A short, cautious walk around the Town House while Azriel was busy training, that was it. Madja had said movement, hadn’t she? She hadn’t said sit around and be hovered over like some porcelain doll. And after a week of bedrest, the walls were beginning to close in. So, she’d gratefully pulled on warm clothes from the guest room wardrobe and begun an exploration of the hallways beyond her room.
The smell hit her first. Warm, rich, and sugary. She followed it to the kitchen and paused, surprised.
Elain Archeron stood at the centre island, flour smudged on her cheek and a mixing bowl cradled in one arm as she stirred a glossy, dark batter. Her soft humming barely carried over the quiet whir of the oven, and a second cake already cooled on a nearby wire rack.
Adara lingered a moment in the doorway, watching. So, this was Lucien’s mate.
She’d never met Elain before, but she had heard the stories. The middle Archeron sister, who saw visions. The one who had killed the King of Hybern. The one who, somehow, remained sweet and soft-spoken even as the world burned around her. She wore a pale pink dress, as simple as it was elegant, with a flowery apron atop it. Her brown hair hung in waves down her back, pinned away from her face so as not to get in the way of her cooking.
Adara stepped into the room.
“Need a taste tester?” she asked lightly.
Elain looked up, startled, but her expression quickly melted into a polite, gentle smile. Unlike her sisters, Elain’s eyes were glittering bronze, her features soft and open. “Oh, hello. You must be Adara.”
“I suppose I must.” She padded to the counter and leaned on one elbow, watching as Elain returned to stirring. “Chocolate?”
Elain nodded. “It’s my favourite.”
“Mine too,” she replied, a genuine smile curving her lips.
To her surprise, they fell into easy conversation. Elain asked if she was feeling better, and Adara answered truthfully — still sore, still tired, but improving.
Meanwhile, Adara watched the other female closely.
At first, she was certain it was a mask, that deliberately composed innocence. Adara knew how to wear that same expression, all wide-eyed softness and lilted smiles, the sort of face that made others dismiss you before you ever opened your mouth. She had worn it often, especially in her early years at court, when being underestimated was its own kind of power.
But as they spoke, and as Elain carefully piped icing and freely offered her a taste, Adara began to realise it wasn’t an act. Given everything Elain had endured in the last year — her trauma, her transformation — it was almost unfathomable, but there was nothing forced about her kindness. No hidden calculation behind her eyes. Just genuine warmth. It startled her. And, quietly, warmed something in her chest she hadn’t expected to feel. Funnily enough, it reminded her of Lucien. Back when he had been am untamed young boy, always laughing, always kind.
Adara was just about to ask another question when the air shifted almost imperceptibly. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what changed, but a flicker of awareness crawled down her spine.
She turned slightly, her voice dry. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it was rude to eavesdrop, Spymaster?”
Elain let out a little yelp, whirling toward the corner of the room as Azriel emerged from the shadows like mist.
His wings were tucked in tight, his expression blank as he stepped forward. His hair was wet as though he’d only just stepped out of the shower and dark curls fell over his alluring eyes.
Elain placed a hand over her chest. “You scared me.”
Adara didn’t miss the look Azriel gave Elain. Apologetic. Warm. Tender.
Then Rhysand walked in, casual in step, but his eyes sharp as ever as they scanned the room. Azriel must have summoned him the moment he realised she’d slipped out of bed.
The two males walked closer without speaking, moving too purposefully to be casual. They positioned themselves discreetly, one to her left, the other to her right, forming a neat barrier on either side of the counter between her and Elain.
Adara blinked at them, then let out an amused snort.
“You two think I’m going to stab her or something?” she asked, gesturing lazily with the fork Elain had given her, still coated with icing.
She saw Elain glance up at the males beside her, suddenly noticing the way their bodies angled in, shielding her.
Her wide brown eyes flicked back to Adara, uncertain. A touch of anxiety danced there, and Adara’s amusement dimmed slightly.
She straightened, careful not to move too quickly, and offered Elain a small, rueful smile. “Don’t worry,” she said lightly, licking the last of the frosting off the fork. “I would never stab someone who makes such delicious chocolate cake.”
Then she pushed off the island and sauntered toward the door, tossing one last glance at Azriel.
“If you’re going to stalk me,” she called over her shoulder, “you might as well show me the city.”
She didn’t need to turn around to hear Rhysand’s chuckle. Or Azriel’s low sigh.
*****
The skies had cleared by the time they stepped outside.
The sun shone over the rooftops of Velaris, gilding the city in gold. The cobbled streets were drying after the morning rain, and the air smelled of clean stone, mountain wind, and distant jasmine. Bells chimed faintly from somewhere across the river. Laughter echoed from a nearby balcony.
Adara inhaled slowly, letting it all settle in her lungs.
Velaris was louder than she expected. Everywhere she looked, there were people chatting and bustling from shop to shop. There were faeries of all kinds, all colours. Some had horns, or skin like bark, while others had eyes the colour of freshly fallen snow. And somehow, it managed to feel comforting instead of chaotic. Safe and lived in. Gentle in a way she didn’t think cities could be. A far cry from the brittle formality of the manors that surrounded the Forest House, or the haunted hush of the farmlands and villages further out.
Azriel walked beside her in silence.
He hadn’t said anything when she made her parting remark in the kitchen. Just met her at the Town House’s front door minutes later, hooded cloak in hand. He’d handed it to her without a word.
Now, he kept half a step to her left, his shadows darting in between them, trailing both ahead and behind. She noticed they didn’t seem to return to Azriel to report their findings, just stretched and explored, languid in the sunlight.
He hadn’t asked if she was sure she was up for walking. He hadn’t hovered. But he also hadn’t stopped glancing at her from the corner of his eye, subtle as ever.
It was an effort not to shift, not to clutch the cloak tighter around her, not to glance down to ensure her scars were hidden. She might not be able to glamor them without her powers, but at least the cold weather provided an excuse to wear long sleeves and high necks. She tried not to think about how Azriel had already seen them when she’d first awoken in the Town House. He didn’t mention it. Neither did she.
“You really hate this, don’t you,” she said, finally breaking the silence as they crossed a small bridge overlooking the river.
Azriel didn’t look at her. “Hate what?”
“Playing tour guide.”
His mouth twitched. “I love this city.”
“Mm, but walking beside someone you still don’t trust with its secrets? That must be agonising.”
“I didn’t say I don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have to.” She grinned sidelong. “You’re tense. I can feel it radiating off your shoulders like cold fog.”
“I’m tense,” he said dryly, “because you have a history of wandering off, talking to strangers, and getting stabbed.”
She just laughed.
They kept walking, past storefronts with open shutters and flower boxes brimming with late-spring blooms. A female waved at Azriel from the window of a tailor’s shop, and Adara watched with astonishment as he offered her a kind smile in answer. Despite his sheer size and intimidating leathery wings, no one seemed surprised or frightened to see the Illyrian walking amongst them. They just nodded or greeted him respectfully, and ambled on.
Azriel slowed near a street vendor selling honey-dipped pastries and Adara eyed them with suspicion. “You trust street food here?”
Azriel pulled a coin from his pocket and bought two without blinking. “These are safe. And delicious.”
She accepted one and took a cautious bite. Then blinked. “Oh.”
He raised a brow.
She swallowed, eyes still wide. “Okay, that’s… really good. You were right.”
He gave her a smug smirk. “Try not to pass out from shock.”
They ate in silence for a bit, leaning against the low railing of the bridge as the Sidra rushed quietly below. The breeze pulled at her hair, and somewhere across the city, music played, bright and melodic.
It was… beautiful.
When she glanced at Azriel again, he was already watching her, something quiet in his gaze.
“What?” she asked, brushing crumbs from her fingers.
He shrugged. “What are you thinking about?”
She looked again at the buildings around them, at the streets full of faeries and the brightly coloured window-displays. “I can see why you kept all of this a secret,” was all she said.
*****
They kept walking after the bridge.
Azriel didn’t offer a destination, and Adara didn’t ask. She was content to let the city pull her forward.
After a while, the buildings shifted. The narrow, clean stone gave way to bursts of colour, walls painted in sun-drenched oranges and ocean-washed blues, adorned with trailing ivy and painted quotes. Music swelled and faded from unseen courtyards. The air itself felt warmer here, humming with some vibrant energy.
She hadn’t realised they’d wandered into the artist’s quarter until she saw a sculpture garden tucked between two shops, a series of chimeras and other creatures fashioned from what looked like glass. A child was climbing one, laughing as he perched atop a lion-shaped beast with wings. No one stopped him.
“The Rainbow,” Azriel murmured, gesturing to the streets around them.
She slowed, taking it all in. “I expected something a little more... delicate.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, watching a trio of musicians string up lutes across the street. “Artists. I thought there’d be more tortured poets. Less feral children and melted statues.”
The corner of Azriel’s mouth lifted. “There are tortured poets, too. Most of them show up after dark.”
Her lips curved. “You’re a regular, then?”
“Hardly.”
But the fondness in his tone told her otherwise.
They wandered further, letting the city stretch and unfold around them. A potter shaped a vase in an open studio as they passed, clay spinning in his deft hands. Paintings lined the alleyways, hung in crooked rows along mismatched bricks. Some were professional, framed and priced. Others were scrawled in chalk or layered on top of each other, like the walls themselves were pages in a diary.
Adara slowed near one mural that spanned the entire length of a building. It depicted a forest burning, with new life blooming in the ash. She tilted her head, absorbing the fierce orange flames and curling ferns beneath them. She felt her own fire flicker to life under her skin.
She didn’t speak, and Azriel didn’t ask.
They moved on.
Eventually, they reached a narrow street with ivy-laced eaves, and her eye caught on what was unmistakably a claw-mark, gauged deep in the stone of a building. A remnant of the battle that had nearly destroyed this wonderous city. Above it, a carved wooden sign swayed gently in the breeze: Feyre’s Studio.
Children’s laughter drifted through the windows.
Before she could ask, Azriel was already veering toward the door. After a beat, she followed.
The interior of the studio smelled like paint and lemon soap.
Sunlight spilled through the windows, catching the colour that splattered the floor. It was as though the room itself had been doused in pigment. A wide canvas rested on an easel near the far wall, and shelves of paint pots and brushes lined every available surface.
Adara barely had time to take it in before a child barrelled past her, giggling, a paintbrush clutched in one fist.
The High Lady of the Night Court knelt in the corner, a smudge of blue on her cheek, surrounded by a loose circle of riotous children. Some were High Fae, but some had antlers or scaled skin, and one had tiny feathered wings fluttering behind her. They were all dipping brushes into paint pots, working on bright paper sprawled across the floor. One of them was attempting to paint a dragon mid-roar, and getting thoroughly scolded by another for making it too scary.
Feyre looked up as they entered, strands of hair coming loose from her braid, and beamed. “Az. Adara. I didn’t expect visitors.”
Azriel inclined his head, stepping further into the room. “Didn’t know you’d be running class today.”
“I wasn’t,” Feyre said, tugging a paintbrush out of her sleeve. “They found me. Apparently I’m more fun than actual school.”
A girl with small green horns peeking through her hair looked up at Adara, eyes wide and star-bright. “Are you here to paint?”
Adara blinked.
She glanced at Azriel, who looked almost amused, and then down at the scattering of art supplies. She hadn’t picked up a brush since she was a child, and even then, it had been to grind pigments for someone else. She didn’t create things, she destroyed them.
Still... that small face was looking at her like she was magic.
“Why not,” Adara said softly, moving to crouch on a clean patch of floor.
The girl handed her a piece of paper and a frayed brush, clearly delighted. “You can sit next to me. I’m painting a stag.”
Azriel, to her surprise, didn’t stand off to the side like a brooding gargoyle. He sat, right there on the floor, folding his long legs beneath him, and accepted a brush handed to him by a stern-looking boy.
“You have to paint a monster,” the boy said solemnly. “But not too scary.”
Azriel dipped his brush into deep grey paint without question. “Got it.”
Adara watched him from the corner of her eye as she swirled her own brush through a jar of gold. His hands, scarred and sure, were precise even with the tiny brush, as if painting shadows came as naturally as wielding blades.
The boy beside him nodded approvingly. “Yours looks like mine. It’s got wings.”
Azriel’s answering smile was quiet. “Of course it does.”
Adara didn’t speak for a long while. She just watched him with a strange sort of ache pressing against her ribs.
This male, who could rip foes limb from limb, who winnowed with a blade in one hand and shadows curling around his wrists, was sitting cross-legged on a paint-streaked floor, painting wyvern wings for a child who had no idea who he really was.
And more than that, he was good at it. Patient, attentive, and kind.
As if he sensed her stare, Azriel looked up. He froze for a moment, and she watched in wonder as he blushed at whatever he found in her gaze.
Adara turned back to her own paper and began to paint. She didn’t know what the shapes would become. Something wild, maybe. Or something free. And when the small girl beside her leaned into her with a sleepy sigh, Adara didn’t pull away.
*****
The week passed in a succession of soft mornings and golden evenings.
Her strength returned bit by bit, like her magic was a tide edging back in with the current. Not a flood, but steady. Sure. Her fingers had stopped trembling when she conjured flame and her vision no longer swam when she stood too fast. Madja had been right; Her powers would take time to fully settle, but she was no longer a shadow of herself.
She’d spent the days walking through Velaris with Azriel — or near him, at least. He kept pace with her but always a step behind or just ahead, like he couldn’t decide whether to guard or retreat. Their visits to the rest of the city were just as breathtaking as the first day, as Azriel showed her each of the four market squares in turn. Adara loved the air of the Palace of Bone and Salt, thick with foreign spices, and spent hours window shopping in the Palace of Thread and Jewels, marveling at the rich craftsmanship. But the easy warmth she’d glimpsed in Feyre’s art studio, that flash of quiet joy on his face as he painted with a child, hadn’t surfaced again. He hadn’t even taken her back to the Rainbow.
He kept her at arm’s length. Polite but distant.
Twice, she’d caught him staring at the sliver of skin between her glove and sleeve, or the slight dip at her collarbone, catching on scars that peeked through. Each time, she’d noticed a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Sadness, maybe. Or guilt. Or rage. Maybe all three.
She’d yanked her sleeve down. Adjusted her shirt. And she was relieved when her magic had steadied enough for glamors. Now, her arms and throat bore only smooth, unmarred skin to any outside observer.
Even him.
Still, the memory of that afternoon in the studio clung to her. The way his mouth had twitched at the child’s praise. The way he’d painted with his scarred fingers like he’d done it before, and cared to get it right. The way pink had dusted his cheeks under her attention. She hadn’t known how badly she wanted to see that version of him again until he’d locked it away.
*****
The River House dining room was already buzzing when she arrived.
Feyre greeted her with a warm embrace, her face radiant in a way that made Adara smile on instinct. Cassian called her princess again and nearly dropped a wine decanter on his own foot when she returned the favour by calling him my lord in a mocking purr. Rhysand chuckled, Mor rolled her eyes affectionately, and Elain blushed into her glass.
Azriel watched it all with an inscrutable expression.
And then she entered.
Adara turned in her chair at the sound of the quiet footsteps behind her and nearly winnowed away out of sheer instinct.
Amren was smaller than she’d imagined, but she felt enormous. Like the air bent around her and the world shifted to make room for her, not the other way around. Her eyes were angular and silver. Ancient. A storm behind polished silk.
She felt, rather than saw, Azriel tense from across the table, as though anticipating a battle rather than dinner. Amren seemed to notice it too, those captivating eyes sliding to him for a moment before returning to rest on Adara.
“Adara Vanserra,” Amren said, her voice high and cutting. “So the rumours are true. You’re still alive.”
Adara inclined her head, keeping her face neutral. “And you’re the terrifying creature who decided being High Fae was a fair trade for saving the world.”
A beat of silence.
Then, to Adara’s shock, Amren smiled. Sharp and hair-raising. “She’s got a mouth. Good.”
Azriel’s shoulders eased the tiniest bit.
Amren took a seat beside Mor and began critiquing the wine before it even reached her lips. Adara fought not to shudder as Amren called it lackluster compared to the taste of blood. But the rest of the meal was unexpectedly pleasant.
The food was exquisite — roasted duck with apricot glaze, honeyed carrots, warm herb bread — and the conversation drifted easily from teasing to strategy and back again. Feyre and Rhysand were affectionate in that effortless, casual way that came only from long trust and a deep bond. Mor told an outrageous story about a painter who tried to court her by sketching her entire family naked, which caused Cassian to choke on his wine.
Adara collapsed into laughter when Rhys deadpanned, “I was flattered, actually. He got my good side.”
But even as her shoulders loosened and her cheeks warmed from wine, her eyes flicked often to Azriel.
He sat directly opposite her, beside Elain.
He was careful, subtle, but she saw it all. The way he leaned slightly toward her, the soft curve of his lips when she spoke, the quiet way he refilled her glass before she asked. He barely touched his own food, focused too intently on Elain’s comfort.
And yet, his shadows still lingered around Adara. Curling around her legs like restless cats, twining through her fingers when the firelight dimmed, as if unconsciously drawn.
She didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t want to know. So she just smiled when Elain complimented her hair, tossed a final jab at Cassian, and refilled her own wine.
Tomorrow, she would return to the Autumn Court, and whatever brief closeness had flared between her and the Night Court’s shadowsinger would fade again into whatever it had been before. Allies born of necessity, not like.
Now 16, Nyx is desperate to prove that he’s more than the golden child of the Night Court. When he finds a forgotten, enchanted cookbook in one of the River House’s dusty attic trunks, he decides to impress his parents with a magical recipe: Starlight Soup, rumored to reveal one's destiny... or explode spectacularly.
Feyre, ever the protective mother and amused artist, insists on helping—mainly to keep the River House intact. Rhysand, skeptical but intrigued (and maybe a little bored of court meetings), offers his culinary "expertise", the family embarks on a cooking adventure involving time-traveling cutlery, judgmental ingredients, and an ancient celestial being who just really wants dessert.
Or: That one time the River House kitchen almost became a portal to another dimension, and Rhys was briefly turned into a mirror.
