🗡️🖤🦇
The camp reeked of sweat, smoke, and judgment. Ash drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the metallic tang of old blood and stale male pride. The clang of blades echoed from the sparring rings. Every breath felt like inhaling stone dust and memory.
Azriel stood at the edge of the training ring, arms crossed tight over his chest, wings half-flared despite his efforts to appear still. Shadows coiled around his boots like hounds pacing on a short leash.
He hated being here.
Not for the cold. Not for the altitude or the constant ache in his wings from the thinner mountain air. No, it was the eyes. The sneers. The layered, simmering contempt that always lingered in Windhaven like rot in the stone.
And Elain was out of his sight. That was the worst of it. She was alone, well, not alone. She was with Emerie. With them. Illyrians who distrusted her, whispered about witches and Cauldron-touched females. Who didn't understand that gentleness wasn't weakness. That softness wasn’t submission.
He knew the smell of fear and envy. He knew how power was punished here, especially when it came wrapped in silk and quiet smiles. And he couldn’t follow her. Couldn’t hover over her like a blade waiting to drop. Not when their relationship was still shrouded in secrecy, hidden beneath shadows and unspoken truths.
So he stayed. Where every minute scraped against his skin like broken glass. The only reason he hadn’t launched someone off a cliff by Elain—gods, Elain—had cupped his face that morning, kissed the edge of his jaw, and whispered, “Trust me.”
He did. That was the problem.
He trusted her. It was everyone else he didn’t trust.
His shadows stiffened suddenly, whispering, flickering like a spark in dry grass. She’s back. Azriel’s head snapped up. His gaze cut past the barracks, across the frost-bitten path leading down from the terraces.
And then he saw her.
Elain.
Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her braid loosening around her crown, curls falling like gold-dusted ivy across her shoulder. Her her tunic smudged with soil, a single vine still tangled in her hair. She looked like the wild, living heart of the earth itself.
And she was glowing.
But his heart stopped.
A young Illyrian male approached her from the side, broad-shouldered, too familiar. Laughing as he said something Azriel couldn’t hear. He leaned in. Too close. And lifted his hand as if he was going to remove the vine from her hair.
Azriel’s jaw locked. The shadows snapped taut around him, coiling like blades under the skin. He took one step forward before stilling himself with iron will.
She asked for space. She can handle herself.
But the male leaned in again, mouth curved with smugness, gaze trailing down her figure like he owned the right. Azriel’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.
He imagined the scene—his fist connecting with that male’s jaw, dragging him to the mud, whispering low and cold: She’s already spoken for. My scent is on her. My name is tangled in her moans.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Because just then, Elain turned her head, graceful and poised, and saw him. And smiled. A secret smile. Warm. Possessive. One she gave to no one else.
His.
She said something to the male, gentle and dismissive, and walked away without looking back. Not in a rush. Not afraid. Just... finished.
Because she’d seen him. And that was all she needed. Azriel exhaled slowly, jaw still tight. His shadows flickered around his shoulders like restrained rage.
Not yet. Not here.
But if that male ever looked at her again… He might forget every reason they kept this a secret.
Elain crossed the field, her braid swaying with each step, her lips still curled with amusement. She smelled of crushed herbs and sun-warmed soil. And something fierce.
“You look like you’re about to kill someone,” she said softly as she reached him.
“I’m not,” Azriel said through clenched teeth. “But I’m thinking about it.”
Her laugh was light and unbothered, and gods he wanted to bottle it. Keep it for himself.
“Jealousy isn’t a great look on you, Spy Master.”
He met her gaze at last, eyes hard. “I’m not jealous.”
She arched a brow. “No?”
“I don’t get jealous,” he said flatly. “I get territorial.”
That made her grin, sharp and knowing. “You’re adorable when you try to sound dangerous.”
His mouth twitched. “I am dangerous.”
“And yet you stayed perfectly still while that male was practically breathing down my neck.”
“Because if I hadn’t, I would’ve shattered his jaw and ripped his wings apart.” He glanced back toward the camp. “You asked me to trust you. I’m trying.”
Her expression softened, voice dropping low. “And you did. I saw you watching.”
Azriel turned to her, shadows curling at his feet. “He touched your hair.”
Elain stepped closer, brushing her fingers down the edge of his gloved hand.
“He tried,” she said. “I reminded him I’m not here for his attention.”
Azriel’s shadows surged again. “Then who are you here for?”
She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “You.”
His breath hitched.
“Good,” he said darkly. “Because if he had touched you, Elain, I wouldn’t care who saw. I would’ve made sure no one ever forgot that you’re mine.”
Her fingers trailed down his wrist like a dare. “Still not jealous?” she whispered.
He growled low in his throat. “Don’t push me, Seer.”
He took her hand in his, holding it too tightly, and shadow-walked them straight out of Windhaven.
But instead of the River House, he brought her to the townhouse. Because if she wanted to test how territorial he could be... she was going to find out.
@elriel-month
Read The Rest on AO3