whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)
a/n: dear god i remember why i didn't want to share which is that virtually nothing happens in it </3 forgive me!
word count: 3k
synopsis: Azriel and Cassian show you a sliver of life down in Velaris, where you meet another character from Azriel's family. A reminder from Exordor settles the path forward.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN :: CITY DWELLERS
Part of what Azriel adores so ardently about his home is how it’s always changing—it’s a living, breathing thing, always shifting, always evolving.
Winding cobblestone streets and homey shops and houses alike, never gaudy, always picturesque in a comforting way.
The curving Sidra rushes by, sapphire and tranquil. The perfect balance of water amongst the stone of the mountain.
Even with the soft drizzle of rain and ashy sky, the city still manages to glisten.
Soft, golden lamps light each street corner in tall, ornate streetlights. Strings of twinkling lines adorn shop fronts and every window entices you in with a comforting yellow glow.
The rain doesn’t dim the citylife either.
Some dressed in their cloaks, others forgoing them, Fae cross back and forth across the streets. They duck into alleyways, brown-paper bundles and bright coloured bags in their arms.
At the cafes, they cup mugs of something warm between their hands, relishing the hot steam.
Some congregate beneath the shelter of archways, huddling closer than usual to escape the rain, faces peaky in the chill of the day.
But even the markets are still up and running at their usual capacity. Vibrant stalls sport different decorative coverings, their spoils protected from the elements with drapery spelled against the rain.
Grouped together, they form a maze of wonders for those to wander through.
A thousand different trinkets and items to peer at, each more inviting than the one before. Scents of all kinds, sandalwood candles and musky burning sticks, compete with the sugared smells of the bakeries for attention.
Fae of every kind are here — ears rounded and pointed, short and tall, winged and not winged.
Your curiosity is nearly tangible with how vivid it is. You drink in the city, awe written across your face so clearly Azriel would be able to read it, even if he wasn’t bonded to you.
But he is, so the curiosity pours over him, heady and warm. It’s tinged with that same happiness from your flight, the feeling not yet shaken.
He hopes it stays. He hopes quietly that one day, perhaps, he’ll be the reason you feel that way.
Small steps first.
Cassian, victorious in his unfair race with you, had picked one of the bridges more central to land on. You and Azriel had followed suit, in that order.
Azriel has to admit, it’s one of Cassian’s finer moments, dropping you right into the heart of the city.
Neither of them need to say anything — though Azriel bets Cassian is holding back from gloating his win — giving you a moment to take it in.
“So,” Azriel begins, when after a minute you still haven’t spoken. “This is Velaris.”
“Shhh,” Cassian says, exaggerating the noise. “It’s not often you get to witness, in real time, an Illyrian realising they’ve grown up in the armpit of the world.”
Azriel scowls and thwacks Cassian lightly in the arm as a half laugh escapes you.
“What?” Cassian says defensively, raising his hands. “I’m not wrong.”
A shadow slices up through the air and hovers above Cassian’s shoulder, too close to his ear for comfort.
This time it’s Cassian who scowls, batting it away with a grumble under his breath that sounds suspiciously like the word mates.
Azriel’s heart leaps up his throat, his wings hiking up and his attention pulled to you in an instant to see if you’ve heard.
You haven’t, given your distracted, slow blinking, still taking in the city. Azriel melts a little in relief.
That conversation would come in due time — and certainly not when Cassian decided to bring it up, as a jab at his protectiveness.
Over your head and unseen, Cassian winks, well aware of his brother’s mild panic.
Azriel imagines several different ways to throttle him, eyes narrowed into slits, and sends the shadow into his ear.
At Cassian’s squabbling response, you seem to remember yourself and realise you haven’t moved since your landing.
Sensation floods back in. The cobbles hard beneath your feet, the touch of rain against your delicate wings.
The rain is beautiful. The city is beautiful.
Cassian is correct — the staggering thing you’re wrapping your head around is how different life really is. How it's that much kinder than you ever imagined it could be, stuck in the frost of the Illyrian mountains.
The scenes that lay out before you, imbued with safety and sweetness, are far more than you had envisioned as you gazed from afar, on the balcony at the House.
But despite it all, it's not that thought that sticks in your mind. It's something far more unremarkable.
“I... I didn’t know rain could be this nice.”
Raising a hand, you let the moisture collect in your palm and without meaning to, a breathy laugh escapes you. It's surprise. It's delight.
You turn back, to look up at Azriel, and — as always, you’re coming to notice — his eyes are already on you. Hazel that burns with an intensity you can’t name.
“I hated it," You continue. "It used to get under my armour in a way snow couldn’t and my floorboards always used to smell of dampness days after it rained.”
Here, far from your home, even the rain is kinder to you.
The thought makes your throat tighten with an unspoken emotion. You look back down to your hand and tip it slightly, letting the pooled water drip off, your wings giving a similar shake to rid the raindrops.
“You know,” Azriel murmurs, taking a small step in closer to you. “It looks good on you.”
A surprise laugh titters from your lips.
“The rain?” You say, tilting your head up with a smile.
“No, the happiness.” Azriel corrects you gently, hazel eyes skimming across your face. “It suits you.”
The candid genuineness of his words is what staggers you and your lips part in surprise for a moment, staring up at him. He means it. He's happy that you're happy.
Something fervent and warm rises in your blood, climbing up your neck and you force your head down. Even so, your responding grin is unmissable.
“He’s right, you know,” Cassian jumps in. “It’s nice to see you smile for something other than beating me in the ring. Wish I could say the same for flying, but…”
His cheeky grin is a welcome distraction from your flushing face.
Trying your best to remain composed, you take a cue from Azriel and sock Cassian in the arm as hard as you can. The warrior yowls in response, “Ow!”
You miss Azriel’s satisfied glimmer of approval.
“Cauldron, she’s a sore loser, isn’t she?”
His words are thrown over your head at Azriel. His grin is wide and his brows raised, evidently teasing.
"Not dignifying that with a response," Azriel says quietly and then he coughs into his fist, muttering, "Cheater."
—
Cassian, Azriel, and yourself walk with seemingly no plan.
It’s a relief in some sense. If you felt rushed to get from one place to the next, the city flowing around like the rush of a river, it could all get very overstimulating, very fast.
But neither male appear to be put off by your slow and lingering walk.
The slow pace is needed—if your eyes are going to be able to take in everything around you, that is.
Oddly, you find yourself wishing for a dozen more eyes, so you could marvel in every direction, all at once. There is so much to see, to notice.
The buildings, you find, are all slightly different shapes to one another. No two appear to be the exact same. It’s nice, you decide, that they all have their own little thing.
A short and stout bakery, pink walls and a copper roof, its chimney puffing smoke from its ovens up into the foggy sky.
A jewellers’ store, two stories high, each with a wide glass windows to reveal its shiny wares to passer-by’s. Little stain-glassed blocks of colour line the trim of each window.
A sage green building with white elaborate details on the windowsills and doorframe, sconces holding two flickering lamps either side of the entry way.
The wooden sign above that one reads: APOTHECARY.
Your feet trail to a standstill, rooted to the ground. Through the misty windowpanes, you can see bottles on the sill — tonics and potions alike, stoppered with waxy corks, their maker puttering about in view behind them.
It reminds you of a time some months ago, tonic-making of your own.
It is with a gentle vengeance that your guilt slides in, clawed and cold hands that reach up from the depths of your stomach and wrap tightly around your throat.
A fire that feeds on your selfishness begins to burn and you have oh-so much to give it.
The notches in your soul, each clipping you had failed, sting miserably. You choke on your next inhale. How long have you been healed now?
How much time have you wasted on yourself, unsure of the destruction left behind in Exordor?
The brunt of the consequences to your uncovered secret had most surely been left to lie on the backs of every female left behind.
You hadn't even asked Azriel nor Rhys about the state of your village once in all your time in Velaris.
Something foul sickens your stomach. How quickly it seems, when plied with succulent foods and plush places to rest, do you forget what had been your drive behind all your decisions.
The drive that had been the reason for all your strife, suffering, and agony—the drive that made it worth something.
Now what do you have?
Over your shoulders, etched in memories, your wings sink down an inch.
Sudden and foreign, within you there’s a bittersweet pang of sadness. It coats your guilt, sapping some of the harshness from it and—
Azriel steps up beside you, on your right.
He always approaches you on the side of your good ear, you realise, lifting his shadows so you can hear his footsteps.
Always so observant. You wonder if he can read the guilt on your face.
There’s no time for asking, because down the road, there's a sudden scuffling. A Fae woman makes an aborted shout of joy that snags your attention.
You turn and so do Azriel and Cassian. Golden hair dashes through the crowd and, to your utter surprise, the woman runs straight for you. Straight for Azriel.
Flinging herself into him, he catches her with ease, and the two of them embrace closely, for a moment, only a tangle of limbs.
She’s clinging to his neck, muttering something that he can clearly hear. His shadows take on a new movement you haven’t yet seen before—little tornados of excitement.
Then, just as quickly as she had attached herself to him, the woman pushes back.
She drives a finger into his chest accusingly.
“Would it kill you to send a message every one and a while, Az? Gone for months in the mountains and I hear about your return from him.”
A thumb jerked in Cassian’s direction indicates who him is.
“And that you’ve been back for a month or so?”
Even with her narrowed eyes, her red-painted lips are smiling.
You can’t quite explain the sinking feeling as you take in her appearance—glossy blonde locks, glowing tanned skin, and a dress that cuts her figure just right. Even dewey from the rain, it takes to her like it’s part of her look, darkened lashes and raindrops on her curls.
She’s gorgeous, breathtakingly so.
You feel wonderfully rotten and plain next to her—though you can’t pinpoint when you suddenly started caring about that.
Looks haven’t been an important factor in your life, ever. In fact, you’d tried your best to snub the more feminine features in your face.
Still, it’s hard not to wonder if every female Azriel knows is of this calibre.
At least the Fae you had seen out on the balcony, the Highlady you presume, is taken for. This woman… Was she…?
A knot chafes uncomfortably behind your ribs, the unknown mating bond snagging and tangling at the mere idea of your mate with another.
“Mor,” Azriel greets, long suffering and amused all at once. His shadows have calmed a bit now. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was back. I was very busy.”
He dips his head gently in your direction. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The woman — Mor — turns her bright eyes on you and astonishingly, she perks up as if excited to see you. You can honestly say you’ve never had that reaction before, least of all from a stranger.
“Apology accepted!” She declares, before she all but glides forward, arms outstretched with a squeal.
“Hiiii—”
“Mor.” Azriel says pointedly, his wing stretching out to put itself between you and her, enough to make her halt and pout. Cassian chuckles beside you, as if this is some well expected routine.
“What?” She huffs, even as her arms drop. She folds them instead, playful mirth on her face as Azriel withdraws his wing. “Any… friend of Azriel’s is a friend of mine—and you know I like to greet friends with hugs.”
Her strange intonation of the word friend isn’t lost on you.
Azriel’s shadows shift a little more agitatedly.
“I didn’t get greeted with a hug.” Cassian points out.
Mor’s head turns to Cassian and she rolls her eyes.
“I saw you yesterday, Cass.”
Cassian opens his mouth to retort, but she holds her hand up to stop him, her focus back on you. You expect to feel pinned beneath her full, weighted attention but instead, you just feel oddly nervous.
The nerves of anticipation, you realise. If she’s Azriel’s friend, you want her to like you.
“Hello,” You say, the words feel awkward in your mouth.
You resist the urge to shift on your feet and instead, force yourself to hold your hand out. Even though you’re not a complete brute, you have your manners.
The motion feels so alien you want to recoil the hand almost instantly.
You don’t get a chance to — Mor snatches up your hand in hers, delighted, and shakes it with vigour.
“Mor.” She says, placing one hand on her chest, clearly introducing herself. Her red lips gleam in a smile.
Murmuring your name in response, you can’t help but wonder what she must see, green eyes glittering as they take you on with eager interest.
A cagey, scruffy Illyrian, who no longer knows their place in the world? Unfit and entirely out of place for the marvellous city around you?
Her grip is firm. Her smile doesn’t falter.
“That’s a beautiful name.” She says sincerely, her long lashes darker in the rain. “I have no doubt we’ll be fast friends.”
She says it with such certainty, it’s impossible to think she’s fibbing. Dropping your hand, she smiles at the two other Illyrians in company.
“Just taking a wander then, boys?”
“We were,” Azriel answers, lips tugging up lightly. “But we were actually about to head back to the House. Rhys is requesting us back.”
He says the last part to you, amber eyes cutting from Mor to you beside him.
A jolt of surprise runs through your heart at the motion. Requested? By the Highlord?
Apprehension of a different kind filters through you, though you only nod, face impassive. The rustle of your wings gives you away to those paying attention.
“Oh…” Mor dims significantly at the news, her whole being seeming to wilt into a pout. “Best not keep him waiting too long. I ran into him earlier and he’s in a bit of a foul mood.”
That’s not comforting to hear in the least. You chance a glimpse at Azriel, to see his reaction, but he’s unbothered.
Something eases in your chest, letting you know you shouldn’t be bothered either.
“If it’s what I think it’s about, it’s well warranted.”
This time, there’s a clipped tone to Azriel’s words. His shadows appear to droop, darker than they were a second ago.
Mor doesn’t seem put off by the shadowsingers’ tone, instead turning to Cassian with narrowed eyes and a grin.
“Make sure he makes it to family dinner this week, won’t you?” Her eyes flash to you. “And you too, of course.”
She turns to Azriel, a sternness in her voice that you can’t quite tell is real or not. “Otherwise, if you don’t, I’ll have to believe you’ll forfeit to the other option which is buying all my drinks at Rita’s.”
Azriel’s brows rise but still, he seems amused by the threat.
“I take it I have no choice in the matter.”
“Of course you do! Family dinner or Rita’s.”
She grins wider, smug and sweet all at once. Taking a few steps back, she raises a hand to wiggle her fingers in goodbye. “Tell Rhysie I send my hello’s.”
Fae weave around her, her form slowly retreating into the crowd, still walking backwards.
She calls out, “And it was lovely to meet you!”
Maybe you’ve lived too much of your life entrenched in lies, but to be around Fae who aren’t constantly trying to trick you is a trip. You blink at her retreating form and wonder how long before you’ll be used to that, if ever.
“Ready?” Azriel murmurs, a tilt of his head indicating back to the House of Wind.
Right. A Highlord summoning. With a clench of your jaw, your eyes track over to the red mountain-side. A certain calmness rolls over you, setting your shoulders back and your spine straight.
There was no telling what was lying for you at the other end of Rhys' summons, but either way, you had decided there is no more running from your past.
The apothecary lingers in your peripheral, reminding you of an oath made decades ago. Bound with blood, sealed with every failed tonic.
There are unburied bones in Exordor.
They whisper your name across the continent, calling you back to the unfinished business of your home.
So, when you nod and say, "I'm ready," the words strong and sure—the words hold the weight of more than one meaning.
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