A Court of Snow and Misery - Part 1
Devlon x Reader
Summary: When a mysterious sickness begins killing Illyrian warriors in Windhaven, Cassian brings you, the Inner Circle’s healer, to the one male who wants you there least– Lord Devlon. Warnings: Language, light description of sickness, symptoms and injury. Word count: 4.018
“There’s no way in all fucking hells I’m having this... female running around in my camp.” Devlon said calmly, but with a deadly stare towards Cassian.
Well, this was going well. The Illyrian war-lord was vehemently ignoring you, and not even the general had been able to convince him to let you into Windhaven– yet. You weren’t going to give up that easily, and it had been clear from the beginning that convincing him to let a female member of Rhysand and Feyre’s Inner Circle into his midst would be a struggle at best.
“Your men are dying. I think the time to be stubborn is over.” Cassian urged, and you decided to finally chime in.
“I’m sure I can find what’s killing them. But I need access and time. And your word that I won’t be attacked.”
It had been a tough two weeks for Devlon. That much was obvious if the bags under his eyes and the tremor in his hands he tried to suppress were any indicator. A sickness had befallen the war-lord’s camp, and the healers that resided in Windhaven were at their wits end. Cassian had offered for you to take a look days ago, but Devlon kept refusing. His stupid pride prevented him from letting you anywhere near his camp. Because you weren’t Illyrian, because you were female, because you were a part of the infamous Inner Circle. All good reasons for him to condemn you, you knew. But he was running out of options and fast.
Devlon’s chocolate brown eyes seemed almost bronze in the candlelight, a deep frown forming on his features. The war-lord was a massive male, tall and broad, and in his black Illyrian fighting leathers, he looked like the epitome of a warrior. His wings shifted behind him, an annoyed huff pushing past his lips. A long moment of silence passed before he spoke, his narrowed stare flickering from Cassian to you. “And why should I believe you’ll be of any use, girl?”
Gods, how you despised males like him. But no matter how much those Illyrian brutes irritated you, you had sworn an oath when you entered the healing quarters in Velaris all those years ago; to heal and protect anyone who sought your aid, without question. No life was worth more than another. That was how it would always have to be. It was the first lesson Madja had taught you, and maybe also the most important one.
“I’m not a girl,” you replied with as much authority as you could muster. “And I know what I’m doing. I’m good at my job, and I can mend your warriors, but you’ll have to let me.”
The leathery membrane of his wings caught the dim torchlight as he scoffed, folding his arms across his muscular chest.
“Fine.” The word was bitten out between clenched teeth, as if it physically pained him to concede. “But you step out of line, one breath of disrespect, and you’ll have another thing coming, Inner Circle or not.” Contempt furrowed his prominent, dark brows. “And if any of my warriors die under your care, healer,” he added, voice dropping dangerously low, “you’ll answer to me.” With that, he turned on his heel and stormed off, his wings slicing through the frigid mountain air like blades.
Cassian smirked at you. “Well. That went better than expected.”
You snorted a laugh, shook your head, and wearily rubbed your palms against your closed eyes. “I’m not so sure.”
Cassian’s grin only widened, and he clapped you on the shoulder, his amusement palpable. “Oh, come on. You managed to wrangle some sort of agreement out of Lord Grumpy. That’s more than I’ve managed to do in all the centuries I’ve known him.”
Devlon had disappeared in the misty clouds of the Illyrian mountains. The meeting point you had agreed on was a clearing in the woods, not quite Velaris, not quite Illyria. With a deep breath, you swung your bag over your shoulder and nodded towards Cassian with a tight smile. It was time for him to fly after Devlon and bring you to Windhaven.
Perched near the peak of a forested ridge, the camp was a collection of a few permanent stone buildings crouched near the tree line, constructed from the same gray mountain rock that surrounded them, as if the land itself had begrudgingly coughed them up. Smoke coiled from the chimneys in thin, reluctant trails, swallowed quickly by the frigid winds. The rest of Windhaven sprawled haphazardly; a patchwork of large firepits circled by simple tents. Mud slicked the paths between them, frozen in places and sloshing in others. To the far end of the camp, where the wind howled sharpest, the sparring rings resided. Brutal spots packed with weapons and all sorts of training supplies. Nothing about this place was particularly inviting.
“Charming...” You mumbled sarcastically, unaware of Devlon who had stepped up behind you and Cassian.
“Keep your commentary to yourself,” the war-lord barked. You turned to find him scowling down at you, arms crossed over his broad chest, wings tucked in tight against the cold. Unfortunately, you found the sight very attractive, which made you want to claw your brain out of your skull. “This isn’t Velaris. You’re not here to sightsee.”
Cassian bristled beside you, the casualness he usually wore now gone. “Enough, Devlon.”
But the burly Illyrian’s glare didn’t waver, not even for a heartbeat. “If she cannot behave herself–”
“Then you’ll do nothing,” Cassian cut in sharply. “You might run this camp, but you’re still part of the Night Court. You’d do well to remember who your High Lord is.”
Devlon’s jaw worked, the twitch in his temple seeming like a sure sign of him holding back an array of very colorful insults.
Slowly taking a step towards the commander of Windhaven, Cassian crowded the only slightly larger male. “Azriel and I will be checking in daily. We so much as find a scratch on her, we’ll put you so far underground the Mother will forget you ever existed. Understand me?”
The cold silence that followed felt suffocating, but then, Devlon’s lip curled, and he gave a begrudging nod, as if forced to swallow something bitter.
Cassian pivoted around, his face softening when your eyes locked. “You’ve got this. Keep your wits about you, don’t let them rattle you.”
You nervously chuckled, despite yourself. “I’ll try my best.”
With that, your friend took to the skies, vanishing into the thick, gray mist, and leaving you alone on the frigid mountain with the callous camp leader. The quiet stretched out for a beat longer than comfortable, and Devlon’s gaze traveled up and down your form. You felt as if every inch of you was being analyzed and judged.
“What?” You snapped when his critical glare didn’t waver. Somehow, the sharpness in your voice seemed to pull him out of whatever examination he was conducting.
“Nothing,” he replied bluntly and walked off, calling over his shoulder, “Come on then. The sooner you’re shown around, the sooner we can get this over with.”
With hurried steps, you followed him through rows of tents and past skeptical looking Illyrian’s. Every single one of them was broad and massive, pure-bred warriors wearing grim expressions, armed to the teeth and itching for a fight. After a few minutes, the muddy paths gave way to firmer ground as you neared the tree line, and the stone buildings that made up the outskirts of Windhaven loomed ahead. Moss crept up a few walls, and dark, narrow chimneys puffed thin coils of smoke into the colorless sky. Devlon didn’t speak as he led you to one of the smaller structures, half-sheltered by the trees. Its thick door creaked when he shoved it open, stepping aside to let you pass. You crossed the threshold tentatively, heeding Cassian and Azriel’s advice to be cautious at all times. But the inside was not what you’d expected at all, and you couldn’t hide the obvious surprise that creased your forehead.
A fire was already crackling in the hearth, the flames’ shadows licking along the uneven rocks that made up the walls. The furnishings were simple but oddly cozy– a worn, brown leather armchair and a dark green sofa. Weapons were neatly arranged in a rack behind the door and to the right was a small cooking nook that was well kept and clean. It felt strangely lived in. Functional, but warm in a way nothing else in Windhaven had been so far. Once you’d taken everything in, you noticed the scent; fir needles and sage. It smelled exactly like... him. “You’re letting me stay in your home?”
“I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe anywhere else,” he muttered, confirming that the ill-tempered war-lord had indeed opened his doors for you. “The males in this camp don’t take kindly to outsiders. Less so when they’re female and working for Rhysand.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but Devlon stepped past you to open a cabinet, taking out a thick, woolen blanket and throwing it on the sofa unceremoniously. His movements were rushed, like he didn’t want to linger in the same room with you for longer than necessary.
“That’s my bedroom,” he said without looking back, nodding once to the lofted space tucked beneath the sloped ceiling. “You’ll sleep down here. The sofa is comfortable enough.”
Glancing at the green cushions again, you decided that it didn’t look too terrible. Used and maybe a little lumpy, but not the worst sleeping arrangement you’d had.
“And let me be clear,” Devlon said, glaring down at you. “You’re not here because I want you here. You’re here because Rhysand decided to shove you into my camp, and I’d rather have you under my roof than cleaning blood off the snow come morning. So don’t mistake this for hospitality. And don’t touch my shit.”
You met his stare without flinching. “Don’t worry. The urge to snoop through your undergarments is overwhelming, but I’ll restrain myself.”
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes, the barest hint of intrigue. But it was gone just as quickly, buried beneath that permanent scowl of his. “Well, fuck me, you’re going to be a real nightmare, aren’t you?”
You gave him a saccharine smile. “Takes one to know one.”
At that, he actually huffed. A small, involuntary sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t died in his throat so fast. Devlon blinked, as if surprised by the noise himself. Then his frown deepened once more, like he could erase the moment entirely through sheer force of will. Without another word, he turned on his heel and yanked the door open, letting in a gust of icy air.
“Come on,” he muttered, not bothering to look at you again. You followed him back out into the cold, the door snapping shut behind you.
The walk was brisk and mercifully quiet, save for the clatter of weapons from the sparring rings. The healing house stood at the far edge of the permanent structures, gray like the others, but marked by a red piece of fabric that swung by a nail above the door. Devlon didn’t pause as he shoved it open and stepped aside, letting you enter first. Immediately, the familiar scent of herbs and alcohol mixed with blood greeted you. The warmth inside was faint but welcome, pushed out from a small hearth tucked into one corner. Several cots lined the walls, all of them occupied with Illyrians suffering to various degrees, and countless shelves groaned under jars, vials, and folded linens. It wasn’t pristine, but it was organized and functional. You stepped further inside, eyes scanning the space. Pale faces, damp bandages, low groans– whatever sickness had taken root here, it was no small thing. Your fingers itched to start sorting through the vials and medicines, but Devlon’s boots thudded behind you.
“Elaira,” he called, the authority in his voice eliciting goosebumps on the surface of your skin. From behind a partition of hanging fabric, an Illyrian female emerged. She looked to be around your age, maybe a little older, her dark hair braided tightly against her scalp. Her eyes were sharp, assessing you in a single guarded sweep. What caught your attention immediately, though, were her wings. Or rather, what remained of them. Clipped clean at the middle joint, the scars were a horrible reminder of what still happened to females all over Illyria. “Elaira’s the head healer,” Devlon explained. “She’s in charge.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, inclining your head with a small smile on your face.
Elaira didn’t smile back, but her chin dipped in acknowledgment. “We’re glad to have another pair of hands,” she said. “Even if they come from Velaris.” There was no anger in her tone, just dry humor, the kind that slipped easily between people who floated on the same wavelength. “I don’t mind where help comes from,” Elaira added, already moving toward a shelf and grabbing a roll of fresh bandages. “As long as you’re not squeamish and you don’t talk too much.”
You followed her, reaching for a jar of antiseptic. “I’m a healer. I’ve seen everything and then some. But I can’t promise anything when it comes to the talking.”
That earned you a side-glance and the ghost of a smirk. “Hm. We’ll get along just fine, I think.”
Behind you, Devlon shifted, and his brow furrowed slightly as he watched the two of you move around each other with ease. “Right,” he muttered, clearly confused by the entire exchange. “I’ll pick you up for dinner.”
Before he left, you turned just enough to catch his expression, something between wonder and mild concern, like he didn’t quite trust what he was seeing.
“Why is he such a prick?”, you asked Elaira once Devlon was out of the door.
Elaira didn’t even blink. “Because he was left out in the snow too long as a babe.”
Huffing a laugh, you set down the jar with a soft clink. “That would explain a lot.”
Elaira tore open a packet of dried feverfew, her hands moving with steady confidence that only years of fieldwork could give. “He’s not as heartless as he makes himself out to be,” she said after a moment. “But he is a prick. And a stubborn one at that.”
You raised a brow. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“Centuries of firsthand experience,” she said dryly. “Still, he keeps the worst of the bunch in line. And around here, that counts for something.” Then, nonchalantly, she added, “he’s also my brother.”
It took a few seconds for her words to fully register, then your eyes widened in shock. “Devlon is your brother?”
She nodded, reaching for a roll of bandages. “Half-brother, technically. Our father was a busy male.”
Embarrassment flushed your cheeks at the realisation of how you’d spoken about Devlon before. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”
You moved, muscle memory taking over as you set your bag down and began laying out supplies. The warrior on the cot was young, barely more than a boy. His skin was clammy and sickly pale beneath the torchlight, and his breathing was shallow, each inhale rattling faintly in his chest.
“Don’t be,” she interrupted with a wry quirk of her lip. “You’re not the first to be put off by his winning personality.”
Elaira gestured toward the nearest cot with her chin. “We’ll start here.”
“Fever spiked this morning, then the tremors started.” Elaira explained.
Pressing your pointer and middle finger against his wrist, you counted. The Illyrians’ pulse was too weak and slow. “Have you been able to get some food or water into him?”
“Not much,” she admitted, her frown deepening. “He’s been barely coherent, and it’s getting worse by the hour.” Elaira handed you a damp rag, nodding for you to take over and continue the assessment.
For the next few hours, your world narrowed to the steady rhythm of your work. You cleaned wounds that should have been healing but weren’t, checked milky pupils clouded with fever, coaxed sips of bitter tonic past cracked lips. Elaira moved beside you seamlessly, handing you what you needed before you even asked for it. Whatever sickness had taken hold of Windhaven was cruel and horrifyingly subtle. By the time you straightened, flexing your sore fingers, the sky outside had turned dark.
“I think this is some form of poisoning. But I’ve never seen anything like it before. There must be a cause, something that connects all of them,” you mumbled, partially to yourself and to Elaira. Wild eyes flicked between warriors as you thought long and hard if you could recall a time during your work with the Inner Circle where something similar had crossed your path, but your mind was blank. “Have they eaten something? Is there a water source only they have used?”
Before Elaira could answer, the door to the healing house flew open so hard a few vials on the shelf beside you rattled. Devlon barged in, his boots thudding on the stone floor and that ever persistent frown lingering on his rugged, but oddly beautiful face. Both of you looked up as he strode inside, a breeze of chilled mountain air obediently following him. His eyes, dark as the sky outside, darted around the infirmary, taking note of the beds filled with Illyrians, the vials and instruments littering the tables, and finally, you and Elaira.
“Tell me what you found,” he barked, peering down at the warrior writhing in the cot before you.
“I think it’s poison,” you answered plainly. Devlon didn’t seem like the kind of male to beat around the bush, so you decided neither would you.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. “Explain.”
You met his gaze unflinchingly. “Their wounds are showing no signs of healing, even though we’ve cleaned them thoroughly. They’re weak, pale, and feverish. Their hearts are slow, and they’re struggling to breathe properly. I’m sure you’ve noticed the tremors, too. That’s not how an infection behaves. Besides, I have countless remedies for various illnesses– nothing is working. Which makes me wonder if it’s an antidote we really need.”
As you spoke, he nodded slowly, seemingly weighing your every word in that stoic head of his. A long moment passed, and his eyes swept the infirmary again. Finally, he grunted in acknowledgment. “And the common denominator between them?”
“That’s what we’ll need to figure out,” you replied, glancing over at Elaira, who was busy again, changing a warrior’s bandage on his thigh.
Devlon huffed through his nose, arms crossed. “They were on patrol together,” he gestured around the room, “the ones who got sick. They all drank from the same spring.”
Biting your lip, you followed that thought for a moment, but ended up shaking your head. “A spring that’s available to everyone. More people would be sick at this point if that was the source.”
That gave him pause. “You sure you’ve never seen anything like this before?” Devlon asked, an edge to his tone that rang with a hint of desperation.
“No, but I think the poison enters through the blood rather than through food or drink. It seems potent, works quickly, and affects the entire body. Plus, if the poison enters through the digestive system, there’s a risk that the victims will vomit, which would render it useless.”
Spending years with the Inner Circle, especially with Azriel and his spies, who needed the most medical attention, left you with a vast knowledge of all kinds of deceit on top of your healing skills.
Devlon’s eyes flared with bright red fury, and he kicked a metal bucket beside one of the cots, sending it flying. “Fuck!”
Neither Elaira nor you flinched at his reaction. Instead, you lifted your hands, palms forward, and carefully placed one atop Devlon’s bicep. “Look, we’ll figure this out. For now, block off the training grounds that these warriors used. We can thoroughly examine the area tomorrow. I’ll make us something to eat in the meantime, and then we can think about what to do. Rash decisions will only escalate this situation.”
He froze at the contact, his entire body going tense beneath your touch. The muscles in his arm went taut, his warm skin radiating through the leathers that clung to his solid frame. But he didn’t pull away, and after a heartbeat, he gave a barely perceivable nod. “Fine.”
With that, he pulled away from you and shot a glare at his sister. Then, he stormed out of the healing house once more. When you glanced towards Elaira, she smirked and shook her head.
“What?” You asked, furrowing your brows in confusion.
“Oh, nothing.” Elaira went right back to her work, her face schooled into a look of utmost concentration. But that didn’t hide her grin. Or the amusement gleaming in her dark eyes. You chose to ignore whatever thoughts were clearly brewing in her mind, helped her finish up in the healing house, and then made your way back toward Devlon’s place. Since you weren’t permitted to roam the camp alone, Elaira walked with you, her presence already becoming a comfort. The air in Windhaven was much drier and more stinging than in Velaris. Crisp mountain cold filled your lungs with every breath, and you found you didn’t mind it at all. With each inhale, it felt as though something inside your chest loosened, as if the tight knot of stress and endless responsibility you carried was slowly unraveling. It was an odd sensation, considering the task you had to fulfill here, but your mind and body were too exhausted to give it much thought.
By the time you reached Devlon’s front door, your shoulders had dropped without you even realizing it. Elaira turned toward you, a broad, unmistakably smug grin spreading across her pretty face.
“You know,” she started casually, “my brother might be a stubborn, ill-tempered prick with a tendency to brood, but he’s not so bad. Most of the time at least.”
“Alright…” you replied, eyes narrowed incredulously.
“And he’s alone, without a female,” Elaira tacked on unceremoniously. “Has been for a few centuries now.”
It dawned on you what she was trying to imply and your eyes widened, mouth falling open in shock. “You cannot be serious!”
She shrugged, turning back toward the camp. “I am, actually. Have fun cooking.” Then, she shot you a devious smirk over her shoulder and called, “Oh, and Devlon hates peas.”
“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath as you pushed open the wooden door to Devlon’s hut. For a long moment, you simply stood there.Elaira’s words churned inside you, simmering like a potion left too long over the fire. You tried to ignore them, but they clung stubbornly to every corner of your brain. And far worse, you couldn’t quite ignore the flicker of relief that threaded through your veins at the idea of Devlon being… available. You cleared your throat sharply, as if the sound alone might banish the notion. Wiping your damp palms against your hips, you shoved the thought as far from your mind as you could manage and moved into the cramped little kitchen nook. Devlon’s home was modest, a simple stone structure built with function in mind, meant to shield its occupants from Windhaven’s unforgiving weather and little else. A worn wooden table, just large enough for two, sat near the stove, a single chair tucked on either side. No decorations adorned the walls, and you couldn’t find a single trinket or personal touch to soften the space. It was neater than even Azriel’s quarters, which until now you had deemed impossible. With a quiet sigh, you turned your attention to the cabinets, opening them one by one until you eventually uncovered a loaf of bread and a few tins of mushroom stew. You poured the contents of one can into a cast-iron pot and set it over the stove, starting the flame beneath it. You had only just begun stirring when the front door opened and Devlon returned.
ADHD is weird, because one second, I'm totally into Brimstone, writing non stop and the next I develop an obsession with the Illyrian war-lord Devlon?! Anyway, I hope a few people enjoy this. ✨
Let me know if you want to be tagged in part 2.
