Between the Shadow and the Soul | Ch. 69
She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned into the wind, eyes closed. Mist clung to the night air, brushing her face like breath. She told herself it hadn’t meant anything. That they’d been shaken. That she hadn’t known what else to do in that moment, and neither had he.
It had been adrenaline. That was all. The rush of fear, the nearness of him, the sharp echo of magic still vibrating in her bones—it had short-circuited her judgment. Anyone might’ve reacted that way, after so much tension wound tight.
That was what Elara told herself. Because anything else—anything real—meant opening a door she had no right to walk through.
Her fingers moved without thought to the leather cuff around her wrist. The stitching was frayed in places—she traced one of them with her thumb, slow and rhythmic. A quiet motion, something to do with her hands while her thoughts prowled too close to the surface.
They all wanted her to believe she was getting better. Like if Elara stayed long enough, followed the rules, sat quietly through meetings and training and dinners, the Court of Dreams would just... absorb her. Assimilate her. Pretend her past — that Munin— was a shadow already outgrown.
But they didn’t know the whole of it.
They hadn’t stood ankle-deep in blood and did not even blink an eye. Hadn’t watched human boys sob and beg for their lives while their throats were slit. Hadn’t left messages scrawled in gore on cottage walls. Rhysand didn’t know. Cassian didn’t. Feyre, maybe, suspected—but she looked at Elara like she was a sad thing, not a monstrous one.
Azriel didn’t know either. Or maybe he did and refused to let it fully land, wouldn’t let himself name it. If he truly understood the depths of what she’d done—what had been asked of her and what she’d done anyway—he never would’ve looked at her like that. Never would’ve let his mouth brush against hers like he had last night. Never would’ve whispered her name like that.
If he saw clearly, he’d flinch.
So whatever had happened between them—whatever fragile, aching thing had stirred to life on the balcony—it couldn’t happen again.
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