are done, but it’s… tedious. We’re leaving early tomorrow.”

You nodded in acknowledgment, the mention of Hewn City tugging at something in the back of your mind. “It’s always tedious with them, isn’t it?” you teased lightly, though your tone held understanding.

He let out a low chuckle. “That’s putting it mildly.”

The conversation turned to smaller things after that—the tasks he’d tackled during the day, the little moments you’d found peace while working in the clinic. The exchange was easy, flowing naturally as you walked, the night air crisp and refreshing around you.

Then, as you turned down a quiet street, your steps slowed. You stopped in front of a large house, its windows glowing warmly with light. Even from the outside, you could hear the faint sound of laughter and the chatter of children. Azriel halted beside you, his sharp gaze flicking from the house to your face, where a wistful smile had formed. Your expression was soft, tinged with nostalgia and a faint sadness.

“What’s going on?” Azriel asked, his voice low and curious.

You gestured to the building, your eyes still fixed on it. “This is where I grew up,” you said softly. “It’s one of the orphanages of Velaris.”

Azriel blinked, clearly surprised. He had known of the orphanage’s existence—Velaris was a city that cared for its own—but he had never really thought about it, never imagined you having a connection to a place like this. But the way you looked at the house, with a mixture of warmth and old sorrow, made his chest tighten.

“What was it like, growing up here?” he asked, his voice careful.

You tilted your head slightly, your smile deepening as your gaze lingered on the house. “It was… fine, I guess. Much better than so many other places could have been. They took care of us, made sure we had what we needed.” You paused, the corners of your lips tugging upward in a bittersweet way. “I was the only winged child here, though. That made me different—set apart from everyone else.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, waiting for you to continue.

“The times were difficult,” you admitted, “but still, there were good memories. I remember Madja coming to see me every other day, checking in on me. She practically raised me, even though she couldn’t take me in.” A soft laugh escaped your lips as you looked at the house. “I tried to fly on my own once. I barely made it off the ground before I fell straight into the Sidra.”

Azriel couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips at the image. “Did it hurt?”

“Only my pride,” you teased, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the house. “I had good moments here, even though it was hard. Losing my parents… that was the hardest part.”

The lightness in your tone faltered slightly, and Azriel’s hand on your arm tightened just a fraction, a silent gesture of comfort. “Do you still think about them?” he asked softly, his voice gentle.

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Sometimes I do,” you admitted. “But… I can’t even remember their faces clearly anymore. I was so young when they passed. It makes sense, I guess, but it’s still hard to accept sometimes.”

Azriel’s gaze didn’t waver, his expression somber as he listened. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice quiet but weighted with sincerity.

You smiled softly, turning away from the house to meet his gaze. “Thank you,” you said simply, appreciating the steadiness in his presence. Then, with a deep breath, you glanced back at the house one last time before stepping away.

“Come on,” you said, your voice lighter now as you tugged him gently forward. “We still have the rest of Velaris to see.”

Azriel nodded, falling into step beside you again. But even as you walked away, he couldn’t help but glance back at the house, as if trying to picture the younger version of you that had lived there—the one who had already endured so much and somehow still become the person walking beside him now.

As the two of you continued walking, the streets of Velaris became livelier, the marketplace ahead buzzing with energy. Merchants called out their wares, the scent of roasted almonds and spiced cider filling the cool night air. You instinctively stepped closer to Azriel, the press of people making you feel the need to stay near him.

Azriel, ever attuned to you, noticed immediately. Without hesitation, he reached down, his fingers brushing over your wrist before one of his shadows slithered around it like a soft tether. The feeling sent a shiver up your arm, but it wasn’t unpleasant—it was comforting. A silent reassurance that he was there, that he wouldn’t lose you in the crowd.

You looked up at him with a small smile. “Keeping me on a leash now, Shadowsinger?”

He smirked slightly, his golden eyes gleaming under the market lights. “Just making sure you don’t wander off.”

You rolled your eyes playfully but didn’t move away. Instead, you let yourself enjoy the warmth of his presence, the way his fingers occasionally brushed yours when you both shifted through the bustling streets.

As you turned a corner, lost in the vibrant atmosphere, a small figure suddenly crashed into your legs, nearly knocking you off balance. A tiny child, no older than four or five, looked up at you with wide, teary eyes, his little hands clutching at the hem of your coat.

“Oh, little one,” you said softly, crouching down. “Are you alright?”

The boy sniffled, looking back and forth frantically. “I—I lost my mama.”

Azriel stepped closer, crouching beside you. “Do you remember where you last saw her?” he asked, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

The boy shook his head, looking on the verge of tears. Without hesitation, Azriel reached out and carefully lifted him into his arms. The sight of it made your heart clench in the best way. The way Azriel, the feared spymaster, held the child with such ease and gentleness made something warm settle deep inside you.

You watched as the boy curled against Azriel’s chest, tiny fingers gripping his tunic. “We’ll find her,” Azriel murmured, his voice steady and reassuring.

The moment didn’t last long before a frantic woman came rushing through the crowd, calling the child’s name. Relief flooded her face when she saw him, and she all but collapsed in front of you both.

“Mother above, thank you,” she breathed, reaching for her son. Azriel handed him over with care, and the little boy beamed up at both of you before burying himself in his mother’s embrace.

The woman gave you both a tearful smile. “Truly, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” you said warmly. “We’re just glad he’s safe.”

As the mother and child disappeared into the crowd, you turned to Azriel, still feeling the lingering warmth of the moment. He was watching them go, his expression unreadable. But there was something softer in his eyes—something distant, as if a part of him had once longed for the same embrace that child had just received.

You reached out, intertwining your fingers with his. He looked down at you, blinking in surprise.

“You’re really good with kids,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh. “You say that like I don’t deal with Cassian and Rhys every day.”

You grinned. “That’s different. Nyx loves you, you know? And that little boy—you calmed him down faster than I ever could.”

Azriel just shook his head, but there was the faintest dusting of pink on his ears. He gave your hand one last squeeze before leading you both forward again, back through the winding streets.

As you walked together through the quieting streets of Velaris, the familiar silhouette of the House of Wind loomed above, nestled in the mountains, its presence both imposing and oddly comforting. You tilted your head slightly, glancing up at Azriel.

Azriel hesitated for a moment before glancing at you. “Stay tonight,” he said softly. “Even though I’m leaving early tomorrow.”

Your chest ached at the thought of waking up without him here, but you nodded, offering him a small smile. “Of course.”

“Do you change places every night or something?” you asked, teasing.

He let out a low chuckle. “No, but the House of Wind is calmer than the river house. Feyre and Rhys barely sleep now with Nyx still not fully settling through the night. It’s better to leave them some peace for the moment.”

You hummed in understanding, your gaze drifting up to the House of Wind. It had been a long time since you’d been there. The last time had been brief, business-related. But now, standing here with Azriel, the idea of returning felt... different.

You turned to him with a smirk. “Are you going to fly me up there?”

He raised a brow, smirking back. “If you don’t mind, yes. Unless you’d rather take the stairs.”

You made a face, feigning deep thought before flashing him a grin. “Fine. But only if you don’t let me fall.”

Azriel scoffed, shaking his head in mock offense. “That happened once. And it will never happen again.”

You gave him an exaggerated, knowing look. “I know,” you said with a soft laugh. “Don’t worry.”

Without another word, Azriel scooped you up effortlessly, his arms locking around you with practiced ease. The rush of wind wrapped around you as his powerful wings spread wide, lifting you both into the air. The city of Velaris shrank beneath you, the lights twinkling like stars against the darkened streets.

You nestled closer, the warmth of his chest radiating through his leathers. The steady beat of his wings was soothing, the flight smooth, effortless. As the altitude climbed, you let your lips ghost closer to his ear, your voice soft, just above the sound of the wind.

“Your flying’s not bad, I’ll admit,” you teased lightly, feeling the faintest shift in his grip on you.

Then, without thinking too much, you leaned in further, brushing a kiss against his cheek—just shy of the corner of his mouth.

You didn’t miss the way his breath hitched slightly, nor the faint dusting of pink that rose along his cheekbones. His grip on you tightened just a fraction, but he remained steady, his expression unreadable save for the telltale warmth in his golden eyes.

The reaction made you laugh softly, pressing your forehead against his temple for a moment. “I think I like flying with you.”

Azriel exhaled, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite the slight blush he tried to hide. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t intend on letting you go anytime soon.”

You didn’t have time to process the weight of those words before the House of Wind came into view, its towering presence greeting you as Azriel angled his wings and began the descent.

——

Azriel’s room in the House of Wind was just as you remembered—calm, dark, and carrying the faint scent of cedar and night-chilled air. As you stepped inside, he set you gently on the ground, his hands lingering at your waist for a moment longer than necessary before finally letting go.

The space was warm despite the vastness of it, the heavy curtains barely letting in the moonlight. It felt safe, intimate even, as if the very walls carried the weight of memories—of quiet moments, of healing, of revelations too heavy to be spoken aloud at the time.

You swallowed, taking in the familiarity of it all. It had been months since you had last stood here, when Azriel was still recovering, when you had barely left his side. When you had first discovered the bond and had buried it deep within yourself, refusing to acknowledge the aching truth of what it meant.

And now?

Now, you were here again, but no longer holding that secret alone.

Azriel turned to you, his golden eyes scanning your face before stepping closer, his hand rising to brush your cheek with a softness that made your chest ache. You tilted your head into the touch, savoring it, before reaching up to hold his wrist, your fingers tracing the warmth of his skin.

Neither of you needed words in that moment.

Instead, you leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. It was slow, deliberate—not rushed or frantic, but full of understanding. The bond thrummed between you, a quiet hum of recognition, of home.

Azriel kissed you back with the same reverence, his hands settling at your waist, pulling you just a little closer. Not out of desperation, but out of certainty—certainty that he wanted you, that this was right. But still, there was a quiet restraint in the way he moved, as if he was making a silent promise to himself.

After a while, he pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the dim light.

“I want you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But not here. Not tonight. Not hours before I have to leave for the Court of Nightmares.”

You blinked up at him, waiting, listening.

“I want to take you to the cabin,” he continued, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “Away from all of this. Just us.”

A shiver ran through you at the thought, not just from the idea of what would happen, but from the way he said it—like he was already certain, already planning, already waiting for the moment you both fully accepted what was between you.

You smiled softly, nodding. “Then it will wait.”

Azriel exhaled, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your forehead before leading you toward the bed.

As you lay down beside him, your fingers instinctively reached for his. He let you trace the scars that marked his hands, let your nails gently drag over them, sending faint shivers through him. His wings twitched slightly behind him, betraying the way your touch affected him, but he didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” he murmured, watching you closely.

You smirked faintly, tilting your head as you continued your slow movements. “Maybe I like being gentle with you.”

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s dangerous.”

“Is it?” you whispered, lifting his hand and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles.

He swallowed, his eyes darkening just slightly, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before tracing his own fingers along your jaw, down to your shoulder, then back to your wrist, as if mapping every part of you he could reach.

After a while, you leaned in, pressing one last, lingering kiss to his lips before settling into his arms.

The silence between you was easy, comforting. Your breath matched his, slow and steady, as you allowed yourself to sink into his warmth.

Then—

“Oh,” you mumbled suddenly, your eyes widening slightly as the distant sounds of something unmistakable echoed through the walls.

Azriel groaned, closing his eyes. “I forgot about that.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, heat creeping up your cheeks as Cassian and Nesta’s… activities carried on without a care for who could hear them.

You hid your face in Azriel’s neck, shaking slightly with quiet laughter. “It’s fine,” you murmured against his skin, biting back another giggle.

Azriel let out a soft huff of amusement, his arms tightening around you. “I’ll soundproof my room next time.”

You nodded against him, letting your laughter fade as the warmth of his embrace lulled you toward sleep. His scent, his touch, his presence—it was enough to make everything else melt away.

As your breathing evened out, Azriel pressed a final, featherlight kiss to the top of your head, letting his own eyes slip shut.

Tomorrow would come soon. But for now, for this moment, it was just the two of you.

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