Heyyy! I have a little fanfiction idea with Azriel x reader with a vibe similar to the film She's a Man or Mulan, or maybe the protagonist pretends to be a man in the camps to escape marriage and she befriends the three boys, especially Azriel, so of course when he discovers she's a woman, all hell breaks loose! Thaaaaaaaank’s💋
Clad in Honor, Built on Lies- Azriel x fem!reader
Warnings: violence, angst, fluff towards the end, happy ending
A/N: Hello there! As someone who loooves Mulan, this was such a blast to write. I loved this request so much that I just HAD to do it justice🥹 (some parts have been written somewhat similar to the scenes in the animation)
See masterlist
She learned that silence was safer than honesty.
In her father's house, words were weighed like weapons, and hers were always found wanting. She was praised for stillness, for obedience, for the way she learned to disappear into corners when men spoke of alliances and advantages. Her life wasn't measured in years, but in usefulness--what she could secure, who she could bind herself to, what her body and name could purchase for her family.
The marriage was decided before she was asked.
An Illyrian male, older, brutal by reputation alone. A reward for loyalty. A transaction dressed up as honorary. She was told it would protect her family that this was the way of things, that fear was merely the cost of being born female in a world that prized strength above mercy.
She didn't cry when she heard.
Crying would have meant hope. And hope, she had learned, was the most dangerous thing of all.
She ran away the night before the ceremony.
No jewels. No farewell. Only a blade she barely knew how to wield and a cloak stolen from a servant's peg. The city gates were unguarded at that hour, the sentries half-asleep and drunk on routine. By the time dawn broke, she was already bleeding--hands torn raw from climbing, lungs burning from running without rest.
She did not stop until the world narrowed to survival.
It was in a nameless village near the mountains that the idea took shape. Not all at once--nothing so dramatic--but piece by piece, stolen from overheard conversations and the way soldiers moved through the streets without being questioned. Men were allowed to be angry. Men were allowed to fight. Men were allowed to leave, to do as they please. Men were allowed everything.
Men were allowed to live.
The transformation was not elegant.
She cut her hair herself, hands shaking as the strands fell into the dirt. Bound her chest until breathing hurt. Learned to walk heavier, to take up space instead of shrinking from it. She practiced lowering her voice, roughening it with disuse and hunger, until it sounded passable enough to avoid scrutiny. Every movement became deliberate. Every instinct--rewired.
She chose the name Bran because it was simple. Because it did not invite curiosity. Because it could belong to anyone.
The Illyrian camps did not ask many questions. They never did. A body willing to bleed was more valuable than a story. She arrived thin, bruised, eyes too sharp for her age, and claimed she had nowhere else to go. The male who recorded her name barely looked up.
"Bran," he repeated, scratching it down. "You'll either last or you won't."
That night, lying on a thin cot among strangers who smelled of steel and sweat, she stared at the ceiling and felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.
Not safety but possibility.
She did not know then who she would meet in those camps. Did not know how deeply a lie could root itself, or how dangerous it was to be seen for the wrong reasons. All she knew was that she had chosen survival over submission.
And for the first time in her life, the choice was hers.
Life as Bran was...surprisingly tolerable. Not easy, but tolerable.
The camp was brutal in the ways it had to be--cold stone or muddy floors, yelling instructors and commanders, rations barely enough to keep a body moving--but she noticed quickly that as a male, no one tried to push her around. She could exist without commentary, without the thinly veiled condescension women were trained to endure. She could sweat, bleed, curse, and no one would think twice.
Bran learned fast how to survive. He bathed in the river when he could, careful to hide himself behind a large rock or a cluster of trees. He learned to keep his hair very short and messy without it being suspicious, to mask softness in his hands with calluses, to lower his voice just enough that no one questioned it. Every meal, every manoeuvre, every training exercise was approached with the same quiet calculation: don't slip. Don't let anyone see the cracks. Don't give anyone a reason to ask too many questions.
Training itself was...merciless. Marching, running, lifting, weapons drill--all of it she could handle. But the hand-to-hand combat, the brawls, were the worst. They required too much proximity. Too much trust. Too much exposure. Every grapple, every thrown punch, made her pulse hammer in terror-not of pain but of discovery. One misstep, one too-close moment, and her secret would crumble.
And yet, she survived. Slowly, her body hardened. Her reflexes sharpened. Bran became just another soldier, at least one on the surface.
Until Cassian appeared.
He was brash, loud, and impossibly confident--exactly the sort of person she would have rolled her eyes at in any other situation. But there he was, leaning against the training wall, smirk in place as he flicked a short blade up and down in one hand.
"You," he called out, pointing at her, "yeah, you with the awkward stance. Ever consider fighting with style, or is that a full-time commitment to looking like you're about to fall over?"
Bran scowled. "I'll have you know I've almost mastered style. Just...not your style."
Cassian grinned, eyes lighting up like he'd found a new toy. "Oh, you got fire, huh? I like that. I'm Cassian. And you are?"
She hesitated, then gave the practiced name she'd chosen so carefully. "Bran."
"Bran, huh?" he circled her like a hawk inspecting prey--or maybe just a friend looking to annoy someone. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
Before she could reply with a pointed remark (or shove him into a mud puddle), a voice cut through.
"And I'm Rhysand," said the newcomer, with a polite smile that carried a hint of mischief. "And if you're going to let him harass everyone, I'll be the one to call him out. Pleasure, Bran."
Bran raised an eyebrow. "You're in on this too?"
Rhys only shrugged, perfectly calm while Cassian laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day.
Then there was the third. The quiet one. Shadowed at the edge of the group, observing rather than participating. His eyes were dark, sharp, and impossibly still. He spoke little, but when he did, his words cut through the noise.
"Don't encourage him too much," he said to Bran, nodding at Cassian. "He'll think he's invincible."
Bran blinked. Who...was this? He didn't smile, didn't laugh, didn't look like he belonged in the same circus. He simply...existed, watching, judging, interfering only when necessary.
"Bran," Cassian said, louder this time. "don't tell me you're intimidated by him already."
Bran scowled. "Intimidated? No. Just...annoyed. Very annoyed."
Rhysand smirked faintly. "He's Azriel. Don't let his quiet fool you. He'll have the last word eventually. He always does."
Bran groaned. Great. Two loud idiots and a quiet one who somehow made you feel like a misstep would end in public humiliation. And yet… despite all of it, there was a spark of amusement she couldn’t quite hide. The days as Bran had been tense, exhausting, and terrifying. But these three idiots… these three boys would make surviving camp slightly more bearable.
At least until one of them figured out she wasn’t actually Bran.
They days settled into a rhythm--somewhere between gruelling training and stolen moments of quiet--but Bran quickly realized she wasn't alone in her misery.
Cassian, Rhysand, and Azriel had taken it upon themselves to stalk her, or as they called it, "watch over" her. Bran didn't appreciate it. Not at all.
“You know,” she said one afternoon after being nudged into another push-up contest, “I’m starting to think I’ve been singled out for some cosmic form of punishment. Why am I the chosen victim of your constant stalking?”
Cassian leaned back on his elbows, grinning like the world was a playground and she was his favourite toy. “Because you’re… fun to annoy?”
"Fun to annoy?" Bran repeated, incredulous. "Do I look fun to annoy?"
Rhysand, ever the calm one, smirked faintly. "You're...different. Not in a bad way. It's refreshing."
Cassian’s grin widened like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this gem. “Alsooo,” he said, nudging Bran again with an elbow, “we just want to be friends. You’re the only guy who actually isn’t acting like- ” He paused dramatically, “like every other soldier who thinks training is a contest of ‘who can look the toughest while being completely insufferable.’”
Bran blinked, torn between exasperation and something else she didn’t recognize. Friendship? Not that she trusted the word just yet, but… she allowed herself a small, reluctant smile.
From that day, they followed her less like predators and more like...companions.
Training sessions became collaborative rather than competitive. Bran found herself laughing at Cassian’s ridiculous claims: “I’m going to be the greatest warrior of all time, probably the king of the skies too, and maybe invent a weapon that slices through literally anything”while Azriel rolled his eyes, muttering things like, “And pigs might fly, while we’re at it.”
Rhysand, surprisingly, was the voice of reason and sarcastic commentary all in one. "Try not to die while inventing impossible weapons, Cassian. The camp would miss you...barely."
Bran began to notice small things:
Azriel’s quiet attentions, subtle but intentional--he’d nudge her back into line during drills or be there in the shadows when she had trouble keeping pace.
Rhysand’s calm patience, the way he offered advice without making her feel incompetent.
Cassian’s energy, which was exhausting but strangely comforting.
She started feeling...something she hadn't allowed herself in years: normalcy.
It came out one night, around the fire, when the three of them were sharing stories of why they were in the camp--more like Cassian and Rhysand were sharing their stories while Azriel just watched--and what they hoped to be. Bran had just survived a particularly gruelling sparring match and collapsed into the dirt, listening.
Cassian talked first, of course, puffing out his chest as he kept loudly dreaming about his new glorious visions for himself...again. "I'm going to be the greatest warrior. Maybe I'll have my own squad one day. I'll be the hero everyone talks about in songs!"
Azriel, leaning against a tree, raised an unimpressed brow. "And you'll probably get yourself killed before breakfast."
Cassian laughed. "Details, details. Heroism is never tidy."
Then came Rhysand's turn, quiet as ever, voice low and smooth. “I was sent here by my father. Not… voluntarily. To train, to survive, and to prove myself.”
Bran tilted her head. “Your father?”
“Yes,” Rhysand admitted softly. “I am… not just another soldier. My family expects more of me. One day, I’ll… rule.”
Bran blinked. Prince. She almost choked on the word. For a second, the boy who had teased and joked with her every day seemed impossibly distant. But just as quickly, he leaned back, joking again, “And yes, I am still better at archery than both of you, so quit whining.”
Neither Azriel nor Bran spoke about why they are here, about their pasts. Maybe because the words felt too heavy, too sharp to be handled without drawing blood. Or maybe because some truths, once spoken aloud, refused to stay in the past and demanded to be lived through all over again.
The banter resumed as if nothing had changed, but Bran felt the shift. She was slowly, surprisingly, allowed into their world--not just as Bran, but as someone they trusted. Someone they wanted around.
Bran noticed Azriel most in quiet moments. He was slower to speak, slower to laugh, slower to let her in--but always there, just on the edge of the group. He watched, assessed, and sometimes, in the middle of training, would offer a word or a nudge that made her heart skip without her knowing why.
Cassian and Rhysand’s friendship was loud, full of jokes and jostling, but Azriel’s was quiet, deliberate, and far more dangerous because it made her feel… seen.
And Bran didn’t trust it. Not yet.
But every day, every laugh, every sparring match, every sarcastic comment and ridiculous boasting brought her closer.
Even if she still considered them infuriating little pricks.
The day had started like any other, crisp air, the sound of swords clanging, Cassian's obnoxious laughter echoing through the training yard. Yet something felt off.
Azriel hadn't shown up. Not once.
Normally, it wasn’t alarming. He disappeared into shadows often, brooding, wandering, doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t training with them. But today… he hadn’t even met them at their usual routine--the stretch by the cliffs before breakfast, the morning sparring sessions, the practice run along the ridges where Bran, Cassian, and Rhysand would inevitably fall laughing into the mud.
"Have you...seen Azriel?" Bran asked, trying to sound casual as she wiped dirt from her hands.
Cassian shrugged, twirling a blade lazily. "He probably went ghosting in the mountains again. You know him."
Rhysand exchanged a glance with Cassian, hesitated. "Yeah...he tends to disappear for long stretches sometimes. It's...normal."
Bran frowned, frustration prickling her skin. "Normal?" She pressed. "How is it normal to just vanish for an entire day without anyone knowing?"
The two boys exchanged a glance. "He'll be fine. trust us, we have known him longer than you." Cassian said finally, but Bran wasn't convinced. Her stomach twisted into anxious knots she didn't usually allow herself.
By nightfall, she could no longer stand it. Every fiber of her being demanded she find him. Wrapping her cloak tight around her, she followed the familiar trail through the woods until the camp faded behind her, and the lake came into view. Its surface was frozen, moonlight glinting off the ice, and there he was--Azriel--sitting at the edge, unmoving, as if carved from shadow himself.
She hesitated, then stepped closer, boots crunching over frost, and sat a respectful distance beside him. Silence stretched between them, long and heavy, filled with all the words neither had yet said.
Finally, he stirred, looking at her with eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her carefully constructed mask. "Why are you here?" he asked, voice low, almost startled as if waking from a dream.
"You didn't show up all day," she said, softly, unsure if she was speaking to Bran or to herself. "And...I guess I just got worried. A little."
He scoffed, turning his gaze back to the frozen lake. "No need to worry for me. I can handle myself."
Bran’s chest tightened. She got up slowly, standing behind him, voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I know,” she said. “Believe me, I know better than anyone what it’s like to be trapped, to have no one care if you live or die. But… there are people who do care. Who would search for you. Who won’t leave you behind. I know that.”
He was silent, taking in her words. After a moment, he finally exhaled a long, tired sigh while staring at the stars. “Today,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “is the anniversary of my escape.”
Bran's heart stuttered. Escape? "Your...escape?" she asked cautiously.
He nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, and let out a cold, humourless laugh. "You think I had these shadows from the moment I was born?"
"No?" she whispered, shocked, unable to hide the awe and horror in her voice.
He glanced at her briefly, expression hardening. “My father… my stepbrothers… they locked me in a cell for years. Tortured me. Separated me from my mother. Thought they could break me. Thought no one would care.”
Bran’s chest tightened so painfully it was almost physical. The parallels to her own life--her escape, her family’s sacrifice, the constant weight of survival--hit her in waves. Carefully, carefully, she recounted her own story, twisting it to fit Bran’s persona, leaving out every detail that would betray her, every softness that would make him suspect.
For a long while, they shared silence again, letting the frozen lake hold their secrets.
Then came the voices--soft but insistent.
"Azriel? You up here?" Rhysand called.
Cassian's voice soon followed, teasing and loud, "Don't hide in the shadows forever. The world's missing your broody glare!"
Azriel only gave a small nod in response, and for the first time that day, Bran saw a faint shadow of a smile tug at his lips. As they headed back to camp, Bran moved to separate from the boys, but Rhysand's hand on her shoulder stopped her.
"No," he said firmly. "Come with us."
Bran raised an eyebrow, cautious. "Am I...allowed?"
Cassian laughed. "Of course you are."
Rhysand smiled. "My mother already knows about you. There's plenty of room in our house for you too."
Bran's eyes widened. "Your...mother?"
Azriel, for the first time ever, made a joke, voice low and dry: “Yes. And she makes the best meat pies in the entire world.”
Her chest twisted with unease, scepticism, and a flicker of fear. Yet the boys calmed her, insisting, guiding, and by the time she followed them, the warmth of their trust felt heavier than any weight she’d carried in years.
The house was… everything she had imagined a prince’s home would be, but somehow more understated. Stone walls and polished floors, tapestries that didn’t scream wealth but whispered it, rooms that were large yet intimate. She found herself marvelling quietly as they moved through the corridors, the firelight glinting in polished wood.
And then she met her.
Rhysand’s mother. She was luminous, serene, and powerful in a quiet, commanding way. Her smile when she saw Bran was warm, like she’d been expecting her all along.
“You must be Bran,” she said softly. “Rhys has told me so much about you.”
Bran’s throat tightened. Rhysand was the spitting image of his mother--same dark eyes, same easy charm. And yet, she could see the gentle warmth he reserved only for those he truly cared for.
And then… the youngest. Estelle. A bright, bubbly girl with a smile that immediately made Bran feel at home. She spoke freely, laughing with her mother and with Rhysand, asking questions, welcoming Bran as if she had always belonged.
Bran allowed herself to feel it--the warmth, the safety, the home. The food placed in front of her, the soft bed in a room just for her, the easy camaraderie. The friendship.
And for the first time in a very long time, she let herself think maybe… maybe she could belong somewhere, be herself, and not just survive.
But then everything changed.
It happened at dawn.
Not the slow, creeping kind that gave warning--but the violent kind, when the sky was still bruised purple and the camp lay half-asleep, weapons stacked, guards relaxed. The first scream cut through the air like a blade.
Then fire.
Spring Court colors flooded the horizon--greens too bright, magic too wild--soldiers pouring in waves, their war cries shattering the morning calm. Tents went up in flames. Steel rang. Orders were shouted and lost all at once.
Bran didn't think. She moved.
Her sword was in her hand before fear could catch her, body responding on instinct honed by months of punishment and repetition. She ducked beneath a blast of magic, rolled through mud and ash, and came up swinging. Training took over--feet grounded, strikes precise, breath controlled.
She didn't know where Rhysand and Cassian were, who they were fighting. But Azriel was there.
She didn’t remember how they ended up back-to-back, only that suddenly his presence was solid at her spine, shadows snapping and striking like living things. They moved as one--her blade flashing low and fast, his daggers ending fights before they began.
"Left," he muttered.
She pivoted, blocked, countered.
"Behind you," she warned, breathless.
He didn't look--just trusted.
The camp was chaos. Illyrians fought desperately, pressed back toward the cliffs that bordered the frozen lake. More Spring Court soldiers kept coming. Too many. Far too many.
They couldn't win this head-on.
Bran's eyes flicked upward--and then she saw it.
The ridge above the lake. Ice layered thick from weeks of cold. The magic blasts cracking the earth beneath it. One well-placed strike...
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Azriel," she shouted, grabbing his arm mid-fight. "The ridge. If we bring it down- "
He followed her gaze, understanding flashing instantly. "You'd bury all of us."
"Not if we time it," she said, already moving. "Cover me."
He swore under his breath--but nodded.
She sprinted.
Magic scorched the ground at her heels as she climbed, fingers burning from the cold, lungs screaming. She reached the ridge and drove her blade into a fracture already spreading through the ice. Another strike. Then another.
The world held its breath. Then the ridge gave way.
Ice, rock, and frozen earth thundered down in a roaring wall, swallowing the front lines of the Spring Court soldiers whole. Screams vanished beneath the crushing weight. The lake shattered, water exploding upward in a violent surge.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then cheers.
They had done it. She had done it.
Relief flooded her--too fast, too soon.
She turned to run back...and that is when the blast hit.
Magic slammed into her side, white-hot pain tearing through her body. She was lifted off her feet, thrown hard against stone. Something cracked--maybe bone, maybe more. Her vision blurred, blood warm against the freezing air.
She tried to crawl. Tried to stand.
Another blow grazed her shoulder. Her sword slipped from numb fingers. Azriel shouted her name, but it sounded distant, warped, like she was already underwater.
Her strength gave out.
The sky spun. The noise dulled. Cold crept in where fire had been.
The last thing she felt was the ground rushing up to meet her...and then nothing at all.
Azriel had survived worse fights. That was the cruel irony of it.
The Spring Court attack had been brutal, yes, tents reduced to ash, blood frozen into the mud, bodies carried away in silence, but the fighting itself had been familiar. Manageable. Something he understood. He had moved through it like he always did, shadows striking, daggers precise, instincts honed by years of violence.
What he did not understand was the hollow ache in his chest afterward.
The camp was a ruin by nightfall. Fires smouldered where laughter had once lived. Healers moved endlessly between stretchers, hands glowing, faces drawn tight with exhaustion. The wounded were everywhere, groaning, bleeding, clinging to life.
And Bran was nowhere he could see.
He knew where he was, of course. The healers had taken him immediately, carried him away among hundreds of others. Unconscious. Broken. Still breathing, at least, that was what Azriel told himself, over and over, like a prayer he did not believe in.
They sat on a bench outside the healer tents, the three of them. Cassian restless, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Rhysand unnervingly still, hands clasped, eyes dark with thought. And Azriel--silent, staring at the ground as if it might open and swallow him whole.
“He saved us,” Cassian said hoarsely, breaking the silence. “You know that, right? If he hadn’t--if he hadn’t done that- ” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. “Gods. That was insane. Brilliant. Completely reckless.”
Azriel swallowed.
Reckless. Yes. That was the word.
Bran had seen what none of them had. Had acted without hesitation. Had trusted that the earth and ice would fall exactly as needed--and it had. Hundreds of Spring Court soldiers buried beneath it. The camp saved.
And Bran nearly killed for it.
“He shouldn’t have had to,” Azriel said quietly.
Cassian stopped pacing, turning toward him. “None of us should have. But he did. And now he’s lying in a healer’s tent while we’re out here breathing.”
Rhysand exhaled slowly. “We can’t pretend this didn’t change things,” he said. “The camp won’t. The commanders won’t. Someone that young pulling off something like that?” He shook his head. “They’ll take notice.”
Azriel didn’t respond.
All he could see was Bran sprinting toward the ridge, jaw set, eyes burning with purpose. Could still hear the crack of ice, the roar of destruction. Could still feel the moment afterward, the split second of relief before the blast hit him.
Before Bran fell.
His hands curled into fists. He had covered him. He was supposed to protect those beside him. That was the rule. That was always the rule.
Footsteps approached.
Azriel’s head snapped up as a healer emerged from one of the larger tents. She was pale, exhaustion etched deep into her features. When she spotted them, she stopped--and bowed deeply.
“My prince,” she said, voice low. “We need to speak.”
Something in her expression made Azriel’s shadows stir uneasily.
Rhysand rose immediately. “Of course.” He glanced back at Cassian and Azriel. “I’ll be back.”
Cassian frowned. “About Bran?”
The healer didn’t answer. She simply turned and walked back toward the tent.
Rhysand followed.
Azriel stayed seated, but every instinct screamed for him to move, to follow, to do something. Instead, he sat there, helpless, listening to the sounds of the camp around him, to the groans and murmurs and crackling fires.
Waiting.
And for the first time in a very long time, Azriel realized something terrifying.
He was afraid.
Not of war.
Not of pain.
But of what he might lose--of what he already feared he cared about far more than he should.
Cassian broke the silence first. "He's going to be fine."
He dragged a hand down his face, pacing again. "He has to be."
Azriel didn't answer. His attention was splintered--half on the healer tents, half on the memory of Bran crumpling against stone. Every second stretched too long. Every sound scraped against his nerves.
Then it happened.
Both of you. Get here. Now.
Rhysand's voice slipped into Azriel's mind without warning--tight, controlled, unmistakably urgent. Azriel's head snapped up. Cassian froze mid-step.
They exchanged a single look and that was all it took.
They were on their feet immediately, striding toward the tent Rhysand had entered minutes earlier. Azriel’s heart began to pound harder with every step, dread coiling tighter around his ribs. He prepared himself for blood. For death. For the words we did everything we could.
The worst possibilities clawed at him. The tent flap was pulled aside. Inside, the air was heavy--too still.
Rhysand stood near the foot of a cot, arms crossed tightly over his chest, face pale and unreadable. A single healer remained, her expression grave. And there--lying motionless beneath thick blankets--was Bran.
Alive. Unconscious.
Azriel's breath hitched despite himself.
Cassian glanced around, confused. "Where are the others?"
Rhysand didn't answer. He only stepped aside.
The healer moved then, hands trembling just slightly as she reached for the blanket. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled it down.
Azriel's world tilted.
Bran's chest was wrapped tightly in bindings. Not bandages.
Bindings.
They were soaked through in places, darkened with blood, stretched tight enough that the shape beneath them was unmistakable. The rise of a chest that had never belonged to a male. The curve that months of illusion, posture, and discipline had hidden from them all.
From him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Azriel couldn’t.
His thoughts scattered violently, crashing into one another--anger, disbelief, betrayal, horror, fear. His shadows recoiled, writhing, as if shocked into silence.
Female.
Bran was-
No.
She was-
Cassian’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he blurted. “You’re telling me Bran...Bran was a female this entire time?”
Azriel barely heard him.
His gaze was locked on her face, too pale, lashes dark against her skin, lips parted slightly with shallow breaths. Unconscious. Broken. Vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be while awake.
She had fought beside him.
Trusted him.
Lied to him.
Anger flared--hot and vicious--followed immediately by something worse.
Fear.
She could have died. Had nearly died. Had gone into battle bound and bleeding and hidden, carrying a secret that could have gotten her killed long before today.
Azriel couldn’t breathe.
He turned sharply, stalking out of the tent before anyone could stop him. The cold air slammed into his lungs, but it didn’t help. His heart hammered violently, thoughts spiralling out of control.
Female.
All this time.
The jokes. The camaraderie. The quiet moments by the fire. The trust. The escape, she had said. Her voice echoed back to him now, twisted and raw.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal, shadows flaring erratically around him. Fury burned--but it had nowhere to land. Not on her. Not when she lay unconscious, broken because she had saved them all.
He had been fooled.
And somehow… that hurt more than the lie itself.
She woke to pain.
Not the sharp kind--but the deep aching weight that settled into her bones, made every breath feel measured and deliberate. The air smelled of herbs and smoke, of clean linen and old blood. Canvas rustled softly overhead.
A healer sat beside her cot.
Y/N froze.
Memory rushed back all at once--the ridge, the ice, the blast, Azriel’s shout. Her breath hitched sharply as awareness snapped into place, and instinct took over. She gasped and reached for the blanket, fingers trembling as she tried to pull it higher-
A gentle hand stopped her.
“There’s no need,” the healer said softly. “I already know your secret. You’re safe here.”
Y/N's chest rose and fell too fast. Slowly, she let the blanket fall back into place, exhaustion crashing into relief so heavy it almost hurt. She swallowed.
"...Did you tell them?" she asked, voice rough.
The healer hesitated--just a fraction.
"I had to," she said quietly, "he is the prince."
Of course.
Y/N closed her eyes, a long breath slipping out between her lips. So they knew. All three of them. The boys she had fought beside. Laughed with. Lied to.
Her fingers curled into the sheets. "Does anyone else know?"
Fear edged her voice now--real, unmasked.
She knew what the Illyrian camps were like. What they did to women who broke their rules. She knew she wouldn’t survive a single night if the wrong ears heard the truth.
“No,” the healer said firmly. “No one else. I swore silence, and so did the prince. You are protected.”
Y/N nodded, relief and dread tangling together.
“I’ll call the prince and his friends when you’re ready,” the healer added gently. “But first, you should know your condition. You’ve broken two ribs, suffered internal bruising, and lost a dangerous amount of blood. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Lucky.
Y/N let out a quiet, humourless breath. “How long… how long was I out?”
“Today is day three.”
She absorbed that in silence.
Then, after a moment, she said, “Okay.” Her jaw set. “I’m ready. Please tell them to come in.”
The healer studied her carefully. “Are you sure? You could rest. Take more time.”
Y/N shook her head. “No. I just want to get this over with.” Her voice dropped. “It’ll make my exile easier.”
The healer didn't argue. She only nodded and slipped out of the tent. Alone again.
Y/N stared up at the canvas ceiling, heart pounding, mind racing. She replayed every moment, every joke, every shared meal, every quiet look. She now braced herself for fury, for disgust, for disappointment.
For losing them all.
Footsteps approached and then the tent flap opened.
Rhysand first: calm, composed, eyes sharp but not unkind. Cassian beside him, expression conflicted, worry and disbelief warring across his face. And Azriel...
Azriel didn't look at her. Not once.
His jaw was tight, posture rigid, gaze fixed anywhere but on her. Shadows clung to him unnaturally still.
Y/N exhaled slowly. "...Well," she said hoarsely. "I suppose you caught me at last." A pause. "I am female."
Silence.
"Yes," Rhysand said calmly. "I know. And I have known this whole time."
All three of them froze in shock.
Cassian whipped his head toward Rhysand. "You--what?"
Even Azriel turned then, eyes flashing in disbelief.
Rhysand sighed lightly. “When you first arrived at the camp, I checked your mind. Without your permission,” he added, glancing at Y/N. “For security reasons. My father taught me to. I saw… everything. Your life. Your escape. Why you were here.”
Y/N stared at him, stunned. “Then why didn’t you tell them?” she asked quietly. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”
Rhysand met her gaze evenly. “Because I knew you would tell them yourself. Or circumstances would force the truth out.” A small, knowing smile curved his lips. “And because it was never my secret to reveal.”
Something in Y/N’s chest loosened, just a little.
Gratitude welled up, sharp and overwhelming. She nodded once, swallowing past the tightness in her throat.
The truth was out.
And nothing--nothing--would ever be the same again.
Y/N drew in a steadying breath.
"For the other two of you," she said quietly, gaze lifting to Cassian first, then--briefly--to Azriel, "who didn't know...let me explain."
Rhysand inclined his head once, giving her the space.
She stared at the tent wall as she began, as if the words were etched there already, waiting to be read.
"I was promised to a male before I ever knew what marriage truly meant," she said. "A political match. Convenient. Beneficial. And everyone told me I should be grateful."
Her fingers tightened in the blankets.
"I knew what he was," she continued. "What men like him do when no one is watching. I knew I would lose everything--my voice, my freedom, my body." A breath shuddered through her. "So, I ran."
Cassian's face softened, all humorous gone.
“I cut my hair,” she said. “Bound my chest until I could barely breathe. I stole clothes too big for me and learned how to walk, how to speak, how to exist as a male.” Her mouth curved in something bitter. “I saw the way the world opened for them. How they’re allowed to be angry. Loud. Reckless. How no one questions their presence...or their worth.”
She finally looked at them.
“I wanted that life. Not for glory. For survival.” Her voice wavered only once. “So, I became Brandon. And I never looked back.”
Silence stretched thick between them.
“I know you might feel anger,” she said softly. “Or betrayal. But you were the only real friendships I’ve ever had. The only place I felt… peace.” Her eyes burned, but she didn’t look away. “And even if it was brief--those moments meant everything to me. I will always be grateful for them.”
Cassian blinked.
Then he scoffed--not cruelly, but in disbelief--and shook his head. “Are you serious?” he said, stepping closer. “Angry? No. Shocked, yeah. But impressed?” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Absolutely.”
Y/N frowned slightly.
“You survived Illyrian camps,” Cassian went on, voice growing animated. “You fought beside us. You saved our asses more times than I can count. I’ve been yelling at commanders for years that this place needs female warriors, and they never listen.” He gestured at her like she was proof incarnate. “You just proved them all wrong--and they don’t even know it.”
A huff of laughter escaped him. “That’s- gods, that’s impressive.”
“Cool,” he added.
Azriel’s head snapped up.
“Cool,” Azriel repeated sharply. “Not cool.” His voice cut through the tent like a blade. “And certainly not something to praise.”
Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t stop.
“You lied to us,” Azriel said, finally turning toward her fully. His eyes were dark, furious, not with hatred, but with something far more dangerous. “You built an entire false identity. You stood beside us under a name that wasn’t yours.”
Y/N lifted her chin. "I was going to be married off to a man who would've owned me," she said. "Who would've hurt me. Once I escaped, I had nowhere to go, to stay. This camp, as weird as it sounds, was the only place left."
"That doesn't change the fact that we trusted you," Azriel shot back. His voice rose--not shouting, but tight, restrained. "We shared our lives with you. Our histories. I considered you one of us."
"You still can," she said quietly. "I did this to survive."
"You don't get to decide that for us," he snapped.
Her patience finally snapped.
"No. You don't get to decide anything about this," she said, voice fierce now. "You have no idea what it means to be a female in this world. You don't get the right to speak freely. Or choose your future. Or even exist without being owned by someone else."
She held his gaze, unflinching.
"You don't get to be angry at me for doing what I had to do, because you'll never live what I have lived."
Something shifted. Just barely.
Azriel's jaw clenched. His fury faltered--not gone, but fractured. He looked away with a sharp scoff, crossing his arms.
"Whatever," he muttered.
Cassian broke the tension gently. "So," he said, softer now. "What's your real name then?"
"Y/N," she said.
The name settled into the space between them--real, vulnerable, irrevocable.
Rhysand exhaled softly, as if steadying himself.
"We need to get you out of here, Y/N. Before anyone finds out."
The words hit her like a blade.
She swallowed hard, heart plummeting. “Yes,” she said quickly, panic threading her voice. “I know. I- I understand. I’ve committed a vile mistake, and I accept the consequences, I need to be exiled, but please...just give me one day. One day to stand on my feet again and I’ll leave. I swear I won’t cause trouble.”
Rhysand blinked.
“Exiled?” he echoed, genuinely confused. “No. You’re not being exiled.”
She froze.
“I’m getting you somewhere safe,” he continued gently. “I’ve spoken with my mother. We both agreed--you cannot stay in the camps. Not now. Not ever again.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“There is a city in the Night Court,” Rhysand went on, careful with every word. “Far safer than this place. But my father resides there, and while he is just--while he is kind--he is also bound by tradition. If he knew your story, he would feel compelled to punish you. Severely.”
Her hands trembled beneath the blankets.
“So, for now,” Rhysand said, “I’ll send you to the Court of Nightmares. My cousin, Mor, will take care of you there. You will be protected. You won’t have to hide.”
The world tilted.
“You may decide where you wish to go afterward,” he finished. “What life you wish to build. But that choice will be yours.”
Y/N stared at him, stunned.
“I- ” Her voice cracked. “I don’t… I don’t even know how to repay you.”
“You don’t,” Rhysand said simply. “You live.”
She sucked in a shaky breath. “Thank you,” she managed. “I- thank you, truly.”
“I’ll winnow her there.”
Azriel’s voice cut in quietly.
Everyone turned.
He stepped forward, extending a hand, not demanding, not rushed. An offering.
“I’ll make sure she’s settled,” he said, eyes finally lifting to meet hers. “Safely.”
Something unspoken passed between them: regret, shame, understanding. An apology without words.
She felt it.
And she took his hand.
Cassian cleared his throat, then grinned, though his eyes were warm. “Yeah,” he said. “And if anyone gives you trouble until then, I’ll break their legs. Politely.”
A breathy laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
For the first time since waking, her chest felt lighter. And for the first time since running, she wasn’t alone.
"...and that happened over four hundred years ago."
Silence.
Feyre, Elain, and Nesta stared at Y/N as if she'd just grown two heads.
Then Feyre blinked. Once. Twice. "...Whoa."
Y/N laughed, soft and bright, leaning back against the cushions of the River House sofa. “Yes,” she said. “Whoa.”
Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, catching on the Sidra beyond. Time had moved gently here--centuries folding into peace. Elain sat cross-legged on the rug, absently twirling a curl of Nyx’s dark hair around her finger as the boy dozed against her chest.
“And you just- ” Feyre shook her head, grinning in disbelief. “You just became a soldier?”
“A very angry one,” Nesta muttered dryly.
Y/N smirked.
Elain tilted her head, eyes soft. “And… did you and Azriel reconcile fully after that?”
Before Y/N could answer, Nesta snorted. “Obviously. Otherwise why would they be mates right now?”
Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, but her smile lingered. “It didn’t happen all at once,” she said. “It was… slow. Painfully so. Trust had to be rebuilt, brick by brick. Azriel needed time. I needed patience. And somewhere between shared silences, late-night training, and him learning how to listen instead of brood...” She paused, lips curving. “...things changed.”
Nesta scoffed. “Shocking.”
Feyre laughed and then looked at Nesta. “Well,” she said lightly, “looks like your mate did end up becoming the warrior-commander he once dreamed of being.”
Y/N laughed too, but then her expression softened, something tender and sad settling in her eyes as she looked at Feyre, then at Nyx.
“I just wish you’d met Rhys’s mother,” she said quietly. “And his sister. They were the kindest, most welcoming fae I had ever known.”
A hush fell.
Feyre swallowed. “I know,” she whispered. “Rhys has told me so much about them. But I believe they’re still here--with us.”
Elain hugged Nyx a little closer, smiling gently. “You really are one of a kind, Y/N.”
“You’re right about that.”
Azriel’s voice cut through the room as he stepped inside.
Y/N barely had time to turn before strong arms wrapped around her from behind, a kiss pressed to her temple. She leaned back into him instinctively, smiling as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Cassian followed, immediately dropping onto the arm of Nesta’s chair. “Are we telling war stories again? Because if so, I demand a rewrite. I was far more impressive than she made me sound.”
“You praised yourself enough in her version,” Nesta said sweetly.
Rhysand entered last, Feyre rising to meet him as Nyx stirred, murmuring in his sleep.
Laughter filled the room--warm, easy, earned.
Y/N let it wash over her.
Once, she had been a girl running for her life. A soldier hiding behind a borrowed name. A secret wrapped in armor and fear.
Now, she was surrounded by family--chosen and found. By love that had survived lies, war, and time itself.
She caught Azriel’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
Then and now, she thought, this is what survival became. And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
