What Burns Beneath (8)
Pairing: Azriel x Vanserra!OC
Series masterlist // ao3 // previous chapter
tw: consequences of a stabbing, mentions of scars and assumptions of past abuse
Chapter 8: Azriel
Dawn crept in slowly, casting long fingers of light across the wooden floorboards. Pale and golden, they slipped between the shutters, painting the edge of the bed in warm hues as the first birds began to stir beyond the trees.
Azriel remained by the window, wings half-furled behind him, eyes fixed on the trees outside.
All night, his shadows had accompanied him as he kept watch, curling around the house, skimming through the underbrush, listening.
And inside, they had lingered over Adara.
They had reported her slow, steady breathing. Deep sleep. No thrashing, no muttering. No signs of pain beyond the occasional twitch of her fingers.
He’d almost let himself believe she was fine.
Until she didn’t stir when he whispered her name.
He stepped closer, frowning. Reached out a gloved hand, then paused, pulled the leather off, and laid his bare palm across her forehead.
Heat blazed against his skin. Burning.
Shit.
Her face tilted instinctively toward the touch, a soft, barely-there sound escaping her throat, half moan, half sigh. She nuzzled her cheek further into his scarred hand like it brought her some small relief.
Azriel didn’t let himself linger on the sensation, already kneeling beside the bed, pulling back the blanket and easing up the hem of her shirt.
The bandage he’d secured the night before was dark with blood and the scent hit him immediately. Metallic, soured.
He carefully unwrapped it, peeling the cloth away from the angry gash beneath.
The skin around the wound was red and swollen, angry-looking and festered with infection. Her magic wasn’t healing it. If anything, the injury looked worse than it had last night.
Azriel’s stomach dropped, and he cursed harshly under his breath.
The blade that cut her hadn’t been ordinary steel.
“Adara,” he said tightly.
She stirred at last, a low groan scraping from her throat. Her lashes fluttered, brow furrowing.
“Adara,” he said again, firmer this time, and her eyes finally cracked open, glassy and unfocused. She struggled to lift her head, her gaze clearing as she looked down at her wound, Azriel’s hands still hovering over it.
“Why didn’t you tell me the blade was poisoned?” he demanded.
She blinked slowly, her lips dry and cracked. “Didn’t…” she croaked. “What kind of courier carries a poisoned blade?”
Azriel didn’t answer. He was already moving—water basin, cloth, supplies. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, but his mind was racing.
This wasn’t a wound he could clean and heal himself. Not with how quickly the infection had taken root. Not with how hot she burned under his touch.
Her magic wasn’t responding. Her body wasn’t even fighting back.
His shadows slithered over the rim of the basin, agitated. Whispers of urgency, of failure, of too late threaded through them.
Madja. She needed Madja.
His gut twisted.
They were still on the Continent. Still far from Prythian, and Rhys had made it very clear: Adara wasn’t to be brought into Velaris without his express permission. No risks. No unknowns. The wards around the city had only recently recovered from the attack during the war against Hybern.
He looked at her, pale and burning, her eyes flickering as she swam in and out of consciousness.
Fuck it.
Azriel dropped to one knee beside the bed, pulled her limp body into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her breath hitched once, and then her head lolled against his shoulder.
“Hold on,” he whispered, and he reached for his power.
The air warped around them, the threads of reality tugged and bent, and the world vanished in a rush of shadows.
They reappeared inside the Town House with a snap of displaced air. He crossed the foyer in three long strides and turned down the hall, shouldering open the guest bedroom door with a burst of wind.
Rhys. He threw the thought out, his mental voice sharp and ragged. Get Madja. Now. Guest room. She’s been poisoned.
No hesitation. No explanation.
Rhysand’s reply came at once, cold and clear. On my way.
Azriel knelt beside the bed and laid Adara down as gently as he could, brushing damp hair from her brow. Her skin was still too hot. Her eyes fluttered open for a heartbeat, but unfocused, barely there.
He tightened his grip on her hand and whispered, “I’ve got you.”
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
The door burst open a moment later, and Madja swept in. Her healer’s satchel dangled from one arm, her silver hair bound tightly, her sharp eyes already assessing Adara before she took so much as a step.
“Move,” she said simply.
Azriel stepped aside without protest.
The ancient healer dropped her bag to the floor and rolled up her sleeves in one fluid motion. A glow bloomed over her hands as she pressed them gently but firmly to Adara’s side. A quiet groan escaped the female’s lips, her back arching slightly before she sank back into the mattress.
Madja’s lips thinned.
Azriel stood at the edge of the room, hands clenched at his sides, and it was an effort to hold back his shadows from swarming Adara’s limp form.
Rhys appeared in the doorway moments later, his violet eyes sweeping the scene with cold precision. He moved to Azriel’s side, gaze fixed on the healer at work, then on Adara’s flushed, sweat-slicked brow. His eyes flicked down to the exposed skin of her neck, her side. Her breathing was still too shallow. Her skin, far too pale.
“She didn’t tell me she was poisoned,” Azriel said, his voice low. “I think she didn’t know. It must’ve been in the blade. Something designed to bypass magic.”
Rhys said nothing.
Azriel kept his eyes on Madja’s glowing hands as they passed over the angry wound, now weeping dark fluid. “We were tracking a convoy of couriers heading toward Koschei’s lake and were ambushed. She took a cut to the ribs. Didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want help.” A pause. “By the time I realised what was happening, she was already burning up.”
Still, his brother didn’t speak.
But Azriel could feel him weighing the words, weighing the risk—the breach of protocol, the danger of bringing an unknown element through Velaris’ wards.
Then, at last, Rhysand turned to him.
His eyes flickered between Azriel and the bed. And then, instead of the reprimand Azriel expected, Rhys simply reached out, placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. A small, silent show of support.
Azriel exhaled, slow and quiet.
They both watched as Madja muttered something in an old tongue and drew a vial of thick amber liquid from her satchel, pouring it into the deep gouge that still bled across Adara’s side.
*****
It was hours before Madja stepped back from the bed.
The glow of magic faded from her hands, and she exhaled slowly, wiping her palm across her brow with a weary swipe. Her usually impeccable robes were rumpled, her silver braid slightly fraying at the end, but her expression remained calm and certain.
Azriel sat slouched in the chair on Adara’s other side, his wings folded tight, elbows braced on his knees. Exhaustion radiated from every line of his body. Panic and adrenaline had long since ebbed, leaving behind the hollow thrum of magical depletion and bone-deep fatigue.
Rhys had left some time earlier, a hand on Azriel’s shoulder and a quiet I’ll check back soon before he vanished from the room.
Now only the ticking of the old clock on the mantle and Adara’s steady breathing filled the silence.
Madja rolled her shoulders and gave Azriel a sharp glance, half professional and half maternal. “It was a rare compound,” she said simply. “Vicious and cleverly made. Meant to stall her power entirely while the infection did the rest.”
Azriel didn’t respond. Just watched her quietly, waiting for the part that mattered.
Madja tilted her chin toward the bed. “But not incurable.”
His breath escaped him in a rush.
“She’ll be fine,” the healer continued. “But it will take time. A week at least before the fever and weakness pass. Longer before her magic fully returns.”
Azriel nodded, but his jaw was still tight, as though his body hadn’t yet caught up to the reassurance.
Madja’s gaze narrowed slightly, and she added, “She’ll need to rest. Not half-measures. Real rest.”
He nodded again, more slowly.
She didn’t wait for a promise. Just gathered her things, glanced once more at Adara’s pale face, and then swept silently from the room.
Azriel stayed where he was, watching the gentle rise and fall of Adara’s chest beneath the blanket, her brow still damp with fever, her lips slightly parted as she slept.
And though his body begged for sleep, for stillness, he sat there and kept watch.
Just in case.
*****
Azriel jerked awake, shadows recoiling with him.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
His neck protested with a sharp ache as he straightened, the stiff-backed chair offering no forgiveness. He rolled his shoulders once, slow and silent, trying not to wince at the way his wings had cramped behind him.
The room was darker now.
A quick glance toward the window confirmed it, night had fully settled in. The last time he’d looked, the sun had still been inching past the horizon. He must have been out for hours.
Damn it.
He dragged a hand down his face, rubbing the heel of his palm into one eye, and turned—
Only to find Adara already watching him.
She lay still against the pillows, pale but awake, her amber eyes fixed on him beneath heavy lashes. Her expression was unreadable.
He sat up a little straighter. “You’re awake,” he said quietly, voice rough with sleep.
She blinked once. “So are you.”
A beat passed between them. Then another.
She just watched him with that calm, assessing gaze, as though still determining whether she was dreaming.
Azriel cleared his throat and shifted forward in the chair. “You’re in Velaris,” he said, quietly. “In one of Rhys’ residences, called the Town House.”
Her brows lifted faintly, but she said nothing. His previous words hung in the air between them, unspoken. I can’t trust you in Velaris.
She only hummed and let her eyes drift to the large window.
He hesitated, and kept his gaze carefully trained on her face. “Madja says you’ll be fine. The poison’s out. You’ll be weak for a while, and your magic will take a while to come back.”
Adara nodded once, eyes still distant. But he saw the moment his words hit her, as her head snapped back to stare down at herself. Her eyes widened as she lifted a shaky hand, before hiding it once more under the blankets. “It feels weird, not having my magic.”
He didn’t know what to say.
The room remained hushed until Rhysand appeared in the doorway, his violet eyes soft.
Adara glanced toward him, and to Azriel’s surprise, her posture eased. Rhys stepped in and sat on the edge of the chair Madja had abandoned, his voice low and kind as he asked her how she felt. When she answered with her usual sarcasm—“Like I was stabbed and poisoned, thanks for asking”—Rhys only chuckled, and something in Azriel’s chest finally began to loosen.
They didn’t speak of politics. Not of the risk Azriel had taken, or the orders he had ignored. Rhysand gave her the same warmth and patience he offered any member of his court. A quiet gift that didn’t escape Azriel’s notice.
Feyre stopped by not long after.
She kissed his cheek, then came to sit gently on the foot of the bed. Adara, at first tense, softened when Feyre simply welcomed her to Velaris and offered to take her around the artists quarter when she was feeling better.
Azriel noted that Feyre wasn’t showing yet. Not visibly. And Rhysand’s shield was still firmly locked in place. But her glow—gods, it was real. There was a peace in her that hadn’t been there before.
Even Cassian eventually came by. He thundered in with a grin and announced, “I’ve come to drag your ass to training.”
Azriel raised a brow. “She’s healing from a poisoned stab wound, Cass.”
“I meant you, brother.” Cassian winked at Adara, who rolled her eyes but looked visibly amused. “You’ve been hovering like an old crone since I got here.”
“I have not—”
“Yes you have,” Adara cut in, her voice still scratchy but filled with mock exasperation as she turned to Cassian, “he literally fluffed my pillow earlier.”
Cassian howled with laughter, and Azriel scowled, but his wings relaxed slightly, the tension bleeding out of them.
Cass didn’t stay long. Just long enough to make Adara snort into her cup of water and tease Azriel about his doting. But before he left, he ruffled Azriel’s hair. Quick, but affectionate.
Despite the revolving door of company, Azriel rarely left the room over the following days.
He disappeared only to bathe or grab a few hours of sleep in his own quarters. But mostly, he sat reading through intel reports in the chair beside her or sharpening his knives by the window.
Despite what she claimed, Adara didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she brightened whenever he walked in. Sat straighter, smiled more. As though his presence was a small relief.
He told himself she was just lonely.
He knew Adara didn’t like being still. Though she spent most of her time sleeping, when she was awake, her fingers twitched with the urge to move, to do. Bed rest grated against her spirit, and when she thought he wasn’t looking, he sometimes caught her frowning as she looked down at her hands, as though willing her fire to emerge.
Azriel couldn’t shake the guilt that coiled low in his gut each time she did.
He should have noticed the wound sooner. Should have forced her to rest. He’d seen how pale she was, how tense her posture had been after the attack. And he hadn’t recognised the poison. Hadn’t seen it fast enough to stop the fever from burning her up.
He’d barely even gotten her here on time.
*****
Madja came by to check on Adara’s progress exactly a week after he had brought her.
Azriel heard the shuffle of her practical shoes long before the firm knock on the guest room door. She didn’t wait to be invited in, just swept inside carrying her usual battered satchel like it weighed nothing.
Adara sat up straighter, her expression somewhere between wary and hopeful.
“You,” Madja barked, nodding toward Azriel, “Move. You’re in my light.”
Azriel, standing quietly by the window, arched a brow. “There is no light. It’s raining.”
“Don’t sass me, boy.” Madja strode forward, shoving her bag at his chest as she passed. “Pull the purple tonic out for me and mix it with the rose thorns.”
Azriel sighed through his nose, and began following her instructions without a word.
Adara blinked, her eyebrows raised. “Do you always talk to him like that?”
“Oh, yes,” Madja said absently as she summoned magic to her fingertips, her glow already building as she passed her hands slowly above Adara’s chest. “I’ve known him since he was a naughty little scrap of a boy. All scowls and bruised knuckles.”
Adara’s lips twitched. “Can’t really picture him as a little boy,” she murmured, “but the naughty part sounds believable.”
“I’m right here,” Azriel muttered as he finished mixing the tonic, setting it on the bedside table with a bit more force than necessary.
Madja just sniffed and waved him aside.
The diagnostic spell she cast glowed brighter for a moment, then faded with a soft chime. She gave a satisfied nod.
“You’re healing properly,” Madja said. “Very lucky, given the nature of the poison. You can start moving around. Carefully. No leaping out of bed to practice sparring or climb rooftops.”
Adara held up her hands. “Noted.”
“You’ll tire quickly,” Madja added, handing her a small glass vial of something thick and bitter-smelling, “and your magic will still be patchy. You’ll feel it come and go for a while, so don’t push it when it’s absent. Let it rebuild on its own.”
Azriel listened quietly from the corner, noting every word.
Adara glanced at him once, then turned back to Madja. “What about travel? I need to go back to the Autumn—”
Madja shook her head, already repacking her bag. “Winnowing’s out of the question for at least another week. Even with someone else doing the jumping. Your body’s too unstable. One bad jump could set back your healing days, or worse.”
“So I’m confined to Velaris.”
“For now.”
Adara exhaled and leaned back into the pillows, her face unreadable for a moment. Azriel caught a flicker of unease there. He’d passed on a letter to Eris for her a few days ago, but he knew she was still worried about explaining her absence back at the Forest House.
Madja slung her satchel over one shoulder. “You,” she said, jabbing a finger at Azriel on her way out, “make yourself useful. And try not to hover so much. You’re worse than a mother hen.”
Azriel scowled, but Adara, despite herself, laughed.
*****
Left stroke. Right stroke. Backslash.
His broadsword was a blur of steel as Azriel ran through the practiced movements, rain falling lightly on his bare back. The wind was cold up on the rooftop, but he had been training since before dawn, pushing his body to its limit after days of barely leaving Adara’s bedside.
As he swung again, the dummy in front of him faded, and all he could see was Adara. Adara, lying in that guest bedroom, dying slowly from the poison flowing through her blood. He couldn’t escape it. Every time he closed his eyes he saw expanses of skin, flushed with fever and—
Scars. So many scars.
Her skin was covered in them. Tiny cuts, larger slashes and terrible, puckered burns. Countless burns, some almost new, some long-healed. They ran down her arms, wrapped around her stomach, littered her legs.
He’d known she was skilled with glamors. Gods, she’d told him that she wore a mask, a costume. But he’d thought she meant it figuratively, had never imagined she meant…
He’d seen the horror in her eyes when she woke in the Town House to find her powers stripped away, her glamor temporarily nullified, her scars exposed. But he’d been careful not to mention it, not as she’d quickly moved the sheets to cover herself instead.
He thought again about how she had hidden the extent of her stab wound for hours, playing down the pain she must’ve been in. His fist clenched around his sword as he restarted the exercises from the beginning.
Left stroke. Right stroke. Backslash.
He had dismissed it as her usual irritating stubbornness. Adara was always insisting that she didn’t need help, that she could do things alone. But now, considering the cruel males she had spent her life reporting to, the abuse she must have suffered at their hands…
Azriel shook his head, sweat spraying outwards in an arc. Of course she was hyper-independent. It was exactly how he had been in those first years after leaving his father’s basement. How he sometimes still was, even around his chosen family.
He was going to fucking kill Eris Vanserra.
// don't worry, this isn't an Eris-bashing fic! But of course Azriel is going to make assumptions based on what he thinks he knows...
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