At the far end of the ballroom—a ripple of movement.
Subtle, but enough to draw notice. Enough to hush conversation.
Heads turned. Bodies leaned. And woven through it all came a scent—faint, familiar. Fresh earth, honey, and something warmer beneath.
She wore a gown that didn’t belong to the Elain Archeron he knew. Deep, shadowed silk, cinched at the waist, the neckline daring enough to make even Hewn’s courtiers pause. Her hair was tied back, exposing the curve of her neck, her collarbones, the freckled sweep of her shoulders.
The crowd hadn’t parted, but they moved like it had. Composed and deliberate.
Mor’s eyes found him first. She nudged Elain lightly, murmured something that made her blink, then lift her gaze.
The moment her eyes met Azriel’s, her breath caught. Just a flicker. Surprise, then something cooler. Not fear. Not quite.
“Az,” Mor said lightly, coming to a stop before him. “Fancy seeing you here.”
She lifted her chin. “Azriel.”
His name on her lips curled down his spine. He took her in again—the gown, the candlelight brushing her cheekbones, the vulnerable line of her throat where her pulse fluttered. She didn’t belong here. Not in this court. Not in that dress. Not in his line of sight, standing too calm, too poised, like she couldn’t feel the danger licking at the edges of the room.
Whatever this was—whatever game Mor was playing—it ended now.
That earned him a look from Elain. Bright. Sharp. Proud.
Mor sighed. “You’re such a joy when you’re working.”
Azriel stepped forward as the crowd around them resumed their conversation. Mor arched a brow but didn’t protest when he caught her elbow and steered her toward a shadowed alcove off the ballroom floor. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm—unmistakably serious.
Once they were out of earshot, Azriel rounded on her.
“What the hell are you thinking?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Elain,” he said, voice flat. “Bringing her here.”
“She’s not helpless, Azriel.”
He shook his head, sharp and disbelieving. Mor’s eyes swept over him, pausing on whatever flicker of emotion he hadn’t managed to hide. Her shoulders eased, just slightly.
“She had a vision. A female being taken. Feyre thought it might be connected to what you’re already investigating. We both did.”
Of course they had. He would’ve, too—if it had been anyone else.
“So what’s your plan? Parade her through the pit and hope something useful rattles loose?”
Mor shrugged, casual as ever. “No parading required. I was going to leave her here with you.”
His expression turned to stone. “That’s not funny.”
“You are if you think that would be in her best interests.”
Something in her face shifted—less smug, more knowing. “I know exactly what kind of male you turn into down here, Az. And you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
There it was—the raw edge of it. The dark, unspoken fear that clung to him tighter than any shadow.
What terrified him wasn’t what Hewn might do to Elain.
What the dark might draw out of him. What she might see.
“She trusts you,” Mor continued. “And I’m still royalty down here. If I stayed, all eyes would be on me. I thought someone less…” her mouth curved slightly, “distracting might be better.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because she wasn’t wrong—and that made it worse.
“What did Rhys have to say?”
His jaw flexed. “Convenient.”
She gave a small smile. “Two days. Try not to scare her off.”
