WHERE THE MOON SHINES BETWEEN US – two Azriel x Rhysand's sister!reader
synopsis As the sister to the greatest Night Court High Lord in history, the one thing you share with Azriel is that you live in Rhysand’s shadows—each in your own way. But even being hidden can’t stop your life from shattering, over and over again. When a bargain ties you and the shadowsinger together, what will stop that from being fractured, too?
tags yearning, slow burn, angst, hurt-comfort, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, inner circle, found family, did i mention SLOW BURN, this fic is literally her entire immortal life,
warnings features the spring court attack, under the mountain with rhys centuries later, & everything before, after, and in between. in this chapter: violence, angst, grief, death, misogyny, spring court attack in detail, PTSD
word count 5.7k
author's note hi angels thank you for the love on the first chapter WOW i adore you all. these first couple of chapters have felt like two at a time, but it’s soo necessary i swear. as promised, lots more of az (and the IC!) here on out. enjoy <3
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THE BEGINNING
It seemed Azriel’s spymaster abilities extended farther than you thought. Every time you saw him in the House of Wind after that night, it seemed he kept his wings tucked away even more. Sometimes, when he faced you, his broad, muscled frame and shadows over his shoulders were enough to shroud his wings entirely.
That did not stop you from going pale every morning when you walked into the kitchen and found him sitting at the table with his back to you—quickly remedied by his sudden need to turn and fix something at the counter, or shift around in the chair. His shadows seemed to swarm in those spaces behind his hair, his ears, his shoulders, shrouding his wings. Soon after, he stopped sitting in his usual dinner seat for breakfast—instead picking one where his wings were behind him, never the first thing you saw upon entry.
Neither of you would acknowledge it, and you were grateful.
You spent nine years with that mark on your hand. It took time to accustom yourself to, but you grew fond of it, as if the warmth of when Azriel had taken your hand, gentle and assured, lived upon you now. Reminding you of where you were and were not.
The pattern of the bargain tattoo was a precise mirror of Azriel’s scars, you had realized—his own had been lined by the ink of the bargain. Almost traced. You didn’t know how the patterns of bargains were chosen, but whatever it was certainly did not have a sense of humor.
As usual, Azriel was gone more often than he wasn’t. Sometimes you could feel a presence in that mark, in the bargain between you. Whenever the shadowsinger was in the same room, sometimes you’d feel a stronger pulse that grabbed your attention, often mirroring the intensity of his shadows, and you assumed he felt the same from your own emotions. You’d learned to lean into it, to find comfort in it, rather than worry too deeply. It was silent but steady, wordless but always there. And whenever the memories came, you would look at the ink and see something new. Something that did not exist the day your life had been stripped away from you.
Six years into the bargain, you were having dinner in the House of Wind with Mor. She’d been residing in the townhouse for some time, but often came to keep you company. As you lounged in the dining room, listening to her gossip, something jolted within you—burned in your hand—and you yelped.
“I know, right?” Mor said, mistaking it for a reaction. She’d been telling you about one of the Hewn City dealings between two families. “Absolutely insane, if you ask me. But I told them—”
“Mor.” You lifted your hand slightly, frowning at your palm. “Azriel’s in danger.”
She went rigid. “What?”
“He’s—” Your hand was trembling. Not because of him, but a sudden fear, a sudden certainty that gripped you. “Get Rhys. Get him—send him to—”
What’s happening? Rhys was in your mind in an instant. What’s wrong?
Where’s Azriel? You’d never sounded so frantic in your own mind before.
Autumn Court, getting intel on Spring. Why?
Find him. Now.
Rhys’s presence in your mind vanished. No questions asked. No time wasted. Not when it was his brother who might be in danger. The Inner Circle knew about the bargain the two of you made—not why or what, for Azriel had been as tight-lipped as usual when prodded, and so you had followed suit—but the mark said enough. Enough for Rhys to trust you.
And it saved Azriel’s life.
“Godsdamned bloodbane," said Cassian, scowling at an unconscious Azriel in the House of Wind hours later. The two of you were standing by the door next to a positively lethal looking Rhys as he listened to Madja’s explanations. Mor had just left to cover for your brother in a matter with the Court of Nightmares, making you promise to send word to her as soon as there were any updates.
“Godsdamned Beron,” you murmured, looking at Azriel’s sleeping face. He looked pale—unnaturally pale—and the color in his lips was nearly gone. There was an uncharacteristic but not unwelcome sense of peace in his expression, but his shadows had dissipated entirely, gone to Cauldron knows where. “How did they even capture him?”
“Ash weapons,” said Rhys, shutting the door after Madja. He looked like a murderous lynx ready to pounce. “Az picked up news of their stores being shared with Spring, and went to get information for my father.”
You straightened. “You let him go to inspect a storage of ash? Alone?”
“Of course not,” Rhys growled. “He didn’t even tell me about this. He probably knew I would have gone to our father about it.”
You kneaded your temples. “His shadows aren’t magic. They shouldn’t be affected by the faebane.”
“They aren’t,” said Rhys, his brows furrowed as he looked at his brother. “They disappear sometimes, when he’s unconscious. Or exhausted.”
The three of you watched him for a moment, metered by the rise and fall of Azriel’s chest. He would hate this, seeing you all worry for him.
“He can’t keep this up much longer,” you said at last, more to yourself than anyone else. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
“Father won’t listen to me,” Rhys murmured. “I’ve been telling him to give Az subordinates, at least. Even non-fae, wraiths and the like. He refuses.”
Cass looked like he was going to throttle the bed Azriel slept upon. “If this doesn’t convince him, I don’t know what will.” He turned to you—gaze softening only slightly. “It’s thanks to your lover’s pact that he’s alive. Thanks, princess.”
“Not a lover’s pact, Cass.”
“That’s all you took from what I said?”
You sighed. “I don’t know how to work it.” You held up your palm. “Bargains aren’t supposed to form… emotional bonds. I don’t know why this one did.”
Rhys leaned against the doorway. “The bargain you made was emotional, I assume. The bond matched its intensity.”
You chewed on the inside of your lip. For the first time since making that pact, the mark on your hand felt like… a mark. Nothing more. Nothing alive or breathing within it. You tried to reach deep inside of you for something to enliven it, make it burn warmly again, but found nothing.
“It could be a real innovation, you know,” said Rhys, eyeing you. “If you can figure out a way to manipulate bargains to create a form of communication.”
You considered it. It reminded you of things you’d read in Dawn and Day’s libraries. There was a spark of curiosity—no, excitement—that flickered inside of you like a match at the theory, the possibility of developing it further. Just like you used to feel when Helion taught you a new technique or Thesan brought a new mechanic to show you their trade.
As quickly as the burst came, it slipped away, and your shoulders slumped. You only shrugged. Something cracked through Rhys’s face.
You hated the sight and brushed away the shame, leaning into Cass’s shoulder. He mussed your hair. “When do you think he’ll wake?” you asked.
“I wouldn’t wait on him,” said Rhys. “Madja expects him to be out for a while. His body is showing signs of fatigue from long before this attack.”
Your chest lurched. A part of you was angry with Azriel for allowing this to happen to him—then angry at yourself for ever blaming him at all.
“Let’s go, princess,” said Cass, guiding you out the door. You knew from the look Rhys gave him that they’d been speaking mind-to-mind just a second ago, but you were too preoccupied to care. “Time for you to sleep, too. You don’t look so good yourself.”
You slapped his arm, and he chuckled as he steered you to your bedroom.
Those nine years passed quietly before the bargain was fulfilled. As promised, Azriel’s efforts found the weak spot in the Spring Court’s defenses, the proper timing to attack the High Lord and his sons. It had been his relentless missions that had allowed Rhys and your father to exact revenge.
By then, you’d let Rhys see the memory of what happened to you—let him watch as Tamlin’s brothers plastered you to the ground, tore their blades into you, tormented you and your mother until they believed you were both dead. The memory was eternal, returning to your dreams every night, even nearly a decade later. And when Rhys joined your father to exact revenge upon the Spring Court, Rhys himself tore them apart, one by one.
It had been your request to spare Tamlin’s mother, and Rhys made sure to receive your father’s word that she would be. That what happened to you and your mother would never happen to any mother or child ever again.
In the end, your wishes, as they often were to your father, meant little. For he did not keep his promise.
It was a swift and brutal night. While the High Lord of the Night Court slaughtered the High Lord of the Spring Court, Rhys slaughtered his heirs for what they did to you. But then your father advanced to Tamlin’s mother and Tamlin himself.
Tamlin had always been among the strongest of the heirs. And when your father found him, Rhys chasing after, the heir to Spring realized what was happening. He smelled the blood, saw the death that had been scraped through that glittering court. Knew his family had been murdered.
And he killed your father in a single blow.
Rhys had shown you that part of the memory, let you look at the wide-eyed Tamlin facing Rhys in the dark after that moment. You’d felt the power shift from your father to Rhys as if you were Rhys himself, jolted by the sudden energy in your veins. You’d seen how Tamlin seemed to have felt it from his own father, too. And through the memory, you had watched your brother flee.
That night, your brother became the High Lord.
Azriel was in the House of Wind the next morning. You didn’t even see his wings or his face—you all but ran to him when he landed on the balcony, dazed. He was windswept and looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but he was no longer your father’s spymaster. He was your brother’s, at last.
It was the same as being entirely free.
The urge to reach for him overcame you, but you knew better than to touch Azriel unwarranted. He barely endured Cass’s touchiness. You knew for certain he wouldn’t allow yours. “You did it,” you breathed, blinking through your stinging vision. “And you’re…” Free from my father. Your own person again. Free. Free. Free.
Azriel’s gaze fell to your hand first. You thought he looked relieved. “Are you… doing all right?”
You blinked, still fighting a smile of relief. “What?”
“Your father.” Azriel scratched the back of his hair. “I… I’m sorry for your loss.”
Right. Of course. The father who was no father to you at all. You shook your head. “It isn’t like that.”
His chin dipped. “And Rhys? How is he?”
You wrung your fingers, glancing towards the House. His relationship with your father was strained, neutral at best, but it still took a toll upon him far more than you. You only shook your head. “He needs time.”
Az nodded. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“More than all right, Az. I’m glad you’re…” You swept over his figure, as if to acknowledge it. “You won’t have to work like this anymore. If you choose to work for Rhys, it’ll basically be a partnership.”
He drew in a long breath, as if he’d been thinking the same thing. “Yes. I believe so, too.”
“You want to? Work as a spymaster, I mean.”
He nodded. “For Rhys, I would.”
You mirrored him. Then looked at your tattoo. “And this?” you asked, wiggling your fingers. “Why is it still here?”
“Because the bargain isn’t over,” he said. “You still have to do the favor I was promised.”
You stared, trying to recall the bargain at all—you’d forgotten the actual details, considering it was mostly his promise that had remained with you. “Oh,” you finally said. “I suppose you’re right.” You shifted on your feet. “What is it, then? What do you want?”
He considered you. “Another bargain,” he said.
For a moment, you only blinked. “What?”
“Another bargain,” he repeated. “I want another one. A simpler one that can be fulfilled easily.” He flicked his chin in gesture to the mark. “Then you can test out the extents and uses of a bond’s communication.”
You had mentioned the theory to him before. But there hadn’t been time to experiment with it, test its limits or take anything to Day and Dawn. You tilted your head. “That’s all?”
“That’s all,” Az affirmed.
“Why?”
“Why not?” he asked. “Rhys said that theory might be able to do us some good. Or would you prefer something more difficult?”
“No,” you said briskly. “No, that’s… fine. What’s the other end of the bargain, then?”
“Up to you,” he said. “Just pick something easy to fulfill.”
Your lips twisted in thought. “All right.” You reached behind the nape of your neck, unclasping the chain tucked beneath your neckline. “Put this on,” you said, offering it forward.
He stared at it, but took it, putting it around his neck. There was no pendant, no design. Only the silver your mother had given you.
“This belongs to you now,” you told him. “If you ever remove that necklace, it will belong to me.”
He shook his head. “You need to be the one who can break it.”
“Then go the other way around.”
He nodded, unclasping the necklace. You put it back on. “If you remove that necklace, it will belong to me. Deal?”
A simple fulfillment. “It’s a bargain.” You offered your still-marked hand. He took it and shook.
The mark disappeared all but for a moment—then returned.
It was the same, now-familiar pattern, but in lighter ink now, beautifully deep navy and violet that shifted like starlight and auroras over your skin. You could still feel it, that warmth laced deep into your flesh, your bones, your being.
“Test it whenever and however you want,” Azriel said.
You nodded. “Why do you want me to, anyways?”
“Who else in Prythian can?” he asked. “You’re the most versatile of High Fae.”
“I’m not High Fae,” you corrected.
“Doesn’t matter what you are. You’re likely the smartest of any living fae.” He didn’t seem fazed by the quiver in your expression. “Let me know how your research progresses. I think I’ll be in the House of Wind more often now.”
You couldn’t help your grin now—perhaps the first one you had worn in years. “Will do, Shadowsinger.”
His eyes brightened, only a sliver. “Glad to hear it, princess of Velaris.”
Another year passed, and while you were still averse to wings, your grief could only ground you for so long. With Illyrian blood, like magic itself, there was always the inner urge to use what was given to you; to fly, or to let power surge through you. And perhaps the fae parts of you that had thrived in other courts had sustained you well before all this guilt, before all this burgeoning rage. But now, they could no longer.
You were four and a half decades of age when you first stepped foot into the Illyrian camps.
It was a miracle Rhys permitted you. You’d never forget how the blank look on his face had twisted into something like panic—or disgust—when you first told him.
But by then, exactly a decade after your mother’s death, a fourth of your life had already been spent without her. It was only a matter of time before you or Rhys reached your centennial, yet you were still considered young, so young. You were afraid you might lose all of who you once were in your first three decades by the time the absence of your mother took up the majority of your life.
You wanted to grow stronger. To fix the parts of you that had failed. And you knew no other place to do it, with your Illyrian blood thrumming through you, begging you to be released after so long.
You had begun to visit Dawn and Day more often. It had been a worthy distraction, to research and learn and spend time in a place so far removed from the horror that haunted you every night. But you decided to dedicate yourself wholly to training. There could be no more distractions.
It was time, you thought. Time to at least be surrounded by those wings even if you thought you would never be able to wear them yourself again.
But Rhys wasn’t a fool. He knew, in part, you were also punishing yourself.
He also knew that if you didn’t do this under his supervision, you would find other ways to channel your guilt. And you were an Illyrian as much as he was, after all. You knew he would struggle to deny you an opportunity that had been so easily given to him.
Being a female, it was a privilege of your blood to stand in the training camps as a warrior and not be killed the moment you stepped out. That made it no easier. Your brother spent those first days visiting the camp, growling at anyone who so much as glared at you. But you didn’t want to be coddled, and he wasn’t your parent—even if he was all you had left. That’s where Cass and Az came in. The greatest warrior in the camp and the shadowsinger seemed about as welcoming as the rest at first, vicious and capable—more capable than any others in the camp—but they were somewhat familiar. And when they looked at you, there was no guilt in their eyes. No desperate need to atone for something you still couldn’t tell if he could have prevented.
You had grown far closer with Rhys in the time you’d come to stay in Velaris, and it was easier not to have him stand your ground at the camps. Your name did enough to prevent anything unforgivable, but that made no less of the treatment easier to endure. Cassian was a general, and his word went, but he’d grown into something as ferocious as Rhys without provocation, as protective over you as someone of your own blood, as if he saw you just as Rhys did. And he was too familiar with the males of the camps: it seemed the Illyrians wanted to provoke Rhys and Cass. Always little by little. Because violence, confrontation, battle, they knew. But Azriel… they didn’t know his ways, and they were afraid of him, the shadowsinger. The times he came to the camp, he didn’t need to make himself known to ward off offenders. They cleared at the shadows in his eyes, around his shoulders. And when he looked at you… they cleared ever slightly, gaining back that ease you’d seen in him when you were children.
He’d stay in your mother’s house with you when he visited. It was where you kept rather than those horrible male barracks. And he was warmer there—quiet, listening more than speaking, unlike Cassian, but warm. Never unkind. Thoughtful, even, with how accommodating he was. It wasn’t uncommon to wake second to him in the mornings and find food already on the table, or your leathers cleaned before you had a chance to. It seemed you were his guest in that house more than him—and you supposed you were, with how much longer he’d spent there. Sure, Cass and Rhys were often doing much of the same, but you supposed the real reason you preferred Azriel’s company was that nothing came in return: no questions, no delicate treading.
Az didn’t ask you why you didn’t summon your wings. He didn’t ask about what the nightmares were, or what had you screaming in the middle of those unlucky nights they overtook you in the house during a visit. The three of them always came at any sound, of course, if only to make sure you weren’t truly in danger. But Az never made you feel like you were being… plagued by your past. Rhys always pulled you from your dreams by seeing them first, and you never had the heart to tell him not to look in your mind. At least in these recollections, he could be there. You wouldn’t be alone. He’d hold you, speak softly, look at you like he, too, was in pain, and it tormented you.
Cass was a little better, but he looked at you with a gaze that said, I’m sorry. Not out of guilt but genuine sadness. He cared for you, hated that this was what you endured when all you merely wanted was peace.
Azriel did none of those things. The first time he was there to hear your thrashing, it was his touch that pulled you from the nightmares, bare, scarred hands running down your shoulders, warm and firm. Then the sound of his voice, deep and smooth coursing as the shadows themselves, yet so gentle, so careful. There was no surprise like Cass, no desperation like Rhys—perhaps a little hint of alarm, of urgency, which you couldn’t blame him for but was certainly more than you’d ever heard from the shadowsinger—and he was unbreakably practical. It was a dream. It wasn’t real. Always that first. Always that it was over, that you were safe. Then would come your name, tenderly, calm, to soothe you rather than fight your temper.
Az always let you cry, never wavering—never silently joining you as Rhys sometimes did as he held you. And you could never blame your brother for that; you had the privilege of breaking apart in Velaris before putting yourself somewhat back together. He hadn’t. He’d become High Lord, for Cauldron’s sake. Despite how much you loved him, how much he knew your pain, and how much as he could have somehow prevented what happened, you were certain he could ever ease your pain with his own.
Azriel didn’t know your pain, and yet he understood it. He saved you from its echoes better than any other person could. And when you woke the next mornings, there were no questions. Even if you fell back asleep in his arms, you’d wake alone, sunlight pouring through the windows, the smell of toast wafting from the kitchen, and a shadow trailing from the blinds and slipping under the door, as if to both report to its master and tell you to come down. And if you wanted breakfast silent, Az would stay silent. His shadows would flitter around him and his own wings, but he never pressed beyond your well being.
You already knew the horrors of his upbringing through Rhys—the same way you were sure Az knew about your past—and you knew his brothers found him difficult to pry information from. Perhaps it was his own history that made him understand when to press and when not to.
He understood that if you wanted to say it, you would.
All of them knew what you had gone through already. That had never stopped Cass or Rhys from pressing about something or the other. You wouldn’t be surprised if Rhys had passed over the memory of finding you to them. Never your own memory, of course—when you finally came around to show him, to shoulder that burden, Rhys had offered to dim that. He’d offered to strip it away, and your reaction—your horror—at the very mention had been enough for him never to offer something like that again.
So, while Azriel’s quiet terrified the rest of Prythian, like your brother, you saw the warmer parts of his quiet. Of his deliberation. Even that fated day three years after you began training in Illyria, when you were at the strongest you had ever been and a half dozen Illyrian males still managed to string you out into the forest in the middle of the night, addle you with bloodbane, and try to clip your wings from when they materialized during your nightmares, Azriel was quiet when he winnowed into the clearing. He was quiet when he threw the first one so violently into a tree that it splintered and cleaved. So quiet, even as your brother winnowed in a breath later, wordlessly sweeping you into his arms with undiluted rage in his eyes. So quiet, even in that heartbeat before Rhys winnowed away, when the shadowsinger began to slaughter those Illyrians who touched you, one by one.
You took on emissary work. There was little for you to learn in Illyria anymore unless you wanted to participate in the Blood Rite, which you both did not wish to do and did not wish to burden Rhys with. If a training camp was horrid to you, every qualifying Illyrian in lawless territory was worse than a death sentence for a female. Better yet, your experience across territories growing up gave you an edge as an emissary—most courts, even those not particularly fond of the Night Court, still had at least one or two figures of power who tolerated or actually liked you; even Autumn court had Eris. You had ties everywhere.
Spring Court was the exception, but by choice. The few times you saw Lucien across courts, it was clear you both had no hope or desire to do diplomatic work between Night and Spring. It was Lucien Vanserra you spoke to when you saw him, not the Spring emissary, and it was you he respected, not the Night Court.
At least he knew better than to ever mention Tamlin, even if only to notify you that you would not be hunted as Rhys or anyone from his Inner Circle would. Even he seemed to know it was as assuring as if Eris invited him back to Autumn.
It helped you pick up pieces of yourself, being an emissary. Visiting many courts didn’t even feel like work. From staying in Day and Dawn, relations, as Rhys called it, often felt more like passing along notes to friends. Helion and Thesan had been more familiar faces than the Night Court for months at a time before your mother’s death, and they had always been kind to you. It had been Helion’s power, after all, that had saved your life that day. You hadn’t been awake for it, but when Rhys found you, he’d sent for Helion immediately, who picked up where Madja left off. In your first visits back to his court when you finally managed to be a semblance of yourself again, you were sure to tell Helion he had saved your life in more ways than one.
After news had emerged of Tamlin’s father’s atrocities—and years later, the atrocities your own father committed in retaliation in front of your own brother—while many courts cautiously, subtly withdrew from the Night Court, it was Dawn who sent immediately for word of your recovery and if anything could be provided—ranging from prosthetic body machinery to even refuge.
The High Lord of Dawn was luminous, but you had never seen Thesan doused in such shadow as when you had visited him those first times after the attack. You could have only imagined the state of you then. Now, for your emissary visits, he was brighter, at ease.
You came to enjoy returning to Velaris, to the nights where the entire Inner Circle was home and you’d find them already convened around the table for dinner. Even on the nights they didn’t anticipate your return, the seat between Rhys and Mor was always left open, the latter clapping furiously in delight at your arrival.
It was the closest thing you had to the years in your mother’s house again. Your brother would rise to press a kiss to the crown on your head, wings already settling comfortably back in his seat as Cass passed you a filled plate. Sometimes your gaze lingered on Rhys’s wings—sometimes he wore them, other times not, and you were sure it would be more comfortable to abandon them here even though the chairs accommodated them. But Rhys loved them—his wings. Somehow, despite everything, he loved them.
And here you were, still making your brother keep the House wards modified to let you winnow in.
Everyone was home when you returned from your latest work in Dawn, helping allocate resources and imports for the Night Court. Rhys wore his wings today, and you’d been mellowed by the ease of Dawn, so untroubled, for once, that the sight made you falter before you reached to greet him. With Azriel’s shadows swirling around his tucked wings, and Cassian’s wings confidently half-lifting with each grin, your brother looked so perfectly suited among them. They had made homes in their wings. Even Azriel, who hated Illyria.
“Sister dearest,” Rhys purred, enveloping you in a hug. You frowned into his chest as he dipped his chin to your ear. “Mor and Cassian are at it again,” he whispered. “Don’t mention anything relating to romance. Or females.”
It only earned him a snort before you slid next to your cousin, who was glaring daggers at Cass. You didn’t hide your amusement, but didn’t say anything, either.
“What happened to you in Dawn, girl?” asked Amren, who had torn her eyes from the two and landed upon you. “Where did you go?”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I sense something. Darkness. Something old.”
It was enough to draw Mor’s attention to you, momentarily forgetting her qualms. “Did something happen?”
“No,” you said. “What are you talking about, Amren?”
Her eyes narrowed, silver-gray flashing like unsheathed blades. “It’s in your scent.”
“I don’t smell anything,” said Rhys.
“Of course you don’t,” she snarled. “This sort of scent is millennia older than you. You wouldn’t know it if it were right in front of you—it is right in front of you.”
“And what, precisely, is it?” he asked calmly.
“That place,” she seethed, baring her teeth. You flinched.
“The Prison?” Rhys asked incredulously. His eyes shot to you now, alarmed. “Did you go there?”
You shook your head. “Maybe someone at Dawn did. I know Thesan had visitors, but I didn’t see them.”
“The only way for you to reek like that is to have been there.” Amren’s eyes were glowing now. “Speak the truth, girl. I don’t like to be reminded of that place.”
“I am speaking the truth,” you snapped.
Amren only hissed, looking like she was about to launch from her chair.
“Easy,” said Azriel, and your gaze flicked across the table. He’d nearly fizzled out in the shadows, making you forget of his presence. His eyes were on Amren, scoping how her demeanor had shifted into something ravenously predatory. His interjection was enough to make her wait—but not soften.
“Explain,” Rhys said to Amren.
“It’s the scent of containment,” she ground out. “Of power being locked away, stifled, until it compresses into itself and becomes something endlessly darker.”
Your eyes were wide upon her, mostly in disbelief. “I spent a week negotiating imports. Then I went to the library. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“She’s mistaking your scent for something else,” said Azriel. His attention flicked to your brother, and you knew there was a conversation, brief and fleeting, happening between them.
“It’s the wings,” Rhys said at last. “It’s your wings being contained.”
For a moment, you didn’t know who he was talking to. There was no more your wings when it came to you. Enough time had passed for you not to attribute that to yourself any longer. But when the room kept silent, and everyone’s eyes had finally found you, it settled with dark, grainy certainty.
You didn’t know how to answer.
“Not like that,” said Azriel suddenly, glancing at Rhys. “Absolutely not.”
“Not what?” you managed, too disconcerted to reveal your annoyance at Rhys's daemati conversation to shut you out. But the two of them were suddenly locked as if in a staring contest.
Az was scowling at Rhys. “It’s not up to you.”
Rhys scowled back. “She needs to.”
“She wouldn’t want—”
“She is right here,” Mor snapped, drawing back their attention. You silently thanked her, even as you glared at your brother.
“Use your words, Rhys,” you said. “Don’t piss me off.”
Rhys let out a ragged breath. “Should you, Az, or should I?”
Az didn’t respond to him. He just looked at you. “Some Illyrian wings, when left unused for too long, will accumulate the reserves of their energy. Similar to how an Illyrian would feel if they didn’t wear their necessary Siphons. It can… condense within the host and bring a slew of issues. It’s similar to the scent Amren is sensing because of its contained power.”
Understanding began to settle. Your mouth felt dry. “Plenty of females with clipped wings don’t have this issue.”
“Clipped wings are different,” said Rhys. His violet eyes were tentative. “Yours are in perfect condition. The Illyrian power in you hasn’t changed. It will have the same side effects if contained within you like that.”
“You’re saying she needs to summon her wings?” asked Cassian. He’d been keeping quiet for once, which only made you more nervous. If he knew not to talk, then this had to be more serious than you wanted it to be.
“No.” Rhys’s throat shifted. “More than that.”
Blood drained from your face. You looked at Az, who said to Cassian, “She needs to fly.”
author's note ohhh yeah next chapter is probably my favorite so far. thank you for sticking along and commenting/reblogging/sharing! you're truly angels. taglist is still open, just comment to be added xx
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