Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I know but two things. Torture and darkness. Once, there must have been more to my narrow existence—I feel it in my bones—but that’s all there is now, and out of the two, I much prefer the latter.

Wasting away within the dark confines of my cold cell—so small my wings can’t stretch as they crave—is preferable to the horrors my captors might conjure; be it Brannagh’s cunning cruelty, or Dagdan’s crude blades.

Luckily—over the years—the King has grown to accept that I’ve nothing of value to offer—that I won’t break—leaving me forgotten; left to rot in this welcomed darkness.

Ironic, knowing he made this cell to break me; if torture could not. This cramped, suffocating box draped in endless nothing; intended to drain my sanity into the very stones upon which I lay. In theory, he should’ve been right, but the one flaw in his design is the fact that the dark has always been my salvation; my one solace. It weakens me—cuts me off from my true source of power—but I’d take the whispering comforts of the dark over any drifting of the mind; or conjured illusion.

I can’t look beyond the confines of the castle anyway, the King’s wards prohibiting any form of magical passage; even mine.

It’s all that stands between me and escape.

These days, that is.

Before, I wasn’t strong enough; couldn’t bend out of this cell, deprived of light as I was. However, after years spent biding my time—hoarding whatever scraps of light my blood might house—my well of power has grown vaster. Because, before the King realised I was useless, he need to keep me alive, and in order to do so, one must feed their prisoner.

Each time the hatch at the foot of my door’s been opened to force food and water within, I’ve clawed and scraped at the flutter of torchlight pooling in from the hall beyond; faint as it may be. Lately however, the frequency of these feedings has dwindled—and my hope with it—as if the King has well and truly forgotten about me, but someone with hands as bright as the torchlight stops by now and then; giving me water and broth.

I wonder who they are; this Lightbringer of mine.

I wonder if they know what manner of creature they’re feeding each time that hatch groans opened; hinges rusty and worn.

It doesn’t matter. Few things do down here; say carrying on to the next day. I never know when that is—I’ve no concept of night and day anymore—but I know it’s been a long time. Once, I used my hair to count—measured its length from time to time to gauge an estimate—but Brannagh realised, and cut it off the same day. Wasn’t much of a fan of my sliver of hope, I imagine; or sense of continuity.

From what I remember, I’d estimated around five years by then. Now—matted as it may be—I suspect it’s been another five since.

Ten years of darkness.

Ten years of torture.

Ten years of nothing.

The fact that I hardly care should be concerning; that I feel no longing for whatever life I left behind, coming here.

Perhaps I didn’t leave much.

Sighing, the sound echoes against the harsh rock; dry and rasping and ragged. Closing my eyes, I hope for sleep—my only true occupation—the one way I might pass time; and escape the pains of existence.

I don’t dream. I’ve nothing to dream about say the horrors I once endured in this castle; before I was forgotten. Only nightmares plague me, or endless nothing; filled with a consistent something.

It’s like a distant thumping, solid and strong; like the pound of a fist against rock, but gentler; kinder. Whispers I can't decipher—in a language I can't understand—accompanying this beat, and I swear they beckon; urge me to follow that drum. I never can, and at times I feel they know as much; feel a sense of comfort in their lulling murmurs.

Sometimes, I feel them; like a phantom touch curling up my forearm. I can’t see what it is, but I know they’re good. They’re the one good thing about this place; and the reason I love the darkness so.

It never fails to soothe.

When sleep finds me, it whisks me into oblivion; to that steady rhythm beckoning me to go. To go see. See something beyond this darkness and dread. It’s stronger tonight—closer—but no matter now I reach, I never arrive.

Jolted awake by a sudden stutter—a sudden change in rhythm—I find the pounding lingering even in the waking world; a weakened but present thing. At first, I think I yet dream, but the pains littered across my body are real. This is real.

Wherever the beat comes from is near, and something is terribly wrong with it.

For a time, it’s all I can listen to—all my mind can focus on—until wave after wave of unearthly power rattles the earth; small pebbles and dust raining from the low ceiling.

I hardly feel them past the quaking of my body and ringing in my ears; left behind by those waves. Only once a brilliant, bright power rips through the castle do I snap out of it—find my bearings—the flare tearing through the castle wards as if they were mere tapestries; the power a knife.

Sharp and insistent, the whispering darkness urges me to go—to bend and leave and taste freedom—but I’m left stunned by the mere thought and hesitate; until another power spears through the folds of the earth, leaving the palace.

A power laced in starlight.

A power I will myself to follow.

Summoning the light I’ve gathered, I bend myself into energy, seeping through the inevitable cracks around my food hatch and carry on, letting the torchlight fuel me further as I barrel towards freedom.

Entering the open air beyond the castle walls, I am nothing but a ray of white; a star shooting across the sky. Following the call of the drums, I traverse vast expanses of crashing waves; the unforgiving darkness of night draining my light one beat at a time.

By the time I see what must be land on the horizon—grand spears of rock clawing their way skyward, dusted in white—my reserves run out; the moon and stars not bright enough past the blanket of clouds to let me maintain this incorporeal form. Thus, I tumble out of the sky, the wind tearing at my unused wings as I attempt to fly—attempt to soften my plummet—and though I manage to slow enough as to not die on impact, I do hit the water; and sink into the deep, shrill darkness.

The shock of the cold leaves me paralysed, an instinctual gasp forcing the icy water down my lungs; rather than holding my breath as I should. The waves—thrashing and tumultuous—further disorient, the water soaking into my feathers; weighing me down towards the deep.

I sink, yet I fight, refusing to give in when freedom looms on the horizon; so close I can taste it; feel it. So I thrash and struggle and reject this cold, uninviting darkness.

Death will not claim me yet.

I haven’t cheated it for a decade only to fall prey to it now.

Reaching the surface—coughing and sputtering—lungs burning with the need for air, I spot a cluster of dark rocks just off the shore of this barren coastline. Using what little strength I yet possess, I swim to them, cling to them as waves crash over me; drenching me in freezing water time and time again.

I cough and heave and hold on to what I pray is salvation, but the chilling claws of death leave my body numb and unresponsive; fading by the second.

In a last-ditch effort to perhaps not save myself, but find help, I send out a flare of golden power—another power—letting it spear skyward like a beacon; one I pray might save me.

A drop of it—what speck of it becomes true light—soaks into my blood, but it isn’t enough, nor do I get the chance to wield it before both mind and body gives in to the will of unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

For a moment, I think I’m dead—cradled in the arms of the Mother—because living couldn’t possibly be so… comfortable; so warm and soft. Yet, I breathe—the air laced with unfamiliar scents—and open my eyes to someplace much too bright.

I sew them shut with haste, sparing a moment to let the pain subside; only then prying one apart again. Past the veil of my lashes, I find a room—messy and lived in—clothes draped over most surfaces; baubles of unclear significance dotting the furniture.

The walls are white. The… curtains framing the large window are gold; like my wind. The floor is dark; a brown wood of some kind.

Gradually, these small, everyday things return to me, but the difficulty with which I recall it—such as the fact that what I lay in is a bed—is rather bothersome.

Sluggish mind aside, the room—while not void of the occasional weapon—doesn’t strike me as a torture chamber; or an interrogation cell.

Then again, Brannagh and Dagdan could be rather creative from time to time…

Footsteps sound past the tapestry wall—interrupting my quiet musings—and my eyes hone onto the door; watching the handle turn with bated breath. A female I can only describe as golden passes through its maw. She looks at me, smiling once she realises I’m awake, a tray of something in her hands as she breezes inside. I stiffen—a blare in the back of my mind urging caution—but I’m too weak to either fight or flee; whatever her intent. The food I scent—wafting from that tray—gives me pause; overwrites one instinct with another. Thus, I only watch as she places said tray on the nightstand.

“Hello there.” She speaks in greeting, movement cautious as she seats herself at the edge of the bed. Gaze sifting to trail her descent, I realise my wings lay splayed across it, and I spread them a little wider—because I can—delighting in the burn roaring through my limbs.

I don’t return her words with any of my own.

“My name’s Morrigan—third of the Night Court. Sentries found you washed up on our shore last night, and I’ve personally seen to it that you’ve been taken into our care.” She reaches for the steaming bowl—and a spoon—scooping up its contents; though her eyes never sway from me. “Were there others with you that we should search for?” I only stare, unsure what to say—how much to disclose—all while something else tugs at my attention.

A weak—though steady—thump not far from me.

When her brows furrow—ever so faintly—I shake my head; remember the question. That there are no others in need seems to relieve her.

“Good—okay.” She reaches forth the spoon of… porridge, but while she urges me to eat, I can’t.

Something inside me refuses, no matter how my stomach weeps.

She cringes, lowering that spoon; thoughts swirling in her brown eyes. Following a beat of clarity, she brings that spoonful to her own lips, having a taste; uncoiling something knotted in the back of my mind. Her perfect, painted brows arch with intent, the female gesturing with the spoon as she swallows; all to prove a point.

Safe.

The word presents itself, but feels detached from my body; foreign, but not false.

Warily, I reach for both bowl and spoon—pluck them from her hands—and while the position is off—and my limbs tremble with the strain—I make do; daring a careful nibble of this oatmeal, dusted in… cinnamon. Its scent matches that of the female beside me.

Morrigan.

The name rings a distant bell; muffled and distorted.

“What happened to you?” Her words shatter the lengthy silence between us, and I lift my gaze to hers; weighing my options.

Tugging at the light both within and without me—absorbed unrestricted now—I bend a sentence for her in script of iridescent white.

Failed escape. She watches those shimmering words, eyes wide—lips parted—a sparkle of wonder in her lovely eyes. A soft cough, and she wills it away; looks to me anew.

“From where?”

I hesitate, distrustful of their allegiances. But whatever occurred before—whatever power tore the wards to shreds—I feel she was part of it; feel a trace of it clinging to her still, much like the star-licked magic which led me here.

Hybern. I relent, watching her golden complexion pale; her expression fall.

“You… you were in Hybern…?” I nod, Morrigan running a hand through her golden curls. “You were there when it happened…,” I assume it to be whatever happened in the castle above.

The wards breaking allowed me to escape. I explain, something surer in Morrigan’s eyes once they return to mine.

“You are safe here.” She assures. “Your people are always welcome here.” I nod—slowly—eyes averting from hers.

When I don’t write anything more, nor eat another bite, she takes the bowl from my hands and puts it back on the tray.

“Our High Lord wishes to see you later, but for now—rest. Nuala and Cerridwen—our Wraith maids—will help care for you. They’re always around. Simply do that writing thing and they’ll come help with whatever you need.” I nod, and so she stands. “I have to go, but before I do—what’s your name?”

What’s my name?

What’s my name.

What’s my name.

I’m greeted by vacancy.

A yawning chasm of nothing.

I don’t know.

~O~

Drifting back to sleep proves difficult.

No matter how hard I try—no matter how comfortable the pillows and mattress—having spent such a length of time on solid rock seems to have… skewered my concept of sleep. In fact, the plush nature of this bed is almost suffocating in comparison.

It’s whatever. I’ve spent the last decade of my life sleeping—more or less—loosing some now won’t harm me any more than anything I’ve already endured; even if I am tired.

Due to my insomnia, I’m awake once the door opens, a dark Fae male passing through the threshold. His eyes find me with ease, reminding me of one of the amethysts laid on the vanity—if bluer—but they’re dull somehow; lacking life.

“I presume Mor warned you of my visit.” His voice is even and regal—ever the High Lord—but it feels… kinder than what I’d expect from someone of his status; though I suppose I’ve only the King of Hybern with which to compare.

I nod, and he delves deeper into the room, grabbing a chair from the vanity and placing it beside the bed.

“Then you know who I am.” He declares, claiming that chair; be it a little too small for his frame.

He makes do.

I know what you are. He studies my words closely, head tilted to the side.

“Does High Lord Rhysand of the Night Court ring a bell?” It does, but said bell is distant and intangible; just as it was when I learned Morrigan’s name. Thus, I shake my head; considering it a white lie. “I’d think Drakon would at least educate his people on Prythian, following the War.” The words are disappointed, but all I can think of is that name.

Drakon.

It rings more than a bell. Rather, it’s a horn which blares in the back of my mind; so violent and sudden I nearly flinch. Ignoring it—burying it—I focus on the rest of his words; the information he’s parted with.

Is that where I am? Prythian? He nods.

“Have you heard of it?” My gaze averts—hones onto nothing—mind wandering.

The King spoke of it. I admit, watching Rhysand’s tan pale in the corner of my eye; colour draining from his face.

“Mor mentioned your… situation. Say, how did a Seraphim find themselves in Hybern’s clutches?” I blink—focus on the panelled roof—heaving a slow breath through my nose.

I don’t know. I admit—to myself and him—because there’s no point lying; no point trying to look beyond the day of my capture. I don’t remember. Additionally, if they’re indeed High Fae of Prythian, then they are enemies of Hybern; making them my allies by default. I will make it so.

“Amnesia?” I lift my forearm—no matter how my muscles strain—showing him the white tattoo snaking around my wrist like a thick bracelet; a circle adorned with lines like that of a diamond nestled above my pulse. “A bargain.” He rightfully concludes, earning himself a nod. “Do you remember the terms?” I shake my head. “No way to break it?”

I don’t remember anything. Despite its friendlier nature, this feels very much like an interrogation; at least in principle. I like it no more than I have in the past, and give him the same answer I always have.

I don’t know anything.

Nothing at all.

Rhysand falls silent for a time, deliberation stark in the violet of his eyes.

“If you’d allow, I could see if the bargain might be bypassed. I’m Daemati—” My eyes snap to his—cold and sharp—silencing the High Lord mid sentence. He swallows; straightens. “I know it’s taboo, but I assure you—I would not harm you.”

No. The word is bright, large, and sufficiently emphasised.

Rhysand heaves a breath; deep and slow.

“Very well—I won’t pry. Your mind is safe.” It is. I know it is. Brannagh and Dagdan tried for years to erode my walls of blinding light, and they failed; miserably. High Lord or not, his claws can’t penetrate my mind; not unless I let them. “You are a welcomed guest of my Court until you’ve recovered, but should you decide to leave, there are things we must first discuss—an oath to be sworn. We’ll get to that once the day comes.” I nod, assuming it to be some oath of secrecy.

I’m not unfamiliar; presumably.

He stands.

“I shouldn’t bother you any further, but I must ask—what are you? I’ve never met a Seraphim with powers like yours—or the complexion.” The male cringes, as if worried he’s said something wrong, but all I can think of is the word pushed to the forefront of my mind; unguarded by the bargain’s binds.

Lightseer. His tired eyes observe the word with subtle intrigue.

“Lightseer… I… I swear I’ve heard of it…,” The fact he can’t remember seems to disturb him. “What does it let you do?”

This. A sharp exhale passes his lips; just short of a laugh. The sound is so… pure and unguarded it… it kindles a warmth behind my ribs.

“Yes, but is that all?”

I see things. A dark brow of his curls in inquiry. All the light touches is mine to observe.

“Like a Seer.”

In a way—hence the name. His expression sours into something torn between amusement and annoyance. A Seer sees all the light has ever graced, and all the dark has ever touched. A Lightseer sees what the light presently graces, and nothing in its absence. How I know this—and not most other things—is beyond me; but dwelling on it threatens to give me a headache.

“You can see everything—anywhere?” I nod.

In theory, though I haven’t seen much in recent memory—say the interior of Hybern. Rhysand nods, slowly; absorbing the information.

“Interesting… Curious as I am to learn more, I should leave you to rest. Lunch and dinner will be brought to you by Cerridwen or Nualla later today. You will be looked after here.” I nod—have few ways to emote beyond it—and Rhysand smiles. “Rest well, Lightseer.” He doesn’t bother with the door, instead winking out of existence like he was never there to begin with; leaving naught but a tiny flutter of dark, star-kissed power.

At least he was polite enough to use the door on the way in.

Alone again—too weak to entertain the thought of leaving this suffocating bed—I close my eyes and attempt rest, only to find it as unattainable is it’d been prior. All because of that gradually strengthening beat. The shadows of the room whisper and coo, urging me to follow—to find its source—but they’re quieter now; gentler in their coaxing.

Another time—when I’m stronger—I’ll go see.

Chapter Text

The next couple days are a haze. With abundant access to the light, I often find myself drifting—unaccustomed to the freedom of such a thing—doing my best to remain within the confines of the house; observing the ongoings between breakfast, lunch and dinner. It works to reacclimatise myself to my powers—which I’m in desperate need of—but it comes with the constant risk of drifting too far.

A risk even the bargain hasn’t allowed me to forget.

This morning—having forced down roughly half of the porridge Nuala brought—I request a bath, the twin Wraiths swiftly preparing it and helping me to the modest bathing chamber intertwined with the room. As they undress me, I try my hand at another skill of mine, veiling my body in an illusion as to mask the atrocities which mars it; even if they’ve probably seen it all before.

It’s mostly for my peace of mind, much like the lavender soap I choose—the scent subtle and mild—though entering the bath is decidedly not a peaceful experience. Not only is my body too weak to enter the tub unassisted, but the mere thought of submerging in the foaming waters is discouraging—reminding me of the thrashing, tumultuous waves which nearly devoured me—but I push on, no matter how my mind screams; willing my body into submission as I sink into the warmth.

“Do you require our continued assistance?” Nuala asks, combing a gentle hand through my hair.

White hair. I’d nearly forgotten what it looked like, beneath the dirt and blood.

No, I’ll be fine. They nod, leaving to let me soak, and for a time I do nothing but—head leaned against the tub’s edge—breathing through the bouts of unease; letting the feelings be felt, then pass like water under the bridge.

When did I last bathe? I can’t recall. They must’ve washed me once I arrived, but I hardly feel that counts; nor does my dip in the sea.

Eventually—mind settled enough to carry on—I grab a soft bathing sponge and work it over my skin; soap lathering beneath its touch. It’s etched in scars, pale pinkish lines which blend into nothing against my porcelain skin; but have a distinctly different feel than the rest of me. Some parts are worse—burns even my Seraphim blood couldn’t heal—and I take extra care of such splotches of reddened, raised skin; scars whose origin I hardly recall now, say in fragmented nightmares.

I don’t mind them much. It’s nothing I can’t illusion away.

Content with my scrubbing—my hair likewise lathered and carefully rinsed—I settle against the tub’s edge once again, staring up at the white ceiling; mind drifting as it often does. It drifts until I’m looking at myself from above; draped in faelight and shrouded by bubbles.

Seeing myself after all this time is almost jarring. I haven’t thought to look—perhaps I haven’t wanted to—but here I am; no longer wreathed in darkness.

My wings soak amidst the bubbles, white and pristine—leading me to believe the worst of my filth was magicked away—only the upper bend of the limbs visible past the water’s edge. I’m glad for it—as cleaning each individual feather’s quite the hassle—but in all honesty, I’m just glad I still have them. My face doesn’t share the sentiment, expression absently neutral. Leaning closer—curious to know myself anew—I find a sharp nose, with a bump I can’t discern whether it’s come from a past fracture, or nature. I find my upper lip thicker than the lower, the tilt of my eyes slightly slanted, said eyes devoured by pure, unreflective black; the result of my current state of being.

I am colourless and dull; and I suspect my true eyes do little to change that.

Nuala returns, phasing though the door in a shroud of shadows. I watch her mouth move, but no words carry to me here. “My lady,” I think she says, but can’t quite catch the rest. My lack of an answer seems to trouble her, as the female rushes over; a trail of darkness in her wake.

Usually, I keep an eye on them—know when they’re on their way with food—retreating into myself before they arrive, but she’s caught me unawares today; a fact I’m not sure how to feel about.

She places a hand on my cheek, seems to slap it gently in search of a reaction, and seeing someone exhibit such apparent care is so intriguing I stay a while longer; fascinated.

When her serene face twists towards what I assume to be concern, I return to myself, eyes refocusing on hers before me; two charcoal voids staring into my soul. I realise they reflect my own; that they are almost as dark as hers.

What were you saying? I write out between us, and she straightens.

“I asked whether you wished to get out.” I blink a few times, eyes a little dry; the world a little strange.

Yes. The wraith wastes no time helping me out of the water and into a nightgown; using some kind of magic to dry my wings.

I’m back abed before long, and remain there all day, deciding to read the book I presume Mor’s left for me on the nightstand. However, reading is quite the bore when you can’t imagine the world the author describes—when no matter how colourful, their descriptions instil naught but a vague illusion of what I once knew—and I quickly give it up in favour of experiencing the real world; my mind sneaking about the house.

Rhysand’s nowhere to be found. No one is, actually, save for Cerridwen and Nuala—working in the kitchen—until Mor arrives alongside another. A tall male with dark wings tucked snug against his spine, eyes the colour of gold; laced with speckles of green. Darkness almost clings to him, whisks of shadow swirling about his frame at all times; even in the stark light of day pouring through a window.

Mor receives a tray of food from Cerridwen and moves towards the stairs, the male following just as I do. Once they reach the top, I realise they’re headed for mine; spearing back into my body with haste.

The door clicks opened a moment later, Mor bright as always when she steps into the room; headed for the bedside table. Yet, while she’s all smiles and sunshine—sitting down at my side—all I can think about is how loud the thumping in my head has grown; how jittery the urging whispers have gone.

Mor says something as she hands me the food—which I absently accept—but my focus is honed on the male still stood in the doorway, observing us in studious silence. Those eyes lock on mine, and stay.

He’s the source of the drums.

They’re not even drums, they’re—

It’s his heartbeat.

“Oh, that’s Azriel—you haven’t met, have you.” Mor’s mention of his name snaps me out of my thoughts—yet not at all—my eyes reluctantly drifting to hers; though my attention lingers on the male in the corner of my eye. “He’s here to ask a few questions. We’re all curious about you—Az especially—but don’t worry, he’s as sweet as the rest of us.” She stands then, leaving me with my bowl of half-forgotten stew; for which I have no appetite. She heads for the door, places her hand on his shoulder once she reaches his side—whispering something even my Seraphim ears can’t catch above the beat of his heart—then she glances back at me over the arch of her shoulder. “Just call if you need anything!” I haven’t the chance to remind her why that’s a silly thing to say before she’s headed out the door, and any thought to reach out and write it to her is forgotten the moment Azriel enters the room in full; closing the door behind him.

His mere presence seems to darken the room, the shadows growing thicker; quivering in his presence. I’d expect as much from a High Lord, but this isn’t Rhysand; and while Rhysand radiated might, it didn’t behave this way.

Might’ve been suppressed, I suppose.

Azriel has no such damper.

Rather than claiming the stool at my bedside, he makes for an armchair on the other end of the room, turning it to face me before settling within, the silence lingering as we assess the other. Yet, I feel as though Azriel is listening to something—intently—his head leaning to the side a mere fraction, now and then; as if someone’s whispering in his ear, and he’s straining to hear.

What do you want? I have no kinder why of asking, and Azriel appears unbothered by the bluntness of my words; written out between us. His golden, hazel eyes study the words closely, but his face shows nothing beyond cold indifference; professional in nature, somehow. Familiar.

“Do you know why a bargain suppresses your memories.” His tone isn’t questioning, but even and demanding; in a surprisingly polite way. I set my bowl aside and straighten in my seat; not keen to lay like this while speaking to him.

It feels wrong to appear so… weak.

Or it’s the fact that he’s absolutely gorgeous; features smooth yet angular; lips full; eyes piercing. A broad, solid build… The wings.

I’ve never seen a male quite like him.

Arguably, I haven’t seen many males at all, where my memory’s concerned, but compared to Rhysand—and Dagdan for that matter—Azriel’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

It’s almost disconcerting.

I can only guess. I sign once I’ve achieved something akin to proper posture, managing to fold my wings in—if only a little—the act unbearably tiresome.

I need to regain my physique.

Need to get out of this bed, and reclaim whatever manner of life I might yet live.

“And what’s you guess.”

Whatever I know is important, worth protecting at all costs—even if it means I know nothing at all. A brow of his arches towards his hairline; just slightly.

“Nothing.” It’s almost disbelieving, deadpanned as he is.

I know some things. Ordinary things return to me as they come.

“Like what.”

Names of objects, colours. Azriel looks on in silence. I’m regaining visualisation to words I know, but ask me to think back on my past and there’s nothing but a void. He nods; a sense of understanding in the motion.

“And your name is still unknown to you.” I pause to think, but it’s as empty as before.

Yes.

“Calling you Seraphim feels rude.” His tone feels… light; almost teasing. It lightens something inside me; unravels some knot of uncertainty.

I am one. I point out. What are you? He grows unnaturally still—more so than prior—though his wings shift behind him; rustle.

“I’m an Illyrian.” He answers stiffly, none of that light-heartedness to be found. My eyes fall to the two, blue gems resting on the back of his palms; fastened onto fingerless gauntlets. I spot the scarred hands next; burned, if I had to guess. Shadows gather there—like living tendrils of smoke—and when my eyes lift to his anew, the whole of him is wreathed in this breathing darkness.

Uncomfortable being watched, I see.

I breathe deep through my nose—intending to ask what an Illyrian is—only to be assaulted by a mixture of scents that utterly wreck my mind; but I can’t place them; can’t name them.

I know only their overwhelming potency.

“Rhysand told me you’re a Lightseer.” His voice—even and smooth—snaps me out of it; redirects my attention.

I am.

“You see things.”

As all with working eyes do. I swear his lips tug towards a smile for a moment.

“You see more than most though.” He points out.

You seem to hear more than most. I retort, and his eyes widen for a breath. I can see you listening to nothing. But it isn’t nothing, is it.

Can he hear the same whispers I do? Does he understand them?

Azriel extends a hand draped in swirling shadows, eyes studying the living night.

“The shadows speak to me—inform me of things happening all across the world. So yes, I hear things—as all with working ears do.” I’m almost inclined to smile; feel it tugging at my cheeks.

His heart remains a drowning presence inside my head, but after some time spent so close, it seems I’m able to tune it out to an extent; though a part of me doesn’t want to; dreads the loss of its comforting rhythm.

Do all Illyrians hear things like you do? I specify what kind of hearing in case he’s inclined to continue the jest, and he shake his head. What does that make you?

“Different.” I roll my eyes, because of course. I walked into that one. Ahead, amusement sparkles in his eyes, like glimmers of light in the hazel. It makes something flicker in me too, foreign after all these years. “I’m a Shadowsinger.” He explains. “Maybe the Illyrian equivalent of what you are.” I consider it, and find that it makes sense. “Show me how you see things—tell me something that’s happening outside this room, in the house.” The request is surprising—further than anyone’s pressed thus far—but I nod, relaxing against the headboard and letting my mind float away.

I stay in the room for a moment, watching Azriel’s stony expression as he observes me; unyielding and unbreakable.

It reminds me of the cold I’ve forged around myself, these past dozen years.

I wonder what horrors forged him.

Then—remembering my task—I move, entering the living space, finding Mor and this other being I’m certain is not Fae in the sitting room, Morrigan nursing a glass of whine, while the other’s sipping something else; too crimson to be wine.

Returning to myself, I look to Azriel. He hasn’t moved an inch, the male still as a statue; solid as one in posture.

Something Other is drinking something that is not wine in the sitting room. Azriel’s dark brows rise, then I note a sense of distance in his eyes; a coil of shadow curling around the shell of his ear. Relaying the same information in words, rather than sight.

“Impressive.” He states; a feeling or another pulsing behind my breastbone. “How do you know Amren is Other.”

Have you seen her? The softest of snorts escapes his nose.

“The blood then.” That’s what it is?

I try not to find it nauseating. I’ve seen enough blood to be thoroughly desensitised—albeit my own—but to drink it?

It’s too red to be wine. Mor’s glass has a completely different hue. Azriel only nods, as if he’s evaluating something.

“Rhys believes you might be a valuable ally in the coming war against Hybern. Is that something you’ll be—an ally.” There’s nothing threatening about Azriel’s tone, but the serious set of his face—all hint of humour drained away—tells me all I need to know.

Should it come to it, Azriel will do whatever it takes to protect his Court; disposing of me included.

Underlying threat aside, I write only the utmost truth between us.

It would be a pleasure to watch Hybern turn to rubble. His features do not soften, but sharpen into something akin to vengeful delight; a sentiment I mirror.

In time—with the blink of an eye, and the softest of sighs—Azriel’s shoulders settle towards something more relaxed; that edge dulling into something more approachable.

“How long were you imprisoned there.” Likewise, his words aren’t quite as demanding; softer in the way they are uttered. Swallowing, I avert my gaze—looking but not seeing—unsure whether to disclose this; whether I want the world to know the extent of my isolation. “It can stay between us.” With a Daemati for a High Lord, I question the validity of that statement, but the offer on its own…

Searching his face—his eyes—I find… something I can’t name. Something not quite assuring, or comforting—almost nothing at all—but past the icy film of neutrality, there is something; and it’s enough.

Roughly a decade. A muscle in his jaw flares; marking the first blatant crack in his careful façade. I can’t be sure. Tracking the growth of my hair isn’t a particularly reliable source. I attempt to jest—to make light of it, and highlight my personal ingenuity—but the acceleration of Azriel’s heart suggests otherwise.

“Where did they keep you.”

In a cell. I acknowledge that I’m disclosing a great deal of things to a stranger—and that it was most likely his intention to get me talking to begin with—but the way Azriel’s face tightens assures me this is no mere interrogation.

His eyes drift to my wings, and I attempt to lift them—to tuck them closer—but I can’t; my muscles almost entirely atrophied.

He sees, but doesn’t comment; though something like understanding dwells in his eyes.

“I should let you eat.” He stands, posture steady and true; but a hand comes to clutch his chest as if hurting there. The sight tugs at something in me; evokes an instinct I can’t place. “Thank you for your cooperation.” And then he turns into a cloud of shadow, bending out of the room in a manner not dissimilar to my own gift; only dark.

Chapter Text

Morrigan invades my peace during the later hours between lunch and dinner, a broad smile etched upon her painted lips, and a bundle of cloth gathered in her arms.

“We’re having dinner at the House of Wind today—and you’re formally invited.” She speaks with flourish and bravado—unfiltered enthusiasm—all while I grapple with the prospect of leaving this room; and all it entails. “I’ve taken the liberty of procuring a dress for you.” She lets the bundle unfold in a flash of golden fabric; strung together in a manner I struggle to consider clothing. “It has an open back—so plenty of space for those pretty wings,” She twists it, showing off the plunging back. “And with some minor adjustments here and there…,” She assesses its front, toys with the interwoven belt; lips pursed. “I believe it’ll fit just fine.”

Slowly—carefully—I push myself to the bed’s edge, pressing a hesitant foot to the hardwood floor; hands gripping the mattresses’ rim.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with the dress—it’s rather lovely, objectively speaking—would call it a golden twin to the crimson one Mor favours; but to wear it myself.

Must it be a dress? Morrigan’s expression falls, then softens; that dress lowered with a sigh.

“Of course not.” She smiles; a slighter sort than her usual one. “If you’d prefer pants and a blouse, I can sort that out.” There’s almost disappointment there; lurking behind her eyes. “Well, my own don’t accommodate wings, but…,” She trails off, eyes averting; expression distant with thought. “Give me a minute.” She throws the dress onto the vanity; vanishing between one blink and the next.

I remain on the bed, wondering as to where this House of Wind is, and why it might’ve involved dressing up in the first place; though I feel it was more so a suggestion than a necessity. Whatever the case, I’ll admit, it’s… due time I left the confines of these four walls; that I got out of this suffocating, soft bed.

Still, leaving the relative safety I’ve found here is… daunting.

A soft crack, and the golden Fae returns, a mess of dark clothes gathered in her arms. They don’t strike me as anything she’d wear—the garbs rather plain compared the her usual extravagance—and the moment I breathe, I know from who she’s borrowed them.

“These might be a little large, but with a belt and a pair of boots, we should be able to make something decent out of it.” There’s hope somewhere in her words—as if eager to please—and I push what might pass for a smile onto my lips; in hopes it’ll assure her.

From there, she helps me out of my nightgown, stuffs me into Azriel’s oversized shirt and pants, neatly willing the loose legs into the neck of the calf-high boots she lends, and tucking the shirt into my waistband; tying it all together with a black belt, it’s buckle a gleaming silver. Additionally, she rolls up my sleeves in a way that doesn’t look too ridiculous; weaving a charm to keep them in place.

Despite her efforts, I feel like I’m drowning in fabric; but at least I’m dressed.

Lastly—upon my request—Mor braids my hair into a long, singular plait, offering an arm as we make to leave this room I’ve called mine for the past week or so. Thanks to my mental explorations, I know we’re headed for a set of stairs the moment we turn left past the doorway—the sitting room a flight below—and each step of the way, I feel as if my legs might crumble beneath my weight; would, were it not for Mor’s solid support.

Descending those stairs leaves me winded, but something stubborn and frightened refuses to let me breathe through anything but my nose; allowing me no more than a moment to regain my bearings before I have Mor spear us onwards.

Rhysand is already in the sitting room, lounging in an armchair—nursing a glass of wine—and he greets us both with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He also gives the air a not-so-subtle sniff.

“Did you ask before raiding Azriel’s closer?” Mor sits me down on the couch, a crooked grin tugging at her lips.

“No,” She admits, pouring a glass of her own and settling onto the couch opposite of her Lord. “But I’m sure he won’t mind. Figured his would be less gross than Cassian’s.” The High Lord chuckles, and Mor laughs, but neither of it feels right; feels unmistakably strained.

“Fair point.” His violet eyes drift to mine. “How are you feeling?”

Better. It isn’t so much a lie as it’s an exaggeration. My body remains weak, but a steady intake of food—although I can only stomach so much—is helping; should continue to improve my condition.

“That’s good.” He nods, sipping his glass. “You look more alive than last I saw you, at least.” I suppose it’s a compliment of sorts.

I feel the part. I admit, Rhysand’s answering smile a grim thing.

Mor leans forward, grabbing another of the laid out wineglasses from the low table, motioning it my way.

“Wine?” She asks, and I shake my head with haste.

“Malnourishment and alcohol usually doesn’t mix.” Rhysand points out, and Mor puts the glass down with a clink.

“Right—true.” She falls back with a sigh, sipping her own crimson beverage.

The shadows begin to bristle then—shift like the air above a candle—the thumping in my head growing in volume. Soon, Azriel manifests in the room; shadows lingering around his form for a time. Rhysand waves him over, and Mor smiles; raising her glass in invitation. For a moment, Azriel’s features soften, but then his eyes avert to me; nostrils flaring ever so faintly.

Mor raided your closet. I sign in self defence, those hazel eyes of his darting to Mor in an instant; narrowing. The golden female only smiles and pours him a glass, Azriel heaving a sigh and claiming a seat on the couch; to the right of me. He summons his glass on a wind laced in cobalt blue; the gems strung to the backs of his hands flaring as he does.

“Where’s Amren.” Azriel asks, though his voice remains calm and smooth; hardly a question at all. It feels lighter though; if still guarded.

“Wherever she wants to be.” Rhysand’s words are as nonchalant as the way he cradles his goblet—held in the cup of his palm—lightly stirring the beverage between sips. “She’ll be here—she’s too curious about our Lightseer not to.”

“We can’t call her Lightseer,” Mor complains. “That’s like calling you High Lord all the time.” Rhysand looks positively smug at the prospect—Mor rolling her eyes at the sight—the male’s face cracking into a smile at the sound of her exasperated sigh; a soft chuckle passing his lips.

“We’ll come up with a suiting nickname soon enough, don’t worry.” The High Lord assures, smile lingering; though his eyes retain a darkness he can’t seem to chase away.

Waiting for Amren in a rather comfortable—yet tense—silence, I fight the incessant urge to sink into the clothes I don and lose myself in the scents imbued within the fabric, and likewise shove aside the thought of the heartbeat that’s haunted my dreams for the past decade; now seated a mere arms-length away. I tune it all out—try to—remaining carefully still in my seat, and by the time the front door slams opened, it’s a welcomed distraction.

That small Other I saw yesterday steps out of the foyer, her silver eyes staring us all down, but settling on me in the end. Her presence radiates danger—prods at some primitive fight or flight reflex—but the longer I look into those swirling silver eyes, the less I fear her.

She feels like me—a being full of light—but different somehow; the light born within her rather than absorbed as mine is.

“I assume she’s the Lightseer.” The tiny female states, sitting down in the last vacant armchair; not bothering to reach for a glass of wine.

She prefers blood; right.

“We just came to the conclusion that we’re not to call her that.” Rhys points out, and Amren’s dark brows furrow.

“But she has no other name.”

“Yet.” Mor stresses. “She might still regain her memories.” An attempt at optimism, though I’m fairly content to not regain my memories at this rate.

“Well then, Nameless—you’re quite the rarity.” She leans back in her seat; tucks a leg over the other. “A Lightseer… I believe I’ve only heard of one, in my lifespan.” I wonder how long that is, though refrain from asking; feel it might seal my fate. “Then again, I’ve not spent much time amongst the Seraphim.”

“Care to share what you do know?” Mor asks, rewarding her a glare from the little creature; although Morrigan doesn’t so much as flinch.

“There was one during the War—one who helped Drakon find his enemies with real-time accuracy. As far as I’m concerned, they left alongside Miryam and her prince.”

“To Cretea.” Rhysand clarifies, and all these names—simply hearing them—has horns blaring in my head; and I swear the bargaining tattoo burns.

“To Cretea.” Amren confirms, and I bite my cheek against the stinging singe; cutting into me like a knife. “If that is you, it would make you as old as Rhysand.” Mor snorts.

“Oh—poor thing.”

“We’re the same age.” The High Lord points out, but Mor only laughs; Azriel’s strained jaw suggesting he’s withholding a chuckle.

“Does anything sound familiar, Nameless?” Amren asks, feline eyes assessing me as if I were prey; or perhaps something to dissect.

I should know the names, but I can’t remember. The bargain doesn’t let me. The Other eyes my words with deep-seated fascination.

“If you are who I suspect, you’re powerful—allegedly.” Her eyes fall to my own, and while I’m not put off by the intensity of her gaze, I notice the gradual acceleration of Azriel’s heart; as if she unnerves him by default. “Show me what you can do—aside from the words you craft.”

I nod—feel that her request leaves no room for refusal—and with half a thought, the light around me bends; turning me into a reflection of the creature seated on the other side of the table.

Her brows arch with intrigue, while the others appear shocked.

“Illusions.” She states with a certainty that suggests she’s well versed in the craft. “Tell me—how do you do it?”

The light bends to my will. I manipulate how you perceive that which bounces off of things. In this case, me. She nods, slow and assessing.

“But you create no light of your own.”

I can. I extend my hand, releasing the soft glow of my Seraphim magic; making the air swirl between my fingertips. Natural light is easier to bend. Using this would be a last resort.

“I assume that’s your inherent Fae magic.” I nod. “Can you wield it?” I pause at that, because though I know I’m capable—take offence to the mere suggestion I might not—I actually don’t know why I’m so sure of my abilities; have no recollection of how I’ve come to know it. Neither my light or wind.

Yet I know; as surely as my heart beats.

A thought, and my swirling wind settles into a solid lance—a dagger more like—clutched within my grasp; a weapon of opaque gold. There’s more I might do—other ways I might wield this power—but the fact of it feels more like instinct than something concrete I might name.

Seems like it. Is all I deign to say, dismissing the solidified wind with a wave of the hand; an answer which seems to satisfy all in attendance.

In the name of practice—and some degree of personal entertainment—I warp the illusion wrapped around my frame, transforming it into an exact replica of Rhysand; his calm expression immediately shifting into blatant admiration.

I did take him for a male who loves the mirror.

“My, this might be fun.” Mor muses, goblet almost drained now. “Would you do me?” Rhysand stands, redirecting our attentions.

“We’ve places to be, cousin—a dinner to eat.” I recall my illusion, bracing to brave my legs. “Az, you’ll fly one—I’ll do the back and forth.” In an instant, I freeze; muscles seizing while everyone else stand to follow their High Lord.

Fly.

I can’t fly.

I can’t be flown by someone else.

I can’t.

A hand comes into view—scarred and marred—adorned with a cobalt gem; shadows swirling along his fingertips.

They beckon; urge me to take it.

Whisper of gentle things; comforting things.

I heed them—because the alternative is inaction—laying my hand in his with a trembling sigh; the male helping me onto my feet. Looking into his eyes, I find silent understanding therein; the very same I glimpsed the day before. His gaze never drifts to the wings dropping uselessly to the floor past the bend of my shoulders, but I know he understands why the thought of flying leaves me frozen.

A phantom touch brushes along the inside of my wrist—snakes a path up my arm—and I look down to find a coil of shadow ascending the length of my forearm.

Azriel lets me go—takes a sudden step back—but the shadow remains, and I lift my arm to observe it; this living wisp of shadow. It travels to my hand—touch gentle and soft; cool and comfortable—weaves between my fingers. Wiggling them, I summon a wind to swirl alongside it; feel as though its ceaseless murmurs grow delighted in response.

Is this his doing?

A look into his eyes, and I come to the conclusion that no; it’s not. They have widened—those otherwise guarded eyes—his heartbeat elevated; something worried in the subtle dip of his brow. To my left, I note Mor; the look she throws our way the sort I can’t name.

“Get a move on, slugs—I haven’t got all day.” Amren snaps from the foyer, and the shadow darts back to its master; leaving only the ghost of its touch behind.

“Come on, I’ll lend you an arm.” Mor intercepts, and with Azriel suddenly a solid few steps ahead—turning into the foyer—I accept her offer.

Stepping past the threshold—into the open air beyond—I find myself torn between wonder and unease, but the sight a few paces down the gravel path offers a distraction, for Rhysand has grown a pair of wings; ones identical to Azriel’s, if smaller.

“Who wants to go first?” He asks, and once assured I can stand on my own two feet, Mor spears ahead; Azriel watching her pass with a look I can’t discern.

Where are we going? I write to him—standing a step or two beside—wreathed in shadow even beneath the blaze of the afternoon sun. He points to a palace carved into a mountain; a grand work of architecture that is both awe-striking and familiar.

The sun still high in the sky, I make a decision.

I’ll see you there. He frowns—seems inclined to protest—but I’ve already bent into the light and shot into the sky by the time his lips start moving.

It’s not flying, but it’ll have to do.

I rematerialise on a balcony, taking leverage against its railing when my balance wavers, remaining leaned against it—watching the city below in quiet awe—until I spot two black shapes approaching; rapidly.

They land, all but Amren seeming perplexed and in terror-stricken awe.

“Another skill of yours, I presume.” Amren states, a hint of intrigue lining her voice. I nod, and straighten; try to lift my wings to no avail.

“It’s not winnowing.” Rhys concludes. “You’d be falling out of the sky, if it were.” I didn’t consider that, I realise; that they’d have wards against my form of transportation. Luckily, it seems theirs only apply to winnowing.

I call it bending. I explain. I become one with the light and travel through it.

“Like how I shift through shadow.” Azriel observes, and I can only nod.

I assume so.

“Well, with that heart-attack tackled—lets eat.” Rhysand concludes, heading into the House of Wind. The rest of us follow, and noting I’m struggling to stand, Mor offers an arm; though my wings drag along the floor all the same. A fact I intend to fix sooner rather than later.

Chapter Text

The House of Wind is a behemoth of a building, hewn of auburn stone and intricate masonry, the supporting columns interwoven with the chiselled walls as they arch towards the roof; faelight chandeliers strung from their junctions. It was once the formal home of Rhysand’s family—the male explains—but since his ascension, it’s used for little beyond formal gatherings.

Considering I’ve a hard time keeping track of where we are between one corridor and the next, I understand his desire for something simpler.

Still, there’s appeal in the rooms he shows—grander than anything I’ve ever seen—but though he offers to set me up within one of such suites, I ultimately decide against it; for now. I pick one, for the simplicity of having somewhere to fall back on, should my stay in the Townhouse outgrow its welcome—though Rhysand assures that it won’t—but until I regain my strength enough to fly again, I’d rather not call a room here mine.

Theoretically, I can bend here whenever—which Rhysand states that I may, so long as I steer clear of the eastern wing—but come nightfall, lest the city provides enough radiance, I might be stuck here; and I detest the thought.

What I don’t detest is the music hall, nestled in the midst of a residential wing, the circular room and domed roof amplifying even the softest scuffle of feet along the polished stone. The High Lord of Night speaks of a musically inclined relative, some thousand years his senior—long gone now—but all I can think of is that beautiful grand piano—black as the midnight sky—nestled in the epicentre of this vast hall. I can’t explain why—don’t know where the feeling comes from—but my hands ache to touch it; to forge melodies my mind has been made to forget.

Alas, we don’t stay long—carry on with this tour—shown grand ballrooms, quaint seating arrangements nestled before towering windows, stairs I refuse to ascend—leading to a supposed training ring on the roof—and likewise stairs I refuse to descend; upon learning there are ten thousand of them between me and the mainland.

Instead, Rhysand leads me to the west-facing wall of balconies—from one of which we arrived—and though it’s implied we’re to return to the Townhouse, I ask to stay; if only a little longer. Rhysand doesn’t push—allows me a moment of solitude—taking flight and descending towards the city with a level of grace I’m inclined to envy, but decide against it; focusing instead on the clouds igniting with colour on the western horizon.

Colours whose name I know, but the sight of which I’ve never seen; as far as memory serves.

Bright crimson, flaming amber, regal gold, pastel pink—even rich magenta—the sky a mix of them all; the clouds painted to match.

A sunset. The first I’ve ever seen.

I can’t look away.

Leaned against the railing—eyes trained upon the sky—I watch the sun dip below the horizon, the brilliant display of colour gradually replaced by deepening blues. By the time I realise I’m running out of time, the shadows stretch tall across Velaris, only the softest band of gold lingering in the west; the last remnant of the sun’s grace. In a hurry, I bend into the Townhouse garden, unwilling to let the world slip beyond my grasp just yet; to let walls stifle my curiosity.

My legs prove treacherous, but I find a wrought-iron bench nestled along the path—cradled by budding hedges—claiming a seat and watching day transition into night in quiet contemplation.

Dinner was a causal affair—sure—but there were discussions regarding Hybern’s plans; his current goals and possible allies. I spent it listening—and eating—allowing their words to start filling in the blanks; and I feel as though I’ve a general grasp on the situation at hand.

Hybern is in control of the Cauldron—the well of creation itself—and knows how to wield it. He has infiltrated the southern-most Court of Prythian; where the High Lady of Night—Feyre—currently acts as a spy. The mortal Queens beyond the Wall—seperating the Fae from Humanity—have chosen to side with the male once hell-bent on enslaving all of of human-kind. We are in possession of the Book of Breathings; said to be capable of nullifying the Cauldron’s power.

It’s a lot, but… Not too much. Not more than I can handle. I’ve definitely some studying to do—some gaps to fill regarding the world itself—but it’s a start; a step in the right direction.

For now, I settle to watch the navy sky darken into something near-black, stars igniting before my eyes. Around me—in the hedges skirting the path—the sleeping buds come to life, unfolding into gorgeous bells of iridescent white; releasing a subtle but honeyed scent. The awe of it—everything up until this point—leaves me rooted in the moment; entirely enamoured by the display of colour coming to life amongst the stars.

Bright green. Stark red. Soft blue. Hot pink. All of it dancing between constellations.

It’s beyond anything I could’ve ever imagined; stunning beyond comprehension.

The colours come and go in waves—fade entirely at some point—but the sky without is as gorgeous as the one with.

Azriel’s heartbeat—growing in volume—shatters my trance, soon accompanied by his near-silent footsteps along the paved path. Then I scent him on the breeze. It’s hard to pinpoint past the night-blossoms, but I do scent him, and though I can’t name what clings to him, I know I enjoy it; however strange that sounds.

It reminds me of freedom, somehow.

He joins me on the bench; a respectful distance away.

“The Night Court’s known for beautiful evenings.” He states, voice like midnight itself; dark and lulling.

Fairly self-explanatory. I sign, the words weak; forged by the flowers’ soft glow, and what I’ve stored in my well. He huffs a breath—the sound akin to a laugh—and I find myself smiling; glancing his way.

He meets my gaze, eyes almost glowing in the low light; compared to the shroud of shadow wrapped around his body.

I saw my first sunset today. I don’t know why I tell him, but I feel I must tell someone.

He smiles; a soft, subtle thing. Though it fades before long.

“There was only the cell before.” He states, because it isn’t a question. He knows the answer; if not the whole, ugly truth.

Perhaps he suspects. Perhaps he wishes it was only the cell.

And torture. His jaw clenches; a muscle flaring. I look away—up at the stars—and sign the rest. They kept me in darkness. It became my escape.

For a time, we don’t speak; simply observing the beautiful night; listening to the soft bustle of the city beyond the garden walls.

“Do you miss the memories.” I shake my head, though I’m not sure he can see.

I feel nothing for the life I’ve lost. I begin, then pause; considering how to continue. Azriel waits for me to do so; patient and silent. I’m starting to think I accepted whatever mission brought me to Hybern because I knew it’d be suicide. The way Azriel’s heart stutters suggests discomfort, and I agree; though sadly find it the most logical conclusion.

“I thought Cretea was good—at least compared to Illyria.” I look at him again, and he me.

No place is perfect.

“Velaris comes close.” The words are wistful, speaking of his home; the City of Starlight. His chosen home.

It surely beats my cell. I stretch my wings—try to—and while I succeed, I can’t keep them tucked against my back like they should be. Something pained pushes past his calm and stoic facade.

“How deep was their torture?” He asks softly; cautiously.

Deep enough. His eyes drift to the ground.

“I understand.” It’s hard to gauge whether he’s honest based on tone alone, but something tells me he wouldn’t claim as such, were it a lie.

I tore my vocal chords, once. I sign in text so faint I’m not sure he sees; based on his lingering silence. But then he straightens—looks at me—gaze flickering between my eyes and throat. They healed them, if only to hear me scream again. I swallow. I never gave them the satisfaction.

“But you can speak.” My eyes avert; fall to the stone path.

I don’t know anymore. Azriel falls quiet—seems unsure what to say—and I can’t blame him.

Looking up, I let the silence linger, content to watch the stars twinkle; to marvel at the beauty of this world. Azriel does the same.

Amidst it all, a streak of light shoots through the night.

A falling star.

Based on a hunch, I make a wish, but while I close my eyes to do so, Azriel speaks.

“To the starts who listen, and the dreams that are answered.” He mumbles, and those words—those gorgeous, inspiring words—make me want to speak again; make me want to try.

Too cowardly to do so this night, I sign instead.

To the starts who listen, and the dreams that are answered.

Chapter Text

Staying away from the music room proves impossible. There’s simply… something here that demands knowing, and despite my rather morbid conclusion the night before, I answer the call.

Each step past the heavy doors reverberates through the circular room, the dome amplifying every breath—the shuffle of my wings as they drag along stone—a tentative hand coming to grace the gleaming varnish of the piano’s frame, the black smooth beneath my fingertips as I circle towards the leather-bound stool.

Lifting my wings enough to claim a seat, I spend a moment flexing them—adjusting them—every minute spent moving the atrophied limbs bringing me another step closer to flight; however slight. Rather than surrendering them to the stone, I let them curl around my middle; feathers flaring like a skirt around my hips.

Grasping the lid safeguarding the keys, a part of me fears it won’t budge, but though it’s heavy—my arms trembling under its weight—the lid folds opened; revealing a row of ivory and midnight keys. Unblemished and pristine as they are, it feels sacrilegious to touch them, but my fingers ache—twitch with the need to explore—and so I lay my hands to rest along the white digits, the smooth ivory a familiar sensation beneath my fingertips; falling into formation as if the body knows what the mind does not.

I press down, a harmony of sound rushing forth. A chord. I can’t place its name, but I know it has one. Moving up a key, I find another, the tone… sadder. It’s not the one I need; not the one I’m looking for. I try a black note combined with the ivory, but it’s still off, so I add another. Still wrong. A third—

The chord speaks to the subconscious; dark and melancholy. I try it again—let it linger—press down on a pedal by my feet and find that it still resonates once I remove my hands from the instrument.

Something should follow. A new chord. A new set of keys. Which ones?

Fingers returned to the instrument, I start with the original—press down on the pedal—and move my hand upward, trying the black keys a step above, but no. It’s not right. Not quite. I try the white. Still no. Attempt a combination—

There it is.

I move between the two—again and again—knowing there’s a third to find; willing muscle memory to uncover what my mind cannot.

This is important. Something about this is important; this instrument; this song.

I need it back.

The rest of my past may rot, but this—I need this.

Moving up and down the keys, I search for the third—search for the tone which fits the progression—finding the base and working out the rest from there.

Again, three black keys, but different ones; a different sound. However, there should be a forth. Another combination, found swifter than those before.

Four chords, played in an absent loop—over and over—the rest lurking on the tip of my tongue; a melody tugging at my right hand.

Simple, but effective.

A black key—three times at equal length—then a white one just below, but the chords needn’t be there; not at first. It’s just a simple, sombre tone. A subtle beginning. Then the chords, the melody played beside; coming back to me in jagged bursts, but there.

Instinct does the rest—finds this simple symphony—every mistake accepted in stride, because the song carries on, my fingers finding home in due time; this dream of a song composing itself between one breath and the next.

The shadows sing along—hum a distant melody—a heart thumping like the beat of a drum, yet I play, following the ghost of my own thoughts; the memory of what once was.

It builds—emboldened with emotion—empowered by this grief pouring from my heart—poisoning my veins—only to slip through my fingertips; given an outlet by way of the keys. Following this crescendo, I return to those four chords—that simple melody—and suddenly it just… ends.

There’s nothing more to do, when this last chord strikes true—fading into obscurity—yet it leaves me irrevocably dissatisfied. It feels incomplete—leaves me longing for more—but there’s… nothing. Just this… void. Not of the mind, but the soul.

Frustrated, I play it again—search for this missing piece—but no matter how I try, the hopeful crescendo crumbles, the song ending as it began.

A loop.

A circle.

An endless cycle of hope and despair.

I stop—let the melody fade—staring at these keys; unsure how to proceed.

Is the song unfinished? Is it as intended? Why this song? Do I know other ones?

Dwelling on the nature of this particular song offers naught but a headache—and some measure of emotional turmoil—so I play around with a few melodies, constructing something out of nothing; until I find something that feels familiar again.

~O~

I stay too long—lose myself in those ivory keys—and find that the sun has long since set by the time I make my way to the balcony. It’s an issue, but not debilitating. Using the light stored within me—and that of the House itself—I bend into the night; descending like a fallen star.

The moon and stars—the city itself—supplies some light I might work with; but not enough to maintain this form. I hurry in an effort to compensate, but though speed brings me to the garden, it also bites me in the arse by the time I rematerialise. The moment my feet hit the ground, my legs cave beneath the force of my descent, knees slamming into the stone paving with a soft thud—and a sharp hiss—palms left raw by its rough surface; a tang of iron mingling with the honeyed scent of midnight blossoms.

Sighing, I sink onto my calves, lifting my hands, inspecting my dirtied palms; a slight hint of red seeping through.

The trickle of water garners my attention, and I peer down this ornate path, glimpsing what looks to be a fountain; its water glistening in the gentle glow of the garden.

A supporting hand pressed to the stone, I rise, putting one foot before the other; that fountain my focus. It’s circular, the centrepiece a stack of three eight-pointed stars—shrinking in size with each level—water falling from their ends; all hewn from white stone. Within, the water’s crystalline—reflecting the stars—and as I seat myself along its rim, I find my reflection just as clear.

I ignore it, dip my hands into the water; let it wash my palms free of dirt and blood. It sheds from me in a billowing cloud of grey and red, sinking deeper—pulled away by some current—diluting into nothing. Rubbing them together—willing away the more stubborn blemishes—the water splashes and ripples; disturbing the relative silence of Rhysand’s garden. There’s the buzz of crickets sounding from the bushes, the bustle of nightlife wafting from the city, and the fountain’s persistent trickle; and now me, adding to the symphony.

It’s something I’m used to, if the piano has anything to say about it.

Yet, looking at my hands—palms upturned—the callouses I find whisper of a life laced in hardship; allude to the warrior Amren claims I might’ve been—that I feel I once was. Not that it’s mutually exclusive—being an artist and a soldier—but the duality of both creating and taking is… I’m not sure what it is.

All I know is that I enjoyed it—playing—and I’ll probably do it again.

I also know I’ll one day pick up a blade; make use of the fighting rings on the roof.

Maybe read a book or two. Ones that touch upon Prythian history and geography. Hopefully some with pictures.

The buzz of crickets and flutter of moths—flittering between the glowing flowers—is joined by the soft murmur of living shadow; emboldened by the deepening darkness of night. The beat of a heart soon follows, and by the time Azriel’s feet sound along the stone, I’ve already turned to look at him; watching as he enters this circular plaza. If one might call it that.

“Why do I smell blood.” He states in place of greeting; and the question is valid.

I look to my hands—find the scrapes no more than reddened skin now—then my knee; a soft ache still pulsing there.

I’m bleeding. I write, drying my hands with a rush of air—tinted gold—sending soft waves crashing against the other end of the pool. Somewhere. A low hum; the sound of approaching steps.

“Enlightening.” I smile—hands at my knee now—eyes lifting from the faint splotch of deeper black marring my borrowed pants; meeting the Shadowsinger’s gaze. Pulling at the muted light separating night from true darkness, I glow—if only for a moment—eliciting a soft huff from the stoic male; the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “What did you do?” He asks, claiming a seat along the fountain’s edge; shadows skittering along the water’s surface like mist.

Nothing serious.One such shadow slithers close—skirts along my knee—only to dart back to its master with haste; curling along his ear. His chin lifts—just slightly—eyes averting as he listens.

“You fell.” He concludes, based on whatever tale that shadow spun.

Don’t worry. I’ll ask Cerridwen to wash your pants before they’re returned. A soft sigh seeps past the male’s nose, something amused sparkling in his eyes.

“Why did you fall.” He inquires, unwilling to let my attempts at deflection pass uncontested. Although he doesn’t push for an answer, when my silence lingers; when I hesitate to answer.

I was at the House. Lost track of time. It was dark by the time I left, so I had to hurry. Was too hard on the landing. I brush a hand along that dark splotch—find it hardened, the blood already dried—willing away a few bits of dust and dirt; a dead leaf or two.

“You can’t bend at night.” An observation, and a question; presented as a statement.

Not as well. I disclose, but end it at that. The male doesn’t push me to elaborate.

“I was nearby—you could have asked me to shift you down.” I arch a brow at that.

The wards don’t apply to you? He shrugs; leaves it at that. I decided to do the same. Where would I have found you? Azriel blinks—brows furrowing for a beat—then shifts in his seat; adjusts his wings.

“If not my room, I’m in my office.” He explains, working off of the assumption that I know where his room is; that he has one. Perhaps his shadows whispered of the tour Rhys treated me to, much like they informed him of my tumble. “It’s on the lower floor—northern wing.” I tuck the information away into a corner of my mind; for later use.

What do you do—to warrant an office in Rhysand’s palace. The male looks away; to the stars and flowers. Anywhere but me.

I wait for an answer—prepared to never receive one—toying a hand along the water’s surface; making patterns that ripple and spread; watching the light refract and play amidst the waves.

“I’m the court’s Spymaster.” Azriel explains; a time later. “I manage intelligence.” A smile curls onto my lips; sly and coy at once.

So that’s what this is. He turns, a soft frown at his brow; question glistening in his eyes. You’re spying on me. His wings tuck close; shadows thicken.

“Not exactly.”

It’s okay if you are. I clarify. I get it. I’m a stranger in your home. I’d be concerned if someone wasn’t keeping an eye on me. He hums—scoffs—arms folding across his chest; shadows disrupted in a flurry of darkness. So long as you turn a blind eye when I bathe, I’ve no formal complaint. He snorts, head falling forward; hair tumbling about his brow.

“Not when you change?” I wheeze—the ghost of a laugh passing my lips—eyes falling to the waters with a roll.

Crude. I chide, the shadows almost… snickering; though their master doesn’t make a sound. Add that to the list.

“I’m not watching you change—or bathe.” He clarifies; unaware I’d know if he was. That I hear him long before he makes his presence known. “I have manners.”

Good to know. I straighten—heave a breath—decide to change the subject. I’ll look for you, should I lose track of time again—if it’s not a bother.

“Not at all.” He clears his throat. “Anything to save my pants.” I glare, Azriel’s smile faint, but cheeky.

You can have them back. Mor’s promised to take me shopping soon—I can wear something of hers until then. He shakes his head.

“It’s fine. She lent you a set of spares I keep in the Townhouse—I’m not missing them.” He looks at me, eyes searching. “Unless—” He pauses—stops mid sentence—gaze drifting; head tilting. “I need to go.” He stands; shadows gathering. “Goodnight.” A hurried word, but not without the manners he claims to possess.

Goodnight. He vanishes—heartbeat dimming—a whisper of his presence lingering in the shadows.

Something work-related, I assume, and though his company is… pleasant, I don’t mind being alone; planned to head inside soon either way. But not yet.

Another minute or two beneath the stars, then I’ll consider getting a wink of sleep.

Chapter Text

I find a fresh pair of clothes on my nightstand, the next morning; narrowly identical to those Morrigan stole. Yet, carefully folded as they are, I struggle to believe it’s Mor’s work—bringing them here—though I fail to see why Azriel would send me a replacement set because of a tumble. It’s not like the blood and dirt hasn’t been magicked away by Cerridwen by now, after all.

Still, the gesture is sweet—if nothing else—and as I dress myself, I find that the shirt is made of cotton; soft compared to the rougher grate of linen. The pants are not, but the rigid durability of the blackened fabric is probably for the best.

Hair woven into a simple braid, I brave the world beyond the confines of my room, finding the townhouse unusually quiet as I work my way to the downstairs. Only Nuala and Cerridwen appear to be home, the former of which intercepting me as I pass into the kitchen.

“Good morning.” She greets, smile subtle and shrouded in shifting darkness; not dissimilar to Azriel’s, but jarringly quiet. Mistier. “How would you like your breakfast?”

However is most convenient. I sign, at which the Wraith only smiles, practically floating to the counter; only tangible enough to hold the knife she summons, and the fruits she lays on the cutting board.

“A fruit spread, perhaps? Porridge must be growing dull.” I shrug, lingering in the doorway; looking towards the foyer as I lean along the wood. “Bread and cheese?”

I’m impartial. I forge the words with an absent wave, and Nuala carries on cutting, leaving any further questions unsaid.

Meanwhile, I peer beyond the navy curtains, glimpsing a bright, lovely day beyond the glass; the sun filtering past the cloth in a stream of golden light. I wonder then whether the Night Court’s days are somehow lesser than those of the Day Court; and how that would even be possible.

Bluer skies? Brighter sun?

“Where would you like to take your breakfast?” Nuala asks, beside me now; a tray in hand. I look to her—to the assortment of things laid out on that plate—then the sitting room; considering my options. “Perhaps the garden?” She suggests, voice the soft murmur of a midnight wind; airy and deep, yet feminine.

Perhaps. I sign, taking the tray from her hands; thanking her with a slight bow. She nods, form fading in and out of tangibility; smile shrouded behind a veil of secrecy.

I depart with little fanfare, making my way into the garden as mentioned, and noting the distinct difference in its atmosphere; between night and day.

The night-blossoms aren’t in bloom, excluding their honeyed scent, but there are other plots of fragrant buds, bathing in the morning sun; their petals ranging from soft purple, to periwinkle blue. I can name none say lavender, a line of which skirts the main path; a fact I never noticed under the veil of darkness. Butterflies flitter about the blossoms, and though I wouldn’t mind sitting amidst them, a glance skyward reveals what looks to be a roof terrace; piquing my interest.

Bending into the light—tray of food in tow—I find my way to the roof, finding the view of the city as tantalising as that of the garden. Finding a seat along the railing—facing southward—I observe this bustling city; all while nibbling on an apple wedge.

There’s something disorderly about its aesthetic. A freedom in its design. No two houses are identical—though often hewn of the same reddish stone—hinting at its unfathomable age; the architectural norms having evolved over millennia, only to blend into one whole. There are wooden homes filtered throughout—with aged copper roofs, or those of orange clay—a mismatch of tall and stout; short and thin. It didn’t appear in a night, this city, but the damages I glimpse—scattered throughout the streets—feel fresh.

The scars of war; having reached even here.

The contrasting visuals entertain me while I eat, the ocean breeze catching my hair in billowing sweeps of salt-scented air; instincts seeing my wings spread wide and true. It doesn’t last, of course. The wind might beckon, but… For now, I can only pretend; can only imagine myself air-born as I flex my wings for practice’s sake.

My back burns—core likewise—but it’s good pain; necessary pain.

Winged beings aren’t meant to be earthbound; it goes against our very nature.

I’ve no doubt it’s the very reason Hybern buried me beneath the palace; but I let that thought come and go unacknowledged.

It doesn’t deserve the time of day.

A cloud shrouds the morning sun, casting the city in shadow, and I feel the softest flutter of something against my wrist; upon reaching for another slice of pineapple. I look down, glimpsing a moving tendril of darkness there, slithering beyond the confines of my own shadow; now that the sun isn’t quite as stark.

Hello. The text is faint—as to not extinguish this living shadow—and the murmuring wisp curls along my fingers in something akin to a greeting; touch cool against my sun-heated skin. Lifting it before me, I inspect them closer, listening to the world in search of Azriel’s heart, but finding it notably absent; not even an echo on the breeze.

He must be beyond the city bounds—or high in the House—yet his shadow’s here; perhaps the very same that’s followed me for… as long as I remember.

Are they separate individuals, or a… hive mind? Can you distinguish one wisp from the other?

They’re connected to Azriel—that I know—and his status as a Shadowsinger, but what they are has never come into question; I haven’t thought to ask.

Are you the one spying on me? I pose the question, working under the assumption that they’re—at least to some degree—separate from him; for the time being. It almost… laughs. Giggles. A lilting impression of something amused brushing my ears.

I smile, summoning my wind to play; the gold and black dancing along my fingertips.

Were you— The sun breaks through the cloud, and the wisp darts back into the shroud of my shadow; blending into the impression of my form. Looking to my shadow, there’s no clear indication its still there; though I hear it.

Movement below catches my attention, and I look down to find Mor turning onto the yard. Noting my presence, she looks up—a hint of surprise in her eyes—lips quickly spreading into a grin.

“Aren’t you the spitting image of a magpie—stolen anything shiny yet?” I smile—though the reference puzzles me—her dazzling grin contagious. I lift my tray of foot—wooden and plain—realisation washing over her features; smoothing them towards understanding. “Once you’ve finished that—might we sort out your new wardrobe? The Palace of Thread and Jewels opens in an hour or so, we can take a walk along the Sidra, until then.” A walk is… needed, yes, but my calves have yet to recover from my tour of the House; nor my thighs for that matter.

Alas, I nod, because I need clothes, and whatever pain awaits me, I likewise need the exercise.

~O~

Though Velaris is a city of Night, it doesn’t seem nocturnal. Even at this hour—only a few past dawn—there are patrons milling about the streets; leaving the cobbled roads packed enough that I must keep my wings tucked close, lest someone step on them. It’s tiresome—much like walking as a whole—but once I think to weave a supporting tether of wind around the recovering limbs, I’ve only the discomfort of the crowd itself to contest with.

Mor doesn’t seem to share the sentiment, all smiles and sunshine as she greets those we pass; as if acquainted with every face of Velaris. In contrast, I simply wish to disappear, though I manage the slightest, polite smile out of sheer force of will; displaced as it feels upon my lips.

There are simply too many prying eyes; too many unknown variables.

There was intrigue, at a distance—fascination and appreciation, when viewed from afar—but put in the midst of this bustling city, I think only of the dangers that might lurk behind friendly faces. So much as a slouch feels too much like a sign of weakness, and though I am weak, I’ve no intention of letting them know that; to invite such scrutiny into their minds. No, I keep my head held high—my spine rigid—resisting the urge to run at every turn; that in itself a weakness.

Eventually, we reach this Palace of Thread and Jewellery, a place of bustling store-fronts and intricately laid pathways; coming together into a whole that aligns with the namesake. However, any sense of awe I might feel at the sight of this intricate marketplace is quickly snuffed out as Morrigan drags me into one of said stores, thrusting me into the hands of a spindly seamstress armed with a measuring tape, offhanded remarks as to my physique—or lack thereof—and scrutinising eyes.

Getting my measures taken is necessary, of course, if I’m to have proper clothes tailored, but she needn’t comment on the visibility of my ribs, I feel; not when she’s no idea why I’m skin and bones, as she puts it.

I tune her out—get my measures and move on—browsing the options Mor lays out once the old female’s done with me, although none of the colourful garbs feel right. There’s an argument to be made that I need more colour, but the kinds of colours she’s chosen are… vibrant, bound to further desaturate my already colourless self—I can visualise it perfectly—so I dismiss them with a brush of the hand and set out on my own hunt; whether Morrigan tries to sell me one of the hot pink blouses throughout or not.

There’s nothing wrong with Morrigan’s taste in clothing. I simply do not share it. While she is a female of warm reds and bright golds, I find myself drawn to the pastels; the softer shades of yellow, paired with beige and untanned leather. I’m persuaded to buy a lavender blouse—alongside a dark but desaturated blue dress matching the Night Court’s theme—but beyond that and a pair of dark trousers, majority of what I choose to bring home lean white; though the Illyrian leathers I’m promised are bound to be the same shade of black as Azriel’s.

I look forward to those.

We make it back to the townhouse by lunchtime, at which point Rhys and Amren are already seated by the dining table; the former greeting us with a smile, and a brow raised in inquiry.

“So, about the begs of clothing in the guest room—”

“I paid for them myself, calm your old arse.” Mor interrupts her cousin and High lord, claiming a seat beside the male. I cringe, left standing in the doorway, the thought of her— “None of that.” She snaps, and I jolt; gaze levelling with her stern glare. “I had fun today—it amounts to the costs.” The words feel… sincere enough, and though it still chafes at me… I let it go; for now.

One day, I’ll pay her back.

“Did you enjoy her company, Nameless?” Amren asks as I make to claim the seat at her side; tone suggesting she wouldn’t have.

It wasn’t terrible. I concede, because it wasn’t; all things considered. Yet, Rhysand cringes—perhaps noting my slouching frame, despite my efforts—while Mor only smiles; beaming with delight. Amren’s eyes twinkle with something I might call amusement; subtle but there.

“Well, at least you’ll be adequately dressed now.” Rhys concludes, setting the table with the snap of his fingers—and a touch of dark power—Nuala and Cerridwen filtering in to serve today’s midday meal.

Rhys thanks them with a curt nod—an act I mirror—Mor smiling her thanks; all while Amren merely picks at her nails.

“She won’t reek of Illyrian brute anymore.” The Other comments, at which Mor laughs; although Rhysand feigns offence.

I don’t comment—get on with our meal—and once our plates have been cleared, I excuse myself to the guest room; ignoring the piles of newly acquired clothes in favour of a book. A book labelled Prythian History.

Chapter Text

The sun has barely crested the horizon by the time I appear upon the House’s roof, met by the promised sight of the sparring rings Rhys mentioned; and a view to rival all other. Jagged mountains, forested valleys—green against auburn and grey—bathing in pastel light; the sky above a canvas of kind blues and soft white. Already, the sun offers some warmth, but the breeze at this altitude is cool; bound to soothe ones weary bones throughout a long day of rigorous exercise.

A perfect place to rebuild oneself. At least, one’s unlikely to grow bored throughout, with such a view to marvel upon.

Looking to the entrance—the staircase hewn from what must’ve once been part of the mountain’s peak—I find an alcove beside. Upon closer inspection, it’s an armoury, and while all the weapons stored within are appealing in their own right, my eyes land on a wooden sword and decide I might as well start there; see whether my callouses fit along its hilt.

The sparring blade weighs heavy in my hand, but sure enough, the roughened skin of my palm moulds along the smooth wood as if I’ve known nothing but the feel of a blade for all of existence, and as I step into a ring—sword poised before me—the stance I settle into feels as natural as breathing; if strained by my lacking strength.

A guard. A brace. Sword kept crossed with my body, but ready to strike; ready to act.

My left hand feels empty at my side—awkward and unoccupied—and I wonder whether I once carried a shield to go with the blade, but brush the thought aside for now; focus on this singular sword, and the ways I might move it.

A diagonal swipe, slow and controlled—testing the waters—followed by a careful sweep; aligned with the roof. The shifting weight puts me off kilter, but I settle—find my footing—and try again. Another swipe—another strike—a thrust followed by a change of grip; a backhanded jab at this imaginary foe.

Already, sweat gathers at my brow, but I let the wind soothe me—spare a moment to stretch my wings—before going at it anew; in whatever order feels natural.

A strike. A swipe. An imaginary dodge, sword transferred from one hand to the other behind the veil of my back; an upwards swing splitting the wind in half.

Panting, I look to my left hand—to the sword now grasped therein—finding its fit as natural there as that of my right. Curious, I straighten, twirling the sword once before returning it to my right; doing the same thing there. The motion feels smooth each time. Natural.

Perhaps it’s not a shield I lack, but another blade.

I think of the wooden daggers on display in the armoury, deciding that—since the sword is proving heavy—it might do to use two of those, for a start; see where this dual affinity goes.

It serves to exercise both limbs at once, if nothing else.

~O~

Spending the hours between dawn and noon on the roof becomes routine. At times, Rhysand joins me—those early hours some of the few he has spare—and other times, I arrive to find Azriel already well into his own workout. I can’t exactly spar with either of them, so the mornings Rhysand joins me, he functions as a moving target more so than an opponent; serving as his warm-up before leaving me to do his own thing. Azriel on the other hand… we keep to ourselves, these early hours. He offers a few words of advise—now and then—but lest he initiates the conversation, I don’t bother him; stick to the ring furthest from his.

I feel he’s there for a reason, and though he isn’t inherently hostile, something about his shadows—hissing and shrill—tells me I shouldn’t pry. I’m not entitled to his mind, after all.

The hours between noon and dinner, I often spend reading. Be it a historical tome, or one detailing the geography of Prythian, I pour over it within the comfort of my room, or that of the downstairs lounge; working to bridge the gaps scattered throughout my mind.

Come the evening, I’m often left exhausted—both mentally and physically—but even so… I find myself before the piano, time and time again; find that I can’t sleep, lest I settle the mind with some tunes. It’s a balm to the soul—that gorgeous instrument—the world itself singing along to the melodies I forge; until the sunset wills me back to the mainland.

Still, should the aurora rear its gorgeous face, I stay awake another hour or two.

Occasionally, Azriel joins me—wherever I decide to settle—sometimes merely a wordless companion, and other times whispering stories of faraway lands; giving first-hand accounts of the Courts I’ve thus far only read about. He’s tight-lipped, but descriptive—painting narratives befitting of a Spymaster—and though I tease that he’s only there to spy on me, I value the time he sets aside to be there. He doesn’t have to—not at all—and considering the state I find him in on the roof some mornings, I should suggest he go to bed early, rather than waste time in my presence; but Azriel doesn’t strike me as a male who does things he doesn’t want to.

Unless persuaded by Mor, of course.

He seems hard-pressed to deny her anything.

Amidst it all—between sparring and composing—I spare a quarter of every hour stretching my wings; flexing them in mock-flight. It does a number on my core and spine—and neck for that matter—leaving me with near constant muscle ache; but it’s a small price to pay. Before long, I’ll fly again—taste the skies again—reclaim the freedom of self Hybern stole from me.

In theory, I could glide—ascend through the light and slowly circle back to the ground via the aid of my wind—but straining my muscles before they’ve properly recovered might tear something; might set me back another month, if I’m unlucky. For now, I’ll be patient.

With this in mind, I don’t fling myself off of the balcony—as the evening breeze tempts me to do—resisting the urge in favour of bending; the sun unusually high in the sky by the time I leave the music room.

As I pass through the townhouse—headed for my room—I notice everyone gathered in the sitting room; even Amren. A goblet of wine rests lazily in Morrigan’s hand—Rhysand’s adorned with a low glass of something amber—a half-empty bottle waiting on the low table; not far from what looks to be Azriel’s untouched glass.

No one seems startled by my sudden appearance—manifesting in the doorway—Rhysand offering an absent cheers, Mor waving with bubbling enthusiasm—narrowing spilling her wine—Amren arching a brow past the rim of her… goblet of blood, and Azriel sparing a slight nod in greeting.

“Oh my Gods—please tell me you’re down for Rita’s!” Mor exclaims, leaving me dumbfound; signing a large question mark in response. “It’s a club! The best Velaris has to offer. We’re tied two for two right now—whether we’re going.” The female leans forward, a hand at her chin—revealing a good chunk of cleavage—batting her perfectly painted lashes. “Break the tie for me, would you?” The low purr of a temptress; or a drunkard. It’s hard to tell.

Evidently, she wants me to agree—to go out—and though it’d certainly be an experience… it’s rather sudden; too much so.

I’d rather stay in and drink. I admit, at which Rhysand raises his glass; downing its contents in a single chug.

“Another night, cousin.” The words are teasing—his smirk feline—the male plucking a bottle of that amber liquor from the foot of his armchair; refilling the crystalline glass. “The judge has spoken.” Mor rolls her eyes—falling back against the couch—hand cast over her brow with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re all boring…,” She complains, all while I approach on quiet feet—aiming for the seat beside Azriel—a goblet winking into existence on the low table as I settle against the cushions; courtesy of Rhysand.

“We’re all tired, Mor.” Rhys argues, levitating the bottle and pouring my glass; all without sparing it a glance.

“Which is why we need to let loose.” She argues, straightening now; wine sloshing dangerously within her glass. “You’ve been cooped up in here for weeks, Rhys—even Azriel didn’t need much persuading.” I claim my goblet, glancing to the male seated at my right; his eyes revealing little say subtle resignation.

“Soon.” Rhysand promises, which does little to placate his cousin.

Busy bickering as they are—Amren watching in both amusement and annoyance—only Azriel’s aware enough to witness me cringe the moment I’ve my first taste of wine. His lips tug towards a smirk—knowing and amused—and I shoot him a subtle scowl in response; forcing down another few defiant sips.

It’s bitter, and dry—leaves an odd feel throughout my mouth—but beneath that, it’s… fine. I get the sense I once knew it—if not this particular brand—but not whether I liked it then; can’t say I like it now.

The low thump of heavy feet descending the stairs wills everything to a halt, Rhys whipping around in his seat with such haste he nearly propels the liquor out of his glass; doesn’t seem to care that a droplet stains his immaculate suit.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed!” He exclaims, winking out of existence only to reappear at the foot of those stairs, where another Illyrian male emerges; his wings held together by splints and bandages.

The male huffs, pushing his High Lord aside and striding for the sitting room.

“I’m not spending another minute in that tiny room, Rhys.” He grumbles, plopping down on the couch beside Mor; who offers him a faint smile.

I’d say I understand the sentiment, but I couldn’t possible compare my condition with his; those wings clearly wounded something horrid.

Noticing a severe lack of goblets on the table, the male goes for the entire bottle, chugging an unhealthy amount at once; without so much as a cringe. Rhys only sighs, summoning his vanished glass and reclaiming his seat; another bottle appearing on the table.

The newcomer lowers the flask—keeping it in his clutches—shooting his exasperated High Lord a grin; although it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. From there, his attention averts to me, that grin showing a hint of wine-stained teeth.

“So you’re who I’ve scented—nice to meet ya.” He lifts his bottle in salute, and I raise my glass in return. “What’s the name?”

“Currently unknown.” Rhys explains for me. “Amren’s decided to call her Nameless.” Amren smirks at the mention.

“It fits.” She muses behind her goblet of blood; possibly spiked with wine.

“Well, Nameless it is then.” He concludes, taking another swig out of the bottle. “Name’s Cassian—I command the armies and provide the good looks around here.” I fail to suppress a snort, prompting Mor to shoot Cassian a leering smile.

“Doesn’t sound like she agrees.” He throws a glare right back at her.

“I’ll admit—I’m not looking my best.” He rolls his shoulders; his neck. “But just you wait—” Puffs out his chest and levels me a smirk. “When these bandages come off, I’ll show you what’s what. Rhys has nothing on me.” I frown; just a crinkle.

Hadn’t realised Rhys provided the good looks in your absence. Mor chokes on her wine, and Cassian looks torn between laughter and awe at the words now hovering between us. Rhys on the other hand looks equally amused as he does offended.

“You wound me, truly.” He drawls, pressing a hand to his heart.

“Who does, then—Nameless?” Amren asks, red lips spread into a smirk.

Why, you of course. The Other in the opposing armchair looks entirely too contented by the words, though the subtle glint to her eyes tells me she knows it for the evasion it is. Cassian protests—of course—demanding that I rate the males in the room; while affirming my right to consider Amren the prettiest female.

I refuse, and since I don’t talk, it’s not like they can force it out of me, so the subject’s inevitably dropped in favour of another. From there, I resign to listen—enjoy the show of familial bonds before me—all while sipping my wine.

Over time, I grow used to the bitter tang of alcohol—manage more than a sip each swig—gradually tucking myself into the far corner of the couch, knees pressed to my chest, and wings curled close; folding into a cocoon of pleasant warmth.

Three rounds in, I find my eyes drifting—cheek leaned against the backrest—tracing Azriel’s profile in lazy sweeps; noting his sharp lines and smoothed edges. Bathing in the golden light of dusk, his hair shimmers a deep gold—like a halo strung about his brow—his eyes likewise set aglow when the angle’s just right.

He’s simply gorgeous. It’s Criminal. Unfathomable that he hasn’t a partner of his own.

Cassian has a brutish sort of charm—I’ll concede as much—but Azriel—

His attention sways from the drunkards ahead—Mor and Cassian caught up in some bawdy tale from centuries past—leaving me levelled with that gorgeous pair of golden eyes; a dark brow of his raised in wordless question. Caught looking, I avert my gaze—perching my chin along the backrest—peering beyond the navy curtains; to the sky set aglow in vibrant shades of gold and amber.

Heart pounding—embarrassment trickling through my bloodstream—its easy to just… drift away; to gaze upon those gorgeous clouds and find myself amidst them. To the east, snow-capped mountains beckon, tugging me down winding valleys of evergreen—to melt-water falls from which rivers feed—finding hidden lakes nestled between mountainsides; all of it bathing in the dimming light of dusk.

It’s only when I look westward—glimpsing naught but untamed wilds—that I realise I’m lost.

Lost, with naught but an hour of sunlight remaining; if that.

Frantically—haphazardly—I wrestle my mind for anything familiar, for landmarks I recall passing, but it’s all the same; all mountains and trees and glistening rivers. No matter how high I ascend—how far my eyes perceive—there’s no hint of the city from which I came; no obvious rout that’ll return me to my body.

I could follow the sun—spear west and pray—but should night fall while I’m still out here…

To the south, I glimpse what looks to be a palace—not dissimilar to the House of Wind—the white stone a dazzling gem against the backdrop of grey; only a hint of greenery skirting the base of the mountain. It’s not Velaris, but upon closer inspection, I recognise it as the Moonstone Palace, situated above the Hewn City; the Night Courts official seat of power, where the outside world’s concerned.

At least, once; before the war.

Assured I remain within the Night Court, I search this palace of pale stone, the large, open windows letting in what light the sun yet allows—filtering in past lavender drapes—allowing me the visibility required to hunt for anything resembling a map.

A marker—a direction—it’s all I need.

North or south? East or west?

Ascending the spiral of a grand tower, I find what I seek, a map laid upon a table—or etched upon it; it’s hard to tell—but I find no label that indicates where Velaris might be. However, based on the Sidra—where it theoretically should feed into the ocean—I’ve a hunch, and lest I wish to be trapped here all night, I chance it.

Skirting the southern coastline in a path due west, I chase the dying light; praying I’ve made the right call. Yet, I reach the mouth of what I believe to be the Sidra, and there’s simply nothing along its shores; no hint of a dock along the rugged coast. Unwilling to accept it, I drift inland—brave the shadow of the mountains—jarred to find the city simply appearing beneath me; having passed the soft flutter of a barrier.

There’s relief, in the sight—in being right—but while the street-lights might guide me in the sun’s absence, I still hurry towards the townhouse; towards my body.

I startle back to consciousness with a gasp, earning me the unbridled attention of all in the room; intoxicated or not. Ignoring their worried looks—the tremble rattling my bones—I bury my face in my hands; digging my nails into my scalp if only to assure myself I’m back.

“What’s wrong, Nameless?” Amren asks, not drunk in the slightest; a genuine hint of concern lacing the Other’s voices.

Wings snapping snug against my back, I rise, making for the stairs; done with this evening; cursing myself for drinking.

Hiding away in my room—door locked behind me—I draw the curtains, turn off all faelights, and curl into bed; staring into the whispering darkness, searching for its comfort and reprieve.

No light means no sight. No drifting. No danger.

Chapter Text

Mor gets her way in due time, bringing the lot of us—a recovering Cassian included—to the aforementioned club; Rita’s. Considering the occasion demands it—and isn’t shoved upon me at the last minute—I let Nuala do my hair, while Cerridwen procures a few pieces of jewellery that might go with my midnight blue dress; proving to be an assortment of silver and sapphire.

I refuse them all, save for a silver chain adorned with a sapphire droplet; slotting perfectly into the subtle v of my neckline. Nuala’s work on my hair results in a casual but multifaceted braid—smaller weaves interwoven into the main plait—and though she asks whether I’d like a touch of khol around my eyes, I reject the offer.

From there, I deign to join the others in the foyer, descending the steps to the sight of Cassian and Mor in the midst of draining a bottle of wine; already tipsy by the looks of things.

The way Mor’s face lights up at the sight of me is sweet, but I shy away from the attention all the same. Still, my fussing self—hands wrangled before my stomach—doesn’t stop the High Fae from stumbling over; the bottle of wine in tow.

“Here, the sooner you start the better.” She grins—referring to the wine—and I suppose it’d be cheaper to drink some before going out; if one plans to drink at all. I raise my hand in refusal—shaking my head—Mor’s face twisting into that of confusion. “What do you mean no? We’re going out—drinking’s like half the fun.”

“She said no.” Amren’s cold, unyielding words cut into the low chatter; silencing Cass and Rhys where they converse by the door.

The Other looks like her usual self—donning a grey two-piece—though is littered in rubies; the jewellery reminiscent of blood-splatters where it rests against her warm skin.

Mor and Amren share a glance—a lingering look—before the blond shrugs and makes for the door; having a deep swig of the crimson beverage. With a shake of the head—disrupting her short black hair—the Other stalks close; though lingering out of reach.

“Do not let these fools rope you into situations that unnerve you.” Her words are more akin to an order, than… whatever it might’ve otherwise been; without that sharp edge to her tongue. “They mean well, but cannot think beyond the scope of their own convictions, at times.” A soft sigh. “Especially when wine is involved.” By the door—the trio just about ready to leave—Cassian hands the near-empty bottle to Rhys; who accepts it with a lopsided smile and a hearty chug.

A trio…

Where’s Azriel? I pose the question; write it for the Other to see. Amren shrugs—looks unbothered by his absence—those swirling silver eyes of hers drifting to mine; scanning me from head to toe.

“You’re no longer skin and bones.” She observes—rather than entertaining my question—meeting my gaze anew. “Good.” She concludes, looking ahead; something fond passing over her face at the sight of the fools crowding the door. “If they prove a nuisance,” She nods in their direction. “Let me know.” I’ve only time for a nod before my attention averts to the beat of a heart, Azriel stepping out of the shadows to the sound of a cheering crowd; Cassian wasting no time thrusting whatever remains of the wine into the male’s hands.

He empties it—though there’s little more than a mouthful—leaving the emptied bottle on the windowsill before ushering the moderately intoxicated General and Third out the door; Rhysand opening it for them.

Amren follows on silent feet, and I do the same, quietly bracing myself for whatever madness awaits me this night. Left in awe at the sight of Mor navigating the cobbled streets in heels, I hardly notice as Azriel falls into step beside me—he and I the last two out of the townhouse—wouldn’t, were it not for his hear; and the shadow brushing along my shoulder.

“You get used to it.” He mumbles, as if sensing my unease, a glance to the left revealing a tired smile. I nod—look ahead—catching the sight of Mor tripping over her own two feet, haphazardly caught by Cassian; the pair left howling with laughter.

Beside me, Azriel curses—the sound as endearing as it is miffed—the male sparing a tight smile before pushing ahead, a touch of shadow allowing him the speed to appear by the intoxicated pair; seamlessly bracing a hand at their backs in an effort to keep them upright.

Before long—without a tumble in sight—Rita’s comes into view; although I hear it a street in advance, if not more. The building’s old, made of solid stone and intricate masonry, the arching windows lined with stained glass; shimmering in all colours of the rainbow. The front porch feels like a recent addition—by Fae standards—the railing attempting to mimic the intricacy of the masonry, but undeniably carved by another’s hand. Past the oak doors, a sea of people awaits, the noise alone enough to give me pause; if not the crowded state of the hall.

Mor breezes into the crowd with the ease of a queen holding court, seamlessly spinning into a dance alongside the rest of them; the music provided by a stage tucked into a colourfully lit corner.

“Let’s fetch our table, shall we.”Rhys steers right, and though most of us follow, Cassian doesn’t.

“I’ll order us a round.” He explains, and before I’ve the chance to ask that he not buy me said round, he’s parting the crowd in pursuit of the bar; situated on the other side of the horde.

I decide it’s fine, following Rhysand to a vacant table, the rounded leather couch soft, though not quite designed to accommodate a winged being; leaving mine folded at an odd angle as to not disturb my seat-mates. Azriel suffers the same issue—unlike Rhysand who can vanish his wings entirely—the male leaning against the round table in order to give his wings room to breathe.

Cassian isn’t gone long, returning with a tray of drinks I cannot begin to name, but aren’t the standard wine they usually favour. I accept the one I’m given as a courtesy, but let it linger in the loose grasp of my hand while the others indulge, tracing absent patterns in the damp glass while observing the chaos beyond our booth.

It’s a colourful sea of bodies, be it the green skin of a forest fae, or the bright gold of a patron’s dress, it all blends into a rainbow of colour, made vibrant by the ever changing faelights above; reflecting against iridescent wings and gleaming jewellery.

Mor emerges from it, sauntering over, claiming her drink from the tray and downing it in one impressive swig; ending with a satisfied sigh. And a finishing burp.

Graceful.

“You—” She points to me, perfectly manicured nail glinting in the vibrant lighting; painted a pretty red. “Dance with me.” She sets the glass down with a thunk, smoothing that pointed finger into an outstretched palm.

Taken aback, I merely stare, and the look on my face is apparently amusing, for Mor’s painted lips spread into a grin; perfect teeth stained pink and gold under the faelight.

“Come one! Put that dress to work!” She urges, and I turn to the sound of Cassian—whooping some encouragement—finding a smirk on Rhysand’s face, amusement dancing in Amren’s silver eyes, and Azriel…

Azriel stares at Mor’s outstretched hand with something akin to longing.

Looking to Mor, I find her eyes on me and me alone, that hand yet outstretched in invitation, and though I’m unsure whether dancing is anything I’ll enjoy, I’ve no point of reference to make a valid conclusion, so I figure I might as well try it once.

Laying my hand in hers, I’m quickly pulled to my feet, and dragged into the fray with reckless, drunken abandon, Morrigan’s elated laughter as she pulls me in for a spin that of someone overflowing with joy and alcohol.

It’s a messy dance—a mismatched set of spins, twirls and moving on the spot—the crowd constantly forcing you to fight for your sliver of space, and though I catch myself smiling, I likewise find it suffocating.

Females and males alike attempt to weasel their way into my space, and with Mor as distractible as she is, there are times they succeed, thrusting me into a position I haven’t a clue how to deal with. I can only attempt to mimic their movements, until Mor inevitably reclaims me, offering a lifeline in this cramped, overwhelming mess of bodies.

If I were drunk, perhaps I’d enjoy myself the same way as they are, but I’m likewise as likely to eject myself from the situation; mentally.

It’s simply… too much, and though I wouldn’t say I’m claustrophobic, I dislike cramped, confined spaces as much as any other winged creature. I’d like to think that my years in Hybern have desensitised me, but that doesn’t seem to be the case; even if it hasn’t entirely crippled me.

Thus, when the music transitions into something slower—something that distracts and settles the rampaging crowd—I slip out of Mor’s reach; the female preoccupied with another either way. I weave through the crowd, towards the oak doors, and slip onto the patio beyond, heaving a sigh of unbridled relief as I fall at a lean against the carved railing; eyes cast to the sparkling night sky.

The music is still audible past the stone walls and stained glass—the ever-changing faelight painting the wood in a rainbow of colour, as it filters through the windows—but by comparison, there’s peace; a calm that invites for thought, not panic.

Though I shouldn’t dwell on it—know it isn’t my place—I consider Azriel’s expression; the forlorn look in his eyes, as he gazed upon Mor. It has always been there—this unspoken thing between them—in hindsight, but seeing it on display with such blatancy, I can’t help but assume…

There are feelings there. Unrequited ones. To what degree I can’t say, but there all the same.

A gentle breeze catches my braid—weaves through my feathers—distracting me; thrusting a pang of longing through my heart.

I spread my wings—wide and true—catching the wind; instincts roaring to fly.

What I’d give, to be whole—to be healed—but time is my only ally; time and persistence. Still, the slightest flap in mock-flight leaves my muscles aching. Should I tempt the skies and find myself in need of a swift bank—or ascent—I might suffer for it; whether I use my wind to aid me or not.

But Gods do I want to.

A shadow greets me—brushes along my arm—gentle where it snakes around my wrist; curling towards my fingertips. A heart grows louder, not long thereafter; his scent laced along the breeze, soon enough. Azriel says nothing as he joins me by the railing—far enough that my widespread wings are undisturbed—and neither do I; sparing only a glance.

Backdropped by colourful lights, his features are further veiled in shadow, but the siphons adorning his hands gleam where they rest along his forearms, reflecting light onto his scarred fingers.

They’re rough and brutal—those burns—and knowing the scars I hide behind a veil of illusion, I understand why shadows flock there; attempting to shroud.

Tucking my wings close, I tempt the distance between us—only by a step or two—garnering his attention; the light of Rita’s illuminating one side of his face, while leaving the other in deep shadow.

I’ve been burned too. Something saddened passes over his eyes, and knowing only something horrid could’ve scarred a Fae to such degrees that the remnants never fade… even if I haven’t a clue what he’s been through, the feeling’s mutual.

“Where?” He asks, words soft, voice even; careful.

With the way his eyes search me, I know that—even in the low light—my illusion holds true; shrouds any and all blemishes which mar me; that were once veiled by proper clothes. I consider his scars—never fully masked—and let my lie fade, revealing the mismatched canvas of cuts and burns; never quite as severe as his, but slow to fade—if ever. His eyes widen—brows twitch—gaze sweeping along my exposed skin.

Swallowing, I look away—his gaze a heavy thing—but let the scars remain unveiled; biting back the urge to hide. I don’t look at my hands—or arms—the patchwork of scars offering naught but grim reminders of a time best left forgotten; the memories hazy as it is, and unworthy of my time. Azriel—though he looks—doesn’t pry, and neither do I.

We merely stand here—in the truth of our shared imperfection—while my eyes steer towards the cloudless sky; the longing creeping in anew.

“How are your wings?” Soft-spoken as he is, the sudden words aren’t startling; aided by their gentle nature.

Better, but I’m not sure I can fly just yet. I flex them, careful as to not hit him. Might hurt them on the ascent. There’s a beat of silence; a momentary pause.

“What if I fly with you?” I look to him, meeting his golden gaze; set aglow by Rita’s. “You can glide, while I make sure you stay in the air.” I’m left at a loss, but what I lack in words, my wings make up for in excited flaps; faint but undeniable.

Azriel grins—the brightest I’ve seen thus far—and extends a hand; brow arched in wordless question.

I watch that hand, a mix of fear and excitement flooding my stomach—like anxious butterflies—carefully weighing the pros and cons.

Oh, screw it.

Placing my hand in his, I follow his gentle coaxing—the male tugging me close—shadows consuming us both as we spear into the open vastness of the night.

My arms wind tight around his neck once we emerge—the sudden howl of the evening breeze striking fear into my overconfident heart—though Azriel’s grip of my waist holds strong, and the steady, controlled flaps of his membranous wings keep us stationary in the open sky; more or less.

Face buried in his shoulder, his scent is all-consuming, and though the air up here is much cooler, the warmth of his body wards it off. Both combined—and his steady heart likewise—I gradually gather the guts to lean back—to loosen my hold—and look at the city below; dotted with lights in such a way that the ground looks like a reflection of the sky.

The City of Starlight in every sense of the word.

Feeling the wind—the altitude; the thinner air—my wings unfurl behind me, aching to soar along the currents and updraughts; fear and nerves cast aside in place of unbridled excitement.

“Ready?” Azriel asks, and I steady myself, flap my wings in a test of strength, finding that yes—I am. As ready as I’ll ever be.

I nod, and can’t help the excited yelp as Azriel lets me go. Though it strains every muscle in my recovering body, I manage to straighten, catch a wind and level into a glide, heart beating out of my chest as the world passes by, wind howling in my ear; tearing strands of my braid from its weave.

Laughter I can’t contain bubbles up my throat—raspy and raw—and my eyes drift to Azriel’s dark frame as he evens into a glide at my side, face softened into a smile as he watches me soar; prepared to bring me back up once the time comes.

It comes too quickly—I feel—the roofs below looming closer and closer; until I can distinguish each individual shingle. It’s then—in one swift manoeuvre—that Azriel gathers me into his arms, spearing us back towards the twinkling stars, my arms wound tight around his neck; heart singing at the speed of our ascent.

Returned to a safe altitude, he lifts me into the air, my wings snapping wide, arms outstretched as I laugh—unhinged and bright—this sense of unbridled freedom more intoxicating than alcohol; sweeter than any treat.

For once—for the first time since I washed ashore—I feel well and truly alive.

The last I see before Azriel drops me is a grin spread wide across his face.

Then I’m falling, basking in the feel of the air clawing at my body, my outstretched wings softening the fall just enough to let me level out with a mere shift, and as I soar above Velaris—the Sidra sparkling far below—I look over at Azriel, my smile still wide and true; my heart full, and soul unchained.

“Thank you.” Soft, hoarse words; tumbling from my neglected tongue. Words which stun the male, heart stuttering before his face smooths into a smile, extending a hand for me to grasp; inviting me to another round.

I take it, and fly alongside him until I feel my back might break; and another few moments thereafter.

All to savour the life flowing through my veins.

Chapter Text

Another day comes to an end, the cool breeze wafting from the sea providing comfort following a rather scorching day; compared to those prior. The altitude likewise helps, and as I sit upon the balcony railing—anchored to the western front of the House—I let my feet dangle over the ledge, face turned to the northward wind; braid caught in its path.

Behind me, shadows skitter along the curtained entrance—billowing in the wind—whispering soft promises; some foreboding melody. Their master isn’t here yet, but I hear his heart moving through the stone; approaching with neither haste nor sloth.

When Azriel does arrive, my wings are spread wide, hoarding the sun’s last rays; humming a mindless tune.

“That’s new.” He remarks in place of greeting, and I peer his way past the curve of my shoulder, brow arched. “The leathers.” I blink, look down, extending a leather-clad leg before me; testing the mobility of my knee-high boots.

Arrived this afternoon. I write. Mor was kind enough to deliver it over dinner.

“It’ll serve you better than my tunic and pants.” Azriel remarks, perching at a lean along the northern end of the balcony, arms crossed and chin raised. “Any chance I’ll be getting those back?” I only smile; shrugging. “You’re wearing them underneath, aren’t you.” I snort, let my head bob to the side; Azriel’s chuckle a low thing. “Menace…,” He sighs. “Ready to go?”

“You bet.” I croak forth, gripping the railing; bracing to jump.

“Well,” The male starts, pushing off the stone. “Go ahead.” With a parting wave, I fling myself off of the balcony, taking off at a glide; shadowed by Azriel before long.

~O~

Breathe in, and fold on the exhale. Straighten. Extend an arm—another—lift them high, and bend at the hip; reach for the rock. I stay there, hand at my forearm, letting the burn settle in—breathing through the pain—before moving on to the other side; rinse and repeat.

What are muscles, if you’re too stiff to use them?

Surprisingly, those are Cassian’s words; uttered at the sight of me waddling down the stairs like an old grandmother.

Again. His words.

Leg flat to the rock—the other at a bend—I lean over its length, reaching for my foot; toes pointed to the clouds. I cringe, but keep it up—work those hamstrings, as it were—breathing through it all.

Transitioning from one leg to the next, my eyes avert to the sound of my roof-mate; Azriel presently in the midst of mutilating a training dummy.

Wielding an impressive, dark-steel blade, he sends blow after blow into the poor straw-dummy’s chest, not so much as a grunt of effort passing his lips; silent as death itself. The shadows hiss, of course—as they often do, these early mornings—swarming his body like a cloud of angry wasps.

Brow bent to my knee, I watch him—study his technique—noting that he favours his right hand, wielding the blade both as a two-handed weapon, and a single; switching at his leisure. Things I’ve seen before, but I look all the same.

Watch him swing that glinting metal into the dummy’s neck; splitting the seams.

In the silence strung between us, the heavy sigh of cloth and sand hitting the stone proves deafening, followed by Azriel’s steady breaths as he stares down this growing mess; a trickle of sand seeping past the patchwork sack like blood.

Straightening—braid falling over my shoulder—the beginnings of a smirk tugs at my lips; a thought quickly turned into reality.

What’d the dummy do to you? The words appear where its head once was, Azriel’s chin lifting; tip of his blade lowered to the roof. A soft snort follows; the male rolling his shoulders.

“Nothing personal.” He mumbles, sheathing the blade to his back—a holster fastened to the narrow gap between wings—before rounding the dummy and fetching the sack-head; turning it upright and leaning it against the wooden base.

Staunching the bleed, if you will; as he stalls the trickle of sand.

Tossing me a glance, I find another muscle group to stretch, clasping my hands behind my back—one from over the shoulder, and one from below—letting my eyes fall closed with a trembling sigh; the pain significant, but bearable.

“Mind standing in?” I bark a laugh—clear my throat—swallow whatever bile’s gathered; in the hours since I last attempted the use of my voice.

“No.” I breathe. I like my head where it is. A low chuckle.

“You’re just scared you’ll lose.”

I will lose. I correct. I’m well aware of that. Doesn’t mean I wish to experience it. A hum; acknowledging in nature.

“Fair enough.” I let my arms rest—my shoulders relax—breathing a deep, steadying sigh of relief.

A touch of darkness and might graces the air, and before long—before Azriel has the chance to fetch a new dummy—Rhysand lands on the roof; Amren in tow

“Good morning, ladies.” Rhysand drawls, putting Amren down with casual efficiency, the Other running an absent hand through her ruffled black bob. “I see you’ve given our poor sack-man a lobotomy.” He remarks, eyes on Azriel; and the decapitated sack-head. A wave of the hand—and a tendril of dark power—he’s levitated it back in place, and fused the fabric together. “I should probably consider investing in new equipment.”

“You really should.” Cassian cuts in, landing on the stone with a disturbing crack; masking his cringe behind the veil of a grin. “Not even regenerative magic’s enough to keep these shits together anymore.” He straightens—stretches—another disturbing pop sounding from his spine. Spotting me across the rooftop—doing a half-split—Cassian throws me a thumbs up; at which I only roll my eyes.

“Write me a list, and I’ll see what can be done.” Rhysand declares, leaving Amren in pursuit of me, of all people, and I settle cross-legged, bracing for his arrival; a brow arched. “I’ve a gift for you.” He explains, a snap of his fingers summoning a neat, black box; about the width of a foot, and the length of an arm.

Encouraged by his smile, I reach for it, undoing the metal clasps keeping it shut, pushing the lid open to find… well, black silk, first and foremost, but once I push that aside, I’m met by a pair of blades. Their edges lay hidden in curved sheaths of carved black leather—matching my Illyrian set—the guards of polished metal, and hilts laced with braided cartilage; giving the impression of scales. The pommels taper into points—like fangs; or the claws adorning an Illyrian’s wings—made of solid, skull-breaking steel.

I breathe a laugh—disbelieving—reaching for one and willing it from its holster, revealing a hollowed edge and fine hammer-work lining its spine.

“I requested that the blacksmith attempt to replicate a set of Seraphim Scimitars Mor owns—from the War.” Rhys explains. “We won’t demand that you use them, but should the need arise—at least you have weapons of your own.” I nod—sheathe the gorgeous blade—settling the weapon back beside its twin; tucking them beneath the veil of silk.

“Thank you.” I breathe, meting the High Lord’s gaze; his lips twinging towards a smile. I will prove worthy of them. He shakes his head.

“There’s nothing to prove. Not to us. Should I send them to your rooms for now? Or would you like to try them out?” I shrug; consider.

“I have need of her—you brutes can beat her to a pulp another day.” Amren interjects, joining us; shooting Rhys an impatient glare. “Or have you forgotten already?” The words are mocking; the tilt of her chin likewise. Rhysand only snorts, casting me an apologetic smile.

“I’ll put the box by the foot of your bed.” He promises, vanishing the closed box in a puff of darkness and starlight, turning to join his brothers. “Go easy on her, Amren.” He implores.

“No.” I push onto my feet; dust off my pants as I look to the Other. “She can decide what’s too much for herself just fine.” Rhys lifts his hands in a gesture that relays that he tried, and I ease his concerns with a wave of the hand. “Softies, all of them.” Amren scoffs, arms crossed before her chest.

“What do you need of me?” I ask—voice a rasping mess—steering her attention away from the High Lord.

“I would like to test the strength of your wind.” I arch a brow at that. “Seems like it is not a good enough answer, should the day come when you need it.” True enough. I motion to a distant span of rooftop—away from the rings—and she joins me in pursuit of it.

Removed from the males—Azriel and Rhys now sparring—Amren extends a hand, summoning a bloody carcase with the snap of a finger. It’s hard to tell what it once was—hollowed out as it’s been—but based on scent, I identify it as a pig.

“A more realistic target than cloth and sand.” She explains. “Do to it as you see fit.” I swallow, extending my hand, forging my power into a golden stake; clutched within my palm.

Eyeing those bloody ribs, a sudden bout of nausea springs to life in my gut, but I push it down—breathe through it—aiming the point of my conjured weapon at its imaginary heart. With a flick of the wrist, I hurtle the stake—now a spear—into the carcase, displacing it with a splat and leaving a notable hole through one end to the other; dripping a coagulating red.

Cassian whistles; somewhere behind us.

I only stare, something wrong with the sight before me; something horrible.

Pushing it down—weaving an illusion across my treacherous face—I watch Amren vanish the skewered chunk of meat and ribs in favour of two new ones; alongside a pig’s head.

Realistic, she said—to use animal parts—but though I understand the logic, the fact I’ve no memory of ever taking a life—whether some part of me knows I have—it feels off; initial reaction aside. Alas, if there’s to be war, I should work to desensitise myself.

“Strike all three at once.” She commands, and I straighten—square my shoulders—summoning three hovering spears and hurtling them into a target each; striking the pig’s head right between the eyes.

Amren hums, the sound contemplative—assessing my kills, as it were—while I… Something numb seeps into my blood—into my heart—and though a foul taste lingers in the back of my throat, I brush it aside; sweep it under the rug.

“Can you conjure a shield.” She requests, and I reassess, weaving a dome of solid air around me; golden yet opaque. Amren eyes it with scrutiny; runs her sharpened nails along its surface. “Is it instinct which guides you?” She asks, eyeing me through the film of gold; a brow arched.

“In part.” I clear my throat. But I’ve been practising. She nods, circling me; prodding at the barrier for any sign of weakness.

“You appear capable.” She concludes. “However, your illusions are likewise applicable in battle—has that crossed your mind?” I shrug; Amren’s hand falling from my dome. “Cassian.” She doesn’t yell, but raises her voice enough to carry across the roof, garnering the males attention; presently watching Azriel and Rhysand spar. “I need a set of fists.” Cassian veers in our direction, a grin upon his lips.

“What? Yours not good enough?” He asks the Other, who proceeds to sneer.

“Yours are out of practice.” She retorts, focus averting to me. “Lower your shield. You will fight, hand to hand—use whatever tricks at your disposal. Light and wind.” I do lower my shield, facing Cassian; his towering frame imposing, but not frightening.

That grin of his softens, reassurance dancing in his hazel eyes.

“Don’t worry—I’ll give you a fighting chance.” Narrowing my eyes, I decide he isn’t owed the same curtsy.

If Amren wants me to use illusions offensively? Well, let’s get creative.

Rather than answering, I let my body settle into a defensive stance—arms shielding my face; fists clenched—absently tugging on the light; lacing it along my frame. Cassian doesn’t brace, rolling his shoulder with casual indifference, using confidence as a shield of its own; an attempt to disarm.

“Begin.” Amren declares, and when Cassian goes for the blow, I peal away from my illusioned shell, leaving a copy of myself behind while I move sightlessly through the light, appearing by his unguarded left flank.

Cassian’s fist goes right through my body—the male stumbling—while I land an elbow into his side.

“The hell?” He breathes, whirling; finding his footing. I turn, dipping into a bow; shooting him a teasing smile. “You—how did you do that?” He straightens, frown etched deep upon his brow.

How did you make it to the roof? I pose the question, his wings still much too frail from weeks of disuse to reasonably carry him here. The male scoffs, something nervous to his smile; behind the mask of swagger.

“Oh, you know—Illyrian stamina.” Something about his tone suggests an underlying innuendo, as does Amren’s mocking snort.

“Oh please—Rhysand winnowed us as close as the wards allow.” He whirls; whisks of unbound hair whipping about his brow.

“He did not!”

“He certainly did!” Rhysand cuts in across the rings, though it earns him a wack to the side; the High Lord dissolving into a fit of curses, directed at Azriel.

Cassian huffs, crossing his arms; torn between laughter and annoyance.

“Alright. Fine. Yeah, we winnowed. Now, what the hell did you do? Last I checked, Seraphim couldn’t winnow—or write the way you do.” I figure I might as well explain myself, considering everyone else are in the know.

“I’m a Lightseer.” I begin. An Illusionist, if you will. I forge a few copies of myself, transitioning from one to another; each following my lead as I fall into a defensive stance. Now, hit me. I taunt—dare—and Cassian laughs; determination falling over his eyes.

“You asked for it.” He cracks his knuckles, dropping into an actual fighting stance; his siphons flickering crimson.

“No magic, Cassian.” Amren warns, at Cass’s instant chagrin.

“But she’s using it.” He barks, waving a fist in my general direction; all of me.

“I asked for fists, nothing more. Use your brain if you must, but that is all.” He sighs, but turns ahead, scanning each and every one of my doppelgangers.

“Here goes…,” He sighs, bursting into action; starting this unfair duel anew.

~O~

Wings outstretched—beating against the speed of my descent—I fight gravity itself as I barrel towards the flattened roof; feet braced to stick the landing.

I do not, of course.

Rather, I’m forced at a run across the gravel and rock, before my failing balance inevitably brings me to the ground; skittering across the stone at a roll. Coming to a stop—laid on my side—I’m left laughing; slowly pushing onto my knees.

“Almost.” Azriel’s midnight voice wafts across the rooftop, and I straighten, watching him land along the stone’s edge with mocking grace. I shake my head—get back on my feet—dusting off my leathers as I join him there; where the mountain meets the sky. “You could’ve used your wind.” He points out, turning for the city as I do; wings folded neatly at his spine, while I work to rid my feathers of pebbles and dirt.

“Felt like cheating.” I explain, blowing them clean with a burst of gold before settling them snugly at my back; crossing my arms before my chest. “Magic is—” My voice breaks, and I sigh. It’s useful, but if I can’t manage without it, I’m left vulnerable. His nod is that of acknowledgement, his gaze drifting inwards; towards the rings behind us.

“You do fine, with or without.” I smile; scoff. “I mean it—you fight well, recovering or not.”

“It’s strange.” I admit, looking to my hands; the callouses etched upon my dusty palms. “I can’t remember ever…” I ball them into fists, looking to the male at my side. I’d never held a blade, before coming here—yet it comes to me with the ease of breathing. The words are faint, yet eligible; Azriel’s eyes locked on every word as they fade into the other. Hand falling to my wrist—fingers tracing the stark outline of my bargain—I will words from my tongue. “I was a warrior—before. I suspect.” He nods, agreeing; assuming as much himself.

“You fought in the War, according to Amren.” I nod, eyes drifting westward; to a horizon void of sunlight. “Are you sure you want to fight in this one?” Another nod; certain and true.

“I want Hybern to suffer,” by my hands. Said hands fall into fists at my sides, something cold and hateful brewing in my heart. Simply watching isn’t an option. He nods—hums—face etched with pained understanding; one hand fussing with the other.

“I was—I served as the previous High Lord’s Spymaster, during the War.” He begins, earning him a glance. “He forced me to watch most of the fighting unfold from afar—made me watch while Cass and Rhys fought the real war.” The guilt laced in both his voice and eyes stakes a knife through my heart and twists.

The echo of a pain long forgotten, meddling with the pains of the present.

A war can’t be won without adequate information. The words feel rehearsed; like I’ve thought them plenty myself throughout the years I no longer know. Azriel’s eyes drop to the city below. “You did your part, even if…,” I place a careful hand at his shoulder. “You won the War.” I try, but Azriel shakes his head, and my hand falls from his arm.

“I could’ve done more.” He mumbles. “If I’d been there, maybe Rhys…,” He trails off—stops himself with a sigh—looking to the sky. “It’s in the past—I can’t change it now.” I do the same—look to this perfect sky—this vast canvas of infinite possibility.

“Only the future is ours to forge.” I whisper, in due time—following a silence of unmeasured length—the male looking at me, a faint smile upon his lips; a smile I return.

“You’re wise for someone with amnesia.” I snort.

That I can only remember the last ten years of my life doesn’t mean I’m ten years old. He chuckles.

“I’ll take your word for it.” That smile of his dies, as if saddened by a thought.

“What?” I ask, herding his gaze when it evades me; though he continues to dodge.

“Only…,” He trails off; hesitates. Until a sigh marks the making of his mind. “I was trapped in the dark too, once.” I stall at that, brows arching towards my hairline, noting the absence befalling his features; the hollow set of his hazel eyes, trained somewhere far, far away. “My first memories are… unpleasant. Bastards in Illyria—they’re treated worse than filth.” His eyes fall; to the hands held loosely before him. “In my case, that meant… a cell, and wickedly creative half-brothers.” They clench into fists, scarred skin pulling and stretching; a soft cringe contorting Azriel’s face. “They did this to me…,” He whispers, a cold rage underlying each word. “Had the shadows and I not become one, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Are they dead?” The frigid cold which threads through my blood likewise laces my voice, and Azriel looks at me; a chill of his own dulling the hazel.

“No.” For all the ice which laces the word, I sense no regret. “They got what they deserved, and I got what I wanted. Their deaths would cause more trouble than it’s worth.” Noble, that. I struggle to fathom a future in which I let Brannagh and Dagdan live—or the King for that matter—but… “What I’m trying to say—” He shakes his head. “Whatever you went through—in Hybern—there are people here who’d understand.” He swallows, eyes softening; the cold thawing.

In turn, a glimmer of something warm flutters to life behind my ribs, and though I manage the faintest of smiles, words… they elude me—dart away like skittish critters—but my hand… My fingers brush along his, and while he jerks back—eyes darting down—he returns the gesture a beat later.

A wordless thank you, and a quiet you’re welcome.

Chapter Text

I have sworn vows of secrecy—bargained my memories without regret—yet when it comes to the eastern wing of the House, I struggle to keep my word. That the music room isn’t far from those restricted halls doesn’t help. Because sometimes, as I step beyond those grand doors—headed for the western balconies—I catch a whiff of someone’s scent; someone not part of the Inner Circle as I know it.

It carries a hint of sun-scorned earth and candlelight—of steel and flame—and the faintest touch of honey; perhaps jasmine.

A strange combination, but irrefutably, they reach me as one without fail, and today…

Curiosity gets the better of me.

Fading into the light, I reason that—if neither party is ever aware of my transgression—what they don’t know can’t hurt them.

It’s this conviction which sets me on a path through the seemingly empty halls of the eastern wing. I can’t track a scent in this form—or rely on my hearing—but I can see, perhaps better now than before, and what I see beyond one of countless doors is… concerning.

A female sits upon a chair—before a gaping window—her frame gaunt and gangly; drowning in the pink dress she dons. Drifting closer—circling to her front—I find brown eyes lined with deep circles, staring intently yet vacantly at something beyond the horizon; face a beautiful blank slate. All the while, her cheeks are hollowed with hunger, and eyes red-rimmed; fresh tears tumbling past her lashes.

She’s unwell—unwell in a way that’s so familiar it hurts—but though I attempt to understand why, the door to her room swings opened, averting my attention.

The newcomer enters the room with her chin held high—spine straight and defiant—carrying a tray of food in her slender Fae hands; a steeliness in her mercury-blue eyes that only softens at the sight of the other. Backing up—keeping close to the faelights—I watch her breeze past, making out the softest click of her slippers against stone, and the faintest murmur of her voice as she settles the tray on the low table beside the lost one’s armchair; the words gauging no manner of reaction.

Still, her posture does not falter. She plucks a spoon from the tray—scoops a mixture of porridge and apple sauce onto it—willing it to the other’s lips, and when the teary-eyed Fae only shakes her head—murmuring something I can neither hear nor read—that spine stays forcefully rigid.

“You must.” I believe she insists, but the Fae… She merely stares at the eastern sky; darkening by the moment.

Obscured in my corner, I’m left wondering what’s happened to them; why Rhysand insists they be left to themselves. Evidently, the doe-eyed one is unwell, and the other… it seems she works as her care-taker; tries to act the part, at the least.

She… Rhysand rarely speaks of his High Lady, but one evening—Mor and Cassian off at Rita’s—I found him drinking alone in the downstairs lounge, and… I know of her sacrifice—know I owe her my freedom—and that she currently resides in Spring. His High Lady and spy, he mumbled, and though there played a smile on his lips, it did little to hide his worry.

The blue-eyed one looks as he described her, but with Feyre in another Court, it must be someone else.

Whoever they are, surely a… a healer would better suit the situation.

What doesn’t suit the situation are the deepening shadows, and the low hiss invading my senses; in case his heart wasn’t foreboding enough. Veiled or not, he knows I’m here, and perhaps I should have known his shadows would snitch—have no right to feel betrayed by the fact—but I was beginning to think we’d made friends; that mischievous shadow and I.

Though I can’t see him, I can feel the intensity of his gaze, and know it isn’t delight etched upon his brow.

Deciding it’s best I leave on my own terms, I bend west, rematerialising before the railing of our usual haunt, listening to his heart’s rapid approach all while bracing for the worst; thoughts racing.

“You were told—explicitly—to steer clear of the eastern wing.” Azriel scolds before his feet settle upon stone; before his body fully unfolds from shadow.

“Who are they?” I demand—not a beat behind—knowing I’ve no right; but that doe-eyed soul…

“That’s none of your concern.” He pivots with equal haste, yet his voice lacks urgency; only cold displeasure.

“Really?” I turn, a glare levelled his way; though I must crane my neck to meet his gaze. “Is it a cell that should concern me?” A sigh seeps past his nose, something tired in his expression.

“No.”

“Then what’d they do to deserve theirs? If trespassing isn’t enough cause.” His arms fold before his chest, chin raised in defiance.

“They’re not imprisoned.” I cock a brow.

“Really, well, there’s only about ten thousand steps between them and the city, no? Sounds like a cell to me.” The anger chilling my veins is… a growing thing, and I’m not entirely sure from where it stems, but it’s there, and it splinters something in his own facade; hewn of the same, frigid ice.

“It’s a complicated situation.” The words are soft—imploring—narrowly pleading that I withhold judgement.

“We have time. Explain.” I demand, unyielding in my conviction; in my desire to understand. Azriel’s eyes avert—drift towards the docks—and though I’d usually allow him time… “The doe-eyed one is unwell, why isn’t she being seen by a healer?”

“Her sister won’t let us near—they don’t trust the Fae.”

“But they are Fae.” My arms unfurl, gesture mirroring my confusion; Azriel’s sigh a weighted thing.

“They were Made Fae—by the Cauldron. Used to be human.” I blink—stumped—yet the memory of unearthly power, roiling above my head…

The Cauldron—reforging souls.

“I… I see…,” I heave a breath—a centring thing—before finding his gaze anew. “They’re still in a cage, and the one in pink—”

“Elain.” He supplies, and I stammer; commit the name to memory and resume my trail of thought.

“Elain is lost somewhere.” The male arches a brow. “In her mind—her grief—or somewhere else,” I shake my head; lay a hand at my brow. “I can’t tell which, but she—she needs help. Help the other can’t give.”

“We hope Feyre might convince Nesta to let us close, once she returns—but until then we’re not to intrude.” I frown.

“Why Feyre?” Azriel steps away from the entrance, joining me by the railing; a railing I now lean against.

“She’s their sister.” Seems this evening’s full of surprises.

“But she’s Fae.”

“They’ve all been Made—though Feyre by the High Lords’ combined magic.” I turn away from him—look upon the city—forearms braced against the chiselled railing; allowing myself a moment to process.

It’s not… unfamiliar—the concept of being made—but I can’t pinpoint how, or why.

With a touch of logic, that means I must’ve witnessed it before Hybern—before the bargain—but it can’t have been them, can it? They look so young. If Feyre was taken only some months ago, and they were turned around the time of her sacrifice, then she must have been young when she was turned by the Lords, meaning I was still in the dark.

Mulling on this gives me naught but a headache—one I can’t discern whether it’s the bargain’s fault, or the sheer confusion of my fragmented mind—so I decide to leave it be; to focus on the situation at hand.

“I’ll stay away.” I promise, fully intending to keep it this time. “I only… I could sense them—curiosity got the better of me.” Azriel hums; a low sound with neither positive or negative connotation. “Do you… Since you’re not throwing me in a cell—”

“We’d never.” I look to him—catch his eye—his ice thawing alongside my own. “I should’ve explained sooner—evidently, it doesn’t look good from an outside perspective.”

“It’s a cage for anyone without wings, this place—surely you’re aware.” He hums, nods.

“I am. I’ve climbed those steps. It’s… the best we can do, for now.”

“Then… For now… Should we carry on as usual?” I look to the sky; void of clouds this night. “The weather’s ripe for a flight.” A low hum; one laced with a smile.

“After you.” Without a breath of hesitation, I fling myself over the railing, diving at a free-fall for a time before spreading my wings wide, soaring along the coastline in a broad arch, crafting myself an updraught once the docks loom too close. Azriel isn’t far, the way he circles me almost playful—thawing the last bit of frost between us—and though I can’t join him proper quite yet, I try.

Chapter Text

Following another evening at Rita’s—accompanied by all say Amren—Azriel and I return to the skies; a tad underdressed for the occasion, but kept warm by the simmering buzz of alcohol.

It’s a clear night—cold, but clear—the sea breeze wild and wonderful, carrying me through reckless hoops and careless dives; the knowledge he’ll catch me warding worry from my mind.

He’s never far—never further than a thought—either diving at my side, or appearing out of shadow; bringing me back to the sky only for the cycle to begin anew.

Were it up to me, I’d have it go on eternally—would spend a decade sky-bound; make up for lost time—but we don’t have eternity, and inevitably, Azriel brings us to the House of Wind; to its flat roof. Even with my sandalled feet on solid ground, I feel weightless—lighter than a leaf—slipping from Azriel’s grasp with a twirl, eyes cast skyward, wayward strands of hair whipping about my brow as I dance across the windswept rooftop; taking flight for a heartbeat at a time.

Dancing with the wind. Bathing in moonlight. Basking in existence.

My skirt swirls and flares, caught in the wind, white silk dancing with the moon; loose sleeves billowing and free.

Like me.

Like us.

Free of our chains

I see him between twirls—watching me by the roof’s edge—a soft smile spread across his lips; something warm in the set of his eyes. It should be embarrassing—to spin about this way before another—but I feel nothing of the sort in his presence; not at all.

Laughter yet lining my breath, I come to a swishing halt, outstretched arms falling to my sides—tired wings drooping to the stone—glancing back at the male past the arch of my shoulder. I look upon him and think him gorgeous—draped in shadows and moonlight—the loveliest person I’ve ever met; in body and mind.

My mind is little to go off of—I know—but I feel as though no male has ever understood me quite like he does; have never found such quick, undemanding companionship in another. Never felt so connected. So at ease.

With him, I may smile and laugh and dance to my heart’s content. May brood and ponder and wonder without judgment nor scorn.

With him, I feel seen, and heard; even when I lack the words.

I turn—extend a hand—beaming without restraint as I near; his golden eyes falling to my hand with a tug of the brow.

“Dance with me.” I request, those lovely eyes flicking to mine; widened still.

There’s no music here, but his heart beats a steady rhythm—the wind sings a howling tune—his shadows a choir of a thousand voices; a symphony brewing between one soul and another.

He hesitates—swallows—but extends his hand in time, taking the slightest step forward; the shuffle of feet upon stone another piece of the puzzle; another instrument in the orchestra.

I smile, and he smiles—and I laugh—because the world sings, and it’s lovely; building towards an inevitable crescendo.

His fingers brush mine—feather-light and cautions—the song strung between us solidifying—harmonising—until my heart and his are one; until the vocals whisper a single word.

Mate.

In a moment, everything stops.

My limbs seize—heart staggers—lungs pause mid breath.

There is but that word, echoing in my head; seared into my soul.

Azriel stumbles—hand torn out of reach—his breath wild and ragged; eyes blow wide.

I see the song for what it is—for the cord it always was—like a bridge uniting our beings; of moonstone and shadow.

Mate. My mate.

Gone is his smile—replaced by something panicked and distraught—wings flared and ready to bolt; limbs strung with the same intent.

The sight of blatant rejection thrusts a stake into my heart.

“Azriel—” I begin, reaching for him, but my eyes catch on the glow of my wrist—the light engulfing my bargain—jaw slackening as the thick band of white dissolves into nothing. “No—”

It all comes crashing down—like an unyielding tidal-wave—drowning me in memories long-since past; consuming both mind and body as I sink into the deep.

Blood—death—names—distant places and familiar faces.

I can’t make sense of it.

It’s a mess I can’t sort—centuries upon centuries to recall—too much for a mind to handle at once; for a heart to bare in a single moment.

Azriel doesn’t move as my knees buckle; as I crumple to the cold stone roof. I feel him vanish in a flurry of shadow, hear his heart fade until it’s consumed by the wails of countless dead; by the mourning masses I failed; by my own cries of despair, so vivid I can’t tell whether they’re real or remembered.

The stars and moon my only witness, I relive every moment of my life—every painful part of my miserable existence—and by the time the sun bleeds light into the darkened sky, I understand why I went to Hybern twelve years ago.

Chapter Text

I watch night transition into day with eyes that have long since ran out of tears, breathing air I no longer crave; watching clouds pass by with mocking grace.

The stone beneath me is harsh, the weight of all I’ve done crushing, my wings bent at an odd angle, and my fingers numbed from the cold; but I can’t bring myself to move; can’t bring myself to care.

None of it matters.

Somehow, all the pains of the past can’t compare to that of the present; to the agony of Azriel’s rejection.

He left me here.

Felt the bond and left.

To move—to return to the townhouse—is to risk facing him; is to risk looking into his eyes only to find indifference. To find all we’ve become destroyed.

When I realised the bond—when I felt it signing between us—I was surprised, but there was joy there too; for a moment. It made sense, enforced the feeling of belonging I felt in his presence.

For a heartbeat, I was happy.

Clearly, he didn’t feel the same.

He loves Mor, not me; it’s always been so. Why would he accept me? A female he’s known for but a month or so.

Why am I surprised?

Why did I think I’d matter to someone?

Suppose I didn’t know better, then; didn’t remember.

Knowing what I know now, it’s not quite as shocking. In fact, it makes perfect sense.

My parents didn’t want me; a child who couldn’t be normal. In the army, I was but a tool to be used; not a person with thoughts and feelings. To my lovers, I was a conquest; an exotic trophy to brag about. To my friends… my one steadfast friend…

I failed him.

All for some imagined sense of belonging; for a rank that never mattered. For a Prince who only saw my tactical advantage.

It was either that or the opposite.

People either wanted me for my power, or despised me for it.

I thought things were different here—and I think they still are—but if Azriel doesn’t want me, even as a friend, then this isn’t where I belong either.

These past months… I hoped—whether I understood why or not—that it would be home. Rhysand’s Court of Dreams—they welcomed me with open arms—accepted me for the oddity I am, and while they see my power—acknowledge it—they’ve never pushed me to use it; to help them. It’s been my choice since I first woke here, and even now—memories returned or not—my abilities are second to who I am.

I’m both their friend and ally.

Their silent companion with eyes in all corners of the world.

Nameless.

But nameless no longer, whether I like it or not; whether I accept it or not.

It didn’t matter to me before—not knowing—and it still doesn’t, but Nameless… it was a blank slate; the new beginning I desired—leaving the wards of Cretea—bargain in mind or no. My name… it comes with baggage, 534 years, to be exact; if you count those spent in Hybern.

There’s no starting over now; but there never really was. The core components of my being were to remain untouched—remained a part of Nameless—and those remnants would’ve eventually destroyed whatever I’d come to build.

Just look at me now, a discarded something someone didn’t want, and the past isn’t to blame; only the me I was before the bargain faded.

The sun’s warmth makes a mockery of the cold grief within my soul, but wards the chill from my limbs, if nothing else; returns feeling to my toes and fingers. It offers the strength to move—to push myself seated upon the rough stone—arms trembling with the strain of keeping me upright; white sleeves tainted grey and rumpled. Looking westward, I gaze upon the city nestled in the valley below; painted in the golds and receding shadows of dawn.

A city that could’ve been home; the Circle a newfound family.

Now, I… I can’t bare to face them—any of them—but I can’t bring myself to leave, either.

Breath jolting with a sudden sob, I sew my eyes shut—press a hand to my aching chest—letting my face fall when tears cannot.

I was… so close.

So close to something good.

I had all I’ve ever wanted cradled in the cup of my palm, and now…

Seeking oblivion—to be rid of these mortal aches—I fade into the light, and fall towards Velaris; to walk it one last time. Roam its streets as the ghost of the person I’ve become once more; unseen and unheard.

Even at this hour, there are faeries about, setting up shop—preparing for today’s wave of customers—and my mind drift to Mor and I, walking these streets amongst them, engaging with them; think of the clothes she bought. Ones I promised to repay her for.

I think of nights at Rita’s; crowded and overbearing. Of evenings at the townhouse; chaotic in their own right. Of dinners at the House; discussing Hybern’s demise. I look to the sky and think of Azriel; think of nights spent in the garden; of quiet mornings on the roof; of hours spent in flight.

Coming upon a quiet park in the outskirts of town, I find a bench—one of worn wood and rusted iron—stowed away in an alcove of lilacs, and I settle upon it; braving the material with a slouching sigh, wings slumped over the weathered backrest.

What now?

What do I do?

Do I stay? Return to Cretea?

Go somewhere else?

The Dawn court might have me—my Peregryn cousins—but not without expectation; though perhaps they needn’t know I’m there. Perhaps a nomadic life is all this world has to offer me, bending from place to place in order to evade detection until the end of my immortal life. Or am I simply working out a way to avoid Azriel for the rest of said eternity?

I sigh; perch my elbows upon my scraped knees; bury my face within my dirty hands. I sit here for what feels like an eternity, pondering; waging a war within my mind; against myself.

“You have stolen my bench, it seems.” Amren’s voice snaps me out of it, and I straighten—faster than my spine prefers—mind torn between paralysis and the urge to bend away. But to run from Amren feels like a death sentence in itself, so I remain frozen; at the mercy of her swirling, judgmental gaze. “You look terrible.” She remarks, nose scrunching for a beat; brows furrowing.

I look away—forearms falling limp over my knees—a curtain of loose hair shrouding my face. The tiny Other studies me all the same—like a predator assessing prey—but I can’t find it in me to care.

“Your tattoo is gone.” The words hold an edge of surprise. “You remember.” I nod; just once. Amren takes another step into the alcove, the eyes I glimpse in the corner of mine calculating; cold. “How.” She demands, and out of all things I’ve been made to digest this night, that’s not one of them; though I feel the truth hovering just out of reach.

I don’t know. Amren’s blood-red lips purse slightly, then she claims a seat at my side.

“You’re not talking again.” She observes. “Something is wrong, you…,” A pause, brief and contemplative. “You don’t like remembering.”

I could do without it all. I admit, at which she merely nods.

“There are things about me best left forgotten as well.” I look at her, surprised to hear such unbridled honestly leave the small creature’s mouth. “Were you the Lightseer from the War?” I nod. “As I assumed.” Another pause—lengthier than the last—my eyes raised to the budding flowers around us; not quite in bloom. “What will you do now?”

I don’t know—I haven’t decided. Amren’s features distort to a degree; in a manner I can’t read.

“Cretea is abandoned—we checked shortly after your arrival. There’s nothing there for you to return to.” I frown, but given further thought, it makes some sense. My disappearance must’ve prompted Drakon to relocate his people; perhaps made him paranoid. “You’re welcomed to stay here.” My hear churns, and I peer past the alcove’s maw; at the faeries, young and old alike, mingling about the hedges and trees; their laughter carried on the wind.

Happy, despite everything horrid going on in the world; despite the scars left on their peaceful city.

Staying means tainting this place.

Everything living and breathing eventually withers in my presence—I shouldn’t stay. Amren watches me, something uncertain in the set of her face; or perhaps confused.

“I’d say the Circle disagrees.”

The Circle doesn’t know this me. This darker, blood-stained version. This failure.

“Who is this you, then?” I do not write for some time, considering my words; what I’m willing to part with; how to compose them properly.

I’m a bringer of death—the light at the end of the tunnel. Despair follows me wherever I go, and I’ve led more souls to their demise than I can count in a lifetime. I look at Amren, meet her ever-burning gaze; eyes but exhausted slivers. To stay is to taint this hopeful place—there’s no future for me here. Amren’s cheek twitches, her brow likewise.

“You belong here.” She concludes; counters. The words feel like a punch to the gut; because I desperately wish them to be true. “You fit in with us as well as Feyre did when she first arrived. Whatever your past holds does not change that—in fact, it might be the very reason you belong in the first place.” My mind drifts to Azriel, to the guilt he shared with me some nights ago; so much like my own.

He still belongs here; bloodied palms or not; guilt-riddled past or not.

“We are all wounded souls, in our own ways—shoulder our personal demons. It is why we are what we are. Why we do what we do. Why the Court of Dreams exists.” Amren continues, words etched with assuredness; conviction. “You belong.”

My breath stutters—my eyes burn—and I press my palms against my aching heart; where my end of an infinite thread is anchored.

Such a precious, fragile thread of moonlight.

My chin falls—my eyes close—rattling sobs quaking past my trembling lips; though no tears seep past the veil of my lashes; their well still drained. Beside me, Amren is quiet, radiating something uncertain; something confused.

Then she doesn’t.

“Oh.” The word is but a breath; a soft whisper of realisation. “Oh, I see.” She continues, and I pry my eyes open; meet hers past the fog of grief. Her eyes bore into me with such intensity I feel as though she truly sees the thread binding me to Azriel; wherever he is.

I can’t hear his heart—he’s much too far for me to do so while awake—but I swear I feel the phantom thump of it beating beside mine; like an echo of the real thing.

“I assume it snapped into place last night.” I nod. “And the bargain broke last night.” I nod again. “Finding your mate broke the bargain.” In an instant, a memory surges; so sudden and clear I forget to flinch at the mention of my mate.

A memory of me and Drakon in the throne hall of Cretea; carved into the volcanic stone of an ancient mountain.

“Should another soul discover you upon leaving the wards of Cretea, your memory of all which came before shall be locked away, say the very core of your being.” His words are clear as the day he spoke them. “Only one thing may break this seal, should you find yourself safe—choose.” I remember standing there, gaze as dead as my heart; soul hopeless and lost

“When my mating-bond snaps into place, the seal shall break.”

Words uttered with the assumption that it’d never happen; that I’d never find them. That I’d be cursed to walk alone forever.

Little did I know that the Mother had another sort of torment in mind.

It did. I admit, unsure how long the silence’ stretched. He left me—on the Roof. When it snapped. I look to her, and find her face cooling into something lethal and dangerous.

“That half-witted bastard.” She snarls. “How long were you up there?” I rear back, her immediate hostility surprising; never having taken Amren for the caring sort. At least not with me. I swallow, look at my sullied palms; smooth them down my rumpled skirt.

Until dawn. Amren looks absolutely furious, the swirling smoke in her eyes set aglow at a near blaze.

Were she to find Azriel now, I’m sure she’d rip him to shreds.

A part of me is glad he’s far, far away.

I tried to stop him. But my memories— I can’t decide how to put it; can hardly bear think of it. She stands, fists clenched so tight I swear her nails draw blood.

Does she bleed?

“Cowardly Illyrian dog.” She spits, then whirls on me; and I swear the world quivers around her, the light warping and contorting. “No matter how shocked, or confused—you do not leave your mate this way.” She heaves a deep breath; in and out. “Where is he now.” It’s not a question, but a demand.

I don’t know. Her nose tugs towards a sneer.

“Well then—look down the bond and find him for me.” I’m not sure I’ll have a mate for much longer should I do as she says, but outright refusing her feels just as deadly.

Reluctantly, I close my eyes and visualise it—the bond—finding it surprisingly easy to cast my mind down the pale tether of moonlight, as if it were the same as any other light in the world; my path gilded by swirling shadows and glittering stars.

However, I don’t find Azriel at its end, but a grey, cloudy sky and snow-capped mountains. A beat later, I realise I’m looking through his eyes, seeing what he sees; absorbing the same light as his eyes.

I try to look beyond it, but find that I can’t, and the moment I try to feel him, I am struck by such devastating turmoil I’m shoved back into my body with a startled gasp; hand clutching my pounding chest.

Amren only watches, expectantly.

I only saw mountains. She tsks.

“Very well,” Looks me up and down, a furrow to her brow. “Come.” She extends a hand. “My apartment isn’t far—I’ll lend you a change of clothes, then I’m buying you breakfast.” I stare, gaping; wide-eyed. “Do not make me regret it.” She hisses when my gawking drags on too long, and I snap my mouth shut and accept that outstretched hand, letting her pull me to my feet.

Her apartment is indeed not far, and the clothes she lends fit well enough.

The café she brings me to skirts the Sidra, the establishment small and homely, and the Other in the shell of a Fae demands no conversation as I pick at my gifted breakfast, and sip on my orange juice; allowing me the peace to look upon the glittering waters in silent contemplation instead.

I appreciate her all the more for it.

Chapter Text

I decide to stay. In part because I can’t ensure Hybern’s demise on my own, and because Amren proves persuasive.

Decision made or not, I keep to myself; settle in my room with a good book and try to just… forget; to numb myself to the pain.

Azriel doesn’t return to Velaris all day, and neither has he returned come the next, at which point Rhysand finally expresses a measure of concern over breakfast; the Circle gathered for a morning rendezvous. Apparently he’s shielded his mind so thoroughly even Rhys can’t get to him. Subsequently, the mystery of what’s happened to him becomes the main topic; Morrigan and Cassian discussing over buttered toasts. Amren throws in the occasional scathing remark, and anyone with eyes can see the way hers seethe. They assume she’s annoyed because it puts a wedge in our plans—Azriel supposed to investigate the mortal queens today—and Amren doesn’t correct them.

When they ask whether I know where he might’ve gone—whether he told me anything—I shake my head, and though it isn’t a lie, it feels like one; bites like one. But no misplaced sense of guilt compares to the hot anger a mere glance in Mor’s direction breeds, the fact that Azriel loves her slipping poisonous jealousy into my blood. I hate it—do my best to quell it—but it’s there, and it’s brewing up a storm within me.

Before we depart to our own devices, Rhysand concludes that he’s to head off to investigate the queens himself. No one likes it, but no one can reasonably refuse him.

Cassian asks whether I’d like to spar, but I deny him; shake my head and retreat to my room as I did the day before. I settle abed, pick up my book, then merely stare at the words in absent disinterest; thoughts drifting whether I wish them to or not.

Drifting to Azriel, and where he might’ve gone.

Despite myself, I snake my way down the bond to see whether I might be able to reach him—despite his supposed walls—as I did the day before, but I can’t. Whatever allowed me through then has been sealed, leaving a solid mass of shadow between me and Azriel; and I dare not knock.

He’s alive though; that’s something.

That’s… good.

Flying without him doesn’t feel the same that night. I almost don’t, but can’t resist the temptation of a clear sky and soft breeze. I wouldn’t call myself recovered, but I’ve significantly improved, and with the help of some magically conjured up-draughts, I handle myself just fine; although tire quickly.

Another reason to keep flying; alone or not.

As I soar, I feel him return—feel him stow away in the House of Wind—and though I’m not sure how I know this, I know that I do know, and that I can’t be here anymore; can’t stomach the open skies and pleasant winds when he’s there and I’m here.

Landing in the garden—stumbling over the ornate patchwork of stepping-stones—I hurry inside; hurry to my room.

It feels so terribly childish—so stupid to run and hide—but I am seized by overwhelming dread, and the thought of stumbling upon him—of facing his rejection—is simply too much. So I lock myself away, try to sleep, but each time I drift, all I hear is his heart, and I wake with a start.

Over, and over and over.

In time, I give up—agonised by the mere thought of sleep—simply staring into the darkness until the hour is somewhat respectable, and I dress for another day. Book in tow, I make it to the sitting room, curling into my corner of the couch as I will myself to read; ignoring the shadows’ beckoning whispers.

Nuala brings me a cup of tea—and a sandwich—around seven in the morning, and I try to smile my thanks, but know it comes off forced. She bows all the same and returns to her duties, phasing through the wall in a flurry of dark smoke.

I nibble at my breakfast and sip my tea while I read about distant faerie lands to the east, finding a fragile peace in the silence for a time, until a banging on my mental shield startles me so hard I almost rip a page.

Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.

It’s Rhysand, practically screaming beyond my solid walls of white, dark talons clawing at them to no avail.

Despite myself, I let him in; the rush of his power overwhelming.

It’s Feyre, she’s in danger—somewhere along the Winter and Autumn Court border. Find her, have Morrigan winnow in Cassian once you do. The order is precise—urgent—and he’s hardly retreated from my mind before I’ve flung it into the dim light of dawn, spearing south-east; to the frozen land of Winter, and the gradient edge of Autumn.

I find a lake—or what looks to be a lake—find a group of people gathered around or atop the frozen sheet of water, immediately recognising the blue eyes of Feyre; near identical to Nesta’s, if not as steely.

Noting the location, I return to myself, finding Mor and Cassian dressed in leathers before me—waiting—surely informed by Rhysand much like I; who I assume is making his way back as we speak.

“A lake, southeastern Winter—just beyond the mountains bordering the Courts.” The words are rushed and hoarse—my first in two days’ time—but Mor only nods, reaching for Cassian. “Azriel—” My voice falters, but I push on. “He’s at the House of Wind—bring him.” Her eyes widen—another nod—a look shared with Cassian before he lifts her into his arms; the two gone in the blink of an eye.

Amren bursts into the townhouse shortly thereafter, silver eyes locking onto mine.

“Did you find her.” She demands, and I nod; easing the tense set of her shoulders.

Mor’s winnowing Cass and Azriel. Her brows arch.

“He’s back.” She crosses her arms, tone as lethal as her gaze.

Don’t kill him. She snorts; though it isn’t the friendly sort.

“I’ll only hurt him.” I stand—faster than my mind can register—and snarl; teeth bared.

Amren just stands there, blinking; staring.

Then a nod—more so to herself than anything—turning towards the kitchen, and I’m left standing in the horror of what I’ve just done.

Sitting down, I work to calm myself—to leash these defensive impulses—waiting for the males to complete their task; and for Rhys to come back.

Mor winnows them into the sitting room, Cassian lowering a young female onto the floor while Azriel drops off a red haired male who looks ready to be strapped to some torture-contraption, or be flayed alive.

Bluntly put, they look like shit, but even as words pass between them—Feyre and this other male—I can only watch Azriel, standing straight and true as if nothing’s even remotely amiss; like his didn’t vanish for two days straight.

His eyes flick my way once—a glance I can’t help but catch—and I find nothing but guarded cold within; the very indifference I feared.

Despite the heartfelt reunion taking place in the foyer, the Circle glad to have their High Lady back amongst them—Rhys most of all once he makes his grand entrance—I bend away before anyone’s really noticed I’m there.

Chapter Text

Amren—as if possessing some sixth sense—finds me on that bench again, asking me to sulk in her apartment instead, and while some part of me expects a lashing for the way I snarled at her, she simply offers me someplace quiet to dwell; much like before.

Thus, I occupy her cushioned armchair in content silence, doing my best not to acknowledge the way Amren talks to a book—surrounded by piles of additional books upon her lush carpet—curses it from time to time, and tells it to shut up; although I figure she has good reason for it.

Whatever the metallic book’s saying is muffled by the shadows, whispering in the darkened corners of the room, but I do hear it speak from time to time, and it isn’t pleasant; not like the shadows.

Eventually, too curious to resist, I stand and stride for that carpet—to investigate this discomforting book—and she neither halts or encourages me to do so; merely staring at the gleaming page before her.

A pace away, I hear it speak; loud and clear.

Hello, Lady of Light. It coos, a shiver rushing down my spine. Say, where does your Lord of Shadows hide? I simply stare, unnerved; confused as to what it is. Amren’s eyes lift from the page; to me. Seer of the Present. Shepherd of the Voiceless. A duality unrealised. Discarded—wasted. A shame. Such a shame.

Amren slams the book shut, silencing its ceaseless drawl.

“It never shuts up.” She hisses, and though her irritation is laid bare, I do not fear her temper; not as much as I probably should.

“What is it?” I ask, sitting down opposite her; the rug soft beneath my bare hands.

“A headache.” She’s not joking—the way she rubs at her brow says it all—but I still find myself mildly amused. “And the Book of Breathings.” My brows tug towards my hairline.

“I heard it was split after the war.”

“Feyre united the pieces. I’m looking for anything useful in it.” I tilt my head in question; quirk a brow. “I’m working on it.” From the looks of things, it’s not smooth work.

“Does it always do that? Speak in riddles.”

“It depends, but yes.” She doesn’t elaborate on that. “Don’t listen to it—it seeks to twist the mind.” I nod, yet its words linger in the back of my mind. “You left without a word. Feyre didn’t even have a chance to meet you.”

“I wasn’t one of whom she longed to see.” Amren’s silver eyes hold mine, studious and cold.

“But she’ll wish to meet you before long. Rhys has surely told her of you—unless they’re too bust mating to converse.” A roiling nausea washes over me, but I push it down; ignore the bond and its phantom tugs.

“She’ll get to interrogate me eventually.” I conclude, and Amren looks back at the book laid between us. She seems to contemplate whether to read any further, but she stands instead, bringing it with her as she strides for the bed; placing it on her nightstand for later deciphering. Due to a lack of space, a vial of old blood ends up settled atop the legendary book, and while it works to remind me that Amren is Other, and I should be wary in her presence, I remain unfazed.

Unease does strike me once a familiar brush of magic reaches through the door of Amren’s apartment, carrying a scent of citrus and cinnamon; soon followed by the opening of her door.

I twist in my seat, facing the intruder; though I already know who it is.

Mor seems surprised to see me here for a beat, but replaces the expression with something casual and suave, looking past me in favour of Amren.

“Mind if I intrude?” She asks, closing the door behind her; not waiting for an answer before plopping down in the armchair I occupied prior.

“Yes.” Amren answers, the word cold and annoyed, but Amren remains unbothered; picking at her perfect nails. “Just be quiet.” She snips, opening another book and delving into the fine-printed text.

A part of me wishes she’d make her leave, my temper a gathering storm in her presence; no matter how I try to rein it.

Luckily, Mor stays quiet as per Amren’s demand, and I distract myself as best I can by twirling a feather I’ve shed between my fingers; the pure white shimmering in golds and silvers and faint pastels.

I tense—cease all motion—as a heartbeat invades my head, the shadows of the room thickening; his scent invading the small space.

Amren looks up from her book, eyeing the uninvited guest behind me; out of sight.

“You tempt fate, Shadowsinger.” Amren’s voice is low and lethal. Azriel’s heart jolts, and lingers at a faster rate. My own assumes a racing pace that leaves my hand trembling before I resume that mindless twirling; just to have something to focus on rather than him.

Right there. Right behind me.

Closer than he’s been since—

“Stay quiet, and I’ll resist the urge to flay you.” My eyes snap to Amren, nostrils flaring, the urge to snarl caught in my throat; but just barely. It’s sheer will which quells it, and a violent sense of foolishness.

Why should I have such inclinations when the male in question left me alone to suffer.

Abandoned me.

I swear I feel his eyes on me—feel the prickle of his gaze at the back of my neck now and then—and though I’m both loathed to know and unbearably curious whether I’m imagining things, or he’s actually acknowledging my existence, I steady my body and let half a mind escape into the light.

He’s taken up residence in the armchair on Mor’s right, his wings cramped against the high backrest. His hazel eyes seem set on the cobalt gem on the back of his hand, but I catch it, that quick glance; lingering no longer than a heartbeat. Those eyes reveal nothing—are frosted and unfeeling—but he sees me, looks to where I sit, wings tucked close, posture straight and unwavering.

Mor casts him the occasional glance, stealing his attention for herself, and silent words only those who truly know one another can share pass between them; easy and natural.

I never stood a chance.

Chapter Text

The others come knocking in due time, although have the decency to wait for an answer before barging through the door, by which point I’ve bent myself off of the floor and tucked myself against the far wall; partly obscured in a patch of sunlight pooling in through the window.

Cassian and Rhys seem to bicker about something or another for a time, they and Feyre completely unaware of my presence, a trend that continues as Rhys moves the subject along, giving the books scattered on the rug a glance; a rug Amren hasn’t bothered to rise from.

“Nothing?” I assume he refers to Amren’s progress regarding something useful. She ignores the question.

“I don’t know why you sent those two buffoons—,” She casts a narrow glance at Azriel and Mor. “To monitor me.” Amren sounds like how I’d imagine a cranky old aunt might; not that I know much about that.

“We’re not monitoring you,” Mor says, tapping her foot on the carpet, she too standing now. “We’re monitoring the Book.” As if hearing her words, it begins to whisper.

Feyre’s eyes—still oblivious to me—snap onto the book, and I barely make out its murmurs in answer to her attention.

Hello, sweet-faced liar. Hello, princess with—

“Oh, be quiet.” Amren hisses, and it actually shuts up. “Odious thing.” She mutters, returning to the tome resting in her lap.

“Since the two halves of the book were joined back together, it has been… known to speak now and then.” Rhys tells his mate with a wry smile.

“What does it say?” She asks.

Fragments of the words spoken in my presence surface.

Lady of Light. Lord of Shadows. Seer of the Present. Shepherd of the Voiceless. Duality unrealized.

Discarded. Wasted.

A shame.

Such a shame.

“Utter nonsense,” Amren spits, shooting the Book a scowl. “It just likes to hear itself talk. Like most of the people cramping my apartment.” I wonder whether Amren’s hostility has anything to do with the fact that the sanctuary she thought she was giving me has been shattered, or if she brought me here knowing Mor would come, and thus Azriel; thought to test me.

Or she’s tired of the uninvited guests in general.

There’s some contentment found in knowing I was invited.

“Did someone forget to feed Amren again?” Cassian asks with a smirk, and Amren points a warning finger his way; never lifting her gaze from her tome.

“Is there a reason, Rhysand, why you’ve brought your yapping pack into my home?”

I watch them all form a small circle of discussion around Amren, still not bothering to stand; or acknowledge their existence more than she has to. Azriel lingers against the wall, though; furthest from me.

Rhysand starts the talking, looking to Feyre.

“The information you got from Dagdan and Brannagh confirms what we’ve been gathering ourselves while you were gone. Especially Hybern’s potential allies in other territories—on the continent.” Their names—however it hurts my pride to admit—makes me flinch, memories of hours strapped to a table—victim of their wickedness—intruding upon my mind.

I swear Azriel’s eyes snap to me for a second, as if he felt it—felt me recoil—but I blink and he’s looking at anything except me again.

“Vultures.” Mor mutters, a sentiment Cassian seems to mirror.

Feyre looks to Rhys as if something is truly sinking in for her, and Rhys snorts.

“I can stay hidden, mate.” I sink deeper into the ray of sunlight, the muffling nature of this form stifling Feyre’s response; but I hear Azriel’s voice loud and clear.

“Having Hybern’s movement’s confirmed by you, Feyre, is what we needed.” I’m almost too captivated by his smooth, midnight voice to catch Feyre’s answering why.

“We barely stand a chance of surviving Hybern’s armies on our own. If armies from Vallahan, Montesere, and Rask join them…,” I shift my attention to Cass just in time to watch him slice a finger across his throat.

Mor elbows him in the ribs, Cass nudging her right back. Azriel shakes his head at them both, shadows coiling around his being, his wings.

I try not to look too closely at that last part; to not think of the way the membranes catch the light.

“Are those three territories… That powerful?” That she doesn’t know shows how young she is, but that she dares ask and seeks to learn is a positive, truly.

“Yes.” Azriel answers, voice void of judgment; void of anything, really. “Vallahan has the numbers, Montesere has the money, and Rask… it’s large enough to have both.”

“And we have no potential allies amongst the other overseas territories.” Feyre continues.

Rhys picks at his sleeve, something uneasy to the gesture.

“Not ones that would sail here to help.”

“What of Miryam and Drakon?” That she knows those names surprises me. “You fought for them centuries ago.” Had I been a more active participant in the fighting—before the very end—I would’ve probably fought beside him, now that I think about it; before the exodus. “Perhaps it’s time to call in that debt.” I’d be inclined to agree, if I didn’t know why it isn’t an option.

“We tried. Azriel went to Cretea.” He gives the word to the male in question.

“It was abandoned. In ruin. With no trace of what happened or where they went.”

“Do you think Hybern—” Feyre isn’t allowed to finish, and I’m approaching a point where I might show myself and add to the conversation. Maybe. If I can find my voice.

“There was no sign of Hybern, or of any harm.” Mor cuts off her High Lady, her features tense.

She knew them too, I realise; was actually quite close with my keepers. She’s worried for them, but I know no harm has come to them. They ran when I didn’t return, and good riddance for that. At least they get to continue their blissful lives in peace.

Everyone seem to share her worry though, as if they don’t see this little fact, but I suppose those who care worry even when there’s no clear sign of danger; worry over the possibilities.

“Then do you think they heard about Hybern and ran?” The High Lady’s on to something.

“The Drakon and Miryam I knew wouldn’t have run—not from this.” Rhys says then, and I leave the light—unveil myself—startling all but Amren, Mor and Azriel; the latter completely ignoring me.

“It’s not too far fetched.” The focus of the room falls entirely on me then. “My capture would have alarmed Drakon, enough so to prompt him to run, if only for a time—to avoid possible fallout.” Feyre looks stunned, but Rhys contemplative, his eyes drifting to my bare wrist; the sleeve of my pale-yellow blouse rolled up to my elbows.

“You remember.” I nod.

“I haven’t gotten around to mentioning that, forgive me. Things have been hectic as of late.” A soft hum of understanding passes the High Lord’s lips.

“Is that a…,” Feyre asks her mate, leaning closer to his ear; but she doesn’t really whisper.

“It is, she’s with us—I’ll explain later.” War first.

“Nameless has a point, but we should consider Jurian as well.” Mor states, piquing my interest enough to quell the storm of her presence. “Miryam and Drakon, whether they like it or not, have always been tied to him. I don’t blame them for running, if he truly hunts them.” Drakon could kill Jurian in a heartbeat, but I see why he’d rather avoid the bloodshed if possible; spare Miryam the pain of seeing her old lover again, hungry for her blood.

Rhys face shifts, realisation dawning on his features.

“That is what the King of Hybern has on Jurian.” He murmurs. “Why Jurian works for him.” I knew he was back, but to think of him working under a male who once fought to end his kind feels strange.

Feyre seems confused as well.

“Miryam died—a spear through her chest during that last battle at the sea.” I swallow, memories from centuries past flooding my mind; a dull ache blooming at my left temple.

It was narrowly my final failure; that I did not take that spear with my own chest back then. Hadn’t Drakon come up with yet another insane plan in a series of increasingly insane plans, he’d have killed me on the spot; though I almost let the sea claim me first.

The exodus… our people’s miraculous—and costly—escape from the Black Desert is another memory best left forgotten.

“She bled out while she was carried to safety. But Drakon knew of a sacred, hidden island where an object of great and terrible power had been concealed. An object made by the Cauldron itself, legend claimed.” Hearing him retell it only worsens the clarity of my resurfacing memories, and I quietly sink back into that ray of sunlight. “He brought her there, to Cretea—used the item to resurrect her, make her immortal. As you were Made, Feyre.”

The words prompt Amren to speak.

“The King of Hybern must have promised Jurian to use the Cauldron to track the item. To where Miryam and Drakon now live. Perhaps they figured that out—and left as fast as they could.” She turns to look at me, even if I’m not quite there. “What say you, Nameless.”

“Jurian was driven mad at the end, I wouldn’t put it past him to be fuelled by revenge.” I answer, not quite corporeal, but my voice reaches the physical plane.

“But where did they go?” Feyre looks from me to Azriel, probably expecting an answer from either of us. Azriel remains completely still beneath her gaze; standing against that far wall. “You found no trace at all of where they might have vanished to?” Azriel doesn’t have to answer.

“None.” Rhys answers instead. “We’ve sent messages back since—to no avail.” His eyes drift to me for a second. They seem apologetic, and a part of me appreciates the sentiment, misplaced or not.

Feyre rubs at her face.

“Then if they are not a possible ally… How do we keep those territories on the continent from joining with Hybern—from sending their armies here?” She seems to wince at the thought. “That’s our plan—isn’t it?” Rhys smiles grimly.

“It is. One we’ve been working on while you were away.” This I know of, but only in part; my focus to recover. “I looked at Hybern first. At its people. As best I could. Nameless provided whatever insight she had.” Feyre seems to realise where I’ve come from then, and another thing regarding her mate’s occasional whereabouts. Neither seems to please her.

Rhysand’s only amused by his mate’s worry regarding his safety.

“I’d hoped that Hybern might have some internal conflict to exploit—to get them to collapse from within. That its people might not want this war, might see it as costly and dangerous and unnecessary. But five hundred years on that island, with little trade, little opportunity… Hybern’s people are hungry for change.” Blood, he means. “Or rather… a change back to the old days, when they had human slaves to do their work, when there were no barriers keeping them from what they now perceive as their right.”

Amren slams her book closed.

“Fools.” She states, shaking her head. “Hybern’s wealth has been dwindling for centuries. Most of their trade routes before the War dealt with the south—with the Black Land. But once it went to the humans… We don’t know if Hybern’s king deliberately failed to establish new trade routes and opportunities for his people in order to one day fuel this war, or if he was just that short-sighted and let everything fall apart. But for centuries now, Hybern’s people have been festering. Hybern let their resentment of their growing stagnation and poverty fester.”

I listen as they go on and on about Hybern and the war and how terrible the people have become in the wake of their misfortune; how it has twisted their views to deem the time before the War glorious, when in fact it was not. It makes my mind wander—though I still register their words—makes it drift to the time when humans died on the daily, often right before your eyes; too tired to carry on.

Sometimes—when they were so sick and tired of their miserable existence—I’d help them. They’d look at me, eyes begging for it to end, and while I couldn’t grant them freedom—not back then—I let them find a swift and painless death; so natural it’d feel like drifting off to sleep.

I should have done more than that, but I didn’t.

Instead, I lead them into the arms of the Mother; became their light at the end of a long, bleak tunnel of pain.

I should have been the light of freedom, not death.

I force myself back to the present, listening to Rhys and Azriel’s subtle brag regarding their skilfully placed lies and truths within the continental territories, making them focus on eachother rather than what’s going on overseas.

Their amusement fades when the mention of the human queens surfaces.

“It drives you mad, doesn’t it, that no one has been able to get inside the palace.” Feyre asks both Rhys and Azriel.

“You have no idea.” Azriel mutters.

The discussion goes on and on, and I valiantly listen, intent on being a part of this no matter how displaced I feel.

Chapter Text

We gather for dinner that same evening; one I deign to attend, Azriel’s presence be damned. Nevertheless, I keep a low profile—easier said than done when you’re bright as a beacon—managing to avoid anyone’s immediate attention; allowing me to sip my wine and observe the ongoings in peace.

Nesta makes an appearance—marking our first official meeting—and while she was devastatingly beautiful last I saw her, it’s impossibly amplified by the elegant blue dress she now dons.

Mor makes a fuzz about wanting one like it, and Nesta immediately finds herself in my instinct-ridden head’s good graces when she utters her first words of the evening.

“Fortunately for you, I don’t return the sentiment.” It feels rude to find pleasure in Morrigan’s wince—especially considering I saw her as a friend mere days ago—but she has my mate wrapped around her finger and does nothing about it; wastes his precious affections.

Amren—unfazed by Nesta’s barbed tongue—falls into conversation with the Made Fae. It’s rather one-sided, Amren stating that they’re the same—power lurking beneath the surface—which Nesta vehemently denies. Inevitably, Rhys puts a stop to the exchange in the name of saving our appetites.

However, she’s right, something does lurk within Nesta. I can see it somehow—if I look hard enough—this glow in her; beyond the innate radiance of the Fae. I can’t explain it, but it isn’t normal; much like Amren isn’t.

When Feyre further apologises to Lucien—the male she arrived alongside—in regards to the informalities of their Court dinners—stating Azriel’s the only polite one—it breeds cries of outrage; mainly from Mor and Cass.

However, I do wonder; is it polite to leave your incapacitated mate on a roof all night?

It’s a thought I never give voice.

He smiles though—digs into his meal—taking the praise with a bow. All the while, I feel something down the bond; some quiver that doesn’t match what he portrays.

Feyre mentions sparring with Cassian in the mornings, and I realise I’ll be getting another soul for company, should I decide to attend at all; something I haven’t since the bond.

Cassian’s view on the importance of daylight, and Mor’s answer, “We live in the Night Court.” manages to make me smile; albeit it meek. Cassian’s complaint to Rhys about females and our High Lord’s comment about the Commander’s previous longing for more female company makes it linger.

Until I notice Azriel, almost consumed by shadows in his seat; something Cassian also notices.

“Don’t try to blend into the shadows. You said the same thing.” He says, pointing a fork at Azriel.

“He did not.” Mor protests, Azriel’s shadows fading to nothing. “Azriel has never once said anything that awful. Only you, Cassian. Only you.” Longing for pretty faces to look at doesn’t earn the General any favours, I suppose.

From there, the subject shifts to the High Lords’ meeting, where the Lords of Prythian shall discuss Hybern, and what to do about them. Who of us will attend—and who won’t—is brought up; a topic left undecided for now. However, at the mention of a visit to the Court of Nightmares, it’s unanimously decided that I shall not come along; as it’d raise too many questions.

I’ve no issue with this—agree with them—because I can sense there’s… discomfort at the mention of this offshoot court; sense they do not wish for me to experience it. Azriel spoke of it once—when explaining how their Court of Dreams came to be—and though he was vague, I got the impression they play rather unpleasant roles when dealing with this branch; that there’s a ruthlessness required in this mountain court.

I’m in no place to judge, nor in any place to argue that I should be there, as I agree it’d be a distraction; lest I remained hidden in the light.

Assuming there’s any to hide within, there.

Things grow tense from there—quiet in a way it usually isn’t with this lot—until Feyre exchanges banter with Cassian regarding their aforementioned sparring the next morning; which helps lighten the mood.

Then she expresses a desire to learn how to fly, and Mor spits her drink across the table; right at Azriel. Not that he notices, too stunned by his High Lady’s declaration. After a brief discussion as to the technicalities of that—where it’s revealed the young Fae is able to grow her own pair of wings—and the issue of time Cass points out, Azriel offers to do it.

To teach her.

It agitates the wounded part of my heart which longs for our nightly flights. It’s a pain which spreads—warps and augments into a simmering rage—until this whirlwind evolves into a hurricane. He looks at me then—a mere glance—the first he’s acknowledged me all evening; his expression a careful mask of indifference.

Yet he looks; as if he feels.

Feels my rage. My pain. My suffocating grief.

Overwhelming. Violent in a way I struggle to rein.

Still, I will the storm to settle—smother it beneath a veil of forced detachment—yet no matter how I try, it continues to simmer beneath the surface; thrashing against my walls of cold indifference.

For the sake of my dignity—and the well-being of those around me—I leave the moment it’s acceptable.

~O~

To claim I’ve the self-control to not spy on Feyre and Azriel during the initial moments of their first flight-lesson would be a lie.

I do so from the solitude of the music room—ivory keys forgotten before me—watching the ease with which they interact, the calm he exudes in his High Lady’s presence; as he once did in mine. Before the bond robbed me of his easy company—of his quiet friendship—a bond I’d have erased if only to return things to how they were; though I know such a thing to be impossible.

The moment he touches her wings—feeling whether she’s summoned them correctly—I lose the will to watch; lack the stomach to endure this self-inflicted torture.

I go on a flight of my own instead—long and punishing—until I practically crash into the townhouse garden, knees giving off a worrisome pop as I land amidst the night-blooming hedges, followed by a limping walk that I’ve successfully suppressed by the time I enter the house; locking myself away within the room I call mine.

I fall into the armchair, an arm swung over my stinging eyes, a stutter to my winded breath; agony ravaging my tattered heart. Meanwhile, something cold and gentle flutters along my wrist, murmuring sweet nothings and voiceless condolences; only serving to amplify what brews within. Still, I let my arm fall from my eyes—into my lap—and look upon the faint whisk of darkness skittering along the bare skin of my palm and wrist; weaving between my fingers.

Arm settled over my knee, I watch this murmuring sliver of Azriel’s power spiral towards my fingertips, and drift beyond them, swirling along an imaginary axis for a time, before fading into nothing.

Tugging me somewhere, as they always have; tugging me towards their master.

A male I’ve avoided with a passion, since his return. Have run from at every turn, just as he ran from me the night the bond snapped.

It’s not his fault alone that we’re like this; that we’ve become this… nothing we are now.

For all I know, Azriel might believe I’ve rejected him; with the way I’ve evaded him at every turn.

Stupid.

Foolish.

Jaxon would tear me a new one, if he knew; would have pointed this out days ago.

Seeing him now isn’t an option, and later he… he is busy—bound to question Lucien as to the state of the Spring Court, amongst things—but tomorrow… before they leave for the Court of Nightmares… I’ll make an effort to speak with him then—to mend the rift—but until then… I’ll gather information we might discuss; something mundane yet useful.

I’ll look for Myriam and Drakon.

Chapter Text

In the midst of my morning tea—situated in the sitting room—Feyre appears in the townhouse, announcing that her sisters and friend Lucien are to take up residency here rather than staying cooped up in the House of Wind; the High Lady nervously busying herself by rearranging vases and straightening curtains.

These news thrust a wedge in my plans to get Azriel alone—as he’s part of the relocation effort—and stresses the need for me to relocated without outwardly stating as such; the townhouse bound to grow crowded with another three residents about. Moving to the House wouldn’t be a hassle, considering I can fly now—and I’ve already a room picked out—but to move my things… I’ll discuss it with Rhys later; whether he can magic them there for me.

Feyre seems curious to speak with me—learn more about me—but her nerves regarding the incoming guests leave her silent. Similarly, the approach of Azriel’s heartbeat silences my own tongue—surrenders my cup upon its saucer—middle finger picking at my thumb as I mull over all I’m to say; how I’m to approach him. All this fussing promptly skitters to a halt the moment he enters the house, holding a motionless Elain in his arms; so terribly frail and malnourished.

Reminding me of myself, those first few days here.

Setting the Made Fae down on her too thin legs, Azriel ignores my presence, attention remaining on Elain and Elain alone as she looks up at him with blank, faded eyes.

“Would you like me to show you the garden?” He asks, and little Elain nods—just once—Azriel offering her an arm.

“Beautiful.” I hear her whisper, eyes trained on his hand—or the cobalt gem on the back of it—and I watch Azriel’s cheeks flush with faint colour before he strides for the back door; leading her along.

The sight stuns me enough that I do not immediately follow, the though of Elain’s presence as I face him daunting in its own right; making me hesitate further.

Next, Nesta comes stomping through the front door, looking greener than I’d consider normal. Feyre points her to the fresher, and she storms off, slamming the door behind her.

Rhys isn’t far behind, hands in his pockets as he steps through the door.

He and his mate speak in silence—both Daemati, I figure—something displeased in the set of our High Lady’s face.

Then Cassian and Lucien arrive, turning the room rather stuffy for my taste, but I watch with quiet intrigue as Lucien’s eyes hone on the back door, nostrils flaring, a low snarl slipping from his lips; possessive—much like the one I threw at Amren.

“Relax,” Rhysand begins. “Azriel isn’t the ravishing type.” Lucien glares, but I don’t stay to watch it unfold from there. Instead, I bend out of the room—out into the garden—lingering in a patch of sunlight as I watch Azriel tour Elain, stalling though I know I’ve only so much time before they’re leaving for the Court of Nightmares.

Eventually, he sits her down by one of the wrought-iron seating arrangements, Azriel claiming a chaise lounge of his own, large wings outstretched as he bathes in the early summer sun. Cerridwen stops by with tea for Elain only moments later, but never offers Azriel a cup, leading me to believe he summoned the Wraith himself—with specific instructions—had a shadow send for her. Instead, he looks over the sprawl of documents laid out between them—the folder of which also brought by Cerridwen—while Elain watches the world with empty eyes; never even touching her tea.

He’s already dressed for the looming trip—I’d imagine—his dark armour adorned with seven cobalt gems; brutal and fitting for a place named after nightmares. It’s a devastating sight—wickedly attractive—so much so I hardly trust my knees to hold, should I approach.

However, time is running out, and I’ve a report to give.

I know someone’s watching me from the townhouse the moment I manifest into the physical, but I pay them no mind; focus on the pair ahead. In contrast, Azriel’s attention doesn’t sway from his paperwork. Only Elain deigns to look at me, her brown eyes just as vacant, but seeing something as they rake across my being.

“Azriel.” I begin, and I haven’t a clue how his name leaves my leaden lips with such clarity, nor how I remain standing when his wings snap shut; tucked tight against his rigid spine. A clear sign I’ve garnered his attention, however begrudging on his part. “Might I have a word?” How my voice stays unwavering is beyond me.

“Later.” He answers coolly, but his tense wings betray the calm indifference of his voice.

I don’t settle for dismissal, pushing on nonetheless.

“I searched Cretea yesterday.” That grants me a lingering glance. “While it’s as abandoned as you claimed, I thought—perhaps my knowledge of the region might prove insightful.” I swallow; pick at my thumb behind the veil of my back—my wings. “See, not too far from there lays a series of islands we call the Misted Isles—and I believe they may have gone there, if anywhere.” His brows shift; ever so faintly.

“Misted Isles.” He asks without really asking; demands more like.

His voice—addressed to me—is… nerve wracking.

“It’s a group of islands forever drenched in mist. They are mostly unknown beyond the scope of Cretea, I’ve found—don’t show up on your maps here.” His eyes seem expectant as I hold his gaze, as if urging me to go on; get to a point. “Knowing Drakon, if he has gone there, I’d assume he’s warded himself from my sight. I can’t locate them—though I tried—but should someone physically go there, things might be different.”

“Are you asking for permission.” I shake my head.

“I never want to see that male again—sending me to find him wouldn’t earn you an ally.” His eyes drift to my left wrist—just for a moment—taking in the now bare skin there; only slightly paler than the rest of me. Then he looks back into my eyes; something unreadable in his expression.

“I’ll send someone. Where are the islands.” I bend the light above the table into a map—stretching between he and Elain—and his eyes avert to that instead.

It’s almost relieving, and I allow myself a deep breath—a centring moment—before pointing out the very white part of the map.

“I can’t give a detailed depiction of the islands themselves—I’ve never seen them clearly—but they’re somewhere in that haze.” Azriel studies the ocean around it; the other isles dotted about the sea working as landmarks.

“Are they dangerous.”

“No. Most living things eventually drown there—when exposed to the mist for too long. There’s mostly vegetation, and the occasional freshwater fish. Fae—and Seraphim especially—can ward this mist away, so Drakon going there anyway isn’t too unreasonable.” Azriel nods. “I suggest whoever you send ward themselves in a bubble of air before going in.”

“Your wings…,” Elain whispers, voice frail. “Are beautiful.” It averts my attention—settles it on her—and I find she’s indeed looking at them; gaze tracing the layers of shimmering feathers. “Why are they broken?” I frown. “Why are they cracked?” I tuck my wings close to my spine.

“They’re fine, Elain.” I speak softly. “They’re not sold like Azriel’s—they’re layered with feathers. It makes them seem cracked.” She shakes her head, but doesn’t elaborate; goes back to staring blankly at her cup of tea.

A soft frown busies my brow—concern and uncertainty plaguing my heart—but Azriel reaching out to gather his documents snaps me back to the present, and I recall the summoned map as to not obscure them. Then he stands—so much taller than I recall—my neck forced to crane a great deal in order to look him in the eye.

“Cassian will stay to guard the house. Will you stay with her.” The request surprises me, but I understand.

Cassian will keep an eye on Lucien, and I’ll look after Elain.

“I will.” I promise, and Azriel moves to leave; shadows gathering about his frame. In a burst of reckless desperation—a need to keep him here—I grasp hold of his wrist; freezing the male in place. “Wait.” I blurt, words caught in my throat; though I try to sort out my thoughts. Stiffly, Azriel looks to me—his pounding heart mixing with the stutter of my own—but I can’t bring myself to let go; whether I know I should or not. “Would you bring me a notebook and pen?” His brow furrows—ever so slightly—then he nods, and I let him go.

Let him fade into a cloud of shadow; taking the lovely song of his heart with him.

I claim his previous seat, and while Azriel doesn’t return to deliver my request directly, a black—leather bound—notebook and feather pen enchanted to never run out of ink appears on the table in due time. Flipping to the first page, I carefully write out my brief conversation with Elain—marking who said what and in which order—and continue to scribble down all the that she continues to say; about a fire bird watching her; how she’s scared it’ll burn her; how it rages up high.

I offer words of my own in answer, and write those down alongside whatever detached replies I receive; keeping me pleasantly occupied for a few hours time.

Chapter Text

I help Elain to bed later that day; having managed to convince her to have at least one sip of tea. She falls asleep swiftly once I’ve managed to tuck her in, clutching one of my shed feathers against her chest.

She plucked it from the floor on our way in—found it forgotten in some corner of the hall headed to hers—and studied it as if it held the answer to a question she didn’t know how to ask; entranced and aloof.

I let her keep it, whatever tradition has to say about it.

Awaiting my friends’ return from the Court of Nightmares, I descend to the sitting room; intending to go over the words Elain spoke. To my surprise—as I’ve not noticed Amren about today—I find the low table littered with books I deem to be hers, though Amren herself is nowhere to be found; supposedly at the Court of Nightmares. Leaving them be, I settle in my corner of the couch, notebook unfolded, scanning the words that never quite make sense; adding the words she whispered before drifting away.

You remind me of death.

How one can say that with such calm is beyond me, but the fact she’s not entirely wrong unnerves me.

Cassian joins me eventually, but remains mercifully silent company, his mind honed on his guard-duties, but also plagued by something else. It looks like deeply rooted concern, or perhaps even longing.

When they do return—winnowing into the foyer—I quickly get the sense that something didn’t go according to plan; a brief sparring match of words tossed between the weary lot.

I hear jarring words, that Azriel was discovered during one of his missions, forcing our hand into working with a male named Kier—and Eris, who seems to be Lucien’s less pleasant brother—Mor utterly distraught at the thought of this male setting foot in Velaris; claiming he’ll destroy it with his mere presence.

It is a rapid back and forth between Rhysand and Mor, hurt evident in their eyes and voice, and I stay quiet throughout, watching this unfold and escalate into an outright yelling match, until Amren cuts in and puts an end to it, promising Mor that Kier—her father—will not poison this place; that she will not allow it.

Feyre stresses the need to maintain unity between us—exhibiting wisdom despite her youth—and the subject carries on in time.

Somehow, it turns out worse.

Rhysand and Feyre desire the Oroborus, a mirror I only know from legend, and they do so because a being beautifully named the Bone Carver desires it. A being locked away in the Prison, a place where creatures from beyond our real—or merely too powerful to be let free upon the world—are held captive for eternity; for the sake of mortal-kind.

Cassian calls them Amren’s old friend; unveiling a truth I wasn’t aware of by way of implication alone.

She once dwelled within the Prison; was powerful enough to be locked away within.

Then she somehow escaped it.

And now Rhys wants Amren to tell us how; so we might release the Bone Carver upon Hybern’s forces.

“Anything else?” She asks him, words too calm; too sweet.

By this point, I’ve retreated to a part of the room I hope might be spared the mess I sense on the horizon; book and quill still clutched to my chest.

“When we’re done with all this, then my promise from months ago still holds: use the Book to send yourself home, if you want.” Rhys states, and Amren only stares, the room falling into such perfect silence that the ticking clock on the wall is all we hear; say the fountain rippling outside.

I sense Azriel moving through the shadows—circling the deathly still Other in the room—sensing the same threat as I do; see him unsheathe a dagger from his belt.

“Call off your dog.” Amren’s words are lethal.

She bares her teeth at him, and something within wills me to seek retaliation—well aware she has more reason than one to wish him harm in this moment—though Azriel remains the perfect image of calm indifference; positioned in a way that his shadows partly obscure my vision of the scene.

His heart betrays him though, beat elevated beneath her smouldering, silver gaze.

“Why won’t you tell us?” Rhys asks, neither granting her request; nor moving an inch.

I watch Cassian slip Nesta behind him—to shield her from any possible fallout—but the young Made Fae keeps peaking over his shoulder to see.

“Because the stone beneath this house has ears, the wind has ears—all of it listening.” Amren begins. “And if it reports back… They will remember, Rhysand, that they have not caught me. And I will not let them put me in that black pit again.” I shudder, remembering my own decades spent in darkness; dreamless and empty.

I feel a shield lock in place around us.

“No one will hear beyond this room.” Rhys states, and Amren looks to the books littering the low table I just occupied.

“I had to give something up. I had to give me up. To walk out, I had to become something else entirely, something the prison would not recognise. So I—I bound myself into this body.” All my senses hone on the small Other in the room, Azriel’s heartbeat so faint it’s a mere echo of my own.

“You said someone else bound you.” Rhys questions, tone cautious.

“I lied—to cover what I’d done. So none could know. To escape the Prison, I made myself mortal. Immortal as you are, but… mortal compared to—to what I was. And what I was… I did not feel, the way you do. The way I do now. Some things—loyalty and wrath and curiosity—but not the full spectrum.” Her eyes are distant, seeing something far away; reminiscing perhaps. “I was perfect, according to some. I did not regret, did not mourn—and pain… I did not experience it. And yet… yet I wound up here, because I was not quite like the others. Even as—as what I was, I was different. Too curious. Too questioning. The day the rip appeared in the sky… it was curiosity that drove me. My brothers and sisters fled. Upon the orders of our ruler, we had just laid waste to twin cities, smote them wholly into rubble and plain, and yet they fled from that rip in the world. But I wanted to look. I wanted. I was not built or bred to feel such selfish things as want. I’d seen what happened to those of my kind who strayed, who learnt to place their needs first. Who developed… Feeling. But I went through the tear in the sky. And here I am.”

There are things about me best left forgotten as well.

Her words from days ago echo in my head as her speech comes to an end.

“And you gave all that up to get out of the Prison?” Mor asks, voice soft.

“I yielded my grace—my perfect immortality. I knew that once I did… I would feel pain. And regret. I would want, and I would burn with it. I would… fall. But it was—the time locked away down there… I didn’t care. I had not felt the wind on my face, had not smelled the rain… I did not even remember what they felt like. Did not remember sunlight.” A stab of pain twists my heart, and Azriel’s wings rustle.

Even now, having seen sunsets and sunrises, stars and clear skies—tasted them—able to remember everything from years long gone, I still remember what it was like to not know; to not remember sunlight or rain or stars.

As Azriel’s shadows retreat—unveiling him wholly—I know he does too; see it in his face.

“So I bound myself into this body. I shoved my burning grace deep into me. I gave up everything I was. The cell door just… Unlocked. And I walked out.”

That burning grace—her inner light—locked away to save herself from another kind of entrapment.

“That will be the cost of freeing the Carver.” Amren continues. “You will have to bind him into a body. Make him… Fae. And I doubt he will agree to it. Especially without the Oroboros.” Silence reigns supreme for a moment, until she continues. “You should have asked me before you went.” Her tone is sharp again; back to herself. “I would have spared you the visit.” Rhys swallows.

“Could you be unbound?”

“Not by me.”

“What would happen if you were?” Amren looks at us all—even me—before looking back at Rhysand.

“I would not remember you. I would not care for any of you. I would either smite you or abandon you. What I feel now… it would be foreign to me—it would hold no sway. Everything I am, this body… it would cease to be.”

“What were you.” Nesta breathes, escaping Cassian’s meat-shield.

“A messenger—and soldier-assassin. For a wrathful god who ruled a young world.” Everyone seem to burn with questions, leading me to assume this open exchange of truth from Amren is rare; perhaps even uncalled for.

“Was your name Amren?” Nesta asks before the rest manage to get their thoughts in order.

“No.” The light around Amren seems to bristle; like some sliver of her grace seeps past its lock and key. “I don’t remember the name I was given. I used Amren because—it’s a long story.”

Nameless like me, her new self chosen and forged out of the ashes of what once was.

I want to know why she chose Amren—why she chose me to be Nameless—but soft footsteps enter our bubble, and a soft “Oh,”.

Elain, surprised to see us; unable to hear us through the soundproof walling. I glimpse my feather still clutched in her hand, even with her arms wrapped around herself. It’s grown a little ruffled by her handling.

Feyre immediately heads her way.

“Do you need anything?” She asks, but Elain shakes her head meekly.

“No. I… I was sleeping, but I heard…,” She shakes her head again, blinks at the crowd gathered in the space. I open my notebook and begin writing; as discreetly as possible. “I didn’t hear you.”

“But you heard something else.” Azriel says, stepping forward; closer.

I watch Elain back away in my peripheral, inscribing Azriel’s words as well; marking them as his.

“I think I was dreaming.” She murmurs. “I think I’m always dreaming these days.” Lost.

Lost in her mind.

Lost somewhere else.

What’s happening to you, sweet fawn?

“Let me get you some hot milk.” Feyre says, trying to guide Elain towards the sitting room, but she shrugs off her grip; heading back towards the stairs.

She speaks again once she climbs the first step.

“I can hear her—crying.”

“Who?” Feyre tries to coax.

“Everyone thinks she’s dead.” Elain says, ignoring her sister; continuing her ascend. “But she’s not. Only—different. Changed. As I was.”

“Who.” Feyre pushes, eager to understand. Elain keeps climbing the stairs.

Nesta and Feyre share a glance, both oblivious to Azriel’s approach.

“What did you see?” He asks, and I hear Elain pause.

“I saw young hands wither with age. I saw a box of black stone. I saw a feather of fire land on snow and melt it.”

I see what Feyre and Nesta are thinking. Know they think their sister mad. But things aren’t adding up to me, so I keep writing—to maybe understand at a later date—and no one seems to take note; save for Azriel—who shoots me a brief glance.

“It was angry.” Elain continues; quietly. “It was so, so angry that something was taken. So it took something from them as punishment.” No one seems to know what to say; me included.

Feyre looks to Azriel, desperation clear in her eyes.

“What does that mean?” Azriel’s eyes—previously trained on her sister—avert to me; as if trying to tell me something; ask me something.

Then he shifts into the shadows—vanishing—those he leaves behind beckoning; louder than ever.

Ignoring the way Mor watches the space he’s vacated, I pass them all and exit the building, clutching my book and quill as I spread my wings. A surge of magic sends me skyward, until I’m high enough I’ve no need of it anymore.

Following the shadows’ call—from within myself—I soar for the House; his heartbeat a steadily growing thing within my head.

Chapter Text

The shadows lead me to an office—nestled deep within the House of Wind—a sole light illuminating the space once I gather the strength to step within; situated on his vacant desk. Vacant because Azriel stands before one of many bookshelves lining the walls; rigidly putting a folder back upon a shelf in some predetermined order.

He doesn’t startle upon my entry—nor react to the click of the door falling shut behind me—confirming that he’s been anticipating my arrival; that I didn’t just imagine his invitation.

“You’re writing down what Elain says.” He begins, righting one last folder upon the shelf before turning to face me; still standing before the door.

“I’m trying to make sense of them—her words.” I explain, and Azriel strides for his desk, claiming the plush chair closest to the wall; another of simpler build waiting on the other side. A silent invitation for me to sit as well.

“Is there sense to be made?” He asks. Is she mad being the question he doesn’t gives voice.

“I don’t know.” I admit, claiming that seat and placing the book upon the wooden desk between us. “But something feels off. Her words are too specific—yet disconnected.” I open the book and push it his way; inviting him to read.

He plucks it into his gauntleted hands, and I realise he’s still wearing his armour; his many gems—siphons—gleaming in the faelight. Carefully, he brushes a hand over the page—scanning the text—eyes revealing nothing as he flips through the few pages I’ve already managed to fill.

“You add our words too.” He states eventually; absently.

“To find some manner of context to her words, if there’s one to be found—hidden between the lines.” He lingers on the last page.

“Every quote is followed by a name, except yours.” He still does not look at me, but I’m almost glad to be spared the natural intensity of his gaze in this moment; alone in this dark office with him.

I wonder why he still seeks to live in the dark, after all he’s endured in the past. Wonder whether it’s to keep the shadows close while he works, or if he too finds solace in the dark; despite his troubling childhood.

“I’m Nameless.” That grants me his attention, hazel eyes lifting to my own black voids.

“You remember.” It’s not a question, but a statement; a soft accusation.

I know my name, yet I refuse it, and to be put on the spot this way leaves me torn between embracing who I was and clinging to who I could’ve become.

Not that it matters, which I choose.

“I’m still the same as I was. My memories… there or not, they change little.” Azriel doesn’t look convinced. “The bargain left me a person in an empty shell—but I was already empty when I left.” His eyes fall back to the book; as if my words are too heavy to bear.

I remember my revelation—my conclusion the night before—and heave the slightest of sighs.

If we are to… heal—move past what happened on the roof—I need to look past his initial rejection and stop rejecting him in return.

Mend the rift.

Forgive, and move on.

Be better, for us both.

“Estelle.” I whisper—the name odd on my tongue—and his face as a whole snaps up to look at me; not merely his eyes. “My name—it’s Estelle.” For a few heartbeats, he simply looks at me; a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Whatever words he searches for, he does not find then; instead retreating to the book between us.

Somehow, his silence is better than verbal dismissal; because it isn’t a dismissal. Merely a means to move the subject along.

“She believes she’s dreaming.” He states in due time, and I assume he wants my thoughts on that.

“She could be suffering from hallucinations. Being Made might have messed with her head.” I voice what everyone’s already thinking. “But I don’t buy it—it’s too simple of an answer.”

“What other answer is there.” His eyes lift to mine, expectant in their intensity; demanding some theorythat might validate my scepticism.

I stay quiet for a moment, then claim the book for myself, leaning back in my seat—leg tucked over the other—as I flip through the pages; skim her words.

“She hears things others don’t.” I begin. “She sees things others can’t.” I shake my head; look to the side. “She could be like us somehow. Could be—” I pause, consider; feel Azriel’s eyes grow pressing, urging me to share my thoughts. “She could be a Seer.”

Silence falls for a time, as if Azriel’s digesting the thought.

“That’s less likely than madness.” He begins, shaking his head. “We haven’t seen a Seer in millennia.”

“And we’re the first of our kind in centuries—it isn’t impossible.” I argue.

“She was human.” He counters.

“She’s been Made.” I retort. “Nesta took something from the Cauldron—we all feel it. Why couldn’t Elain have done the same?” Another shake of the head; scepticism evident in his expression.

“It’s a wild guess at best.”

“So we do what we’re good at. Observe. We monitor her—log what she says until something falls into place, some event matches her words.” Azriel takes a long, deep breath.

I wonder then if I’ve pushed the term we too fast, feel unease settle in my gut like a twisted knot as Azriel’s silence drags on. I school my features into something calm and collected; leash this feeling to the best of my abilities.

“Okay.” He concludes; and I breathe a slow, long breath of relief. “We’ll watch over her.” He continues, his expression setting into something purposeful. “We won’t interfere with what the others do, but we’ll listen—wait for something to make sold sense.” I nod, glad to have come to an agreement; that we’ve kept civil. “She asked why your wings were broken.” He points out, and I flip to the first page; eyeing those foreboding words.

A phantom ache pulses through my wings then; or perhaps it’s a latent reaction to flying here in the first place.

“If I break my wings anytime soon, we’ll know for sure then.” He doesn’t look pleased by the possibility—or my nonchalance—which is somewhat relieving.

“Seers can see the past as well.” He points out.

“I’ve never broken my wings.” I assure; no matter the times I got disconcertingly close.

“Hybern never—”

“No.” I cut him off, and Azriel straightens. “The King ordered they not touch them,” I relent, realising he’s got me on the defensive; a place I don’t wish to be. “If they could break my mind, he wanted my body whole. To be used.” Azriel’s motionless for a moment, then nods; faintly.

I look to the clock on the wall, silently moving along. It’s late. Azriel looks tired.

Evidently, the trip to the Court of Nightmares has drained him in ways beyond the physical; recent events as a whole, perhaps.

I should leave. He’s gotten what he wanted from me; I shouldn’t overstay my welcome.

Wordlessly, I snap my book shut—pluck my quill from the desk—and stand.

“Where are you going.” He blurts, and I pause, finding what looks to be a storm of emotions brewing behind his eyes; one he’s working to temper—hinge.

“Somewhere.” I state; not entirely sure myself. “Perhaps the music room.” It’s an obvious destination from this point on, for my mind is much too full to find sleep; no matter how I’d toss and turn.

Azriel looks down; nodding slowly.

“You play well.” A small smile quirks onto my lips.

“I knew you’d been listening.” I muse, his head snapping back, eyes wide. “I could hear you—the shadows grow louder when you’re around.” He frowns; the slightest wedge etched between his brows.

“You can hear them?” I nod; never mind the fact it’s his heart that primarily gives him away.

He doesn’t need to know that though.

“I don’t understand them as you do.” I explain. “But they speak.” I swear something moves behind his eyes; a shift to the darkness of his pupils.

“I see.” I wonder—for but a moment—whether he means that in the sense of my own sight.

Wonder if he sees glimpses of the world like an echo of my power, just as I hear the whispers of his.

“As all with working eyes do.” I tease instead, relieved when the beginning of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth; even if it’s weighed down by the exhaustion of both body and mind.

“You… I’ll see you tomorrow—after I’ve had my lesson with Feyre.” I stride for the door, nodding; not quite able to look at him.

Should I… Should I invite him to fly? Would that help take his mind off of things?

Would he want that?

“You’ll know where I am.” I say instead—cowardly as I am—and retreat through that door; escaping into the hall.

But I did something today.

We spoke—one on one—broke the lengthy silence between us.

I did something, and I think I did something right.

For once, I did something right.

Chapter Text

Azriel finds me on one of the balconies along the House’s western face, seated upon the railing as I gaze upon Velaris, legs dangling over the drop; notebook and quill resting in my lap. He’s silent as he joins me, claiming a spot along the fence a respectable length away.

If his shadows told him where to find me, or he followed the bond, I don’t know; nor do I care to plague myself with the thought for very long.

“She’s seeing a healer at eleven.” I inform rather than greeting him.

“We’ll wait until after, then.” I nod, brushing some wayward strand of pale hair—refusing to stay braided—behind my ear. Rounded, just like Azriel’s, though not quite; an old injury having turned the upper shell of my ear a little jagged.

Said injury isn’t a… pleasant memory.

“Is she learning?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Slowly.” Azriel begins, well aware who I refer to. “But she’s stubborn.”

“If Feyre manages to learn—even just a little—it might mean the difference between life or death one day.” My mind drifts to Nephelle, who—despite the odds stacked against her—made all the difference in the end.

She saved my life, bringing Myriam’s body back to our people.

I’m still in her debt, I realise.

Then again…

“The Nephelle Philosophy.” Azriel’s word surprise me; grants him my unbridled attention, rather than the city below. “Rhys told me what she did.” He continues, seeing the surprise etched upon my brow; or feeling it down the bond.

I recall his brief visit then; long ago.

We never met, but I heard of his presence; didn’t much care to see him in person.

“There’s an annual flight-race on Cretea to honour her.” He nods; leading me to assume Rhys told him about that as well. “I’ve won it a handful of times.” His brows lift slightly, but I look to the sky; partially cloudy today, yet warm. “Participating each year was one of few things I looked forward to.” Azriel doesn’t comment, but I feel him watching me. “Some thought I was a prat for participating after I’d already won—but I just wanted to fly like it mattered for once.”

“Why didn’t you like Cretea?” I’m surprised he asks, but not because I don’t expect him to seek such trivial knowledge from someone; rather, because he’s seeking it from me.

Inquiring about my life; my thoughts; my feelings.

“I did like the island—the volcanic hot-springs were relaxing. But I felt trapped. Purposeless. Meaningless.” My mind wanders; to how things could’ve been, had they not happened the way they did. Had I done things differently. Prioritised the right people. “I wasn’t made to be confined to an island. I was born to see the world, and not merely through a flurry of soundless images.”

“Was that why you went to Hybern?” I sigh, fighting the urge to draw into myself and erect walls I’ve no business building; have no need for.

“In a way…,” I mumble, searching for the proper words; the best way to put it. “There were rumours of activity on the island, and I couldn’t see past Hybern’s wards—so when Drakon suggested I’d leave Cretea and look in person, I seized the opportunity.” I swallow; clear my throat. “I had nothing to lose.”

“Even if you were captured?” My shoulders deflate.

“Even then.” He doesn’t seem sure what to make of that; what to say. In contrast, he has much to lose here. A part of me envies that; that he’s still got something he loves to lose. “The bargain presented the opportunity to start over somewhere—to disappear and never be missed. I didn’t intend to be caught, just lost somewhere, should Hybern have proved to be nothing.”

“What broke it.” I tense, tuck my wings close.

No matter how open I have sworn to be—try to be—I can’t drop that bomb on him; can’t utter the truth without risking this fragile peace we’ve somehow found—despite the bond.

“I don’t know. Amren has her theories.”

“She likes you.” I shrug, in part glad he’s chosen to change the subject on his own.

“She likes new, intriguing things to figure out.” Azriel’s silence suggests I’m right; that he agrees to some extent.

“She rarely invites people over—willingly.” I don’t comment, no point telling him why she did so; not that I’m sure myself.

I debate telling him about the Book—what it called him—but decide against it; deem it the senseless blathering of something Other I’m too mortal to understand. Instead, I let the silence linger for a while, casting a glance into the townhouse to find the healer still doing her thing, but once I return to my own eyes a rather random question presents itself to me.

“Do you sing?” I ask before I’ve time to hinge myself, looking his way. His brows jolt into a subtle frown; eyes rather wide. “You’re a Shadowsinger—is that just a title, or do you actually sing.” I swear a smile tugs at his lips.

“No.” He breathes, features indeed lightening as that mouth moves. “I think Shadowwhisperer just didn’t roll off the tongue quite as well.” I snort, but quell it with a soft cough; looking at the hands resting in my lap; the book and quill beneath.

“Lightbender didn’t either, I’d imagine.” I retort, well aware that I’m by no means a Seer; not in the way that makes a Seer valuable.

I have my own worth through my ability to bend light—to see across the land—but I’m no oracle.

Not like Elain might be.

“We should go. They’re trying something with Lucien—I’m curious.” I snap out of my wandering thoughts and look to him.

“Do we stay hidden?” He nods.

“Meet me at the top of the stairs.” A mere breath later, he’s vanished in a cloud of living darkness; trailing downward through the shadows cast by the balconies.

I clutch my book close and drop off the edge, wings tucked in tight as I free-fall for a time—enjoying the howl of the open skies—before spreading them wide and levelling out; gliding over the city for a few blocks before bending the rest of the way to those stairs. Azriel is already there, half-concealed in shadow along one wall before the maw of the stairwell, and I take up the spot on the other side, keeping half-corporeal in a patch of faelight as I open my notebook; ready to write.

Azriel listens intently to the shadows around him, telling him what’s going on downstairs, all while I cast half my mind down to see—however disorienting it is—my need to stay conscious enough to write deeming it a necessity; finding a tense little tea party between Feyre, Mor, Lucien and Elain.

She isn’t talking, so there’s nothing to note.

No one’s talking, actually.

Yet.

It drags on, until Elain abruptly puts her cup down, standing; Lucien doing the same shortly thereafter.

I pull back into myself and strain to listen—rather than fucking up my head on purpose—and the sound proves to travel through the house fairly well; though the nature of my partial fade into the light muddles it somewhat.

“What—what was that?” Elain’s soft voice asks, clearly startled by something.

“It—it was a tug. On the bond.” So they are mates.

I don’t dare glance at my own, stood on the other side of the arch; just over an arms-length away.

I hear Amren say something—a scolding of some kind—but it’s too distant.

Then Nesta’s voice cuts into the air.

“What did you do.” Her words are as sharp as a blade.

“Nothing.” Lucien says in defence. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.”

“It felt… Strange.” I can barely make out Elain’s voice, so soft; so breathy. “Like you pulled on a thread to a rib.” Is that what the bond feels like if tugged?

I’ve never tried, only went to his end of it; found his eyes and saw through them.

Has he tried to see me, too? Or does his power allow him to hear me instead? Hear what I hear.

“I’m sorry.” Lucien apologises again, but Elain’s answer isn’t one that makes any clear sense in context.

“Twin ravens are coming, one white and one black.” I quickly scribble it down as neatly as possible.

Nesta brings Elain into the garden, and once Feyre goes to fetch her for Amren, Azriel decides to help his High Lady smoothen the act of retrieving her eldest sister by offering to sit with Elain instead; which works surprisingly well.

Intending to join them, I bend into the sky and forge a scene of me arriving from above, landing a few paces away to make it seem as if I’m returning from something I’d previously been doing; only stumbling upon the pair by coincidence.

Redundant, perhaps, but I don’t want the Circle to know we’re scheming behind the scenes just yet; not before we know more.

Therefore, I also make sure to ask whether I may join them, which she’s in open agreement with; be her nod faint and aloof.

Thus, with Azriel seated on one end of Elain, and I on the other—book open and pen in hand—we begin our evaluation.

Chapter Text

Only an hour or so into our cooperative effort, and I feel… heavy. Heavy with words left unsaid—with wrongs unaddressed—all that we’re leaving in the dark weighing heavier on my heart the longer I spend in Azriel’s presence. I want to ask it all—give voice to every little grievance festering in my soul—but I stay quiet instead; using Elain as a mortal shield. Meanwhile, Azriel bravely answers her occasional, nonsensical questions, while I write it all down in silence; lest she explicitly addresses me.

What Azriel’s feeling… I couldn’t say. He’s a mystery to me, his end of the bond utterly quiet, and rarely do I look to him in search of an answer. When I do, it’s not for long enough to find out.

I pray Elain is unaware; for her sake more than anything.

As it stands, she hasn’t addressed the way we both refuse to look at the other, or how quickly our eyes avert when we do catch the other looking. Neither has she commented on my rigid posture—on Azriel’s tense shoulders—but silence doesn’t necessarily mean ignorance; much like Azriel and I’s silence isn’t.

That we’re being watched doesn’t makes it any better; adds another layer of unease.

I can practically feel Nesta’s eyes burning a hole through the back of my skull—the young female watching from the townhouse window—but I never acknowledge her; lest she might smite me by way of her gaze alone.

She doesn’t trust us, and I can’t blame her.

“Shadows and light… inseparable, always…,” The glance Azriel and I share lasts a moment longer than usual, but I look away in due time to scribble down her words. “Do you like it, Azriel? The light?” Azriel shifts in his seat; sparing a moment to think.

Out of all the things she’s said thus far, this is somehow the most random yet topical of all. She almost sounds lucid too; as if she’s slowly returning from wherever she went before.

“I do—but it can be blinding.” My hand trembles, but I push on—write on—breathing deep and slow; letting my nerves come and go.

“Without light, no shadow. Without shadow, no light… A timeless duality.” In an instant, I think of the Book.

A duality unrealised.

Brushing it aside, I write it all down.

“Do you like the light, Elain?” Azriel asks in return, and Elain looks thoughtful for a moment; actually emotes.

“Light makes the flowers bloom.” She whispers, eyes drifting to the many flowers which surround us. “But too much, and they wither—dry out and fade…,” I keep writing. “Too much kills. Not enough kills.” I dare a glance at Azriel then, only to find he’s already looking.

He swallows, looks away; to Elain.

“The shadows then—what do you think of them?” He asks, Elain’s eyes lingering on those flowers; yet somewhere else entirely. She emotes though; her ear twitches.

“They shelter the flowers—balances exposure.” She’s not wrong. She’s very much not wrong.

None of this is foreboding either, just philosophical. It’d be nice if it didn’t make me think of what the Book called us. Lady of Light, and Lord of Shadows. I can’t help but make the connection; imagine it’s us she speaks of.

“They also smother—kill if cast too deep…,” I watch a muscle in Azriel’s jaw tense.

I wonder whether he picks up on the double-meaning; with or without the Book to go off of.

“Too much kills. Not enough kills.”

Then, silence—a lengthy period of it—allowing me a moment to read through her words anew, unable to deny the ways it might be applicable to us, but also aware I might be looking for a deeper meaning where there is none.

“The light—fading—drowning in a sea of decay…,” That however, is not spoken with philosophical intent underlying her words.

Looking up, my eyes land upon hers—wide and bleary—those round, brown eyes staring straight into my soul.

Her lips wobble, but she says no more—looks away—leaving us in a silence I haven’t a clue how to break.

“Should we head inside, Elain?” Azriel asks in due time, Elain offering but an absent nod. He stands, helps her rise, and leads her back into the house; all while I eye her final, foreboding words.

Snapping the book closed, I rise to join them, but by then he’s brought her upstairs—to her room—so I settle in the sitting room, claiming a seat on the couch; mind whirling with unpleasant possibilities.

“You look far too pale to have spent the past few hours in the sun.” Feyre states in form of greeting, and my eyes snap to where she stands in the archway. “I don’t think I’ve formally introduced myself. I’m sorry—things have been busy.” Her smile is apologetic, and I do my best to smile back.

“I haven’t sought you out either. Figured you were rather preoccupied being High Lady again, so I kept to myself.” She considers my words invitation to approach, for she comes and claims the seat opposite of me.

“Rhys told me the bare essentials about you. How you got here—the bargain—how much of a help you’ve been.” She smiles, but I brush aside her praise; hardly feel it’s deserved.

“I do what I can.”

“And we’re grateful you do.” My smile is soft, but genuine. “Will you come with us to the meeting with the High Lords?” I consider it; the questions that will arise should I show myself.

“I believe it’s better should I stay here. I can monitor from afar, if you need, but… having a Seraphim present in the room will take away from the topic at hand. We haven’t been around for centuries—assumed dead by most.” She nods; seems to understand.

“Alright, I suppose Amren could do with an extra hand—watching over the city while we’re gone.” She concludes right as Azriel enters the room, pausing in the archway; leaning against the wooden frame.

His eyes find mine across the room; hoarding my attention in an instant. In the corner of my vision, I glimpse Feyre looking between us, the slightest furrow to her brows. Then Azriel’s attention averts to his High Lady; offering a soft nod in greeting.

“How’s Elain?” She asks him; though I feel the question extends to me.

“Distant. In her room.” Feyre nods, her face solemn.

Looking my way once again, Azriel pushes off of the frame, a slight nod motioning for me to come along. Closing the book nestled in my lap, I stand, following him into the foyer; all while Feyre watches on, reading into things a little deeper than I’d prefer.

A nosy High Lady, it seems.

He shifts away, so I bend after him, not at all surprised when he leads me to the House; probably to discuss what we’ve gathered today. However, he doesn’t bother with the office, materialising on the same balcony we sat on earlier; and I join him there soon enough.

“She could be both.” He states the moment I appear. “Mad and a Seer. It’s sometimes said to correlate.”

“Seeing beyond your eyes can do that, as I’m sure hearing beyond your ears might.” Azriel huffs, arms crossed over his chest. “We need to figure this out before she strays too far.” I stress, leaning against the railing; as far away from Azriel as this balcony allows.

The distance is both painful and relieving.

“She’s implying you’ll die.” The words are as blunt as they are displeased; chipped and strained in his attempt to remain calm and collected. Looking at him, his eyes are colder than normal; an added coat of frost etched across his face.

However, I feel his turmoil like a lump in my stomach; a nauseating thing. Or perhaps it is my own.

It’s getting harder to tell the longer I’m around him.

“If I do die in a sea of decay, we’ll have our answer.” The shadows thicken around Azriel’s frame; defying the sun. “Should twin ravens—one black and one white—arrive, we’ll also have our answer.” I add, though those shadows are not dispelled; continue to hiss and squirm. “We wait, take precautions, and stay patient.” A muscle tugs at his jaw—his hands fist—but the male nods, looking to the horizon; eyes darkened with something dangerous; his form growing ever the less corporeal.

“Try not to die.” Are his parting words, shadows carrying him away on the wind, leaving me alone on the balcony; the rest of the day mine to seize.

Chapter Text

Time goes on, and with Azriel torn between his courtly duties and training Feyre, I’m sometimes left to keep Elain company on my own, although Cerridwen and Nuala are there as well at times, providing tea and biscuits while I help Elain tend to the garden; following her gentle instructions while pulling weeds.

Caring for plants seems to centre the young Fae, keeping her lucid for most hours of the day; with some exceptions. Thus, with birds singing in the blossoming bushes and sculpted trees, Elain and I talk.

We actually talk, and not of cryptic things, but life.

She tells me about the flowers she used to care for outside her old home—in the mortal realm—and I listen, ask questions, moving the conversation along without the notebook at hand; because these moments of lucidity feel too precious to treat like a puzzle.

One morning—two days after Azriel and I spent our first real span of time together again—I’m seated with the three sisters for breakfast; though I’ve recently begun relocating my things to the room at the House. Feyre’s decided to take the day off—from both flight lessons and sparring—wishing instead to visit the library beneath the House with Nesta, but informing her teachers of this sends them straight to her doorstep; the males demanding to know what’s wrong.

Feyre heads to the foyer to let them in—if only to stop Cassian from banging on the door—and I idly watch her accept a tin of soothing salve from Azriel; and listen as she tells Cassian to mind his business.

She asks them to fly her and Nesta to the House, at which point they notice us in the dining room; just about finishing up breakfast at this point. Even Elain has had a bite today.

Azriel only bows his head in greeting when granted out attention, but Cassian stalks right for the table, snatching a muffin from the basket right over Nesta’s shoulder.

The male’s asking to be maimed.

“Morning, Nesta,” He says, face stuffed with the blueberry-lemon muffin. “Elain, Nameless.” I nod in greeting, but Elain peers up at him; eyes taking on that peculiar haze, telling me she’s slipping somewhere else.

Quietly, I reach for my notebook; an action no one questions.

“He snapped your wings, broke your bones.” More broken wings.

“It’ll take more than that to kill me.” Cassian says with a smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Elain keeps looking at him; expression the same as when she spoke of me fading.

“No, it will not.” Cassian’s expression twists, brows narrowing; as if he’s unsure what to make of the sister’s words. Worried—as they all are—about her mental state.

Feyre heads over, placing a hand on her sister’s too-thin shoulder.

“Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely.” Azriel and I share a quick glance, and he steps forward.

“I can help her.” He offers, approaching the table as Elain silently stands. I note no shadows swirling about him, but I still hear them in the dark corners of the room; ready to be summoned.

Nesta monitors him like a hawk, but Elain doesn’t care for her sister’s clear distrust, accepting Azriel’s outstretched hand. Although she doesn’t move once he takes that first step towards the glass door—leading into the garden—instead turning to me; extending her own hand.

I forget what remains of my breakfast, closing my book and tucking it under my arm in favour of that outstretched hand; ignoring Feyre’s watchful gaze—how they’ve widened with surprise.

Only then—holding a hand of ours each—does Elain allow herself to be led into the garden; the day partially cloudy and shaded.

~O~

Azriel’s evidently not a gardener.

His hands are large, made to clutch the hilt of a blade rather than sort weeds from the delicate stalk of a flower—requiring a gentle hand, lest you damage the precious plant—but he tries, and what he fails to pull, Elain’s deft fingers find on her own.

My own hands were forged by the hilt of a blade much the same—roughened by years of swordplay and hand-to-hand—but they’re slimmer, easier to slip between the stalks in pursuit of the right leaf to pull; my history with the pianoforte doing me some favours. Still, Elain fixes my mistakes all the same.

“What’s your favourite flower?” Elain asks out of the blue, eyes set on me. Considering she’s spoken religiously about her own favourite plants during the days prior, I suppose it’s due time she grew curious about my own preferences.

I lean back on the small blanket we kneel upon; have moved once already as we finished a plot.

“I’m not sure. Depends… Cretea has a lot of unique flora you wouldn’t find anywhere else.” I ponder; consider. “There’s this one flower though. I don’t know the name, but it grows along the side of the volcano—like a bed of tiny red and orange flowers sprouting out of the black soul. It almost looks like lava.” Elain’s eyes are wide and awestruck; aglow with youthful wonder.

Beyond her, Azriel keeps working.

“I thought volcanoes only lived in stories.” Somehow, I keep forgetting how young she is; how little she’s seen of the world.

“They are very real.” I begin, offering a smile. “The one on Cretea is sleeping—has been for centuries—so plant-life thrives along its slopes now.”

“I want to see it.” She declares, and hearing Elain want so freely brings a smile to my lips.

“Let me show you.” Her brows furrow, but then the ground before us shifts into a lifelike depiction of Cretea’s volcano—Askja—her slopes covered in a blanket of red and orange; snaking like rivers of molten rock through the black earth.

Elain gasps, hand to her chest.

“Gorgeous…,” She breathes, and even Azriel stops what he’s doing to look.

“Cretea was always lovely, but the isolation didn’t sit well with me.”

“You left one prison for another.” In a heartbeat, Elain’s voice has grown distant again, but she shakes her head and resumes her gawking as if nothing happened; admiring the image I’ve crafted before us.

Azriel shoots me a look, but I ignore it; it’s not important right now.

Elain is lucid; I will not ruin this for a few scribbles.

Her attention drifts to Azriel, and I dismiss the image; figuring she’s satisfied in her admiration.

“What’s yours?” I watch him search for words.

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” Elain’s face falls—disappointed—returning to her work.

“There are things you should think about.”

For a time, we work in silence; one I find perfectly pleasant.

Then Azriel tenses—stops moving entirely—as if turned to stone for a beat until his wings flare wide and he jolts to his feet; eyes steely and lethal as he observes the garden grounds.

“Get inside.” He orders—both of us—and I quickly dust the dirt from my hands onto my pants and extend a hand to Elain; helping her stand. Once up, I keep her arm looped around my own, shooting Azriel a worried glance.

There’s nothing but violence in his eyes.

“What’s going on?” I ask, those eyes snapping to mine; losing none of their hostility.

It only changes; shifts like the shadows coiling along his body.

“Someone’s gotten into the city.” I feel blood drain from my face. “Get inside. Now.” I don’t resist his order, guiding Elain back to the house while Azriel trails a step behind; his shadows loud and urgent as they flock to their master.

So very loud, they drown out his heart.

Chapter Text

Azriel stations us in the sitting room, a commanding look enough to let me know I’m to stay at Elain’s side at all times, and all he offers before fading into shadow; presumably to help dispose of the threat. Morrigan arrives only a few minutes after—visibly relieved to find us here—and while I feel that swirling storm of anger brewing in her presence, it’s softened; perhaps in part because Azriel’s spending time with me again; or because now isn’t the time.

“Where’s Azriel?” She asks, searching the room, the shadows.

“He left to investigate, I figure.” I reply stiffly, keeping an arm wound around Elain’s shoulders; the young Fae visibly nervous; muttering something inaudible under her breath.

She nods, claims a seat, and toys with a dagger as she watches the windows; tension coiled in every limb.

I’m not much better, but breathe through it—stay calm for Elain’s sake—running a soothing hand up and down her arm while we wait for something—or nothing—to happen; though I watch every hint of movement beyond the windows; ears honed on every sound throughout the house.

Lucien arrives in time, concern etched upon his scarred face—metallic eyes whirling and clicking as he takes note of us all—but settles once he sees Elain beside me, and sinks into an armchair of his own; flame fluttering in his auburn eye.

Then, Feyre, Nesta, Cass and Rhys appear in the common room, the former two looking pale; everyone looking grim. Rhys especially, the male covered in another’s blood—I need only scent the air to assure myself of that—leading me to believe he dealt with the threat accordingly; as any High Lord should.

“Azriel’s coming down from the roof.” Rhys says to no one in particular—voice a midnight rasp—leaning against the archway to the sitting room; and indeed, Azriel appears from a pocket of shadow, scanning us all from head to toe.

Feyre claims the spot opposite her mate, all the while Rhys taps at my mental shields; requesting entry.

Hesitantly, I let him in—if only into the antechamber of my mind—and a flood of events overcomes me.

Intruders in the library, hunting Nesta; hunting the power she stole.

Then he retreats, and my wall rebuilds like he was never there at all.

“The priestesses will keep silent about what happened today.” Rhys explains “And the people of this city won’t learn why Amren is now preparing to hunt.” That sounds concerning in its own right. “We can’t afford to let the other High Lords know. It would unnerve them—and destabilise the image we have worked so hard to create.”

“The attack on Velaris,” Mor counters from the couch. “already showed we’re vulnerable.” An attack that happened before I came here, though Azriel told me of it; the first in millennia.

“That was a surprise attack, which we handled quickly.” Cassian’s red gems—Siphons, I remind myself—flare. “Az made sure the information came out portraying us as victors—able to defeat any challenge Hybern throws our way.”

“We did that today.” Feyre comments.

“It’s different.” Rhys answers. “The first time, we had their element of surprise to excuse us. This second time…,” Not any intruder, then, but Hybern; though I suppose I should’ve figured. But the fact of the matter remains; Hybern infiltrated this city a second time.

Twin ravens are coming, one white and one black.

Ravens.

Hybern’s ravens.

My eyes snap to Azriel, but now isn’t the time to give voice to my revelation. Still, he notes my gaze; lets his linger.

“It makes us look unprepared. Vulnerable. We can’t risk that getting out before the meeting in ten days. So for all appearances, we will remain unruffled as we prepare for war.” Rhys continues.

Ravens. I sign in Azriel’s peripheral—the scrip faint—his eyes darting towards the word; widening a fraction.

“A war where we have no allies beyond Keir, either in Prythian or beyond it.” Mor says, sagging against the cushions. Rhys casts her a sharp look.

“The queen might come.” Elain cuts in, and I realise how still she’s gone beside me.

Silence follows.

Looking to my right, I find her eyes distant as she stares into the unlit fireplace—murky and lost—a flutter of fire somehow reflecting off of them nonetheless; too amber to be faelight.

“What queen.” Nesta demands, voice harsher than she usually allots her sister. I let my arm slide from her shoulder; settle it in my lap.

“The one who was cursed.”

“Cursed by the Cauldron.” Feyre states as if to clarify. “When it threw its tantrum after you… Left.”

“No.” Elain cuts in, studying her sisters. “Not that one. The other.”

Nesta seems inclined to whisk Elain away, yet it’s Azriel who steps through the threshold; eyes honed on the middle Archeron sister.

“What other?” Not quite convinced yet; not quite. Elain’s brows tug closer.

“The queen—with the feathers of flame.” Azriel’s head tilts, eyes drifting to me. I nod, confident in my hypothesis; more than confident.

I’m sure.

Lucien’s low voice enters the silence.

“Should we—does she need…?” He doesn’t find the words.

“She doesn’t need anything.” Azriel answers, and I know he’s accepted the truth as fact. Elain looks up at him. Unblinking. “We’re the ones who need to listen… She…,” He trails off, looks to me, and I nod for him to go on. “A Seer.” He proclaims—finally—addressing Elain more so than anyone else. “The Cauldron made you a Seer.”

Chapter Text

Everyone gawks, the exact reason why we needed to find proof. Few would believe such a claim without clear, grounded evidence. We have that now. This attack—however unpleasant—has given us that.

Elain turns to Mor, frowning.

“Is that what this is?”

She sounds so normal, so present.

Mor—eyes darting across Elain’s face, lips parted—eventually nods. Lucien has likewise risen to observe his mate; metal eye whirling as he takes her in.

Feyre’s eyes dart between me and Azriel, as if realising what we’ve been up to; why we’ve been spending so much time with her sister.

“There is another queen?” Azriel asks, ignoring Feyre’s pointed gaze. Elain squints, as if the question is a path to the right answer.

“Yes.” She concludes.

“The sixth queen.” Mor breathes. “The queen the golden one said wasn’t ill…,”

“She said not to trust the other queens because of it.” Feyre adds, and I watch as everything falls into place for her too. “You stole from the Cauldron.” Feyre says, turning towards Nesta. “But what if the Cauldron gave something to Elain?” I shoot Azriel a look as if to say I told you so, but his eyes remain on Elain.

“What?” Nesta questions, face draining of colour.

“You knew.” Azriel says to Elain. “About the young queen turning into a crone.” She blinks and blinks, as if our open understanding is dragging her out of the waters.

I should have pushed for this sooner.

“The sixth queen is alive?” Azriel continues to question; with the ease of a seasoned interrogator.

“Yes.” Elain says, her head shifting as if listening to something unheard; just like Azriel and his shadows.

It’s been so obvious, but to make the others believe, I knew I’d have to wait until there was proof. Azriel knew too.

After what looks like a silent conversation between the High Lord and Lady, Rhys speaks.

“What sort of curse?”

Elain looks at him. Blinks.

“They sold her—to… to some darkness, to some… sorcerer-lord…,” She shakes her head. “I can never see him. What he is. There is an onyx box that he possesses, more vital than anything… Save for them. The girls. He keeps other girls—others so like her—but she… By day, she is one form, by night, human again.”

“A bird of burning feathers.” Feyre voices what I’m thinking.

“Firebird by day,” Rhys muses. “Woman by night… So she’s held captive by this sorcerer-lord?” Elain shakes her head.

“I don’t know. I hear her—her screaming. With rage. Utter rage…,” She shudders. Mor leans forward, preparing to speak.

“Do you know why the other queens cursed her—sold her to him?” Elain studies the low table.

“No. No—that is mist and shadow.” Rhys lets out a long breath.

“Can you sense where she is?” He asks.

“There is… a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests.” Elain’s throat bobs. “He keeps them all at the lake.”

“Other women like her?” Feyre asks.

“Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow.” My feather. She kept my feather because… “they glide across the water—while she rages in the skies above it.” Mor looks to Rhys.

“What information do we have on this sixth queen?”

“Little.” Azriel answers for him. “We know little. Young—somewhere in her mid-twenties. Scythia lies along the wall, to the east. It’s smallest amongst the human queens’ realms, but rich in trade and arms. She goes by Vassa, but I never got a report with her full name.” Rhys looks to be thinking.

“She must have posed a considerable threat to the queens if they turned on her. And considering their agenda…,”

“If we can find Vassa,” Feyre cuts in. “She could be vital in convincing the human forces to fight. And giving us an ally on the continent.”

“If we can find her,” Cassian interjects, stepping up beside Azriel; wings flaring slightly. “It could take months. Not to mention, facing the male who holds her captive could be harder than expected. We can’t afford all those potential risks. Or the time it’d take. We should focus on this meeting with the other High Lords first.” I weigh my options; weigh them carefully.

“But we could stand to gain much,” Mor presses. “Perhaps she has an army—”

“Perhaps she does,” Cassian cuts her off. “But if she’s cursed, who will lead it? And if her kingdom is so far away… they have to travel the mortal way, too. You remember how slow they moved, how quickly they died—” I shove aside the unease my memories bring; bury it deep.

“It’s worth a try.” Mor cuts him off right back.

“You’re needed here.” Cassian insists. I ignore the way Azriel seems inclined to agree; don't let it bother me. It shouldn’t, because it’s true. “I need you on the battlefield—not traipsing through the continent. The human half of it. If those queens have rallied armies to offer Hybern, they’re no doubt standing between you and Queen Vassa.” I could go though, I could—

“You don’t give me orders—”

“No, but I do.” Rhys interrupts his cousin. “Don’t give me that look. He’s right—we need you here, Mor.” But not me. I don’t need to be here, I could go. I—my wings would make it difficult to blend in, but I could be invisible, soaring above the continent; searching.

Until nightfall. Night would make me vulnerable. Fae can always glamour, but I can’t always hold an illusion.

“There’s a reason Elain is seeing these things.” Mor tries to push. “She was right about the other queen turning old, about the Ravens’ attack—why is she being sent this image? Why is she hearing this queen? It must be vital. If we ignore it, perhaps we’ll deserve to fail.”

Silence follows, and Feyre assesses us all.

I brace to speak—to stake my claim—but Lucien beats me to it.

“I’ll go.” He declares—determined gaze honed on Elain—all eyes falling to him. Unfazed, he looks to Rhys and Feyre. “I’ll go.” He repeats, standing tall and true. “To find this sixth queen.”

“What makes you think you can find her?” Rhys asks, his voice that of an evaluating commander.

“This eye…,” Lucien gestures to his metallic one. “It can see things others… can’t. Spells, glamours… Perhaps it can help me find her. And break her curse.” He glances at Elain; who’s looking at her lap. “I’m not needed here. I’ll fight if you need me to, but…,” He casts Feyre a grim smile. “I do not belong in the Autumn Court. And I am willing to bet I’m no longer welcome at h—the Spring Court. But I cannot sit here and do nothing. Those queens with their armies—there is a threat in that regard, too. So use me. Send me. I will find Vassa, see if she can… bring help.”

“You will be going into human territory.” Rhys warns. “I can’t spare a force to guard you—”

“I can go with him.” All eyes snap to me. “I can be unseen by day—make us both unseen— and he can glamour us through the night.” I watch Rhys evaluate, and I make a point to ignore Azriel’s eyes; how they’ve settled on me with glaring intensity.

But in the end, Lucien brings the final verdict.

“No, I travel best on my own. If I need to spend additional magic glamouring you because of your… less human appearance than my own, I’ll run out faster than we can afford—illusions or no.” I sew my lips shut, surrender; seeing his point. His chin lifts. “I will find her. And if there’s an army to bring back, or at least some way for her own story to sway the human forces… I’ll find a way to do that, too.”

In the face of rejection, I slip into the light; keen to avoid their eyes.

I tried, but I understand why it isn’t where I’m needed; how I’ll be more of a burden amongst humans than a help.

It still stings.

Stings that… even now—here—I can’t find a clear purpose beyond looking at things.

But perhaps… Maybe I can stay and help Elain understand what she sees, maybe that can be my purpose for now.

“It will be—very dangerous.” Mor states. Half a smile curls onto Lucien’s lips.

“Good. It’d be boring otherwise.” Cassian returns the grin.

“I’ll load you up with some Illyrian steel.” Though I’ve drifted from the lot, I notice Elain warily watching Lucien now—blinking—but saying nothing regarding what she might be seeing.

“I’ll winnow you as close as we can get—to wherever you need to be to begin your hunt.” Rhys says, pushing off of the arch. “Thank you.” He adds, and Lucien shrugs.

“Are you sure?” Feyre questions the male one last time.

He glances at Elain; who now finds the embroidery on one of the cushions more interesting than her mate.

“Yes. Let me help in whatever way I can.” Is his answer.

“When do you want to leave?” She asks.

“Tomorrow” He sounds sure; very sure of this. “I’ll prepare for the rest of today, and leave after breakfast tomorrow morning.” He looks to Rhys. “If that works for you.” He waves an idle hand.

“For what you’re about to do, Lucien, we’ll make it work.”

Silence follows those words as we all fall into our own thoughts. Then Rhys jerks his chin in Azriel’s direction, and he vanishes without a word; understanding whatever silent order Rhys gave.

“Find out if keir and his Darkbringers had any attacks.” Rhys orders Cass and Mor, who both nod and leave. Then Rhys looks to the empty seat I previously occupied, as if aware I’m still around; only hidden. I read it as dismissal, that I should leave Elain and Lucien to themselves; as he and his mate—even Nesta—seem inclined to do.

I make the light flutter in response before shooting out the house, keeping a careful eye trained on Velaris as I pass over the city—time and time again—searching for any more signs of danger.

For any sign of Hybern lurking in our midst.

Chapter Text

I never ask anyone what it means for Amren to be on the hunt, but honestly, I don’t have to.

The one time I dare peek outside the confines of the House that evening, I find blood-offerings left on people’s porches; at which point I promptly decided I don’t want to know.

The next morning, I find her on that decrepit bench—broody and grumpy—and to my surprise, she invites me over again. This time, I ask her why.

Apparently, my company is more than tolerable; which I consider a compliment.

Now, we sit by her desk—for a change—Amren engrossed by her ancient tome while I absently flip through one of my own; written in a language I only somewhat understand.

“How is the situation regarding your mate progressing, Nameless.” She asks, never looking up from her book. I tense—wings ruffle—but I breathe through it; bury it all deep within me.

That she still hasn’t asked about my name—insists on calling me Nameless—is peculiar, but presently irrelevant.

“We coexist.” Amren’s neat brows rise and fall in quick succession.

“You both spend a lot of time with Elain.” I sense where this is going.

“We were investigating my theory—that she could be a Seer.” A low hum; displeased.

“Why didn’t you share this theory earlier?”

“Would you have believed me?” Amren snorts.

“Maybe—maybe not,” She shrugs. “But now we know. Now we can help her.” I nod, agreeing.

“I’ll show her how I handled seeing things—hopefully it somewhat correlates.” She nods, trusting this to me; that I’d know how to help, if anyone. She’s busy with Nesta, after all; teaching her how to repair the wall, once she finds the correct spell. “Azriel can help with the voices—it’s not my expertise.” I continue, and she just keeps nodding.

“Have either of you even acknowledged the bond?” She asks, steering us back to the subject I’d rather not discuss. Thus, I let the silence linger, debating whether to entertain her prodding; whether it’d be helpful or not, discussing this with her.

“No.” I admit, because she’s Amren; and I don’t feel as if she asks from a place of malice. “I know he feels it, but he never… He’s never brought it up, so I’ve chosen not to force it—push him…,” Amren says nothing. “I’m content like this—Just glad he looks at me again… talks to me.”

“The boy isn’t ready.” I frown; lift my gaze to my ancient friend. “I have watched him pine after Mor for centuries. He isn’t ready to let that infatuation go yet—or ready to face what the bond means for you both.” I look away—down—nodding softly.

“I don’t blame him. I… I would’ve probably felt the same, had the roles been reversed.” Amren hums.

“You’re not ready either.” I keep quiet, unable to deny it.

Amren opens her mouth to say something else, but a letter appears between us, and her swirling eyes land on the envelope.

Varian, the back of it reads, and Amren snatches it close with the speed of a pouncing predator; tearing it open without a care for the intricate wax seal.

Her eyes dart across the text, growing lit with fury.

“What is it?” I dare ask, dare press.

“Bring me to the townhouse.” She demands, tossing the letter onto the table; extending an expectant hand.

I do as I’m asked, grasping her hand and bending us to the front porch, Amren bursting through the doors the instant we materialise; with no regards for knocking. Hurrying after her, I will myself to stay calm; to not fear the worst.

“What.” Rhys demands of the Other, voice serious; focused.

“Hybern has attacked the Summer Court. They lay siege to Adriata as we speak.” I freeze mid step; the words ringing in my ears.

So it’s begun, then.

War.

~O~

I should have been out there, monitoring Hybern’s every move; should’ve known this was coming.

The moment Azriel steps through the front door—Cassian a pace behind—I know he’s thinking the same thing; cursing himself the same as I.

Any Spymaster worth their title wouldn’t let something like this happen without forewarning, without at least a whisper in advance.

Yet, we’ve both failed our duties.

“Has Tarquin called for aid?” Cassian asks; addressing Amren. Her jaw tightens, lips thin.

“I don’t know. I got the message, and—nothing else.” The Commander nods and turns for Rhys; a calculating calm in the set of his face.

“Did the Summer Court have a mobile fighting force readied when you were there?”

“No,” Rhys answers. “His armada was scattered along the coast.” His violet eyes avert to Azriel.

“Half is in Adriata—the other dispersed. His terrestrial army was moved to the Spring Court border… after Feyre. The closest legion is perhaps three days’ march away. Very few can winnow.” The male supplies, and to sum it all up; not good.

Terrible, actually.

“How many ships?” Rhys asks.

“Twenty in Adriata, fully armed.” Azriel replies; never missing a beat. Satisfied, Rhys looks to Amren.

“Numbers on Hybern?”

“I don’t know. Many. It—I think they’re overwhelmed.” To hear Amren stutter…

I sink back a step, press my palm to the wall, tossing half a mind into the world; to find the answer we need.

Vision split between here and there, I behold the vast armada carrying Hybern’s crest; indeed overwhelming Adriata’s fractured defences. I do a quick count—pushing the prognosis towards the horrid mark—and return to the present; swaying as the ground tilts.

“We cannot leave Tarquin to face them alone.” Feyre declares as I blink the haze from my vision; eyes dry and unruly.

“No, we can’t.” I breathe, straightening; facing them. “They’re outnumbered four to one—and that’s only counting the ships.” Rhysand’s face hardens, eyes averting to Cassian.

“Keir and his Darkbringer army are nowhere near ready to march. How soon can the Illyrian legions fly?”

~O~

Between one moment and another, I’ve gone from lounging with a book in hand, to fastening a pair of scimitars onto my back, Illyrian leathers laced snugly onto my frame, and hair bound in a Seraphim war-knot.

Between one breath and another, I’m bracing for war; for death.

Joining Feyre and Mor in the foyer, I find the latter pacing with impatience, anxiously awaiting Rhysand’s go-ahead; the all clear to winnow us in.

Only once the Illyrians arrive—he and his brothers already at the war-camp, bracing to winnow an entire army—only then may we join the fray.

With each passing minute, I feel my own patience slipping.

“You need knives.” Mor concludes, looking me up and down. “Come—Feyre, wait here.” I follow—shove my feelings deep, deep down and follow—joining her in the room which was once mine and watching her pluck a set of four knives from a rack; a holster belt from a drawer. “You don’t have to do this—fight.” She mumbles, stuffing each knife into its respective sheathe. “It’s only been a few months—you’ve barely recovered.”

“If you’re going, I’m going.” I conclude, declare; voice steely; unwavering.

Mor sighs, worry etched within her brown eyes, and steps forth to fasten the belt around my hips; link it to metal clasps and leather straps attached to my leathers.

I let her, though some part of me wishes to push her away; work to numb myself instead.

To everything. All of it.

Every death we fail to prevent, standing around as we are. Every precious moment we waste, following orders.

“There—give them hell.” Her eyes burn with violent conviction, and I meet it with my own cold ferocity; offering naught but a nod.

Returned to the foyer, we wait.

Wait and wait and wait.

“Will you fight?” Nesta’s voice cuts through the anxious silence; the Made Fae stood half-way down the stairs.

“We’ll fight if it’s required.” Feyre answers, checking the knives strapped to her belt.

Required. No, I will fight. I’d cut down Hybernian soldiers for sport, if the situation allowed; no matter what manner of monster it’d make me.

Mor draws her blade—studies the polished steel—and in a moment of quiet surprise, I realise they’re true Seraphim blades; unlike my own Illyrian replicas. The daggers she gave me—also Seraphim. Slim, light, and faintly curved; perfect to slit someone’s throat.

“What do you know of battle?” Nesta questions, something judgemental to her tone.

“We know plenty.” Mor retorts, sheathing her blade anew before fussing with her braid; falling down her spine in a golden weave.

I look away, ahead—southward—ready to leave; unwilling to bicker.

Nesta and Elain are to remain here with Amren, the Other assigned to watch over them and Velaris as a whole. She offered but a curt nod before leaving to stock up on blood; to supply her stay.

It felt grimly like a farewell; and it might as well be.

Nothing is a certainty in war.

“We’ll send word when we can.” Feyre tells her sister, intending to assure.

The world shudders, ground trembling beneath our feet. A breath later, Feyre speaks; urgent now.

“They’re arrived. Let’s go.” She grips Mor’s arm—as do I—but the golden female doesn’t winnow us; turns to Nest instead, smile leering.

“It’s nothing we can’t handle.” Her tone is as cocky as her smile, but before I’ve time to snap at her—tell her now’s not the time—a roaring black wind carries us away; brings us somewhere else.

To blinding light and scorching heat; damp and oppressive.

To screaming civilians, muffled war-cries, thunderous booms of clashing magic, and the ringing of metal against metal.

Finding my bearings—winnowing a horrendous experience—I settle atop this knoll, looking down upon the besieged city with cold, calculating calm; emotions tempered in the name of a settled mind.

Only my most primal instincts are left unmuffled; amplified by the thrum of battle. The rest—the guilt and grief of lives lost; lives claimed—that comes later; if I ever should let them.

The Illyrian army—along with the male members of out Court—have already joined the chaos below, and my blood surges with the urge to join them; to do my part. To prevent the red staining the crystalline sea from being that of innocent lives.

“Those are Tarquin’s ships.” Mor points out, but my eyes have settled on the city; where the shouts and cries of defenceless fairies bellow; pleading for help. “No one else has come.” She continues; murmurs. “No other courts.”

“Rhys’ power is either already nearly spent or… they’ve got something working against it.” Feyre states, concern laced beneath her words.

Though I yearn to act, I rein myself, waiting to see where they’ll send me as a mere formality, for my mind already knows where I should be; where I should’ve always been.

“More of that faebane?” Our High Lady theorises, and I shudder at mention of this terrible stone.

“Hybern would be stupid not to use it.” Mor agrees, something forlorn in her voice. “We’re to go to the palace.” She declares—following words only half-heard—and I stall, search for words of my own. “Soldiers have reached its northern side, and their defences are surrounded.” Feyre nods, unsheathing her blade alongside Mor.

“No.” I refuse, Mor’s eyes snapping to mine. “I’m going into the city—I’ll be of no use cramped within a palace. Hybern has already made landfall—let me defend the people.” Mor hesitates, but Feyre looks to me and nods; and that’s all the confirmation I need.

She is High Lady, after all.

Bending into the light of this scorching summer sun, I spear for the ravaged city streets; for the wails and cries of helpless faeries.

They shall be helpless no longer; not so long as I draw breath.

Chapter Text

That more of Rhysand’s soldiers haven’t been sent to the city streets is both a blessing and a curse, because while it makes it easier to pick out friend from foe—to differentiate between Summer Court sentries and Hybern invaders—we need the reinforcements.

Already, the cobbled streets are littered with bodies, of both solider and civilian—young and old—the sentries of Adriata struggling to keep up on their own.

I add to the bloodshed with methodical precision, gutting, skewering, and bursting their lungs as convenience demands, bending and soaring and charging between foes; lingering no longer than a breath between bodies felled, no matter how the Summer Fae gawk.

What they see? I don’t know.

All I know is the feel of blood splattered upon my face—hot and wet against my skin—and the sticky feel of it caking along my fingertips; staining my palms red.

The gore doesn’t bother me. I care only for the lives I claim—that I do so swiftly—and those I save as a result; though a part of me longs to draw it out, to make it painful and slow. But battle has no room for vengeance, not with lives at stake.

I will be better.

More than a killer.

Like a spectre of death, I dart between kills, slaying soldiers in the path of fleeing civilians—in frantic pursuit of relative safety—clearing the way into alleys and yet unbarricaded houses; anywhere that isn’t these sullied streets.

Where blood trickles like rivers between cobble mounds.

Sometimes, I can’t be in two places at once, forced to split my focus between one and another; forced to use both steel and wind. I slice the gleaming edge of my dual blades along throats and groins and armpits—severing arteries and airways—while my wind chokes the life out of those around me; those who dare raise a blade to unarmed citizens.

They do not fail me; neither blade nor magic.

My sense of self-preservation however…

A force slams into my shoulder—cleaving flesh—and I stagger, fading into the light by sheer instinct; narrowly dodging the claymore aimed at my side.

I reappear in an alley, gasping; swords clattering to the stone as I clutch my wound.

Try to, for the smooth shaft of an arrow stops me, lodged into the hollow between collarbone and ribs; no deeper than the arrowhead, thanks to the leathers. I swallow, consider my options; how long it’ll be before I bleed out, should I pull it free.

Beyond the alley, screaming prevails; every second spent here another life lost.

I can’t fight, should I leave it in. I might die if it’s severed something important, once pulled.

Startled by the shrill shriek of a young female, I make my choice, grasping the wooden shaft of this blasted arrow and pulling; teeth gritted in a snarl as it comes free of flesh and leather.

Reclaiming my blades, I bend into the fray, left scimitar raised in defence of a young faerie; stumbled before the looming edge of a longsword. The male staggers—startles—yelp silenced by the surge of gold pouring down his gaping mouth; his nose.

There’s only a wide-eyed stare—and a soft jolt—as his lungs rupture. Then a slow, wet gurgle as he chokes on his own blood; eyes rolling back into his skull as he crumples to the stones.

Another arrow whizzes by, and my eyes snap to the roof of a nearby building; the female behind me startled to her feet and taking off at a sprint. There—another arrow nocked—an archer crouches; donning the dark armour of a Hybern soldier. Sheathing my bloodied blades, I bend out of another arrow’s path and materialise behind him, left hand willing a dagger from its sheathe as I curl my bad arm around the archer’s neck; holding him still as I sink the slender steel into the juncture between shoulder and neck; splitting him open from right to left.

He doesn’t have time to scream; only falls to the flat roof with a harsh thud.

Stumbling—knife sheathed—I press a hand to my shoulder; try to lift my arm but find it mostly uncooperative. Cursing, I press a palm to the wound, warm blood coating my sullied skin; the very same warmth I feel pooling beneath the leathers.

My wind can’t heal, but my Seraphim blood will—given time—so I weave a makeshift bandage of solid air to staunch the flow; resigning to use my left arm only, from now on.

Not the first time being ambidextrous has come in handy; however I feel about the process of becoming so.

Left scimitar drawn, I return to the massacre; relying heavier on my wind than I’d like, but no less efficient for it.

Bringer of death.

The light at the end of the tunnel.

I wear those titles with pride here, let them fuel me as I cut through Hybern’s soldiers like stalks of wheat; one less blade or not.

Done right—for the right reasons—it does not make me a monster; does not damn me.

Coming upon a group of males flocked before the door of a house—probably barricaded from the other side—I waste no time; sending spears of wind to dispose of them, while my blade finishes those who shield. In the relative silence following their last breaths, I catch the cry of a youngling past the stone wall; no, multiple.

A glance within, and my stomach sinks.

In a breath, I’ve bent inside—materialised within a toppled living room—furniture stacked against the front door while a horde of a dozen younglings of varying age cower within; curled into corners, beneath tables, and stowed away within cupboards.

They scream—for good reason—upon my sudden appearance, a young male with eyes of sand and skin like turquoise raising a snapped broom-handle as if it were a spear; shielding a wounded female with his young, gangly body.

“It’s alright,” I urge, arm raised; blade slowly sheathed to my back. “I’m not here to hurt you.” Still, crying—sobbing—faeries no older than four or five cradled in the arms of teenagers; all of them of varying origin and sub-species. Cringing, I weave a temporary sound shield; knowing I cannot spare the magic long-term. “Please, they will hear—”

“You—you’re the angel who s-saved me.” A female voice stutters, and I whirl to the sight of a familiar young faerie, bloody and trembling, but standing; big cyan eyes red-rimmed but awestruck.

“Yes.” I breathe, focus shifting to the sand-eyed male; makeshift spear still poised to strike. “I’m here to help.” I assure, gaze flicking to the wounded one behind; to the steadily growing pool of blood upon the stone floor. “Your friend—they’ll bleed out soon, if we don’t staunch the wound.” The spear trembles, the faeries eyes darting to the young one behind him. “I’m not a healer, but I know enough—please, let me save them too.”

There is a war to fight beyond these walls, but younglings—I can’t simply leave them.

The male lowers his weapon with a muffled sob.

“I tried—” He chokes. “I don’t know how—” I dare a step, another, placing my good hand on the boys fighting arm; both to reassure and ensure he won’t lash out in fear.

“Let me see.” He crouches with me, grasping the young one’s hand; spear dropped to the floor with a clatter.

She’s suffered a nasty blow to her mid-thigh. I lack the eye to know whether a main artery has been severed, but any sort of bleed is a bad bleed if left unchecked.

“Boy, fetch me a cloth—anything long enough to tie around her leg. It could be pants—a tablecloth. Anything you can find.” He nods, stumbles to his feet, sporting a limp of his own, but no fresh blood pooling onto his tattered clothes.

In the meantime, I lay my hands a finger’s width above the laceration; gently cupping the girl’s thigh within my palms; squeezing.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn, pushing harder; letting my hands work as a makeshift tourniquet. She whimpers; but otherwise only sews her eyes shut. “But it will stop the blood—keep you safe until a healer can see to you, okay?” A nod, though canines dig into her trembling lip; tears pooling down her cheeks.

“I’ve got it!” The boy exclaims, back by my side; a substantial wash-cloth in hand. “What now?”

“Tie it around her leg—above my hands.” He frowns, but does as he’s told.

“Why?” He asks, gently looping the linen around her thigh.

“If you tie it tight enough, it’ll restrict blood-flow to the wound. It’s not a long-term solution, but it’ll buy her time to heal on her own, or for help to arrive.” He nods, tying a knot. “Pull it hard.” He does, and the girl cries out; the boy flinching. “More, it’ll hurt, but it’ll save her. Trust me.” He cringes, but pulls harder, teeth gritted. “Now tie it together—maintain that tension.” He does—does it well—and though the girl is sobbing by the end, the wound no longer gushes red; only a light trickle.

I lean back on my knees, sighing, assessing the rest; the vacant eyes—and fearful eyes—all of which honed on mine.

The screams have been silenced, however; within our bubble of relative safety.

Absently, I weave an illusion past the barricaded door; transforming the front of this house into a mere extension of the one beside. No door or window to pry open, as far as the eye can see.

“I need you all to be quiet.” I explain, softly; gently. “I can ward this house out of sight, but not sound—not forever. That power—I’ve got to save it for the enemy, do you understand.” Soft nods, quiet sniffles.

It… it doesn’t feel like the silence of compliance; rather, that of trauma.

“There are more of us.” The boy with skin like the sea and eyes like a sparkling beach whispers beside me. “Hiding throughout the city—I couldn’t find them all.” Something warm flutters in my heart, but I push it away—down—in favour of the forced calm this situation requires; the numbness necessary to preserve myself.

Still, I behold this young faerie and see a leader in the making; a protector of the innocents. A boy willing to fight armed with nothing but a sharpened broomstick… it’s a boy bound to grow into a respectable male, one day.

“I can’t make promises, but if I find them, I will bring them here.” His lips tremble with bridled relief, and grief; for those he’s failed to save. I lay my hand on his shoulder anew, squeeze it. “You’ve done well, gathering them here—barricading yourselves. Be proud.” Tears well in those sparkling eyes; pour down cyan cheeks. “Keep everyone quiet for me—no matter the commotion outside.” Another nod, and I let my hand fall away, fetching a dagger from its holster; presenting it to the boy.

Mor won’t mind; won’t know lest I tell her.

“If anyone gets through to you, use this—it’s more effective than a broom.” I press the smooth hilt into his hand; curl his fingers around the wood. “Be safe.” I let go, stand, and vanish the same way I arrived; returning to the brutal reality of the outside.

Cutting my way down the street, I spare a glance into every alley—every house—searching for any cowering young in need of refuge; all while choking, gutting, and exploding lungs.

Where I go, bodies trail my path, left bathing in their own guts, or slowly choking on their own blood.

By now, Illyrians have joined the ranks, some legion finally spared to defend the city itself; their siphons flaring with colour as they kill with both magic and steel. I steer clear, because I’d rather not get caught in the crossfire of their slow, yet effective brutality, countering it with my own swift efficiency; their strength found in sheer killing power rather than agility and wit, it’d seem.

A difference in culture, and body-mass; no method lesser than the other, so long as it gets the job done.

In time, I glimpse a young girl hiding beneath an upturned wagon; a mere speck of bloody pink and tattered white beneath the splintered wood. Killing those closest—clearing the area—I cast an illusion to mask us both as I crouch before the wreckage, scimitar pressed to the ground, and right arm extended as far as I’m able.

“I know someplace safe.” I murmur, willing something inviting into my expression; though I needn’t lay it on thick to convince her.

The child does not care how bloody I am as she lays her tiny hand in mine, nor does she resist as I scoop her up into my arms—shoulder protesting violently—only wrapping her spindly limbs around my neck in a tentative embrace, legs curling around my waist.

Her small butterfly-wings flap with a subtle hint of distress as I weave us through the chaos—wounded arm coiled firmly around her body, while my other holds a blade at the ready—circling back towards the house as fast as I can; while still lending my aid where needed, be it a mere wall of impenetrable gold here and there. Beyond that, she is motionless, and quiet; almost too much so.

Where the chaos grows too thick—crowded with both allied and opposing forces—I let my wings carry me overhead, spears of solid air struck at those I pass when able, but when winged beasts of Hybern’s own design crowd even the airspace of Adriata, I’m forced back to the cobble and gore; the stones growing slick beneath my soles.

Slipping down a familiar road lined in blood and death, a heartbeat grows into a steady thump within my head—loud and alive—quickened by the rush of battle. Instinctively, my head whips in its direction, peering down a fork in the road to find him, slaughtering his way through a hoard; cobalt siphons set ablaze; shadows restraining males as steel finds its mark; wings beating back any who come too close.

The sight of razor-edged blades raised at him snaps something within.

Golden air surges forth in a burst of panic and rage, barrelling for the lungs of those Hybern scum, going rigid and frantic as they claw at their throats. One by one—blood oozing past their silent lips—they fall to the gore; become one with it.

Standing in the mess left behind, Azriel clutches his sword in bloody hands, eyes wide as he observes the sudden massacre; the males whose mouths hang wide in a plea for air that’ll never grace them again.

Then, they snap to me—stood amidst my own massacre, clutching a faerie youngster—and I stumble, swallow; throat dry as desert sand.

Before the bond pushes me to do something stupid—to linger at his side—I bend away; only a short distance to the house now. I expect the girl to startle—displacement a jarring experience, to some—but she remains apathetic as I put her down on the stone floor.

Crying, but quiet; as if her voice has flown the coop. Erased by horror and trauma.

I want to wipe her tears away, but my hands are bloody—bound to make a mess—so a faerie comes to do it instead; pulling her into a hug and settling against a cupboard. Breathing a sigh, I straighten, finding the brave young boy beside the wounded female.

I offer a nod—one he returns—before I bend into the bloodbath anew.

Focusing on my task—on the children who need saving—I ignore Azriel’s nearby heartbeat; executing my rescues with precise efficiency each time I find another soul in need. I suffer the occasional scrape and cut along the way—shallow and mundane—much due to my shoulder; but alas, I prevail.

In a sudden turn of events, the moment I bend beyond the house’s solid walls, I find Azriel in the street beyond; a faerie boy clutched in his arms. His heartbeat slams into me, loud and overwhelming; thundering behind his ribs, and now within my head.

Without a word, he hands him over, and I’ve scarcely gathered him in my arms before Azriel’s vanished anew; leaving me to ferry the boy into the fragile safety masked behind my unwavering illusion.

On and on it goes, and I swear I glimpse Mor and Feyre at some point—lending their aid to the city—but suddenly, it just ends.

The soldiers who can winnow retreat. Those who can fly try to, only to be jerked back by my ever thinning reserve of magic, and cut open by my blade; though I miss many.

I leave any stragglers to the bloodthirsty Illyrians, stumbling my way back to the youngsters, wading my way through this sea of death and decay; my magic a faded, gentle breeze in my blood, rather than the hurricane it can be. My makeshift bandage has done its job, but I feel it slipping; feel blood seeping past in a slow trickle.

Adrenaline keeps me moving, but exhaustion is creeping in; settling in my bones.

I haven’t recovered as much as I’d like to believe, my body not nearly as it were five hundred years ago—even if memory serves it well—but I did what I set out to do. I defended the innocent, I—

My foot catches on a lifeless leg, and I lose my bearings, falling to my knees with a squishy splat; hands sinking into the gore as I crumple. They’re shaking—trembling like the legs of a newborn fawn—as if I wasn’t raised for this; haven’t held a blade in hand since I were ten. My wings—bloody and tainted—drape down my sides, obscuring the world beyond, and for a time I only breathe; well aware I’m left vulnerable.

I breathe—gathering myself—gritting my teeth and pushing onto my knees; managing to stay upright as I gaze upon the carnage.

Sucking in a deep breath—ignoring the stinging scent of blood and shit and death—I will air into my burning lungs; will strength into my failing body.

The children…

I have to get to the children…

Unable to stand, I steady my mind and bend into the light, finding my way to the house and landing on my knees upon the chiselled stone, startling some as I wheeze; sinking back upon my folded legs.

“It’s over…,” I whisper. “I… I can’t fly you to safety… I—” Azriel’s heart enters the mix, and I turn, finding him in the doorway, what looks to be a Summer Court soldier beside him; deeply tanned face twisted in horror as he beholds the room of cowering young.

“They, did you—” He looks to Azriel, but the male shakes his head, motioning instead to me; and I meet the High Fae’s blue gaze with a tired look of my own.

“I gathered as many as I could…,” I hate that I sound as tired as I feel—hate how weak I appear—but I can’t will my legs to move; can’t will my wings to fold firm against my spine.

The male stumbles for words.

“I—I’ll take care of things from here.” He promises, stepping into the room in full. “You are safe now, worry not.” He addresses the children, spearing for the wounded girl first; healing the gash and undoing the tourniquet so as to return blood-flow to the rest of her limb.

Leaving her side, the young male with eyes of sand approaches me, dagger presented in hand; attempting to return it. I look into his eyes and grasp that hand; closing it around the hilt.

“It’s yours.” I lost it in a scuffle, as far as Mor’s concerned. “You have a big heart, boy.” I breathe, clutching that slender hand; the boy never blanching at the sticky feel of blood coating mine. “Use it for good—to protect.” He nods, once—faintly—then steps out of my reach.

Through some miracle, I find the strength to stand, legs unsteady beneath me, but holding true. Drowsy—perhaps in part due to prolonged blood-loss—I look to Azriel, left staring as he offers a bloodied hand, body swirling with shadows; some reaching out like threads from his fingertips—beckoning.

I take it, relishing the cool, comforting feel of his shadows as they consume us both.

Chapter Text

We reappear upon the hill overlooking Adriata, where tents have already been raised to accommodate the steady influx of wounded soldiers; before one of which we now stand.

“See to her shoulder.” Azriel’s midnight voice orders, addressing a seasoned female stood poised beyond the tent entrance; overseeing the admittance. Her lips purse at the sudden demand, but one look at the male beside me—who I cannot see past the growing shadows of my vision; the detachment of my mind—smooths her expression, her gloved hands ushering me within.

He doesn’t follow.

I feel him leave; but still hear his heart somewhere near.

She sits me down on a bench, reaches for the upper straps of my leathers, but I jerk away; hiss.

“I need to examine your wound, girl.” I leave my teeth bared; eyes darting to the males in the room, conscious or not. The healer sighs, summoning a bucket of fresh water, and a cloth beside. “If you will not undress, we will compromise.” She huffs, pouring a portion of the trough’s contents over my shoulder—rinsing my leathers of grime—a sting of pain burning through my limb as it flushes out my wound.

She hovers a glowing hand before the star-like tear in the leather—a flap hung open and loose—assessing my wound with a furrowed brow.

“No infection—no poison. No serious damage to adjacent vitals.” I say nothing; look to the floor and will my mind to remain. Just a little longer. “I have stopped the bleed—your body will do the rest.” She presses the cloth to my shoulder, forcing it into the rift; pushing against the wound. “There, go now—make space for those in need.”

I stand, but it’s… a slow process, my walk out of the tent doors likewise, the sight of Illyrians—fresh from the battlefield—expanding the thatch-work of tents upon this ridge… I want to help, but my body… It’s pathetic, how weak I’ve become; so at odds with the me I remember… Instead of helping, I get out of their way, finding a patch of rocky earth overlooking the city and watching the ashes rise from the smouldering homes; wondering whether I could’ve done more. If I could’ve worked harder in the months prior and had more left of me now as a result. Enough to raise a tent, or maybe tend to the wounded.

There’d be dignity, in that—either of those things—but instead, I’m… I’m just this.

“Estelle.” It startles me, to be addressed by that name—to hear him address me by that name—but also because I didn’t hear him approach; didn’t notice his heart. “Come.” I turn to look at him—vision warping and blurring—but find he’s already turned away from me; already moving. Shakily, I stand to follow, led by the beckoning wisps of shadow he leaves behind; almost tugging me along where they slither about my frame.

He brings me to a tent—a makeshift office—motioning at a spot draped in furs atop the packed ground; while he continues towards a desk and chair. Taking the hint, I practically fall upon them, knees pressed to my chest and back leaned against a tent pole; wings slumped at my sides.

“Find out where Hybern’s going.” The order is clear; cold. “If you can.” He adds—a moment later—voice a little softer.

I’m not sure I nod before drifting, but I drift—searching the western waters for Hybern’s retreating ships—doing my best to keep one foot within myself while I do; so I might tell him once I find them.

Maintaining this half-thing is difficult on a good day, and nearly impossible when drained, but once I find the fractured armada headed back towards their island kingdom, I tell him as much. Whether my words are legible or merely a slurred mess is beyond me, and Azriel’s problem.

Message received or not, he tells me to stop, so I do; but he never tells me to leave. Thus, I stay leaned against this tent pole, watching faeries of all sorts come and go; swift and discreet. His live spies, I figure. Not merely shadows, but faeries who serve him—faeries planted in various courts—working as servants, and stable hands, and cooks throughout Prythian; and maybe even the continent—though I doubt he’d call them here at this time.

One makes the mistake of asking who I am—of stepping too close—earning themselves a swift and cold dismissal; bordering a growl.

Exhausted, I let my eyes fall closed, willing myself to breathe; to stay in my body, now that I’ve returned.

Only once I hear Azriel rise from his desk do I pry one opened, glimpsing something in his hand; something he offers to me, now crouched at my level. A waterskin. Parched beyond reason—though I’d hardly grasped the feeling prior—I reach for it, trembling, downing almost half in one fell swoop before I hinge myself; fearing a little too much might make it come back up. Figuring as much himself, he plucks it from my hand, though lingers before me—still donning his dark armour—sill drenched in blood and gore; reeking of it.

“I—I’m pathetic…,” I don’t know why I say it—the words just slip past my lips—and he shakes his head faintly.

“You’re still recovering—none of us expect you to be at your best.”

“I do…,” I rasp right back. “I always do…,” His stoic face fractures into something grim; hazel eyes dulling a shade.

“Sleep.” He orders—standing tall—and my eyes drift to the furs; soft and inviting beneath me.

Wordlessly, I sink upon them, a wing of mine curved around my frame like a makeshift blanket, but though my body is allowed the rest it craves, my mind… it doesn’t find sleep; not amongst the roars of agony pouring from the Healers’ tents, or the sound of battle reverberating within my head.

Only his heart—a steady beat amidst the chaos—offers some semblance of peace, enough so to leave me mindlessly adrift across camp, but not quite asleep—not quite daring—lest I completely leave my body; drift off into the night unhinged.

Even through the leathers, I feel something cool and gentle brush against my arm, my eyes fluttering opened in response—vision gradually regaining focus—finding a shadow slithering along my forearm; swirling between the fingers of my outstretched palm.

Despite myself—despite the heaviness plaguing my soul—I find a smile tugging at my lips; wiggling my fingers in response. No wind this time, but it doesn’t seem to mind—settling along my arm like a soothing companion—and I let my eyes fall shut with a sigh, resuming my sleepless drifting; the shadow’s presence grounding somehow.

~O~

The scrape of a chair against earth tugs me back from my state of near-sleep, and I open my eyes to find near pitch darkness—save for the faelight lantern illuminating his desk—Azriel in the midst of crossing the space; headed towards a patch of furs laid out on the opposite end from me.

Eyes mere slivers, I watch him lay on his side—movement stiff and pained—wings tucked in snug against his back; front faced my way, and back to the cloth wall. He looks exhausted—drained—but as the seconds drag into minutes, then an hour, I can tell he’s not sleeping. His breathing comes too quickly, his heart beating too fast; his body much too tense.

The fact he’s put me in his tent tonight brushes my mind in a soft caress—the thought making the bond hum a contented melody—but I personally stiffen with uncertainty.

As if sensing it, Azriel’s eyes pry open—dull and lifeless in the dim light—not a hint of the sparkle they once held under the starlight of Velaris. Exhausted both mentally and physically, I assume.

War does that—even to the most seasoned warrior—but things have been weighing on Azriel’s mind for a while now; especially since their visit to the Court of Nightmares. He’s hidden it well, but it hasn’t left him.

I wonder whether he can tell I’m looking, or if the dark nature of my eyes blends into the darkness between us; but whatever the case, he keeps looking; perhaps staring into nothing.

The night beyond our four walls and fluttering roof is still filled with the sound of agony—still laced with death—but my ears hardly take note; desensitised to their ceaseless suffering.

There’s just him, laying on the other end of this tent; so close, yet so far.

“What happened to your shoulder.” He tosses the words between us. Well aware I’m awake, it seems.

“An arrow.” I rasp past chapped lips and hoarse chords. The bond grows almost… taut; tense. “I was fine.” I try to assure, but that tension doesn’t ease.

“It could’ve punctured a lung.” I snort—huff more so—the sound humourless; detached.

“It’d been karma.” Azriel’s lips thin into a line.

“Did you pull it yourself.”

“No—a kind bystander.” I mutter. “Obviously.” Harsh, perhaps, but I’m numb to it all; still buried in this pit of cold indifference. “You know I’ve suffered worse.”

“You haven’t been specific.” True.

Tired and numb, I don’t consider the cons of telling; the vulnerability of sharing.

I simply speak.

“They broke every bone in my right arm once.” Azriel’s silence is heavy.

“Brannagh and—”

“No.” I cut him off; banish the thought of those wretched twins. Dead by Feyre’s hand. “My overseer in the army—when I was still a recruit.” Azriel doesn’t speak; hardly breathes. “I didn’t master the use of my left fast enough, so they took my right way until I’d passed their tests.” I look to said left arm; splayed limply before me. “I’m glad for it, now—it’s saved me plenty—but it hurt.” An understatement.

“How old were you.” His tone remains cold, but if he didn’t want to know, he wouldn’t have asked.

“Twelve—maybe thirteen.” A beat of silence. “Drakon’s forbidden the practice since. Young recruits have their arms tied behind their backs instead.” Whatever’s become of my relationship with Drakon these past centuries, I’ll speak his praise on that front; for sifting out the needless brutality since we left Naarm.

“Were wings ever clipped.” I shudder at the thought; at the knowledge of what’s been done to the Illyrian females since… forever.

“Not as it’s done in Illyria, but it happened—mainly to traitors, sentenced to never fly again.” I swallow, yet the lump in my throat remains. “They… plucked their feathers, burned them while they watched, then clipped their wings…,” Azriel’s seem to tuck in tighter. “Most killed themselves within the week.” I feel bile rise up my throat; push it down in response. “I was… ordered to monitor them—so we’d know when to clean up the bodies.” His shadows deepen; the one still resting around my wrist likewise.

“Why you.”

“Convenience.” I mumble. “Most of the time there wasn’t much of a body to retrieve, but… they wanted them found, so as to not stain the land… Executing them would have been cleaner—kinder. Though I suppose that was the point—cruelty.” I muse, feelings absent from the memory, say this underlying nausea.

“Who ordered this.” Azriel isn’t much better.

“I don’t know—it was always this way, before we came to Cretea. Drakon’s father, I presume—his ancestors.” Silence drags on from then on; for a good while.

“The Misted Isles gave nothing.” Azriel states in due time, and I sigh.

“Worth a shot…,” He hums. “Hope you took my advice.”

“No one drowned on air.”

“Good,” I sigh, letting my eyes fall closed. “Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“You should sleep.” He mumbles.

“I can’t. I’m not…,” A sigh “I’m still out there…,” Still fighting, still wading through the bloodshed. The light is of no help—even with the world beyond drenched in pitch—leaves my weary mind open to wander; rather than rest as it should. “Could you turn out the light…,” I ask, voice faint, and I hear Azriel shift; armour pieces groaning as they move against eachother.

“Why.” I assume he’s pushed himself seated.

“It… My mind tends to wander when I’m like this—if there’s light. I get lost.” I hear him stand, hear him make for the faelight and feel him turn the lantern off; my mind more at ease the instant this impenetrable darkness encompasses us.

“I thought you’d wish to avoid darkness.” He sits back down upon his furs.

“I told you it’s my escape.” I mumble. “It always has been.” He doesn’t say a word from then on, and neither do I.

Because finally, sleep beckons—drags me under—however uneasy its cradle.

Chapter Text

I wake to the sound of rustling parchment—to the shuffle of feet against trampled ground—prying my eyes opened to the dim light of early dawn, and the sight of Azriel in the midst of dismantling his makeshift office; stowing away his important documents and maps within a wooden chest.

“What…,” He stalls, pauses—still crouched before that opened box—leather groaning as he turns his head. “What time is it…,” I push myself seated, pressing a hand to my brow; a soft groan seeping past my lips.

“Early.” He mumbles, rising to his feet; striding for the table anew. “We’re moving camp.” He explains, reaching for a latch beneath the table-top, a simple tug allowing the legs to fold over; the table effortlessly dismantled. He lays it down, then pauses; a glaze overtaking his gaze.

Then he stands—rather abruptly—extending a hand; shadows swirling.

“Rhys will bring you home.” He explains, and I push onto my feet—every limb aching—accepting his outstretched hand; and the shadows which consume us.

We emerge before what I assume to be Rhys’s tent—larger and nicer than the rest—where Feyre and Mor already await; to be winnowed home as well.

As soon as my feet find solid ground, Azriel’s presence retreats—shadows dissolving before my eyes—hand falling to my side with a weighted sigh.

I care not for my High Lady’s curious gaze, nor do I acknowledge Mor’s prodding eyes; as if she’s searching my silence for some truth she won’t find. I care only for the prospect of a bath, and a wink of proper sleep—if possible—accepting Rhysand’s offered arm without so much as a word of greeting; though none of my friends seem keen to converse this fine Summer’s morning.

We winnow, and find Nesta waiting for us in the townhouse foyer. Elain is nowhere to be seen.

When Amren arrives, the questioning begins.

I can’t be bothered listening to Mor and Nesta bicker back and forth—find it pointless—nor do I wish to be interrogated, so I slip into the gentle light of early dawn and spear for the House; for the room I’ve claimed as my own, and the bath awaiting me there.

The moment I arrive, the House ignites the faelights for me—enchanted to be ever helpful—and once I pass through the door into the fresher, I find it’s already assumed the task of drawing a bath. Convenient indeed.

However, I turn the faucet for now, pealing out of my tainted leathers one piece at a time and dropping them within the shallow waters; thinking it best to be rid of the grime before it truly soaks into the material.

Left in my smalls and soft under-armour, I rinse and scrub and dry these damaged parts, laying them aside as I’m finally allowed this wash I crave; refilling the tub with new, clean water, along with a drop of jasmine and vanilla soap.

My blades still need tending—those Mor lent me need returning—but I shove that aside for another time and sink into the steaming waters; so hot it could scald. I push through, let it claw at my skin; burn away the feel of death which clings to me.

Settled—adjusted—I carefully undo my braid, hair a clammy mixture of pink and reds now—my wings much the same—and once I’m freed of the weave, I let it soak beneath the foamy waves; an absent hand working through the corded locks. In time, the water stains red, and I’m forced to refill it twice before I regain something close to white; both in terms of hair and feathers.

Moving on to the rest of me—running an idle hand over my reddened skin—my mind involuntarily drifts to Azriel; to my stay in his tent. Perhaps—in turn—I read into it a little deeper than I should, but I can’t stop myself.

It makes sense, from a technical standpoint.

Even if neither of us acknowledge it, the bond is still there. He’s still affected by the instincts it entails, much like I am. Knowing I’m injured would make it chafe—urge him to keep me near—so he made sure I stayed close; for his peace of mind. It doesn’t mean he cares, just that the bond bothers him sometimes.

I care though—bond or not—but Amren’s right; we’re not ready. Not for the true weight of a mating bond—the complete yielding of yourself to another—and that’s… fine. Maybe once this war is over, we could… we could come to change that, but for now, I… I’m content to be whatever it is we are. If pretending the bond doesn’t exist is what he needs of me, then I’ll do that; as best I can.

My outburst yesterday… A lapse in judgement, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same for anyone else in the circle—if put in harms way—although I’d probably handle it with a slight pinch of grace in comparison.

It’s… I can’t afford to hesitate.

I made that mistake once; I will not make it again.

Coughing, I try to will away the lump gathering in my throat; attempt to blink away the sting of pooling tears.

If I had done as I did back then—lashed out with such certainty and rage—maybe—

I sew my eyes shut—tuck my knees against my chest—wrapping my arms around my legs as I sniffle; the thaw of my heart making way for feelings. Too many. More than I’ve the strength to silence.

They had every right to hate me—all of them.

Eyes closed or not, my tears pour forth in rivers; choked sobs tumbling past trembling lips.

It’s overwhelming, this resurgence of long-suppressed hurt and present pains, mixing and blending into an all-consuming agony; stripping my wretched soul raw, stealing the breath from my lungs; erasing all function beyond these strangled sobs and burning tears.

Brow resting against my knees—cocooned within the veil of my wings—I sit within the scalding heat of my shame and guilt and weep until I can’t remember why I’m crying anymore; the water gone cold long ago. Yet I can’t stop; can’t close floodgates now that they’ve opened.

~O~

I remain cooped up in the House for the rest of the day, busying myself with the task of cleaning my weapons as a means to distract the mind, and finding restless bits of sleep come darkness; haunted by faces of the past and that of the present.

Amren doesn’t ask why I look like a wreck the following morning—hair left unbound in frizzy waves—she just continues to glare at that talking book of hers; leaving me to my thoughts.

So close, yet so far. It whispers. Lost, but almost found. Never addressing anyone, but from the way Amren frowns, I figure it’s to do with the spell she’s trying to find; even if it prods at an ache upon my heart as well.

“Tell me about Adriata.” Amren decides to break the silence; slamming the book shut with a metallic thud.

Blood. The Book mocks. Stained upon your soul. Amren proceeds to toss it across the room—landing it safely upon her bed—distance offering reprieve from its taunting voice.

It was chaos. I write, for my tongue is too leaden; my throat too raw. Amren cocks a brow at this, but doesn’t comment. I kept to the city—defended the citizens. She nods, eyes averting to my shoulder.

“You were injured.” How she knows this, I can only guess. Perhaps she scents the lingering scab; or was told by someone else. I roll my shoulder, finding that an ache remains, but little else; the sort that comes with healing, and could very well be muscle strain for all I know.

A lucky shot. A dark brow of hers arches higher. An arrow—I managed. Still, those silver eyes linger on my shoulder

“It could have killed you.” She sneers. “Any further to the left, and—”

It’d punctured a lung, I know. I cross my arms. Azriel said as much. Her eyes drift to mine; expectant. He deigned to ask eventually.

“Eventually.” She demands, willing me to continue.

Sighing, I forge a string of words between us.

He brought me to a healer, first and foremost. Her brows scoff at that. And after, I wanted to help establish camp—tend the wounded even—but I was tired. I look away; cannot bare her intense stare. Very tired. Still, I see her nod in the corner of my eye. Then he just… told me to come with him, and I followed. He sat me down on some furs and asked that I help him track Hybern’s movements, so I did. From there it’s rather hazy.

“He kept you in his tent.” I nod, faintly; eyes drifting at the memory.

He gave me water, ordered me to sleep, but I couldn’t—neither could he—so we talked instead. Amren leans back in her seat upon the rug; one hand pressed to its plush surface.

Why we don’t sit in the armchairs—or by her desk—I don’t know. This just feels normal somehow; sitting on the floor with her. I feel she prefers it herself; only spared the desk a moment of her time that one time because the tome then was too heavy to keep in her lap; and she didn’t much feel like hunching.

“I have to give the male some measure of praise. He’s very restrained.” I tilt my head, brows furrowed. “Most—fully bonded or not—go ballistic when their mate is injured, no matter how slight a wound. That he didn’t shows he’s leashed—but that’s never been the issue with Azriel.” My frown only deepens. “He portrays the calm and collected male well by design, but the level of repression required to achieve it—it has its limits. Eventually, he snaps.” She snaps her fingers in emphasis, and I straighten, recognising myself far too well in her description. “No matter what tips him over the edge, all he’s repressed is funnelled into his fury. He’s well aware of this, and I believe it frightens him right now.”

Why? Amren’s look is almost disappointed; as if believing it obvious.

“He’s repressing the instincts forced upon him by the bond—its aggressions and impulses. Releasing these pent up emotions slowly isn’t in Azriel’s vocabulary, so when he snaps, he snaps. The prospect of snapping around you frightens him—the thought he won’t have control.” I swallow; forcing away the lump gathering there.

Would he hurt me? If he did?

“Depends how it manifests.” Amren muses. “But in all honesty, Nameless—I’d be more worried about him claiming you against a nearby wall. Or a bed, if he’s feeling generous.” I flush; cheeks blazing. “Alas, I can’t imagine it’d be a pleasant experience—unless you fancy that sort of thing.” I avert my gaze, doing all I can to not visualise these… things she alludes to. “In general, Azriel’s a good male. A buffoon, but good. He’s aware of the risks and stays away to shield you from possible fallout. He by no means hates you. You would know if he did.” I nod, letting it sink in; trying to believe her assuring words. “On that note, I suggest you stay here during the meeting with the High Lords. If Azriel’s to find reason to snap—be irked enough to slip—it will be there. Old wounds will itch, you see.” I nod.

I wasn’t planning to—have already discussed it with Feyre. I explain. My kind is supposed to be dead, after all.

“Yet you fought for Adriata.” I toss a frown her way.

They’d hardly take note of whether I’m Seraphim or Peregryn in that chaos—I can hardly tell the difference. Amren shrugs, though seems to see my point. In future battles, I might don the skin of something else—perhaps Illyrian.

“What for?” She asks, brow arched.

I may not care much for my old home, but I don’t want to cause it any more trouble than being caught by Hybern already has. She nods, and I seize the opportunity to claim a new form already; considering she’s here to offer an opinion.

Crafting an image without a base to go off of is harder than copying others, but not impossible. Thus, I warp my feathered wings into the membranous ones of an Illyrian, change my hair into an inky black, and deepen my skin into a golden brown.

How do I look? Amren eyes me with unrestrained scrutiny.

“Too unclipped to be an Illyrian female.” I cringe. “And no male in the legion would accept fighting alongside you.” I change my approach. Rather than applying new colours onto my existing features—save for my wings—I alter them, giving myself stereotypically male features to go along with the shades, and Amren’s eyes twinkle; lips tugging into a smirk. “That’s more like it.” I grin; make sure it shows past the illusion.

As long as I don’t talk, they won’t suspect a thing. Because my voice remains my own in all sense of the word, although… Perhaps some play with wind might change that; I’ve never thought to try before.

“Or, alternatively, you illusion your wings away and become High Fae—fight on foot.” I consider.

Also an option. We’ll see what works best when the time comes. I decide—returning to normal—and Amren only nods.

Chapter Text

Slender, sun-kissed fingers flittering down dark, membranous wings. A large, scarred hand palming a fistful of moon-white hair. Nails, scraping against skin; clawing at a powerful back. My body, pinned beneath a wonderful weight.

The cool caress of murmuring shadows.

The gentle kiss of a golden wind; curled against tanned skin.

Mouths—ravenous and starved—claiming and devouring.

Bodies—hot and heaving—desperately sating the hunger.

A heart—thundering and wild—beating in sync with my own.

His name—tumbling from my tongue—equal parts pleading and praising.

My name—snapping me back to reality—eyes staring blindly into the darkness of night.

Oh Gods.

I cover my panting lips—my burning cheeks—with the splay of a clammy palm.

Oh my Gods.

I toss the sheets aside—too hot; too suffocating—push myself seated, cradling my head; fingers clawing at my scalp. I sew my eyes shut, yet the images won’t leave; refuse to fade. Of him above me, his hands upon me; lips devouring; skin bare for me to worship. It replays within my mind—again and again—fire burning hotter beneath my skin; pooling at my core. His heart—it refuses to fade—pounds within my head like a beckoning drum; no matter how hard I press my palms to my ears.

Mother help me.

I press my brow to my knees, focus on breathing; on quelling the flame roaring through my veins. But Gods, it’s been so long since I—since I felt even a sliver of this need—and the thought of him feeling me through the bond… it garners a split reaction.

Dread and desire.

Please don’t sense me. Please come sate me.

It’s overwhelming.

Never. Never have I felt this way for Azriel. I’ve found him attractive—believed him handsome beyond measure—but this need, this hunger; it’s beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.

Even with the bond realised, I’ve never—is this how males feel? This longing? This burning desire? Has Azriel felt this way without my knowing? Is this what he works to repress?

He must’ve, because I’ve never scented it—not like how my own arousal now stains the air—but how; how does one repress this?

How does one feel this and not simply… perish.

I throw myself upon the mattress, arms splayed wide—wings likewise—my body bare to the darkness, lungs starved for air, body burning unchanged; heart pounding against my ribs.

Above me—like a wraith in the night—I see him, feel his phantom hands brush against my skin—his lips nip along my throat—the thought of him nestled between my thighs—

I close my eyes, press a hand to my heart—work to rid my mind of these traitorous thoughts—only for my hand to drift towards the rise of my breast; nails skidding along sensitive skin.

“Oh Gods…,” I want to—want to ease my hand lower, to take myself upon my hand—want to release myself from this torment; but to do so to the though of him—

I couldn’t.

I can’t.

Tumbling out of bed—stumbling through the darkness—I make for the windows, parting the heavy curtains as I fumble to push a window opened, hoping the cool grace of the evening air might help—might soothe—might free me of this torment.

That my wings are all which cover me does not matter, not as the hinges groan opened, and the cold summer’s air comes rushing in, brushing along my sensitive skin as if they were the shadows of my sinful dream. With a start, I slam it shut—gasping—stumbling back a pace; torn between frustrations and resignment. For everything reminds me of him.

The darkness. The wind. The cold. The heat. The silk of my sheets as I fall seated upon the bed. The brush of my own fingertips as I cradle my face. The flutter of my wings as they unfurl from my limbs; imagining them yanked aside by his perfect hands.

Azriel. Azriel. Azriel.

I curse under my breath; blood surging; limbs tensing; thighs clenching shut.

Living shadows like that of my dreams brush along my feet—cool and gentle—forcing a yelp from my lips; their whispers like a chanting; a continuous string of coaxing murmurs as they coil around my ankles, brush against my calves.

Mind racing—limbs locked—I can’t move to shake them off; don’t want to shake them off.

They reach my thighs, and I’ve yet to regain my senses. Only gasp as a pair wrap around my wrists like incorporeal hands, guiding mine away from my face; leaving me wide-eyed and panting as I stare into the moonlit room, etched in swirling darkness.

It… he can’t be doing this; this can’t be him commanding them.

I don’t dare feel for the bond—to gauge his own end of it—scared I’ll give myself away; lest his shadows have already snitched.

It’s inevitable though. The shadows will report back to their master once they’ve done what they’ve come to do to me, but I can live with that; I will have to live with that.

One daring wisp of darkness curls a little higher up my thigh—wills them apart—and for a moment, I do as it asks; only to jerk away once it slithers for my centre.

It retreats; if only a fraction. Lingers there. Waiting.

They’re not mindless. I can stop this, should I wish.

I—I should stop this before I dig myself a deeper grave.

But, if I push them away, will they whisper of rejection in his ear? Will it dig me another kind of grave?

In the absence of refusal, the shadows resume a cautious ascent, and I make my choice then and there.

“Stop…,” I breathe; embarrassingly breathless. “I can’t—I can’t do this…,” They stop; completely and utterly freeze. “I’m sorry…,” I whisper, in the hopes that once the shadows whisper of my refusal, they’ll relay my words as well; grant him this meagre apology.

Murmuring softly—almost apologetic—the shadows retreat into the darkness, leaving me breathless and unbearably alone in their wake; still set aflame, but certain I made the right call.

I’m not ready, and neither is he. This… it wouldn’t do us any favours.

I’d be using him, not…

It’s not what I want.

Even if…

I don’t know if the shadows are an extension of him, or separate in nature—a different consciousness—but if they are extensions of him, then their inclination to help me makes sense; just as their lifelong beckoning.

The shadows realised the bond long before we did; tonight is solid evidence of that.

Despite the hour—the early morning ahead of me—I push out of bed and stride for the fresher, drawing myself an ice-cold bath in the hopes it might clear my head—something I realise I should’ve done immediately—soaking until my limbs grow numb and my teeth rattle my skull; not a flicker of heat left alive within my blood.

Chapter Text

Cassian’s grin is a grating thing, the male steadfast in his hold of the mitts as I throw punch after punch at the cushioned targets, muscles burning at the effort of maintaining my stance through each lunge; yet my body demanding I continue ‘til there’s nothing left to give.

“So,” The male starts; voice lathered with undiluted teasing. “What’s got you so worked up today?” I throw him a particularly hard punch; but he doesn’t so much as stumble.

“I wasn’t strong enough.” I spit past gritted teeth.

Not the full truth, but part of it. The part I’m willing to disclose.

“In Adriata?” I nod—weakly—throwing a left hook; expertly caught by Cassian. “You should have stuck with Mor and Feyre—going off alone like that isn’t ideal.” I throw another three punches before I deign to answer.

“I’d been useless in a crowded palace.” Cassian cocks his head to the side. “I was always more of an assassin—work best alone.”

“Heard you did a great deal on your own.” It sounds like praise. “Managed to terrify some of the younger Illyrians through sheer blood-thirst, actually.” I snort.

“Just blew up some lungs.” He laughs; bright and booming.

“You did just as much gutting. And a whole lot of saving, according to Az.” I pause, brow raised. Cassian’s eyes soften a fraction. “He told me about the younglings.” I resume my punching.

“I did what was right.” He nods.

“No doubts there, but Az also told me he found you with a hole in your shoulder.” A hole that’s patched itself up enough that I no longer feel it.

“A lucky shot.” I shrug him off.

“To your dominant arm.” Cass points out.

“I’m ambidextrous for a reason,” I throw a particularly strong left upper-cut to prove my point. “So an injury like that doesn’t impair me.”

“Is that a universal thing for the Seraphim?”

“Yes.” I pause long enough to do a combo of blows. “The left arm’s usually reserved for a shield either way, but I’ve always preferred two blades.”

“Swift and deadly?” The male asks, grinning.

“Swift and deadly.” I confirm, although my blows right now are neither swift nor deadly. “It compliments my skill-set more so than a clunky shield.” Cassian nods, only for that grin to grow teasing; and I mentally brace for whatever’s about to come out of his mouth.

“How come I found you in Az’ tent?” I frown, struggling to recall ever seeing him there. Must’ve been drifting by then.

“He asked me to help track Hybern. By the time I’d found them, I suppose he didn’t see a point moving me.” Cass continues to smirk. “Did I even have a tent of my own?” He grows thoughtful at that.

“I don’t know… We’d have made room though—Mor would’ve gladly taken you in, if nothing else.” I frown.

“Then what’s wrong with staying in Azriel’s—if I’d been made to share either way?” That smirk only broadens.

“Nothing’s wrong with it—just interesting.” I raise a brow; throw a few unamused punches. “He was holding back a snarl my entire stay.” That he of all people noticed that, as dense as he makes himself out to be—and is at times—comes as a surprise.

“You probably deserved it.” He snorts.

“Or Az’ got the hots for you.” In a blink, I illusion myself punching one way, only to throw an actual punch straight into his gut while he’s busy catching the fake. A bit rash, perhaps, but it’s much too satisfying to watch him fold; if only a fraction. “Struck a nerve, did I?” He chokes out—tone still teasing—while I make for the sidelines and fetch my waterskin; having a few well-deserved chugs.

With a sigh, I address the male anew; still standing there with a grin plastered upon his lips, though he rubs an absent hand to his stomach.

“I—I wasn’t okay, Cass.” His expression falters but a fraction. “I was drained—physically and magically and… mentally,” I toss the corked skin to the ground with a slosh. “You being you—I’d have told you to fuck off too, had I been conscious enough.” He chuckles.

“Whatever keeps your feathers shiny.” I roll my eyes.

“Overgrown bat…,” I mutter, adjusting my hand-wraps before returning to the ring.

“You should come to Illyria some day—show the females a few moves.” The words feel like a peace offering of sorts.

“And they’d listen to an outsider like me?” The hopeful look in Cassian’s eyes dims.

“Maybe not, but it’s likelier than them listening to a High Fae, at least. You’re more like us in spirit—if not appearance. Would hold some sway with the lot.” I step back—promoting a frown to curve upon his brow—and Illusion myself into an Illyrian female.

“Would this help, or be considered trickery.” Cassian’s gaping, hazel eyes scanning me from head to toe; not quite the same shade as Azriel’s—Cass’ greener.

“Both—depending on whether they figure it out or not.” He settles his focus upon my face. “Explaining why an Illyrian female knows how to fight—and hasn’t gotten her wings clipped—is the bigger issue.”

“Could claim I’ve worked for Rhys a while—or something along those lines.”

“Taken in by his mother… or an old handmaid of hers…,” He muses, considering.

My knowledge of Rhysand’s family tree is sparse at best, but I know his mother must’ve been kind—to have adopted both Cass and Azriel in their youth—and that… well, I know of her bloody end; alongside her daughter. The history books brushed on it, but I’ve never thought to ask Rhys for details. It feels insensitive.

“It could work. Would piss off the males, but it could work.” I smile.

“I look convincing enough?” I extend my arms—my wings—putting myself on display. “I’ve never seen a female of your kind.” Cassian resumes his scan; more scrutinising than awestruck now.

“Your wings should be a little smaller relative to your size, and I’ve never met an Illyrian with eyes like yours.” I quickly make the adjustments, shrinking my wings a fraction or two and turning my eyes into a bright hazel; much like Cassian’s. He laughs, the sound disbelieving; airy. “This is freaky.”

“Want to see me as a male? I’ve been practising.” He laughs.

“No, I’m good, thanks.” His loss. I make a rather handsome Illyrian male, If I do say so myself.

I’m about to tell him as much, but all thought of conversation drains away at the sound of Azriel’s heartbeat—approaching now—and I look to the rooftop entrance a beat before he emerges; catching his initial moment of stunned surprise at the sight of me—left standing in the doorway.

He’s wearing his leathers, hair that perfect blend between messy and tamed; a few whisks of black-brown falling over his brow, blending with the shadows curling along his ears. And his eyes—Gods his eyes—glowing gold in the morning sun; bright and beautiful.

“Did you know she could do this?” Cassian asks, motioning my way; completely oblivious to my mental spiral.

Does he know about last night?

Have the shadows told him?

Az’ brow furrows faintly—nostrils fluttering as he sniffs the air—then he moves onto the floor with us; body veiled in a layer of shadow.

Personally, I weave a shell of wind about my body; to mask any… undue scents, completely hidden behind my illusion.

“I knew she could mimic, not make her own shapes.” He answers blankly, tone perfectly indifferent; voice beautifully smooth.

I curse myself—my thoughts—work to quiet my mind one breath at a time.

“Mimic?” Cassian asks, looking my way, and in the name of distracting myself, I shift the illusion and transform myself into a replica of the male; despite his words prior. In an instant, Cassian’s brows shoot to his hairline. “I am not okay with this.”

“The only thing I can’t replicate is your voice.” And what’s beneath his clothes, but I don’t mention that, because I swear I see Azriel’s eyes twinkle with amusement in the corner of my own; all while Cassian continues to look thoroughly uncomfortable. “But I can try.” I continue, deliberately deepening my voice, turning Cassian’s discomfort into a booming laugh.

“Please, stop this.” I puff out my chest and flare my wings; flexing my fabricated muscles.

“But it’s so much fun.” My throat strains to maintain its depth, and Cassian sounds like he’s running the risk of laughing his lungs out; and Gods is it a good damn distraction.

“You sound like pre-teen Cassian.” Azriel comments, watching this unfold a few paces away—arms crossed before his chest—the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

Cassian whirls to face his brother.

“I did not sound like that.” Azriel’s eyes avert, twinkling with mischief; clearly not in agreement.

The sound of wings approaches, and I turn to find Rhys arriving with Feyre in tow, both of them clad in leathers; suitable for sparring.

“Why are there two of Cassian.” Rhysand drawls, feigning annoyance. “One’s more than enough.” Cassian shoots his brother a scathing glare, which the male promptly ignores in favour of setting Feyre down on the roof; her eyes sparkling with intrigue.

“Why are there two of you?” She presses for a real answer, and I realise she’s never seen me do this before; wasn’t there for my initial demonstration, much like Cass.

“I’m just having a bit of fun.” She seems startled to hear my voice tumbling past Cassian’s lips, then bursts into laughter; Rhysand chuckling at her side.

That they can laugh at all with all that’s going on is a good thing—a very good thing—and I’m glad I can provide.

“Stop wearing my skin, it’s weird.” Cassian grumbles, glaring, and I sigh; turning myself into Rhys instead.

“Better?”

“Much better.” Rhysand purrs; grinning.

“No! This is—I mean, not that it’s wrong wanting to be a male—but it’s—it’s weird. Stop it.” I smile sweetly, dropping the illusion with a sigh.

“You’re such a crybaby.” I deadpan; Cassian left adamantly offended.

“Illyrian babies.” Feyre agrees, and I cast her an approving smile.

“Just prefer you the way you are.” Cass mutters, and I pause, look to him; only for Azriel to distract me.

He’s walking past—towards Feyre—and I realise he’s here to take her flying again; twisting my heart in all the ways. A part of me wants to join—observe—but another fears my mind might betray me again, should I spend too long in close proximity. Just looking at him now—dressed in those tight leathers—and I… the scent shield is very much warranted; my mind both blessed and cursed with remnant images of last night.

Gods, if he’s anything like my dream…

I silence my head and watch Azriel take Feyre’s hand, the pair shifting away, silencing the ache behind my breastbone all the same.

“Up for a few rounds, Nameless?” Rhysand asks, and though my body weeps at the thought, I agree with a nod. The desire to grow strong is a fierce thing within my veins, no matter how exhausted I’m bound to be come nightfall. That it distracts me… that’s a secondary bonus.

Chapter Text

Finally, the High Lords have managed to agree on a spot to house the meeting; the very evening before the damn thing is meant to take place.

The Dawn Court, as close to the neutral land of the Middle as they could get, and once it’s set in stone, Rhys, Mor, and Azriel gather around the dinner table to discuss every possible threat and trap and escape rout within that palace; based on outdated but reliable information from years prior.

I help as best I can by searching the bright and lovely halls of the Dawn Court palace—open to my watchful gaze—confirming whatever information I can, and adding whatever I find; but the sun is already low in the sky by the time I leave, forcing me back home much too soon.

Feyre paces throughout the discussion, face etched with unease.

Amren fluctuates between snappy teacher and calm advisor from her seat with Nesta—situated in the sitting room—the ancient being intently mulling over the contents of the Book; searching vigorously for the spell we’ll need in order to patch up the wall separating Mortals and Fae.

She claims it’ll only be a few more days once Nesta leaves for the evening—complaining of a headache—only a few more days until the newly Made Fae is to use that elusive spell and heal the wall; and with that fact shared, Amren leaves, intending to return home and read until her eyes bleed.

I don’t think she’s joking either.

Though there aren’t any obvious threats awaiting them—save for verbal sparring—I find myself tossing and turning in bed that night, unable to shake my anxiety. A part of me desperately wishes to be there, but the rational side of me knows I can’t; and why. Even so, it’s the former side which holds sway all throughout the night; leaving me sleepless from dusk ‘til dawn.

In all honesty, I remain anxious still once I’m stood in the townhouse, ready to bid them goodbye; to stay in Velaris with Amren, Nesta and Elain.

They look regal; all of them.

Feyre, clad in a dress so bright and gorgeous it’s as though it was sewn from pure starlight. Mor, in a gown of midnight blue; similar to her usual choice of dress, yet more proper somehow. Then there’s Cassian—and Azriel—dressed in the full might of their Illyrian armour; siphons glinting in the faelight.

It requires effort not to stare at the latter—mostly draped in shadow—to not scan every visible pane of his armoured self; powerful and intimidating, yet undeniably alluring for that very reason. I’m not sure what that says about my taste in males, but I don’t particularly care.

In the midst of my dangerous thoughts, Feyre throws a pointed glare at the stairs, offering a well-needed distraction as I too note the absence of a certain High Lord; running late to his own meeting. Fashionably so.

I wonder what’s taking him so long, but decide it’s not my place to find out; and it’s Rhys. He’s probably stuck in front of a mirror.

“What?” Feyre’s voice snaps the almost tense silence—everyone anxious in their own right—and I look to her rather than the stairs. The question seems pointed at Cassian, and whatever she refers to makes his lips twitch along the edges.

“You just look so…,” He trails off.

“Here we go.” Mor mumbles, picking at her nails. I don’t think there’s a section of her not adorned with jewellery. She wears it well, a part of me regrets to admit.

“Official.” Cassian continues, waving a siphon-clad hand her way. “Fancy.”

“Over five hundred years old,” Mor starts, shaking her head in sorrow. “A skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complimenting ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?” I can’t help but smile, though my heart skips a beat at Azriel’s chuckle; the sound a dark melody.

The kind I once coaxed from him.

Cassian shoots him a glare, silencing my torturous thoughts.

“I don’t see you spitting poetry, brother.” Azriel crosses his arms, still smiling ever so faintly; the sight as painful as his laugh.

I wish… I wish he still smiled at me; at me and not… those around me.

“I don’t need to resort to it.” I withhold a glare at that.

He certainly doesn’t resort to poetry, preferring the silent approach; whatever good it’s doing either of us. But such thoughts are unproductive, knowing what I know. Anger is… perhaps justified, but not warranted this instance, so I let it pass.

Mor laughs—cackles is a better word for it—and Feyre joins in, granting her a jab from Cassian; to which she nudges him right back.

It looks playful, at a glance, but in all honesty… Cassian looks rather jaded; and I cannot discern why.

Looking down, I glimpse my white summer flats—ones Mor and I bought so long ago—paired with a loose pair of beige pants and a white blouse; the sight so at odds with their formality I debate leaving as to not draw unwanted attention to myself.

Fancy just… It’s never been my thing—not in a casual setting—but if the situation demands a dress, I will wear it well.

The prickling sensation of being watch wills my gaze ahead, and I lock eyes with Azriel across the room without fail; most of him shrouded in shadow, but his eyes clear. Not bright—still very much guarded as he looks at me—but I wonder whether that’s merely the leash he’s got strung around himself, smothering anything that would bring warmth or light into his eyes; something I rarely see slip his grasp when he’s with me.

Knowing what I know, it isn’t quite as disheartening—seeing it there—because I understand; so instead of meeting his cool indifference with my own, I smile. A faint, flicker of a smile.

A goodbye, for now.

He looks away not a breath later, but not before I catch the faintest glimpse of something in his eyes.

Finally, Rhys arrives, dressed like night itself; marking the company complete. He descends the stairs and takes Feyre hand, the two of them making a clear pair.

The darkness of night, and the star that gives it light.

Truly a symbolic display; undoubtedly planned.

“I thought you were leaving.” Nesta’s voice wafts from the top of the stairs, and I look her way, finding the young Fae dressed in such a dark shade of blue it hardly looks blue at all, but otherwise plain; if Nesta can ever be described as plain.

She descends the stairs with perfect, regal grace, and the room falls into silence; pure and absolute.

Cassian gives her a once-over, then turns to Azriel, and the sheer tension in the air makes me want to disappear, but I can’t leave before they do, I…

I need to be here, when they go.

“You look beautiful.” Nesta tells her sister, the High Lady nearly struck dead where she stands, by the looks of it.

“That, Cassian, was what you were attempting to say.” Mor states, and he grumbles something foul I can’t quite catch.

Feyre ignores them both.

“Thank you. You do as well.” Nesta shrugs. “Why are you dressed so nicely? Shouldn’t you be practising with Amren?” She continues.

“I’m going with you.” Everyone looks to her, but no one says a thing; to which Nesta only lifts her chin. Defiant. Determined. “I… I do not want to be remembered as a coward.” I wonder what I’ve missed to bring this on, having been much too busy preparing myself for war to be there for every minor, yet essential conversation.

If I wasn’t told, it didn’t directly affect any of the dealings I do for them.

“No one would say that.” Feyre speaks softly.

“I would.” Nesta states, surveying us all. “It was some distant thing. War. Battle. It… it’s not anymore. I will help, if I can. If it means… telling them what happened.” Ah, it’s to do with the Cauldron. She’s a witness of its power—living proof of Hybern’s capabilities—her perspective could be invaluable in the upcoming meeting.

I’m glad she’s chosen to attend, though her reasoning… it hits a little too close to home.

“You’ve given enough.” Feyre says, stepping her way; sparkling dress rustling. “Amren claimed you were close to mastering whatever skill you need. You should stay—focus on that.”

“No.” Nesta affirms, voice clear. “A day or two delay with my training won’t make a difference. Perhaps by the time we return, Amren will have decoded the spell in the Book.” She shrugs, with one shoulder only. “You went off to battle for a court you barely know—who barely see you as friends. Amren showed me the blood ruby. And when I asked why… you said because it was the right thing. People needed help.” Her throat bobs. “No one is going to fight to save the humans beneath the wall. No one cares. But I do.” She fiddles with a fold in her gown. “I do.”

Rhys joins Feyre; the two side by side anew.

“As High Lady, Feyre is no longer my emissary to the human world.” He offers Nesta a careful smile. “Want the job?” Her face doesn’t let a sliver of emotion slip past.

“Consider this meeting a trial basis. And I’ll make you pay through the teeth for my services.” A complete opposite of me, then.

Initially, I tried to refuse Rhysand’s money; until he settled at a decently fair sum, at which point I didn’t have the energy to argue. He’s probably finding ways to slip in a little more than we agreed upon anyway, because I looked at my account some days ago, and it’s way too full.

There’s nothing wrong with demanding what you’re worth though, in Nesta’s case.

If they’re to use her trauma to their advantage, bleed him dry.

In my case, I’ll make sure to earn all I’ve received eventually; help them however I can throughout this war and whatever way they deem suitable once it’s over.

If I stay.

I would like to stay.

Ahead, Rhys bows.

“I would expect no less of an Archeron sister.” Feyre pokes him in the ribs, and he huffs a laugh. “Welcome to the court.” He continues. “You’re about to have one hell of a first day.” A smile tugs at Nesta’s lips.

“No going back now.” Cassian says to Rhys, motioning at his wings; on shiny display today.

Rhys slips his hands into his pockets.

“I figure it’s time for the world to know who really has the largest wingspan.” Cassian laughs, Azriel smiles, and I muffle a snort; because it’s clearly Azriel.

Then I realise what they’re insinuating—having spent enough time around winged males to know about that pointless argument—that snort turning into a blazing blush I quickly illusion out of sight.

From there, they proceed to gamble amongst themselves—about who will start a fight first, and how soon into the meeting—but with that juvenile bit of fun settled, it’s time to go, and I feel a lump gather in the pit of my stomach; watching them pair up to winnow.

Only Azriel remains without escort, bound to make his way there alone through the shadows; to be the first one there to scout out the place. The first to put himself in danger. Once Rhys gives the order, he spares me a single glance before fading into a cloud of smoke; his heart fading until it’s nothing but a phantom thump within my chest.

Chapter Text

Amren arrives at the townhouse to help safeguard Elain some time after their departure, and she immediately hunkers down in the sitting room to continue deciphering the Book. I take up residency in an armchair alongside her, mind mulling over every possible thing that could go wrong while I sit with the silence; only broken by Elain working in the kitchen alongside Nuala and Cerridwen.

Apparently, my silence isn’t silent enough to Amren.

“Worry quieter, Nameless.” I shoot her a look, brow arched; never breaking my silent streak. “I can hear your heart thundering. Stop worrying over nothing or leave.” I sigh, working to calm my breathing—my heart—but it doesn’t quite feel like my own is in there. It refuses to heed my command—despite the tried and true breathing exercise I apply—thumping away all the same; harshly; almost painfully.

Amren shoots me a glare, so I accept defeat and stand, making my way for the garden; hoping some fresh air might help.

I don’t make it halfway.

A surge of something so frozen it burns scorches me from within, sending my heart into a painful gallop so intense it rips the air from my lungs and my legs from beneath me, sending me to the hardwood floor with a thunk; hands too busy clutching my chest to soften the fall.

Absently, I hear Amren curse—hear the click of her soles along the hardwood floor—but it’s muffled by the roaring in my ears; the surge of blood rushing through my veins. Somehow, that tiny body of hers turns me onto my side, smoky eyes assessing me with what looks to be worry as I chip for air; struggling to breathe past the raging agony of my treacherous heart.

I don’t quite see her either—or Nuala and Cerridwen once they come to see what’s going on—I only see the thin string stretching across Prythian; tethered to my chest, my soul.

It’s quaking.

Roaring with emotions so intense they overwhelm. With guilt—pain—longing, regret; and it all originates from the other end.

From Azriel.

Weakly—jaggedly—I reach out, ignoring the hazy shapes which surround me as I reach for that string, my hand passing right through, but mentally, I caress it, cradle it; this tether between his being and mine.

“Azriel…,” I breathe, mind slipping down the cord, pushing through the blizzard of emotion bit by bit, until I find the yawning rift in his wall of shadow and slip within.

The scenery immediately shifts to someplace else. To a pair of siphon-clad hands wrapped around a High Fae male’s throat; said gems burning with cobalt flame.

He’s snapped.

For whatever reason, he’s lost hold of his least; and thoroughly so.

I call out to him, but he can’t hear me—I’m no daemati—but the light; there’s light around him. Perhaps I could bend it; sign through it.

Azriel.

A weak, near translucent string of letters forged before his eyes; like mist on an autumn morning.

He doesn’t see; is too lost in the storm to see.

So I yank.

I wrap my mental hand around the cord and tug.

Watch the hands around that pale neck tense; pause.

The bond remains tumultuous—unsteady—but the quaking has eased to an extent; settled. Gently, I brush that same incorporeal hand along the string of shadows and moonlight; the two intertwined in an eternal dance.

Azriel’s hands loosen from around the High Fae’s neck, and he turns, meeting Feyre’s gaze beyond the wall of cobalt blue. She extends a hand, says something I’m too distracted to read, and when Azriel does nothing, she waits.

For a moment, his eyes return to the pale, red-headed male, leaning over to whisper something in his ear. Only then do the shadows—and the cobalt wall—fade; leaving me unsure whether I helped at all, or if it was all Feyre’s work.

I feel myself slipping then—back to my own mind—almost coaxed by something beyond my will; gently pushed beyond the bounds of his mind by the male himself. When the world clears anew, I’m still on the floor, a pillow resting beneath my throbbing head, Elain seated on the floor before me; doe eyes watching me intently.

I breathe—deep and sharp—lungs so starved I feel as though I haven’t breathed in an age, and after the fist, another follows, and another, and another; the pain in my chest easing alongside the pace of my heart.

Elain smiles—a faint thing—then looks off somewhere else, and I follow the trail of her gaze; finding Amren pacing the room, eyes murderous.

“That stupid, stupid boy.” She mutters, but quiets down once she notices my eyes; focused upon her. “What did he do.” She demands, face taut and stern. My eyes flutter closed with a sigh.

“Strangled a male…,” I rasp, throat dry and strange.

“Seemed as though he was strangling you too.” She hisses, no humour to her voice; only lethality.

I suck in a long, deep breath.

“Unintentional collateral…,” I sigh on the exhale, reaching a hand to my brow; my head fuzzy and strange alongside the ache—mind distorted.

“You and Azriel are mates.” Elain’s words are soft, and I lift my gaze to hers again.

“Yes… we are…,” I admit—aloud for the first time—tone meek; solemn.

“It wasn’t a question.” She continues sweetly. “I saw it—before.” My eyes widen. “I was somewhere else, but I saw.” I lack the words to say; know not what I could say. “I’m baffled no one else does.”

“You and I both see things others don’t…,” She nods. “In… what tense did you see us being mates?” She frowns. “Present? Future?” I can’t help but ask; can’t quell my hopeful curiosity.

“Past, present, and future. It has no beginning or end.” I should’ve expected that, I suppose.

Amren sighs from her place; still pacing the floor.

“Are you going to get off of the floor soon.” She mutters, evidently annoyed, but I can’t tell whether it’s with me or Azriel; or both.

“I’ll get up when my head stops pounding—thanks for asking.” I mutter, massaging my brow, finding a slight scrape to the left side; the blood already caked.

“I did not come here to be disturbed to this degree. I need to decipher the Book.” I sigh; a sigh lined with a growl.

“Well, I didn’t choose to be floored, did I, Amren?” Her swirling eyes of silver light snap to mine, and I hold their piercing gaze; hold it even as I push myself seated. “I was just about to leave you alone—I’m sorry I didn’t get my feet knocked out from under me in the solitude of the garden instead.” Her nose crinkles with a sneer, and I sigh; running a hand over my eyes.

Past the veil of said hand, I hear her stride for the sitting area; her the click of her soles, and the sigh of her breath.

“You’re forgiven.” She mutters, couch creaking softly, and I decide it’s about time I tried to stand; that I left her well and truly alone.

But my head feels heavy, throbs something horrid. I must have hit it pretty darn hard on the way down; Gods.

Elain offers a hand—dusted in flour—her big brown eyes inviting and kind. I take it, and while she doesn’t pull me to me feet, necessarily, she certainly helps guide me onto them, and keeps a firm hold of my hand as she leads me into the garden; to that group of iron chairs and chaise lounge we often have tea by, after a day spent gardening.

I claim a seat, and she another, letting go of my hand in place of running it down her dusty pink skirt; smoothing over some crinkle or another.

“Can you see… Is he… Is he alright?” I ask, not daring another glimpse down the bond to find out for myself, nor do I trust myself to fling my mind to Dawn; not with the way my head pounds.

“No.” Her answer is much too calm for my taste. “He needs time.”

“Did I…,” I struggle to form the words. “I tugged—on the bond. To try and stop him… do you think…,” I wonder if discussing this with Elain is wise, considering her mate is far away in enemy lands. “Have I pushed him away?” Elain remains quiet for a time; brow furrowed with thought.

“You made a choice—your path has shifted. I can’t see how.” I nod; will myself to be content with that answer.

“You’re doing remarkably—understanding what you see.” I appraise, and Elain smiles; a faint, lovely thing.

“It’s like a painting, but it moves. The more you look, the more you see.” I nod, recognising myself in the words.

“You find more detail.” I agree. “The problem—I’ve found—is looking away once you’ve found what you need.” Elain looks up from her lap, meeting my gaze across the wrought iron table.

“How do you know you’ve found what you need?” She asks, and I offer her an encouraging smile; glad she’s trying to understand—to learn.

“You go in searching for something in particular—for smaller things—so you always feel as though you’ve found something. Otherwise you might get lost looking for eternity.” She nods, absorbing my words; foreboding as they may be.

“But if I don’t choose to go, how do I know what I seek?” A very valid question.

“As a Seer, your visions always carry some higher purpose. Mine do not. I can’t teach you how to discern the purpose of your involuntary visions, but I suggest you start writing down as many details as you can—once you come to. You might find connections in text you wouldn’t otherwise find in sight alone.” It’s the best advise I can give her, and she seems content with it.

“Like you did when I was floating.” So she noticed.

Gods, what more did she notice? Was she aware of Azriel and I’s… well, awkwardness even then?

“Just like that.” I confirm, and a soft smile plays on her lips; warm and lovely.

“Thank you.” Her words prompt my brows to curl; skirting towards a frown.

“For what?” I ask.

“For helping me.” She breathes. “For listening when others thought me mad.”

Chapter Text

Rhys checks in with Amren that same afternoon, asking whether everything’s as it should. Amren confirms as much—forgoing to mention my tumble, because it’s irrelevant—and Rhysand leaves shortly thereafter; offering the briefest explanation that Nesta’s feeling off.

It’s concerning—but nothing immediately so—nothing that disturbs Elain and I as we bake muffins in the kitchen; Nuala and Cerridwen there as silent assistance.

I’ve never baked in my life—hardly cooked for that matter—but at the end of it, we’ve managed to make a basket of decent lemon and vanilla muffins; a basket we both divulge upon once they’ve cooled enough as to not burn our tongues. Elain finishes an entire one before her appetite dwindles, while I only stomach two before I’m full—in part due to lunch being but an hour or two ago—and so we leave the rest for the Circle to enjoy once they return; leaving a note saying we made them, and that they’re free to indulge however they please.

If Elain realises I write out my real name on that note, she doesn’t say.

I wonder if she’s already heard it, in her visions.

The reason I insist on adding our names is… well, partly because I’m proud of my work, and because I’m nervous about the workings of the bond.

If I make food and offer it to everyone, and Azriel has one, does it indirectly count towards accepting the bond? I don’t know—I don’t want to risk the possibility—so if I find Azriel avoiding the basket, I won’t take offence; I’ll assume he’s entertaining a similar trail of thought.

Come nightfall, Elain has long since gone to bed—fallen asleep—but I’m left wide awake in the townhouse guest room, staring into the darkness. I hear it whisper—faintly—the shadows keeping at a distance; as they have since… that night.

It’s almost as if they’re ashamed, and I pray it isn’t a bi-product of Azriel learning of the events that narrowly unfolded in the darkness of my room.

He wasn’t that far away that night, his room just a flight and some hallways away, and that thought… it doesn’t make me feel any better. Since then, I… remnants of the dream come and go—leaves me a little breathless in their wake—but a cold bath quickly takes care of it.

For all I know, he doesn’t suspect a thing.

For all I know, he’s keenly aware.

Thinking back on Elain’s words in the garden—as to his mental state—I take a shot in the dark.

“If he’s brooding somewhere.” I begin, addressing the shadows. They seem to draw closer; flocking to listen. “If he knows what his… outburst did to me… If you’ve told him, and he feels guilty… Could you tell him I’m fine?” They murmur in response, then withdraw, and I suck in a steadying breath; hoping my words come across as I wish. That he takes it the right way. That it doesn’t work to push him away.

Sleep proves as futile from then on as it was prior, but that turns out to be a good thing, as a soft knock sounds at my door; pushing me seated abed.

“Come in.” I call—easing out of bed—and the door opens to reveal Elain, face tear-stained and distressed. I’m on my feet in an instant, illuminating the darkness with a lick of stored light as I stride for her, luckily dressed in a nightgown tonight; having learned my lesson. “What’s wrong?” I ask, grasping her trembling hands and leading the young Fae to the armchair, sitting her down within; kneeling before her.

“They’re crying. Screaming.” She breathes; sobs.

“Who?” I ask, remaining calm—brushing strands of her golden brown hair out of her eyes—though my heart thumps with the urge to panic; to think the worst.

“The world. The earth. Everything.” Her words are a sobbing mess, but I hear. “Make it stop.” She pleads, and my heart churns.

“I can’t, Elain.”

“Make it stop.” I can’t help myself, can’t resist the urge to pull her close—to cradle her against my chest—can’t fight the urge to ease her pain; though I know there’s little I can do. In response, her hands fist my nightgown, her sobs only growing louder, and I fold my wings around her in an effort to comfort; though I’m not sure I’m doing it right.

My door creaks open anew, and I glance behind me to find Amren in the doorway, eyes glimmering with muted concern.

Vision. The world is screaming, she claims. I sign for her, the words weak and faint. She eyes them carefully, silver eyes swirling. Something’s not right. I continue, and she seems to make a decision.

Amren leaves—probably to patrol the city—and so I stay with Elain. No matter how my knees ache, I stay kneeling before her; holding her through this.

~O~

The probable cause behind Elain’s distress is revealed to us the next day, following a violent tremor rippling through the world; born of something ancient, and powerful.

I make to look for the cause myself—one foot kept firmly within myself—but Amren tells me herself before I’ve gotten much further than the outskirts of Velaris.

The wall has fallen; been torn to shreds by the King of Hybern and the Cauldron.

All of us gathered around the dinner table in the townhouse, this should be what we immediately discuss, but no one seems to know where to start; just picking at their food in silent contemplation.

I’m one of them.

This was… We’ve spent the past months working to prevent this, and now…

What now?

Any thought of Azriel—the possible fallout of my actions—completely slips my mind in the wake of this disaster; so much so I forget to be nervous in his presence.

The Wall I gone; the world no longer divided.

The Fae free to enslave humanity anew.

“We should have evacuated months ago.” Nesta says, breaking the silence; referring to the humans south of the wall.

“We can go to your estate tonight—evaluate your household and bring them back here.” Rhys suggests in response.

“They will not come.” Nesta declares.

“Then they will likely die.” Rhys sighs, and Nesta doesn’t seem fond of that answer.

“Can’t you spirit them away somewhere south—far from here?” A good plan in theory, messy in execution.

“That many people? Not without first finding a safe place, which would take time we don’t have.” Rhys seems to consider. “If we get a ship, they can sail—” He isn’t allowed to finish the thought.

“They will demand their families and friends come.” Silence follows, bleak and uncertain, until Elain speaks; ever so softly.

“We could move them to Graysen’s estate.” Whoever this Graysen is, the thought of him seems to unnerve her; gnaw at some wound within. “His father has high walls—made of thick stone. With space for plenty of people and supplies.” I realise she’s wearing a ring then, feel stupid for not noticing before.

A plain iron engagement ring.

My eyes can reach all across the world, but at times I’m utterly blind to the things laid out right before me; as if they’re simply too close.

“His father has been planning for something like this for… a long time. They have defences, stores.” She takes a shallow breath. “And a groove of ash trees, with a cache of weapons made from them.” Sounds like a pleasant fellow.

Cassian’s snarl suggests he agrees.

“If the faeries who attack possess magic,” The Commander begins, tone harsh; so much so Elain recoils. “Then thick stone won’t do much.”

“There are escape tunnels.” Elain goes on, her voice a whisper. “Perhaps it is better than nothing.” The Illyrian brother’s share a glance.

“We can set up a guard—” Cassian begins, but Elain cuts him off, her voice clear and strong.

“No. They… Graysen and his father…,” She trails off, but we all know what she means.

“Then we cloak—” Elain seems intent on stopping conversations before they start today; and good on her, honestly.

“They have hounds. Bred and trained to hunt you. Detect you.” Silence follows, stiff and heavy with thought.

“You can’t mean to leave their castle undefended.” Cassian pushes on in time; tone gentler. “Even with ash, it won’t be enough. We’d need to set wards at the very minimum.” If only my illusions worked at night. I could make the entire castle disappear from the map.

The scent of humans would eventually give them away though; and the walls when any hunting faeries eventually stumble into them.

“I can speak to him.” Elain’s offer is immediately refused by both Feyre and Nesta—the both of them uttering the word ‘No’ in choir—but Elain pushes on; refusing to be denied. “If—if you and… they,” She glances at us all. “come with me, your Fae scents might distract the dogs.” Not a bad idea.

“You’re Fae too.” Nesta points out.

“Glamour me.” She looks to Rhysand, then me. “Illusion me—make me look human. Just long enough to convince him to open his gates to those seeking sanctuary. Perhaps even let you set those wards around the estate.” Not a bad plan. Risky, but not bad.

“This could end very badly, Elain.” Feyre states, her tone even and calm; as if to sway her mind. Elain brushes a thumb over the iron ring on her finger, the act mournful, and sombre.

“It’s already ended badly. Now it’s just a matter of deciding how we meet the consequences.”

“Wisely said.” Mor gives voice to my thoughts, offering Elain a smile before looking to Cassian. “You need to move the Illyrians today.” He nods, then looks to Rhys.

“With the Wall down, we need you to make a few things clear to the Illyrians. I need you at the camp with me—to give one of your pretty speeches before we go.” Rhys’ mouth twitches towards a smile.

“We can all go—then head to the human lands.” He surveys us all. “We have an hour to prepare. Meet back here—then we leave.” I’m gone without a word, bending to the House of Wind to change into my leathers; to prepare for whatever I might face in the war camp and human lands both.

Chapter Text

In the midst of braiding my hair, I realise I’m no longer alone in my suite. Remaining calm, I speak into the apparent emptiness; knowing it’s a lie.

“I can hear you,” I announce, scanning the room through the reflection of my mirror. “There’s no point hiding.” I’m met with silence, but the shadows almost cackle; as if they’re teasing their master for even trying.

I wonder what he hears; what string of mockery they throw his way.

“If you’ve come to convince me not to go to Illyria—or the human lands—you’ve come on a fools errand.” He remains shrouded in shadow, somewhere in the room; somewhere behind me. “If you’ve come to merely watch me, I question your priorities.” To either make him leave, or show himself.

Whichever he chooses—I’ll accept it.

“And if I’ve come to see you.” His even, smooth voice stalls my hands’ path down the intricate weave, as does the sight of him manifesting before the wall behind me; a view I glimpse through the vanity mirror.

“Then I’d consider asking why you didn’t use the main door,” I begin, resuming my weave-work. “But that’d be a stupid question, considering who I’m talking to.” I let a glimmer of humour slip past the forceful calm of my expression—softening the cold into something more inviting—even if I should be walling myself off in preparation for what’s to come.

The shadows swirling about his frame part to reveal the softest of smiles tugging at his lips; the sight a relieving thing.

“How’d the meeting go. I’m not sure I caught anyone mentioning it.” I ask, keeping my tone neutral—if a little cautious—watching him lean back against the wall; getting comfortable.

“Five out of six have joined us.” He answers smoothly, arms folding over his chest.

“And which Court isn’t rallying with us?” I catch the briefest flash of something dangerous in his eyes.

“Autumn.” Tone alone is enough to tell me he isn’t much of a fan of the Autumn Court. “Their High Lord might still be swayed.” The answer feels rehearsed, rather than genuine.

“War will affect him whether he chooses to fight or not—there’s no escaping it.” He nods—hums. Then his attention drifts.

To the right.

To my bed.

My limbs lock for a breath, but I force them to carry on undisturbed despite the way his eyes linger; the shadows thickening.

There shouldn’t be anything left for him to scent—nothing of that night, or the remnants that’ve followed—for I’ve kept the window open to ensure it airs out, but he… there’s something different to the set of his face when he looks at that bed, and the sight of it sends an involuntary thrill down my spine; forces hazy remnants of a dream to surface.

I ruffle my wings—spread them wide and tuck them close—successfully swaying his gaze from the neatly made bed; though his immediate attention is almost as nerve-wrecking. Breathing controlled, I do my best not to tremble as I fasten the last length of my braid—woven snug against my scalp—securing the strands with a leather band.

“Are the shadows a part of you, or something else.” I ask, in part because I’m genuinely curious; and also because the silence is growing much too heavy.

“Both.” He answers, none of what I glimpse in his eyes showing in his voice. I twist upon the stool, facing him; a brow arched in question.

To actually see him there, on the other side of the room—idling against the auburn stone—dark and glorious in his scaly armour… it brings an instant heat to my cheeks; the sight of which I quickly illusion away.

“It’s hard to explain, but they’re an extension of my senses—an extension of my will.” I wait for him to go on; can tell he’s struggling to find the proper words. “But they’re also something else. Something different that’s chosen to fuse with me.”

“Something conscious?” Perhaps it’s foolish to ask—maybe he knows exactly why I’m curious—but I am curious; and I’m getting an answer.

Talking has the added benefit of distracting me. Offers brief reprieve from the thoughts of his pretty face, the alluring might of him—dressed in that armour—how large his wings seem; even folded. And Gods, his scent, it’s consuming; it always has been. Even when it worked to soothe, I could never quite ignore it; the way it sang to me. In here, in this room—my room—it’s more than distracting; breeds desires I cannot let him sense.

I’m not sure how he’d react, if he did.

Mentally cursing the heat blossoming behind my breastbone—spreading through my veins—I weave a scent-shield around myself; skin-tight and subtle.

“In a way.” Azriel answers, playing the part of the oblivious male expertly. So well in fact, I can’t tell whether it’s truly an act or not; though Amren’s suggested as much. “They do as I order—but also what they wish when I don’t give any.” I nod, slowly—trying not to seem too keen—looking to my left hand; where a certain shadow often twirls.

Not now though; the shadows seem strictly pulled to his side right now. Have since the… well, the incident.

“You said you get lost. In the light.” I look to him anew. Chew the inside of my cheek as I trail my gaze up his tall frame; back to his captivating eyes.

“If I drift without keeping track of my surroundings, I sometimes can’t find my way back.” His brows furrow faintly.

“There’s no tether back to your body?” I shake my head.

The only tether here is the one between us.

“It’s just a vast sea of light to traverse—to make sense of. If I get stuck out in the dark, I have to wait ‘til sunrise—or pray the moon and stars supply enough that I can see where I’m going.” I swallow. Cradle my hands in one another. Pick at my nails. “If I don’t find my way back… I wither away, over time.” His posture tenses; jaw flares

“You’ve been lost before?”

“Plenty of times.” I admit, pushing myself standing and fetching my blades from the dresser; intending to strap them to my back.

We only have so much time, after all.

“When I was young… before I learned to control it—I believe I was gone for over three weeks, once. The memories from then are… foggy, but I’m only alive because Healers kept me alive.” I shift my wings to clear the way; lower them so I might fasten the first sheathe. “I learned to… manage it about a decade into my life—but there’s always a risk, even now.” However, the binds prove a nuisance; refuse to do as I wish.

“Do you need help?” I look back at him past the curve of my shoulder; eyes wide.

“What?”

“With the binds.” He clarifies, and I swallow—the thought of him so close beyond daunting—but find myself nodding nonetheless, looking ahead as his soles click along the polished stone, each step calm and composed; although his heart is not.

My own keeps pace with him—thumping in sync—and as the warmth of his presence seeps through my leathers, and his hands assume the task of tying my blades to my back, it’s a task in itself to keep my breathing even; to keep steady and true.

The hot plumes of his breath tickle the back of my head as he works—ever silent—and while I thought his scent consuming before, to be this close to the source chips away at my mental restrains faster than I can rebuild; leaving me grateful for my forethought as heat blooms low in my gut. Scent shield or not, I work to leash it, but with the added distraction of his shadows—not quite touching, but urging me close—I struggle to concentrate; to keep a grasp on my power.

For a moment, I believe I might manage this—his hands swift and efficient as they strap the first blade to my spine—but then he goes on to the other, and as he wills it in place—scissored with its twin—his hand brushes against the base of my wing.

I can’t strangle the gasp—or stop my wing from jerking—nor keep heat from flooding my centre; hot and heady.

Can’t maintain a hold of my barrier.

I hear him heave a breath—sharper than the rest—but his hands continue on as normal; slow and deliberate.

Forcing my mouth shut, I will calm and steady breaths through my nose—though my lungs demand more—and to my horror, even I can scent myself; meaning he definitely can.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, voice a dark rasp; sending shivers down my spine.

“It’s fine.” Though my voice betrays me, breathy and meek as it is.

He fastens the straps, gives them the slightest tug to ensure they’ll hold, then his hands retreat—for long enough that I think him finished—only to return a moment later; gently brushing along the nape of my neck, gathering my braid in his palm.

I close my eyes, casting some pathetic prayer the Mother’s way, begging her to not let this ruin us; that my traitorous body won’t scare him off.

But so far, he doesn’t seem inclined to go anywhere.

“I’ve never seen this.” He mumbles, that roughened edge still very present; and very hot.

“A braid?” I attempt to throw a hint of humour into the mix, but my weightless voice falls flat. He laughs though; a short, sharp chuckle.

“This kind.” I feel the faintest hint of pressure at my roots—Mother help me—assume he’s running a thumb along the weave; whether he’s aware of the sinful workings of my mind or not.

“Seraphim war braids.” I supply, and he lets it fall limply down my neck anew; the weave short by design, my hair looped around itself on many occasions. “Should I braid you one?”

What in the world am I saying.

“My hair’s too short.” I look back at him—glance past my shoulder—well aware my cheeks burn, no illusion to mask it, but in too deep to care; in so deep I might as well enjoy myself.

“No it’s not…,” I make to turn, Azriel taking a step back to allow it; bringing us face to face.

It doesn’t make things easier.

Leaning against the dresser, I asses his dark, lovely hair; more than plenty there to make a tight braid.

“I’d just have to be firm about it.” His eyes narrow, darken—yet somehow glow—hand coming to perch along the dresser’s edge as he leans close; assessing me in a lazy sweep.

I raise my chin—refuse to shrink away at his proximity—the hot plumes of his breath skittering along my cheeks; the radiant heat of his body seeping through my leathers. His eyes return to mine—dark and thrilling—and I wonder for a breath whether I’ve broken him; filed at his resolve to the point of snapping.

Wonder whether this dresser is my fate; and whether I care, should it be so.

However, those smouldering eyes avert—shift to my brow—and soften.

Gently—breath caught in my throat—he reaches out, cupping my forehead with that rough, scarred palm, thumb sweeping over the jagged line of pale skin; all that remains of my tumble the day before. A thin line of new skin.

His eyes sway from it, and whatever primal darkness I coaxed forth prior has been entirely overthrown by this emptiness.

Guilt.

He knows what did this; knows exactly what did this.

“Az—,” His name catches in my throat; words of assurance dying on my tongue.

Never taking his eyes off of that remnant of hurt, his hand slips to the side of my face—my cheek—keeping me steady as he leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss along the pale line before vanishing in a flurry of shadow.

Chapter Text

Despite myself, I debate sitting this one out with Amren—rather than coming along to the Illyrian camp—unsure whether I can face Azriel again after… that; not without my walls melting into a mess anew.

For a time, I juggle the possibility of that having been his plan to begin with, but there’s no way he planned any of that; he just couldn’t have.

Nerves aside, sitting this out feels wrong; very wrong. All I need is a moment to breathe—to breathe air that isn’t laced with his scent—so I conjure a compromise.

Arriving early at the townhouse, I find Rhys alone and express my desire to scout ahead in the human lands; to survey this estate and the surrounding area. He seems hesitant—for good reason—but weighs the pros above the cons and lets me go; on the condition that I allow him into my mind for a clearance report before they winnow in.

I do hesitate at that, but inevitably agree; the discomfort of a mental visitor lesser than that of dissolving in Azriel’s presence.

With an audience no less.

Although, the thought of Rhys glimpsing something he shouldn’t… He wouldn’t tease—not openly the way Cassian might—but he’d still use it to annoy us; I’m sure of it.

The deal settled, Rhys shows me a map, points out the estate, and sends me on my way. In order to conserve both time and energy, I bend across the length of Prythian—high above the clouds—bathing in the blazing sunlight; until I reach what must be the human sliver of the grand island. I base the assumption off of the geology, in part, but also the general lack of magic clinging to the air.

Returning to the physical, I soar high above; invisible by way of an illusion.

Finding Greysen’s estate doesn’t take long—the entire land surrounded by a thick wall of solid stone—and while I don’t dare fly too close, I soar close enough to note the sentries posted by the gate—patrolling the walls—the hounds Elain spoke of amongst them, mercifully calm as I circle the land; a careful wind ensuring my scent never reaches them.

Once I’ve flown as close as I dare, and found hints of the escape tunnels Elain mentioned—which takes a while longer than I’d expected—I settle to just soar; sparing a moment to sort through my thoughts.

I come to the conclusion—or perhaps assumption—that Azriel came to see me because of my fall; wished to make sure I was well. It’s not too far fetched. And from there, being alone with me… That he remained restrained—if somewhat bold—in light of my blunder… it’s admirable; but the truth I glimpsed in his eyes is haunting.

He wanted… well, something, and perhaps he would’ve taken—given the chance—but the kiss he brushed against my temple was not the heated thing I saw brewing in his eyes; it was an apology.

The accumulation of his gnawing guilt.

Amren’s right, I should lend him my praise.

Self-control runs true within that male.

A mere thought of that meagre kiss has my cheeks heating anew, but it… it’s different, softer than the overwhelming heat of desire; gentle and sweet as the kiss itself. It’s the first physical sign he actually cares, and if he’s ready to take that step—slight as it was—I’m ready to take a few steps of my own; when the time is right.

Dark talons tap my mental shields, and I quickly shove all my private thoughts to the back of my mind and push my report to the forefront; opening but a crack for him to slip past.

Is the plan plausible? Rhys asks, and I can tell he desperately wishes it were so.

Yes. The land within the walls is vast enough to hold hundreds—perhaps thousands. I think his way; toss the words down this temporary link.

And they’ll hold? The walls.

Not if subjected to an all-out assault, but should you convince them to let us ward the perimeter, then yes. It’s a perfectly defendable position. I make sure to remain aware of my surroundings; to stay at a safe elevation.

Is it safe to winnow? My eyes drift to the guards; armed to the teeth with both steel and ash weaponry.

Define safe.

So no. I throw him the image; of those sentries stood guard by both the gate and upon the walls.

These are but a fraction of the whole force. Each sentry is equipped with quivers stocked with ash arrows, and daggers strapped to their belts. If you’re doing this, be ready to shield. Take no unnecessary risks.

Do I ever take risks? He drawls, and I roll my eyes.

I’m pretty sure you do. His answer is a low laugh, echoing inside my mind. It’s discomforting, but not enough so to warrant shoving him out.

Stay in the—I was about to say shadows. He chuckles. Stay in the light and observe.

Yes, High Lord. I mock, and he severs the connection with a quick laugh; leaving me to repair my walls and refocus my attention on the world below.

~O~

I watch them winnow in, nothing but a spectre of light as I trail their path towards the estate walls, Elain in the lead; glamoured to be human rather than illusioned due to my absence. It makes no difference. She looks human either way, and that’s all we need.

Elain speaks to the sentries—makes her request—and soon one of the men are seated in a saddle, galloping towards the main estate; more so a fortress than a manor. With nothing but my keen Fae sight—no need to leave my body—I trail the man, watching him enter that fortress of brutal brown stone; glimpsing not one, but two heavily fortified doors separating the outside world from the interior. From there, I return to the outskirts—where my chosen court and friends await—as an unseen observer; as per Rhysand’s command.

I’m backup, should something go awry; in case those skittish, terrified sentries loose an arrow. Left unseen and unknown to give off the appearance of fewer numbers, even if the six of them are powerful in their own right; Elain in her own way.

I wonder whether she’s foreseen the outcome of this; she hasn’t mentioned it if so.

The sisters discuss amongst themselves while I circle, patrolling the sparsely wooded area we wait within at a deliberate and secure distance from Azriel; who looks completely unruffled where he stands beneath a shaded oak.

He should consider becoming an actor; he would do well in theatre.

Finally—after a length of time I never bother to measure—a yellow flag is raised in the distance, by the fortress gate.

“He’ll come out and see you.” One of the guards confirm, and I… I toss a silent prayer to whoever is listening to just… let this go well.

~O~

I do not like the room we’re brought to—the cramped antechamber of the guardhouse—yet I linger in a patch of light therein, observing as instructed; hand poised to brandish a dagger should anything go wrong.

My friends are perfectly capable of getting out of here, should they wish—turn this stone structure to rubble—but precautions are never unnecessary.

Senses honed on the outside, I do not register Feyre and Nesta’s hushed words, but I do hear the rhythmic approach of hooves.

“Two dozen guards.” Azriel murmurs, reporting what I peer beyond to witness; each and every one of said guards armed with a concerning amount of ash daggers. With a glance at Elain, he adds: “And Lord Graysen and his father, Lord Nolan.”

Feet hit the gravel—approach the antechamber—and once the door is thrown aside, a young man stands panting in the doorway.

He looks unapologetically human. Five hundred years living amongst them, and I’ve grown quite used to their lack of magic and otherworldly grace; though I am not blind to their unwavering tenacity—admire it. Alas, I make a point to keep my distance. Not because of ire—or distaste—but because they die so soon, and the thought of befriending one only to watch them fade over the course of what is a mere sliver of my existence… it feels like a special kind of torture; a cruel sort.

Elain and Graysen can’t seem to take their eyes off of one another, the former letting out a gasp at the sight of her fiance, while the latter staggers a step—towards her—only to be halted by a firm hand at his shoulder.

The man who takes up residence at his side must be Lord Nolan; a dreary old man compared to the spry young Lord.

He’s handsome for a human; Graysen. Strong. A kind face. I see why Elain might’ve fancied him; beyond the security their family might’ve offered.

“Sir—Lord Nolan…,” Elain’s words fail her.

“The wall has come down.” Nesta supplies, standing tall at her sister’s side.

Graysen looks to Nesta, sees her Otherness; confusion etched upon his brow.

“How.” His voice is a low rasp.

“I was kidnapped.” Nesta answers coldly. “I was taken by the army invading these lands and turned against my will.”

“How.” Lord Nolan echoes his son.

“There is a Cauldron—a weapon. It grants its owner power to… do such things. I was a test.” From there, Nesta delves into a sharp recounting of the tale; naming all involved in the circumstance.

A Lord of Spring, a treacherous High Priestess. The King of Hybern. Selfish mortal Queens.

“And who are your companions?” To reveal such a thing is a gamble, but being here is likewise a gamble. Thus, Feyre tells them. Introduces each and every one of my present friends; stating their names and purpose within the court.

All except me; though I’m sure she’s aware I’m here.

Our one contingency.

To Lord Nolan’s credit, he doesn’t pale in the wake of all those powerful titles.

“Elain.” Graysen finally breathes. “Elain—why are you with them?”

“Because she is our sister.” Nesta answers for her. “And there is no safer place for her during this war than with us.” Implying this place isn’t safe.

Let’s hope they don’t find it insulting.

Elain finds her voice then—her strength—begging the Lords to open their gates to any humans who might come, to protect them when the human Queens will not. Neither of them respond for a time, but pain ripples in Graysen’s blue eyes as they fall to Elain’s engagement ring.

Our attempted deception—however goodhearted in nature—unravels then, as it’s revealed that they know Elain was turned Fae first; were given a clear report of the proceedings.

They even know about her mate, Lucien.

Rhysand asks the question we’re all thinking. How do they know this—who told them this—but I’ve already realised it myself by then; have glimpsed the dark-haired man approaching this outpost—and I’m not quite sure how to react.

Because the man looks… much like I remember; no whisper of the madness I’ve heard so much about. The blood-thirst.

“I did.” Jurian states, strolling through the door.

Conflicting thoughts aside, I search the perimeters for any of Hybern’s troops—hiding in the shadows—but find nothing; back within the room to hear Jurian claim he’s come alone.

A statement I struggle to trust.

While they talk—Jurian, Lord Nolan, and my friends—I brace to pounce, a dagger drawn; as incorporeal as I am. When he calls the Queens snakes—traitors—I remain sceptical, but… his voice is clear, his eyes likewise; the madness still nowhere to be found. There is only steady calculation and awareness, like the Jurian I remember; the rebel leader of old.

“He resurrected me to turn them to his cause, believing I had gone mad during the five hundred years Amarantha trapped me. So I was reborn, and found myself surrounded by old enemies—faces I had once marked to kill. I found myself on the wrong side of a wall, with the human realm poised to shatter beneath it.” Perhaps I’ve underestimated him.

He looks to Mor, who looks as unconvinced as the rest of us.

“You were my friend.” His voice strains; cracks along the edges. “We fought back-to-back during some battles. And yet you believed me at first sight—believed that I’d ever let them turn me.” No Man fought as fiercely for freedom as he did, why would he side with the Fae intent on destroying the human realm? All over a petty quarrel with Miryam and Drakon.

And why the hell would they run away from him?

Something’s not adding up.

There’s something I… I’m forgetting something. Something important.

“You went mad with—with Clythia. It was madness. It destroyed you.” Mor breathes, and though I agree—witnessed enough of said madness to agree—this haze is…

“And I was glad to do it.” Jurian snarls, almost like he’s become Fae himself. “I was glad to do it, if it brought us an edge in that war. I didn’t care what it did to me, what it broke in me. If it meant we could be free. And I have had five hundred years to think about it. While being held prisoner by my enemy. Five hundred years, Mor.” I shudder, the thought horrific; transforming my own years of nothing into but a drop in the ocean.

Though I… still relate to a degree.

“You played the villain convincingly enough, Jurian.” Rhys cuts in with a purr. His brown eyes snap to the High Lord in the room.

“You should have looked. I expected you to look into my mind—to see the truth. Why didn’t you?” Rhys says nothing for a long time.

“I didn’t want to see her.” I don’t understand what that means—not truly—but the softness with which he says those words—the underlying pain… it tells me enough.

“You mean to imply.” Mor presses. “That you’ve been working to help us during this?”

“Where better to plot your enemy’s demise—to learn their weaknesses—than at their side?” Just like with Clythia.

How did we fail to see it? How did I fail see it?

Even with eyes in all corners of the world, I remain blind.

“Why the obsession to find Miryam and Drakon?” Mor questions.

“It’s what the world expects of me. What Hybern expects. And if he grants my asking price to find them… Drakon has a legion capable of turning the tide in battle. It was why I allied with him during the War. I don’t doubt Drakon still has it trained and ready. Word will have reached him by now. Especially that I am looking for them.”

A warning, then—that bigger things are brewing—to alert the Prince and Princess of Cretea; but if my disappearance didn’t already convey that, then… Unless…

What were the whispers? Why did I have to investigate Hybern? Drakon… Gods he was vague—mentions of… discontent, an amassing armada… but what else… why…

Why is there this fog.

This isn’t making sense.

The bargain is gone—why can’t I remember.

“You don’t want to kill Miryam and Drakon.” Feyre states more than asks the remade human. He shakes his head, just once.

“No. I want to beg their forgiveness.” Looking to my friends, I find silver lining Mor’s eyes; silver she furiously tries to blink away.

“Miryam and Drakon have vanished.” Rhys says, his eyes ever so subtly drifting my way; as if he can sense the presence of my mind here. “Their people with them.” Except me.

“Then find them.” Jurian says, jerking his head in Azriel’s direction. “Send the Shadowsinger—send whomever you trust, but find them.” Silence follows. “Look into my head.” He addresses Rhys. “Look, and see for yourself.”

“Why now, why here?” Jurian holds his gaze.

“Because the wall came down, and now I can move freely—to warn the humans here. Because…,” He loosens a long, deep breath. “Because Tamlin ran right back to Hybern after your meeting ended this morning. Right to their camp in the Spring Court, where Hybern now plans to launch a land assault on Summer—tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Whatever I might wish to say to this man—to ask—is thrown out the window by that damning sentence; that premonition of approaching conflict. Thus, when Azriel vanishes in a cloud of shadow—spearing north to warn Cassian—I follow.

Chapter Text

Cassian doesn’t take the news well.

In a surge of crimson siphons and colourful curses—directed at everything, including himself—the Commander rummages through his things; frantically searching for a map of the Seasonal Courts.

Azriel and I watch—I a pace behind—and in the midst of these crimson flares and spitting growls, the male’s wing unfurls as if to shield me; forging a barrier between his undoubtedly stressed brother and I.

I don’t read into it, will myself to focus as Cassian discerns the right scroll from the disorganised mess and spreads it upon the table, his green-hazel eyes darting across the border between Spring and Summer; focus etched upon his furrowed brow.

A Commander in his natural habitat.

“Estelle.” Seems he found the muffin basket; figures. “Can you find Hybern’s army—point it out to me.” A calm demand; a clear order.

I step forward—Azriel’s wing folding aside to let me pass—and I brace a hand against the worn desk, one eye on the map while I fling the other south; traversing blossoming plains, bustling forests and rushing rivers until finally, I find it.

A grand force of an army—poised just south of Summer, as Jurian claimed—yet nowhere near the full extent of Hybern’s might; it can’t be.

Torn between the here and there—observing this dark mass of death looming on the horizon—I let my left hand hover over the map, index poised to mark the spot; once I figure out the terrain.

Easier said than done when your mind is split in two, and you’ve only been in this land for a few months or so.

Yielding fully to my sight would delay the information. This is fine. I have done this plenty before, I can do it now. Yet, willing my body to move is difficult, the motion jagged as I press my finger to the parchment.

“There…,” I breathe, drawing a rough circle with the scrape of my nail. “They’re there.” That Hybern hasn’t warded the camp from my sight is either a taunt, a move of arrogance; or plain stupidity.

Unless he’s failed to notice I’m gone.

“Numbers.” Cassian demands, and I hold back a cringe.

“I… Many. Thousands. I can’t—” A sharp headache splits my brow, and flinch—sway on my feet—but a hand settles at my back; stabilising me. Back in the here, I lift my eyes to Cassian’s; his expression mildly concerned. “I can’t count them at a glance—give me time.” He nods—looks to Azriel—and I straighten, finding a chair tucked along the wall and slip away, claiming a seat so I might count in relative peace; might drift undisturbed.

“Scout out the terrain.” Cass orders his brother, and shadows instantly flock to him; threaten to consume him. He spares me a glance—just one—before yielding to the dark; so brief I haven’t time to analyse it.

Sighing, I settle against the backrest; letting my eyes fall shut.

Off to count a great deal of heads.

~O~

Hybern’s split force doesn’t outnumber us—not combined with the might of Summer’s army—but the amount of pieces laid out on Cassian’s map over Summer itself is still disconcertingly large.

He mulls over it still—awaiting Azriel’s return—debating where we might relocate camp at such short notice, whether to meet the enemy in the field—catch them unaware—and if so, where to go about it.

We need to ascertain correspondence with Summer before we do anything—a task up to Rhysand—but planning ahead doesn’t hurt; whether said plans must inevitably change or not.

I stand with him now, on the other side of the table, surveying the same map, comparing it to the lands I’ve observed, noting the snaking rivers we might use to our advantage; the hills they might use against us; the valleys we might be funnelled into and cornered.

For a moment, I’m back in Naarm, the Human uprising in its early days, Drakon bracing to assemble the army and push back against the Loyalists; to join rank with the Rebellion.

“I would lure them here.” I mumble, pointing to a field; skirted by a wide river. “It’s open—minimises the risk of an ambush—and the river cuts off their escape-rout south.” Cassian hums.

“You’ve an eye for these things.” He notes.

“I wasn’t a General, per say, but I did command legions in the place of one—when our numbers were stretched thin…,” I admit; voice distant. “The lands of Prythian are quite different from those of Naarm—and the Black Lands—but the principles remain the same.”

“That they do.” Cass agrees as Azriel’s presence fills the room, the male appearing beside me; some steps to the left. Cassian’s attention averts in an instant.

“Your maps mostly are up to date,” He starts, making for the table; and I step aside to make room. “These rivers have run dry, however—a work of the weather.” He points to a handful of branching waterways.

“That does change things…,” Cassian breathes. “Any word from Rhys? Summer?”

“They’ve been made aware. Their army is ready to cooperate.” Azriel answers; voice midnight-smooth. “Rhys should be here any minute—once they’ve settled on a place to engage.”

“Good.” Cassian sighs. “I’d say here.” He points to a rise; not far from the field I suggested. “We can push them south-west towards the river—have Summer intercept and use the water to their advantage.” Right, Summer are Fae of water magic.

“I could hide them.” I suggest, meeting my Commander’s gaze. “Shroud the army in an illusion—let Hybern believe they’re retreating, only to find death lying in wait.” Cassian’s jaw flares.

“That’s a large illusion.” He remarks, looking to the map. “Tarquin’s forces are less than ours, but not insignificant. You’d need to shroud an area around this size.” He motions at the map; lays a few pieces past the river in emphasis.

“I’ve done worse.” I insist. “It would save us energy on a glamour—let Summer be at its strongest.” Cassian hums; considering.

“That’s up to Tarquin.” He looks to Azriel. “Find Rhys—present our suggestions. Hopefully it’ll speed things along.” He hums, takes a step back.

“Where do I fight?” I ask, earning myself both of their attention. “If it’s stationary, I can lock the illusion in place—I don’t need to be idle.” Cassian cringes, softly.

“Estelle, it’s…,” My blood chills, ice spreading through my veins. “This will be different from Adriata. There will be lines, formations—order in a way we weren’t afforded then. I never had the chance to teach you—”

“I can learn.” I insist; tone as chilled as my blood.

“Not in a night.” Cassian’s expression is apologetic, yet I only glare; a cold stare. “Look,” He leans over the desk, eyes solemn. “I don’t doubt your strength—or your experience in warfare—but we have our ways, and if we’d had—another month to prepare you properly, I wouldn’t hesitate to put your blades to use.”

“I can’t just watch.” I hiss, teeth gritted; bared.

In the corner of my eye, Azriel crosses his arms; shadows swirling about his frame.

“If things go to hell—really go to hell—you’re free to start bursting lungs,” Cassian attempts to compromise. “But I can’t integrate you into the army in a night—it’s just not possible.” I heave a breath—steady myself—will myself to calm; to thaw.

This isn’t a hill worth dying on.

He’s right, whether I like it or not.

Being backup… is better than nothing; than orders to stay put.

I can live with that.

“Fine.” I concede, swallowing my pride; my pain. “Fine…,” I sigh, watching Azriel vanish in the corner of my eye; off to present our case.

Chapter Text

We move camp to a temporary location along the northern border of Winter—in a remote part of the mountains—from where we will join Summer in the south come dawn; and rain hell upon Hybern’s invading army. Under the guise of a High Fae Healer, I aid the construction, no matter the biting cold; the ice moulding along my masked feathers.

It’s not an environment I’m particularly accustomed to, but I endure, and come nightfall, I’m assigned a tent of my own—small and cosy—at which point I blow my wings clear of frost and make to settle for the night. However, no matter how I try—draped in warm furs—I can’t sleep; can’t shake the anxiety of a looming battle.

A battle I won’t partake in.

Despite the compromise struck, it doesn’t sit right with me—the thought of watching while my friends face hell itself—and yet I have no choice but to comply; to follow Cassian’s orders. I worry for them all, of course, but the thought of Azriel out there—fighting—putting his life in danger… it unnerves me beyond measure.

I could lose him before I’ve even had him, and maybe that’s exactly why he hasn’t dared get too close; fearing the heartache should things go wrong.

I don’t think it’d make a difference, really. The severing of the bond—solidified or not—destroys a person.

Pain would be the outcome no matter how we went about this.

Sighing, I stop trying, pushing myself seated in the darkness; listening for the shadows.

They’re quiet tonight—withdrawn—and I… With dawn fast approaching—perhaps a few hours away—I debate whether… whether to speak with him, to… talk to him; about all of it. But could I dare? Is he even awake? The uncertainties swirl and thrash—rage within my heart—and my hand comes upon a shed feather in its nervous fussing; a small, precious bit of white.

Could I… no… maybe…

Do I dare?

If nothing else, might I be brave enough to do this one thing?

Would he… understand? Does it matter?

No… No it doesn’t.

~O~

Wrapped in a heavy cloak, I follow the pale thread of moonlight through the frosted roads of our temporary camp, finding his tent amidst the rest—his heart beating a steady rhythm past the icy cloth—and with the binds of the entrance tied shut, I bend inside; using what light I store within, and that of the faelight shimmering upon his desk.

He doesn’t seem startled to see me—appearing out of thin air—as if he knew I was coming; as if the shadows snitched.

In the silence stretched between us, I watch him, the male still clad in his heavy armour; in the midst of sharpening the brutal edge of his Illyrian blade. A helmet of dark metal rests beside him—upon the bench he sits—polished; yet scarred all the same.

Swallowing, I brace to do what I’ve come to do.

Go over the words in my mind one last time; for whatever it’s worth.

“I have something for you.” I begin, voice so soft the winter winds threaten to devour them. Azriel pauses his sharpening; looks at me rather than the blade. “A gift.” His head tilts, hands setting the sword aside at a lean against the bench—right by the raven-feathered helm—the whetstone surrendered all the same.

I wet my wind-whipped lips and dare a step deeper into the dim space, opening my palm to asses the meagre trinket therein; the feather bound to a leather band.

“It’s… When Seraphim go to war, we…,” I stumble over the words; trip over all I’d planned to say. Deciding to forgo the lengthy explanation altogether—to save my dignity—I instead just ask. “Will you let me braid you?” His brows arch ever faintly. “Nothing big, just…,” I hold it up to him; the pitiful trinket I’ve forged. “It’s a token of… luck.” He watches the snow-white feather dangling there for a moment, then his eyes avert to my wings; mind making the connection.

A piece of me tied to him while he fights; a part of me there through every kill and injury.

Following a nerve-wracking few seconds of motionless silence, he nods—the thing so faint I hardly see—and I take a centring breath; though the presence of his scent undoes its calming effect. It only proves worrying today, knowing it might be the last time I ever experience it. The thought leaves my body trembling as I close the distance—claiming a seat to his right—no matter how I work to leash it, my eyes scanning the silken strands of his midnight hair; forging a mental design I figure to be subtle enough for his taste.

He doesn’t move—not a fraction—as I reach up to gather a section of his hair, hardly seems to breathe as I begin the careful process of weaving it; the weft kept snug to his scalp. His wings tremble though—rustle as a nail of mine scrapes along his skin—right one unfolding around my frame, but never touching; encasing me in his radiant warmth.

His hair nearing the end of its reach—the braid forged in an arch around the shell of his ear—I carefully intertwine the leather band with the silky strands, using what remains to tie down the ends once I’m finished; the small feather left dangling behind his earlobe like an earring once my hands retreat. I settle them in my lap—pick at my nails like a fool—and watch Azriel’s siphon-jewelled hand reach up to trail a finger along the thin weave, until it settles at the feather; twirling it gently between index and thumb.

Then he looks at me—looks into my eyes with such depth I feel as if he finds my soul—and that hand replaces the feather with my cheek; his palm rough yet gentle against my skin. I’m left mesmerised, drowning in the golden glow of his eyes; in the flecks of pine green, petals of rich brown, and veins of subtle grey.

He tilts my chin upward—eyes flicking to my lips—and my breath catches; heart jolting. For a moment, I think—but no, he doesn’t lean in; not in the way I dared hope.

Much like this morning, he bends down to settle a kiss upon my brow—right at its centre—this one lingering, savouring the moment, the hand at my cheek keeping me solid before him; thumb running a gentle path along my skin.

I close my eyes and sigh, revelling in the soft, warm feel of his lips against my chilled skin, basking in every shiver it instils—every goosebump—my breath a quivering mess in its wake.

It’s a thank you without words, but also a goodbye. A bittersweet sliver of affection that both floods my heart with life and tears it to shreds. Treacherous tears line my eyes in silver mist, but I order them not to fall. Command myself to stay strong. Convince myself that thanks to Jurian’s information we’ll end this swiftly; that it’ll be a clean victory.

I will see him again; and not as a mangled bit of meat on a gory battlefield.

I will not allow any other future than the one in which he lives.

When his lips leave me, his forehead takes their place, lingering against mine as he breathes; every breath slow and controlled. Much too soon, he pulls away entirely, his wing uncoiling from my body; the male turning away to gather his sword and helmet. He stands, shadows trailing his every move as he sheaths the blade to his spine, bracing to leave; to ensure everything’s in order before our departure.

But before he does—before the shadows carry him away—I find the strength to speak.

“Don’t die.” It’s not a request, but a demand.

He looks away from the pointed assessment of his helmet, hesitant in a way that makes me wonder whether that helm is but a means to keep from joining me anew; to sit with me a moment longer. If I could stand—if my legs were not useless heaps of mush—I would feel no inclination to do so; would rather stay here with him forever.

Would rather defy the dawn indefinitely.

“Don’t die.” A plea, and a promise; one I hope he understands the weight of.

The only answer I receive is a smile, then he’s gone like mist on the wind.

Chapter Text

When the Illyrians take to the skies, I instead take to the light, sent ahead to prepare High Lord Tarquin’s winnow point; where he’s to bring his army before long. I don’t waste time—shown the agreed upon strip of land in advance—weaving an intricate illusion around the perimeter, and further still; taking possible discrepancies into account.

The subtle sheen of my scent and sound barrier works as a general border—for those who cannot feel the light bending around them—and from there I… wait. I stand by the river’s rocky edge and look north; towards the field soon to become a muddy mess of blood and gore.

Where we will sandwich Hybern between one death and another.

The irony of the situation doesn’t escape me—chafes at my heart—but evidently, I… I’ve learned from my mistakes; I hope.

One with the light—an absent thought dedicated to animating the wind and fluttering grass within the fabricated dome of existence—I work to assure myself of this; that we indeed do not dive head-first into a trap.

There are no armies laying in wait—as far as my sight can glimpse—and the one marching into Summer is following the predicted path thus far. If we must relocate at some point, that’s simple enough, but for now all is well.

For now, I must only wait, and silence all thoughts of Azriel; of the feather now woven into his hair.

Gods, if—

Power ripples through the air, reminiscent of a crashing wave; flooding the air with the scent of salt and kelp. I turn, only to find an army where once was an idyllic riverside meadow, and I spare a glance into the outside world to ensure my illusion holds; that this meadow remains untouched.

No crack. Not even a ripple. Just the gentle summer breeze, and the occasional flutter of a critter darting through the high grass.

Assured that my work is up to par, I return to the dome, assessing the three figures mounted upon armoured steeds at the forefront of the army; the High Lord of Summer easily distinguishable by way of his white-gold crown of sapphires.

There’s something sceptical in the way they eye the world, as if expecting some… evidence of my power, yet finding none save for the hint of gold; or perhaps they’re looking for me.

Conversing with the Summer Fae wasn’t exactly on the table, but… They’re our allies, and a few words offered in good faith won’t hurt.

I materialise by the riverbank, slowly, ensuring the leading three Fae are well aware of something in their presence as to not earn myself an arrow to the heart; or a dagger for that matter.

“High Lord Tarquin.” I greet, offering a polite bow before I’ve truly returned to the physical; shrouding my wings and elongating my ears as to take on the guise of a High Fae.

Not the same shell as that which I donned amongst the Healers last evening, but an augmentation of my true self; close enough as to not feel too much like a lie, should the truth ever come out.

I don’t care—not truly—whether they know I’m a Seraphim or not; it’s Hybern catching wind of my presence that worries me.

Has he truly not noticed I’m gone, I would like to keep it that way a little longer.

“Estelle of the Night Court—at your service.” I straighten, fully present now, meeting Tarquin’s turquoise gaze; a slight arch to his white brow.

A fascinating contrast—that sea-foam white against ebony skin—his eyes a perfect blend between blue and green. At a glance, it seems a great deal of the Summer Fae share their High Lord’s contrasting features—with some obvious variety—the one at his right especially; though his eyes are brown.

That brown-eyed male frowns at the sight of his Lord dismounting—abandoning the relative safety of his saddle—and approaching the stranger they perceive me to be; which is a reasonable reaction.

“You are the Illusionist?” A fitting title, with Spymaster already claimed by another.

“I am.” I confirm, willing a pleasant smile upon my lips.

“You obviously know who I am.” He goes on, a charming smile curling onto his lips. Then he turns, motioning to the brown eyed male saddled behind him. “This is Varian, Prince of Adriata and my second in command.” I note the name, and further catalogue his face in turn. “And this is Aequore, Commander of my terrestrial army.” I spare them both a curt nod.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I lay it on thicker than I need to, but alas, this is politics. “Shall we go over the plan? If only to refresh one’s memory.” I suggest, eyes averting to the Lord amongst us; the male with true authority here.

I regret to admit it, but he does command it; by the nature of what he is.

“We shall.” Tarquin agrees, face losing its charming lustre in place of something grave; focused.

Averting my focus to a clear chunk of land between me and the Summer Fae, I conjure a map of the fields ahead; and the valleys surrounding them.

“Our recent-most report—” Ignoring it’s my own observation from mere minutes ago. “indicates that Hybern is indeed due to pass through the field ahead, as predicted—their current trajectory suggesting they’ll arrive through this valley by midday—at the latest.” I illuminate the corresponding section of the map, tracing a line into the adjacent field. “By then, the Illyrians and Darkbringers should be ready to engage from the sky and hills respectively,” I illuminate said hills, crossing their line with that of Hybern’s. “If all goes well, the element of surprise should prompt a swift retreat, at which point we will funnel the fleeing soldiers towards the river—so you may do away with the stragglers as you please.” Tarquin hums.

“Were I a lesser male, I would find the arrangement insulting—being reduced to a mere… scavenger.” The High Lord muses. “But we lost many during the siege of Adriata, and on such short notice… I admit the plan is sound. We could not face this legion on our own.” A bold thing to admit, but I need only use my eyes to see the truth for myself. Before I’ve the chance to offer my piece on the matter, Varian cuts in:

“And if all doesn’t go well.” A sharp few words; a pointed question.

I swallow the anxiety—the dread—and will words to fall from my tongue.

“I choose to believe it unlikely, but on the off-chance that all goes to hell, you are more than welcome to part the river and wedge Hybern’s forces between two armies. The call is yours, High Lord—should it come to that—but I will not linger in the case of disaster. Should you choose to wait, the illusion will hold even in my absence.” The male looks to me, assessing; noting the leathers I don and the scimitars strapped to my back.

“What is your rank within the Night Court, if I may ask—beyond Illusionist.” A good question without a clear answer. Stalling, I smile; will air down my lungs.

“I am a recent addition to the Court, and currently hold no titles beyond my name and practice.” His white brows furrow; stark against his tanned skin. “However, I served as acting Commander of localised legions during the War five hundred years ago.” They arch at that, something startled in his expression. Even Varian’s cold scrutiny smooths into something new.

“What banner?” Amren’s contact asks, an air of accusation in the Summer male’s voice.

I hesitate, though only for a breath.

“Naarm.” That air of suspicion leaves the male’s eyes, and Tarquin’s settle into something less comical.

“I—I did not realise you were—”

“Old?” I ask, offering the High Lord a coy smile. “My Lord, it’s not polite to discuss a female’s age.” The young male—under a century old, if Rhysand’s debriefing doesn’t fail me—darkens a shade. “But yes—I’m old enough, to be sure.” I assess my conjured map anew, all humour draining from my face. “In any case, should Hybern stray from their predicted path, or the battle push them in a different direction, we may easily relocate downriver—granted you follow my instructions.” In the corner of my eye, Tarquin nods.

“We will follow you, should it come to that.” From there, all we must do is wait.

Chapter Text

I watch from the river’s edge as Hybern’s army trudges through the opposing field, and likewise watch as Rhysand unveils the full might of his.

Illyrians descend from above—shields of red and blue and green blazing amidst their ranks—and Darkbringers charge from below, sending a wave of roiling darkness into the startled army; scrambling to face this sudden threat. I glimpse Rhys, Cass, and Azriel spread throughout the front lines, their raven-feathered helmets obvious amidst the smooth domes of those around, and I can only watch—and pray—as the armies collide.

Can only watch in quiet awe as plumes of smoke mark their path of destruction, and silently pray for all of Hybern’s army to meet a swift and painful death.

The Summer Fae’s soft murmurs fade as I sink into the light, ascending so I might watch from a better vantage point, awestruck at the sight of Cassian beating the ever living shit out of the left flank, crimson power finding its mark or bouncing off of shields; a brutal blade swung to compensate. However, where shields hold true—no matter how our side attempts to shatter them—Rhys and Azriel swoop in to handle it, darkness and cobalt tearing them apart as surely as their blades shred their enemies.

What manages to slip past the near-impenetrable lines of the Illyrian army, the Darkbringers take care of; swift and precise in their lethality.

Before long, the field of golden grass and summer blossoms has transformed into a muddy pit of death—one gleaming red in the sweltering sun—the Illyrian lines pushing Hybern’s forces closer and closer to the narrow, yet deep river.

As planned, Hybern quickly spirals into a panic—lines dissolving before my eyes—Cassian’s work disbanding the left flank and herding the army west threatening to shatter their resolve entirely. All except one male, seated tall and true upon an armoured horse.

A Commander.

I watch Cassian pin him down as his next target, and though all my senses scream at me to keep an eye on Azriel, I can’t help but watch as he tears his way through soldier after soldier, ramming through foe after foe in his pursuit of this steadfast male.

It’s a sight to say the least, the sheer bloodshed left in Cassian’s wake; his capacity for violence contrasting the kindness I know dwells within his heart.

Reminds me of a male long gone.

Torn between a smirk and a frown, I watch the Commander realise what’s coming—the unstoppable force of nature that has him locked on target—watch him desperately search for a better weapon than his curved blade.

That the Illyrian brothers have notably different fighting styles has never been quite as obvious as it is now; laid bare in open warfare. Rhysand fights with the brutality of any other Illyrian, but with a reliance on magic only few of the winged warriors are afforded. Azriel on the other hand moves with a fluidity and speed bestowed upon him by the shadows—not dissimilar to my own style of combat—though remains distinctly Illyrian in his methods. Cassian however is the prime example of an Illyrian warrior, a being born for the battlefield; born to paint the earth red with both power and blade.

Breath caught in my throat, I watch the horseback Commander find a spear amidst the chaos—find my mind reeling at the sight—a thought from intervening as he hurtles it at Cassian, but the male braces, taking the spear right to his round shield; hardly moved by the harrowing impact. I let my breath go with a stuttering gasp, hand pressed to my chest; heart unsteady. Swallowing—willing calm into my nervous limbs—I watch the Commander of the Illyrian army sheathe his blades to his spine, plucking another of Hybern’s spears from the muddied earth and hurtling it across the battlefield with such precision and force I’m almost jealous.

For it hits home—flies true—flinging the male off of his horse at the impact. By the time he hits the ground, Cassian’s there, finishing the job with a downwards thrust.

Their Commander gone, the army flees—makes a break for the river as planned—only to pass through the bounds of my illusion and find Tarquin’s army waiting, spears raised and ready; my illusion and scent-shield falling away entirely.

Surrounded, what was previously a decently even battle becomes and all-out slaughter in our favour, and shoving through the rising bile of familiarity, I drift across the battlefield—unseen and unknown—finding Azriel in the thick of it. Busy as he is—the battle not yet won—I stay at a distance, but watch for any sign of injury. He’s covered in mud—drenched in blood that is not his—but fine; and that’s all I wanted to know.

All the assurance I need; and more than I’m entitled to.

Hybern’s soldiers surrender—one after the other—falling to their knees beneath the sweltering midday sun; left at the mercy of the High Lord of Summer.

Tarquin, it seems, doesn’t have an ounce of mercy to give; and I don’t blame him. With a flick of the wrist, the order is given, and I watch with no lack of satisfaction as they scream—beg for their pathetic lives—offering to yield information in exchange for a few more moments of life. They’re picked out from the bunch—hauled off for questioning—then Tarquin extends a hand; drowning the remaining soldiers on dry land.

I watch.

Watch water force its way down their throats. Watch them claw and thrash and convulse upon the bloody earth.

Watch them fall still, and cold, and lifeless.

I watch, wishing it was my power ripping the air from their lungs.

Chapter Text

We decide to move camp to the advantageous rise overlooking the battlefield, and while I long to see him—just to glimpse him for a moment—I focus on aiding the move; constructing tents under the guise of a Darkbringer High Fae—because they don’t talk much—as supplies are winnowed over in increments.

While I work, I hear the whispers tossed between younger Illyrians—of that spear Cassian threw. How he cut down soldiers like stalks of wheat.

Enalius, they compare him to; a name I don’t know, but vow to educate myself on once we return home. I assume it to be some renowned warrior of their kind though, and the praise is well deserved.

In due time, I end up in the healer’s tent—donning a new, female shell—helping where I can; be it cleaning shallow cuts risking infection, or helping keep a poor soul’s guts inside while another stitches them together.

A downside to my Seraphim gift. It can forge temporary bandages—if used correctly—but mend flesh? No. Still, my presence is appreciated by the real healers, and when there are no simple wounds for me to treat, I resign to wash bandages, and fetch clean water. As such, I linger well into the evening—dinner forgotten—until a gentle tug at the rib above my heart leaves me frozen in place; a bucket of clean water forgotten in my hands.

Again, I feel it—subtle but unmistakable—and my eyes snap in a direction; his direction.

There’s no urgency about it—no demand—but the request is clear.

Come here.

Snapping out of it, I hand the bucket to the right healer and make to leave, following the pale string of moonlight and shadow to what I assume to be his tent; pushing the cloth aside and stepping within.

The interior reeks of blood and death and sweat, but Azriel hardly seems to mind. Beyond his hands and face, he’s made no effort to wash himself—armour left caked in a layer of mud and grime—though his helmet rests pristine and polished upon his weathered desk; those raven feathers gleaming in the faelight.

If Azriel’s surprised to find a High Fae female in his tent, he doesn’t show it; nor does he react as my disguise dissolves into nothing. Waiting, I fold my arms across my chest—his summons answered—awaiting orders.

He looks up from the map unfurled upon the table, eyes cold and guarded—not a hint of the smile he offered this morning—the frigidness of battle wrapped snug around his features; an impenetrable barrier of lethal calm. I can’t say I’m much better, the embarrassingly flustered female I’d been this morning replaced by a solid sheet of calm collect; a forced indifference in the name of self-preservation.

“The rest of his army—we need to find it.” He begins coolly, his first words addressed to me directly in a long time; even before this battle.

But Azriel’s silence isn’t without voice; can be as loud as Cassian, if only you stop to listen.

“I’m at your service.” I answer with equal calm—a slight nod—and Azriel motions to a bench situated to his right; behind the desk at which he sits. I approach, sparing the map a glance; one detailing the Seasonal Courts, and Prythian past the crumbled Wall. “Anywhere I should start?” I ask, noting a pile of unfurling scrolls to his left; reports, old or new.

“Spring Court.” He instructs, and I settle upon the bench with a quiet sigh; letting my eyes fall closed.

“I’ll be back by sundown.” I explain—the event of which only a few hours away—flinging my entire consciousness into the world to save both time and energy; searching the lush yet ravaged lands of Spring for any hint of Hybern’s remaining forces, or additional offshoots.

I find nothing.

Not a glimpse of Hybern; only the destruction he’s left behind.

It would seem he’s warded himself from me after all—is aware I’ve escaped—but why do so now and not shroud the army we just faced? Why let me find one, and not the other?

He’s planning something, and not knowing what unnerves me enough that I keep searching well past what’s safe; the sun a mere blip on the horizon by the time I relent and spear back towards myself.

Coming to, I find a group of spies under Azriel’s employ standing beyond his desk, none so much as daring a glance in my direction. I find the reason in the form of Azriel’s right wing, flared in silent warning, their attention honed on the Spymaster—voice clear and unwavering—as he assigns them their respective areas of interest; expeditions into enemy territory, and preventative posts throughout Prythian as a whole.

Weaving a net of eyes and ears across the grand island; to compensate where our powers fail.

I roll my shoulders—stretch my neck—limbs gone stiff in the wake of such a length of stillness, and the audible cracks popping throughout my joints earns me not only Azriel’s attention, but that of his spies.

His brow arches in silent inquiry, and I shake my head, prompting the male to look ahead. In a hurry, the spies do the same, but with the way Azriel’s shadows thicken and flare, their aversion failed to escape his notice.

He makes quick work of dispatching them, and only once they’ve funnelled into the dimming light of dusk beyond—tent flap fluttering shut behind them—does he seem to relax; wings folding closed to rest against his back.

“He’s hiding behind wards—the kind even I can’t see through.” I sigh. “If he’s still in Spring, I can’t locate him.” Azriel nods, shifting to rest his chin within his palm—hunched over the map—elbow perched on his desk; shadows restless and loud.

“My shadows find nothing either.” A predicament, a bad one in active war, but all is not lost. The spies might find something, be it but a trace; might set us on the right path.

“There’s nothing we can do but wait, then.” He hums; begrudgingly.

I rise, and his attention snaps my way, watching as I stretch—joint after joint unspooling with a pleasant pop—a low hum falling from my lips. Azriel doesn’t seem quite as pleased by the sound as I am by the feel, a subtle flicker of discomfort brushing down the bond.

Night upon us, and idle time on my hands, I make to leave—perhaps fly—feeling much too restless to stay still another moment.

“Where are you going.” The words are calmer than last he blurted them, and I stop in my tracks—turn to look at him—a thought brushing my mind; one born at the sight of his muddy, bloody self.

A devious, tempting thing.

Too tempting.

“To fetch a bucket.” The words pour from my lips in a calm trickle. Perhaps too calm for what I have in mind. A testament to the lingering numbness of battle—whether I fought or not—coursing through my veins.

“Why.” The word is accompanied by a subtle frown, and I sniff the air; cringing slightly—enough that he sees.

“You reek.” A snort—quick and sharp—ignites a flicker of light in those bleak hazel eyes

“And you’re to wash me.” A challenging few words.

“You’re clearly not doing it yourself.” I turn to leave, using what light I’ve stored within to warp into my form of a High Fae healer; embarking on the search for a bucket and cloth.

Chapter Text

He remains muddy upon my return—myself once again—and seated by his desk; now freed of everything save for his helmet. I don’t yield beneath the weight of his gaze, standing a pace beyond his door with two buckets in hand—one empty and one not—a cloth resting over one’s metal edge; not an inch. Those eyes—golden in the faelight—sparkle with words unsaid.

Go ahead, they seem to whisper. Clean me, they taunt, accepting my invitation to play; daring me to go through with this.

Chin held high, I stride for his desk, placing my supplies upon the vacated space; undoubtedly the reason he bothered to tidy up at all.

Sly prat.

I yield nothing as I pour some of the water from one bucket to another, using the clean fraction to soak the cloth; squeezing out excess with a clenched fist. All the while, I assess his armoured self with a sweeping glance.

“Am I to undress you as well, Shadowsinger?” Something dark and mischievous passes over his expression; subtle yet there.

The sight of that alone means I’ve won. Means I’ve managed to ward away the mental ghost of battle; if only a fraction. Still, I intend to follow through. It’s far beyond my comfort zone—where he’s concerned—but the boundaries of our tentative peace have been… stretching as of late, and nothing about this scares me.

It’s thrilling, if anything.

“If I dismiss my armour, it remains unclean.” I can’t tell whether he’s lying, but I note the underlying request.

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Guess I have to wipe you down as you are—for a start.” I hop onto his desk, motioning for him to come closer, and he does as asked, scooting over until he’s seated before me; a leg of mine framing either side of him.

Azriel’s arms settle upon the armrests, though the heart pounding behind his breastbone betrays the ease he attempts to display, a fact I choose to ignore as I work the cloth along the upper rim of his neckline—towards his shoulder—down the layered scales of his left arm. I rinse the cloth twice along the way, and a third as I reach his hand, gently plucking it into my own and wiping his palm clean sweep by sweep; as thorough as the situation allows.

All the while, he… he just watches me. Watches me polish his siphon—work filth from between his fingers—heeding every wordless command as I turn his arm this way and that; in search of every hidden bit of grime.

Not once does he speak. Not once does he comment or tease. In fact, the mischief in his eyes—the challenge—dissolves into something subdued and contented.

There’s almost… adoration in his eyes—hooded as they are—and with the numbness of war gradually replaced by warmth, I find a blush blossoming upon my cheeks; unhidden by illusion. He doesn’t comment on that either, nor do I point out the darkened hue to his cheeks; or the widened state of his pupils.

Oddly enough, his heart is… calm—in a sense—thumping away at a leisurely pace, and my own—while a little louder than usual—is generally at ease.

I’m not nervous—not as I was when I gifted the feather—only exited; thrilled to be allowed this privilege, if that makes sense. Tending to him pleases some primal aspect of myself—possibly connected to the bond—satisfying an ache in the back of my mind.

A desire to be there for him.

To care for him.

There’s desire woven underneath—to be sure—but secondary; faint. Overwritten by something else.

Other arm tended to, I move down his armoured chest, finding scratches and scars littered along the metal—grooves saturated with blood and grime—and I try not to think of their origin as I work them cleaned, ignoring their depth as I polish the siphon above his heart, and move on down; down along the plated panes of his stomach.

Down, until I reach the upper line of his navel, and dare not stray further. Not quite so daring.

Front as clean as cloth and water allows, I look into his eyes anew—overcome by the sheer darkness therein—finding the softest of smiles playing on his lips. Swallowing, I straighten, motioning for him to turn—for his back is just as dirty—and though the male looks content to remain where he is, he does as asked.

It requires noticeable effort to move—to turn in his seat so that his chest rests against the backrest—Azriel undoubtedly tired; more so than he’s willing to admit. To himself or me.

Armoured back unveiled—wings spread wide to grant me reach—I begin.

Cloth soaked, I press it to his neck, wrangling water out of the fabric in a trickle down his spine; bringing some of the filth with it. A start, at the least. From there, I rinse and repeat another time or two before assuming the task of manual scrubbing; carefully working my way between the joints of his wings and the leathery line between membrane and armour.

The back of my hand accidentally brushes against a section of his wing—right along its base—and he hisses; the limb flaring wide.

“Sorry.” I whisper, tone innocent; though my smile is not. “Fair’s fair.” He sighs, head falling limp before him; a trickle of wicked amusement fluttering down the bond.

I avoid them from there—lest he decides to even the playing field in retaliation once I’m done—and soon enough his back is as clean as it’ll be without soap, and while his wings are in need of a wash too, I don’t dare suggest it.

“There—much better.” I conclude, leaning back in my seat upon his desk; an arm perched as support behind me.

Azriel turns ahead anew, looking up at me with those contented eyes; though a hint of mischief lurks within yet again.

“And my legs?” He asks, singular brow raised; a subtle smirk tugging at his lips.

“I can hardly reach from here, can I.” I state, remaining calm; rinsing the cloth to buy time—to consider what he’s asking.

“But I’m not clean.” He argues, and I shoot him a narrowed glance, willing a gentle smirk onto my lips; though my heart raises at the mere thought of what I’m about to say—blood flickering with heat.

“Suppose I’ll kneel, then.” His eyes widen, cheeks blazing. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from losing it; from giving in to the jittery warmth spreading through my body. “Scoot.” I order, and he complies; making space.

Slipping from the table, I bring the buckets along, placing them on the packed ground with a soft thump, my heart hammering out of my chest as I stand before him; motioning for him to rise.

He does, and as he does, I sink onto my knee, hands trembling lightly as I continue this torturous bit of fun.

Because it is.

It’s fun.

New. Thrilling. Exciting. But most importantly fun.

Fun to hear his heart jolt as I move my way down his leg. Fun to hear his sharp intake of breath as I sweep a hand up the inside of his thigh. Fun to coax forth these reactions; to break his solid composure much like he does mine. And I do it one stroke at a time—from hip to foot—only avoiding his front; because that kind of play is…

Logically, anyone could walk in on us, and honestly, that’s not as unnerving as it’s arousing.

Still, I have my limits, and once I’m satisfied with my work—groins left untouched—I sink back upon my calf and look up at him, almost knocked to the floor by the sheer weight of his gaze, heavy with unbridled desire. A quiet gasp, and I scent it; the unmistakable proof of his want. Etched by death and decay, but there; overwhelming and potent

In a heartbeat, I’m set alight; the glimmer doused in oil.

He wants me.

He wants me.

Gods, he wants me—

“Are you clean enough, Spymaster?” The words roll off my tongue in a purr; eyes hooded by the white veil of my lashes. “Or should I wash your wings as well?” A foolish taunt, perhaps, but I’m having too much fun—am far too lost in the allure of him to know what’s good for me—and I know he’s enjoying it too; a lot.

Said wings flare wide—grand and impressive—his chest heaving a long, deep breath, and all I do is wait; a coy smile upon my lips; lashes fluttering like the innocent wings of a dove.

All by design.

All for him.

“There’s some dirt stuck under my armour.” He states instead, voice rough and dark; sending shivers down my spine.

“Then why are you still wearing it?” A dangerous game we play, this one. One I don’t wish to end; would drag out into the dredges of dawn, if he allowed.

His siphons flare, and his armour retracts—magicked away—leaving his leathers beneath; hands coming to undo the straps of the tight jacket one by one. I watch in quiet awe as he works it undone with practised ease, shrugging it off of his shoulders and onto the abandoned seat of his chair; only a loose tunic between him and a bare chest. I see it then, the line of dirt at his throat—where it’s seeped past his defences, and I stand—bucked hauled to the desk—wetting a cloth and stepping close; a hand at his shoulder as I move to wipe it off.

“You’ll soil my shirt if you do that.” I pause, consider; the challenge clear in both voice and eyes once I dare a glimpse into their sinful depths.

“So I’m to undress you now?” I cock a brow—set the cloth aside—Azriel neither stepping back or urging me on.

Letting me decide.

That we’re doing this at all is… a miracle in itself; considering the lengths he’s gone to avoid me.

Elain’s right, tugging on the bond changed something, and while we still need to talk about things at some point—with words—this is fine for now. This is fun. We’re both having fun, and I won’t ruin it for the sake of a heavy conversation; not with war weighing us down as is.

Sucking in a slow breath, I slip my hand down his front, flicking buttons undone as I pass, gradually revealing a chest of swirling tattoos; the same as Cass and Rhys’; as most Illyrian’s I’ve seen thus far.

My descent ends at the snug hem of his trousers—tunic tucked within—and I cast a quiet glance downward; wondering as to the comfort of the… situation I glimpse beyond his waistband. Swallowing, I trail my hand to the buckle of his belt, sparing a cautious glance into his eyes; searching for any sign I’ve gone too far.

There’s none to be found, only darkness so deep the gold is but a sliver of colour; like a solar eclipse in each eye.

I undo the bind, loosen the fit of his waistband, and gently ease my hands past its hem, willing his tunic from its snug confines one tug at a time. The brush of bare skin against my hands is… warm, and soft, and addled with scars both old and new; his torso a sculpted masterpiece beneath my touch.

“You’ll have to undo the buttons at the back yourself.” I calmly explain, hems loosened—hands lingering at his waist—and Azriel complies without a word, reaching back to unlace the buttons keeping his wing-slits shut; one after the other.

Palms pressed to his sides—to the heat of his bare skin—I push the thin cloth up his front, circling to his chest in due time; relishing every point of contact; marvelling at every hard mound of muscle; feeling his heart pound beneath the press of my palm.

Patience waning, Azriel reaches for the thin fabric and tears it off of himself, the feather tucked behind his ear swaying at the motion as he tosses the shirt to some unimportant corner of the room. It remains pure, and untouched; perhaps shielded by his helm.

Despite the chest now bare to me, my focus remans on that little trinket, hand coming to cradle it between thumb and index; the sight of it on him satisfying in a way I can’t name.

A silent claiming. Subtle, but there.

I wonder if he understands. If he knows. If it worked to bridge the gap between us; that tender moment this morning.

I’d like to believe it did; that I did something right for once.

Letting go, I trail my hand to his shoulder, let it settle there as my other runs the cloth along that last line of grime; ever gentle as I work it against his skin.

Despite it all—despite the desire radiating off of him in waves—despite the hand he lets rest at my waist, contentment reins supreme in the subtle hum of the bond; a painful thought brushing my mind in response.

When was he lasted cared for this way? Pampered and tended to?

A long time, I’d wager.

It only makes me value it more; this moment. So much more.

The last smudge of dirt done away with, I lower the cloth and look him in the eye; hopeful it’ll relay the question all on its own.

I seem successful, for Azriel plucks the cloth from my hand; claims it for his own. For a moment, I think he’ll discard it—set it aside—but instead he rinses it clean and lifts it to my cheek, gently willing away a splatter of dirt freckling my skin; residue from my thorough work.

I accept it. Let my eyes fall closed as he works, savouring every moment. Savouring the cool grace of that damp cloth, and the slow sweep of his hand at my waist. Only once he retreats do I open my eyes, finding a smile upon his lips; one so real it takes my breath away.

His eyes flitter between mine, throat bobbing; the hand at my waist stalling.

“You should go…,” He mumbles—tone apologetic, but insistent—though his hand lingers at my side all the same; contradicting himself.

I sigh, appalled by the thought of returning to my lonely tent. Alas, the game’s over, and Azriel is setting a boundary. I’d be a fool to refuse him.

“I’ll keep searching tomorrow.” I mumble in return, eyes averting to the swirls of black ink snaking like shadows across his chest, shoulders, and probably his back; skirted by the real flutter of living darkness. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.” I continue, tracing a daring finger along one of said swirls, just above his heart; the vibrations of his chest carrying into my own body.

“If you drift, I want you here.” A gentle request; one I accept with a nod. “If you leave camp and need help… Just call for me.” I nod again, lifting my gaze to his.

Weren’t he so terribly tall, I could kiss him right now. Would love nothing more than to lay my lips to rest against his; to sink my teeth into him. To run my tongue along the seam of his mouth, slip within, and find out what makes him sing.

His eyes drop—flick to my lips—a quiet, pained expression flashing upon his face; hand replacing the curve of my hip with the edge of the desk.

“You should go.” Insistent this time—strained—though I feel as if he’s attempting to convince himself more so than persuade me.

I step back—however it hurts to part from him—summoning a thin scent shield around myself as I make for the door; for the sake of my dignity. He doesn’t stop me—though a part of me wishes he would—and when I come before the door, I pause; turn to look at him one last time.

He’s summoned his shirt—clutched in his palm—but the dishevelled male makes no move to dress himself; only looks to me with tired, tortured eyes.

A torture of his own design, perhaps, but if he deems it best I leave… I’ll listen.

Offering one last smile—brighter than all the rest—I use what light I’ve soaked within myself to illusion my wings away; stepping into the night without another word.

Once settled within the darkness of my tent—on rather than under my furs—my leathers exchanged for a tunic and breeches in this heat, I feel the gentle caress of cool shadows brushing against my body, warding away the summer heat; damp and heavy even after dark. For a moment, I think they might’ve come to relieve my of my bodily burdens—as want yet courses through my blood—but they merely settle against my skin like a blanket of soothing cold, murmuring sweet nothings as I slowly drift to sleep; haunted by dreams of bare skin, and eclipsed eyes.

Chapter Text

The Healer’s tent is a mess come dawn—as it was the evening prior—so though I should be out in the world, seizing the light of day, I don my healer’s disguise instead; doing what I can for those in need.

Change old bandages. Clean dirty ones. Disinfect wounds. Drain abscesses. Anything the healers need done that doesn’t require magic, so they might focus their efforts on those in immediate danger. All the while, I consider my options; how to go about searching for something that is hidden.

For all intents and purposes, if my sight is compromised, then I must leave camp wholly and explore in person, but even then, there are glamours to consider, and wards to look out for.

Hybern trapped me once, he could do it again; so how.

I feel it borders the edge of apathy to mull over this while stood before a host of dying soldier—brutalised and battered—but we all cope in our own ways; and war waits for no one.

In the midst of washing the feet of a male showing signs of early-onset trench foot—made worse by the humidity of Summer—it comes to me.

Footprints.

A marching army leaves footprints whether they take care to glamour themselves or not, and if nothing else, they’ll offer a direction. A path to follow. Triangulate.

Finishing my task, I refill the bucket with clean water, leave it with a healer in need, and slip into the light behind the veil of a tent; spearing towards Azriel’s.

He’s with someone—a spy I recognise from the day before—a fresh pile of reports on his desk; the two engaged in hushed conversation. Thus, I linger in the light, waiting—reading lips—biting back the bout of nervousness at the sight of him; working to settle my heart.

Yesterday was… something.

Something I don’t regret, but to look him in the eye again… I can keep it professional—I must—we’ve bigger things to worry about now; have no time for distractions. The issue can’t be shelved another day.

Only once the spy leaves the cramped confines of Azriel’s makeshift office do I materialise, his eyes quickly darting to mine; the shadows of the room thickening

“I have an idea.” I state in place of greeting; steering us on the right track from the start.

He straightens, lifts his chin; a silent invitation to speak.

“Footsteps,” I declare, approaching the other end of his crude desk; blocking the image of myself seated upon it from my mind. “While Hybern’s wards are undoubtedly powerful, he might’ve failed to consider the footsteps an army leaves behind.” Azriel’s eyes avert, thoughtful; considering. They fall to his map, brow faintly furrowed.

“You would have to search the entirety of Prythian from here to the southern sea.” He argues; as if thinking it an impossibility.

“We have sixteen hours of daylight left.” I retort, steadfast in my conviction; my intent. Azriel’s jaw tenses, but chin dips with a nod all the same.

“I’ll send word to my spies—tell them to keep an eye out alongside you.” I nod, turn to leave; begin to fade. “Estelle,” I pause; look to him past the bend of my wing. He swallows, wings rustling behind his back. “Report back by dusk.” A tense request. No, nervous.

I spare a smile, aiming to assure.

“As you wish, Spymaster.” The shadows bristle, but I don’t linger to watch my words take effect; to see whether my blatant tease has the desired reaction. Instead, I spear into the blazing light of Summer, and further still, methodically scanning every field and valley and canopied forest.

The hours blend into one, as do the vast stretches of untouched land, determination and necessity fuelling my mind as I investigate what’s essentially all of Prythian south of Winter’s frozen mountains; sparing the entire length of the western coast an added glance, just in case.

By nightfall, I’m tired, frustrated—and annoyed—a fact I don’t care to mask as I reappear within Azriel’s tent; arms crossed and brows furrowed.

He’s having tea—something herbal and sharp—going over reports, his brow etched with a frown of his own, though it softens at the sight of me; arches towards a question. I shake my head, make for that desk anew, waving a loose wrist over the southern territories of Prythian.

“I searched it all—nothing.” My voice is a hissing rasp, roughened by disuse. Azriel rolls up his note—discards it amongst the rest—something disbelieving in the hazel of his eyes. “No boats either,” I motion to the western waters. “Just nothing.” I press my palm to the wood with some force; Azriel’s tea rippling in its weathered cup.

A draught to keep him awake, if my sense don’t mistake me.

“We’ll find them.” Azriel tries to assure; affirm. I hum. Sceptical. Worried.

Worried they’ll find us before we find them.

“Have you eaten.” It’s a question, but not really. Lifting my eyes from the map, I grow intensely and uncomfortably aware of the hollowness of my stomach.

“No.” Something disappointed passes over his expression, brief and subtle. He stands, the movement sudden and stiff.

“Wait here.” He mumbles, turning the table; passing me with a brush of gathering shadow.

“What?” I turn—lean against the table—eyes wide. He doesn’t elaborate; fades into the dark. “Azriel, you don’t—” And then he’s gone; that usual puff of smoke left in his wake.

I sigh, and despite myself, stay; torn between flattery and embarrassment.

I’m a grown female—five centuries old and counting—I can fetch my own food; throw elbows with Illyrians and High Fae just fine.

In the midst of my quiet frustration, a soft rattle sounds behind me, and I whirl, finding a tray of food settled upon the desk; the meagre soup still rippling within the bowl; the dry loaf of bread rocking back and forth.

I glance about the room, try to feel for Azriel’s presence, but nothing; his heart a distant thing.

The message’s clear enough though, and I sigh, claiming that wooden bowl in hand—bread in the other—and make for his fur-clad bench; dipping the loaf within the broth and resigning to eat.

Alone or not.

Chapter Text

The stag grazes carelessly upon the meadow, arching antlers pristine and grand upon its lovely head; completely unaware of the spectre stood poised at its right.

Death waiting but an arm’s length away.

Despite myself, I watch the beast—spare a moment to appreciate its slender limbs and lithe build; the strength corded beneath its auburn fur. I pet it, even; though he cannot feel the phantom grace of my spectral hand.

Breathing a soundless sigh, I unsheathe my blade and thrust it into his heart, the stag bleating a final cry before crumpling onto the summer grass; steadily staining red, much like my hands

A necessary evil.

Feeding an army as grand as ours requires a whole lot of food, and following the fifty years Prythian’s spent under foreign occupation—prior to my arrival—the Courts’ food stores are meagre at best, and a stag this size… it’ll feed us another day; is blood I gladly spill.

Fully returned to the physical, I crouch before the beast, thoughts whirling as I remind myself how it’s done. Where to gut it. What parts to save. How to skin it properly. It’s a bloody, gruelling process, but best done in the moment rather than letting the flies and heat get to it; or the general filth of camp, trampled and muddy as it’s become.

I store its powerful heart in a satchel, its liver likewise—kidneys too—meanwhile, I think. Think of the animals inhabiting this world, how their senses have adapted to combat the Fae who hunt them. Would birds flee from a marching army; sense the disturbance in the air? Would a deer bolt at a tremble in the earth; induced by a lumbering horde?

Maybe. A plausible avenue to explore.

The rest of the guts I leave to the scavengers, all while rolling the hide into a bundle; bound to serve some purpose. The stag itself—bare and meaty—I bind its legs together with a solid coil of air and haul it over my back; need only grip it long enough to bring it to the butcher, after all.

The kitchen staff never see me, but return to their butchering block to the sight of a stag strung up to bleed dry; a bloody satchel waiting beside. A part of me would love to watch their reaction—would love to show myself in full so that the Illyrian males know a female caught their dinner—but alas, I’ve places to be; a day to seize.

A theory to test.

By this hour, Azriel’s spies are nowhere to be found—only their master—the Shadowsinger hunched over the map, moving pieces about; cataloguing where he’s been, and where he might yet search. I’ve already scanned it all—more or less—but he’s being thorough in his own right; much like I refuse to give in.

“Have your contacts reported any animals acting strange?” I ask in form of greeting, the male straightening with a jolt, nostrils flaring; eyes darting along my frame.

“What did you do.” He demands, and I look upon my bloody hands; red caked along my golden skin.

“Caught supper.” I explain, voice void of feeling. “The animals—are they acting strange.” I press, and he stands—ignoring me—lifting his chair by the backrest and settling it in the open; a sloshing bucket placed beside. “Azriel—”

“Sit.” He motions at the chair, other hand fishing out a cloth from the bucket; water squelching as he wrangles it damp.

I stall—surprised—unsure, but he remains steadfast in his conviction; doesn’t rescind the invitation. Wordlessly, I cross the distance, sinking upon the worn wood with a slow sigh; eyeing the male beside me with a mixture of caution and anticipation.

He plucks my chin in his hand, lifting—tilting—then, ever gentle, sweeps that damp cloth along my blood-splattered brow; my cheeks; the uneven bridge of my nose.

“What about the animals.” He asks—though tone eludes him—easing that rough yet pleasant strip of cloth down my jaw; tipping my head back so he might reach my neck.

“They’re primitive beings. Easily spooked.” I begin, mumbling—eyes fluttering closed—heeding the subtle coax of his hand. “Even a glamour can’t stop the wind from shifting—keep birds from fleeing the slightest inconsistency…,” He hums, listening. Cloth retreating—hand likewise—the groan of leather fills its absence, and I pry my eyes open to the sight of him kneeling at my feet; rinsing the bloody cloth within the basin.

His hand is an absent but undeniable weight along the curve of my knee, his focus honed on that bloody cloth, but his thumb… it runs circles along the inside of my thigh; muted through my leathers, but unmistakable.

I swallow—loose my trail of thought—throat dry and cheeks hot. He throws me a look—an arched brow—willing me to go on; to elaborate. Sucking in a slow, steadying breath, I straighten; tuck my wings close; get my shit together.

“I thought—perhaps—if we can’t see past the wards, maybe they can.” I clear my throat. “Use nature against him.” He lets go of my knee, plucks my arm from the armrest, and unfurls my bloody palm; his fingers rough against my calloused skin; scars stark against my own.

“Clever.” He muses, running that cool cloth over my worn digits, bloody water dripping from my knuckles; seeping into the flooring.

“Truly?” I ask, something warm fluttering within the mess of my heart; the unusual blend of forceful calm and stirring emotion.

“Yes.” He mumbles, working away at the grime stuck to my nails; willing it away.

Finished with one, he returns my arm to its rest and moves on to the next.

“You don’t have to do this…,” I breathe, my heart conflicted; torn between elation and devastation; between adoration and embarrassment.

“I know.” I look away—at anything but him—and weight what rout to take; what region to investigate first. “Bring lunch this time.” Azriel orders; though the words aren’t harsh, in that sense. More like a request, if anything.

“Okay.” I surrender, because I can’t but bend to his will.

Chapter Text

Theoretically, an army the size of which we expect—and smaller offshoots of it likewise—are bound to leave a trail of trampled land behind them, if not distinct footprints. Glamouring an entire valley or forest to appear untouched is… insane, yet as I search Prythian for a third time within three days, I find he must’ve.

Either that, or his army isn’t moving; lingering within some hidden camp his spellbook won’t let us find.

He might be laying in wait, biding his time until reinforcements from the continent arrive; amassing power from the Cauldron itself.

To some, the calm is a welcomed reprieve—our wounded allowed ample time to recover—but I’d rather have an army to fight than uncertainties haunting me. Rhysand is of the same mind—growing impatient—as is Tarquin, and the troops… I’m not sure how long we can keep them idle; keep from picking fights amongst ourselves.

The sun is but a blip on the horizon once I return to Azriel’s tent, the male in the midst of sharpening his blade upon that fur-clad bench when I manifest in the faelight, tension coiled in both shoulders and wings; only to slacken the moment I appear.

“Nothing,” I breathe; growl. “Not a hint he’s still out there.” I pace, arms folded close, brow etched in a frown.

Azriel sheaths his blade—sets it aside—and stands, stopping at a lean by the end of his desk.

“Are you sure he hasn’t returned to the island?” I ask, pausing; meeting his gaze.

“I’m sure.” He confirms, and I pace anew, link a silent string of curses within my mind. “I went myself.” Only to freeze mid step; both body and mind. “Nothing but civilians.”

“You should have told me.” In the corner of my eye, I watch his brow curl towards a frown; slight but there.

“What?” My eyes snap to his—sharp and frosted—face wreathed in cold rage; a chilling dread.

“That you were going.” Ice laces my tongue—my heart—brittle yet lethal. Azriel swallows, straightens.

“I was fine.” I face him, hold his gaze; find wariness brewing amidst the gold and hazel.

“I thought the same—until impenetrable wards snapped shut behind me.” The shadows swirl and hiss, colour draining from his face. “Hybern’s spells—they let you in, but you never get out.” His chin falls; a mere inch.

“Estelle—”

“No, listen to me.” I demand, teeth bared; his lips snapping shut. “If it weren’t for Feyre—the hole she tore through those wards, I—” My voice fails, and I stop mid breath—will it deep and true through my nose—uncoiling this frigid dread from around my heart. “Tell me, next time.” I demand—though I’ve no business demanding a thing from him—and Azriel just… He nods, something sombre in his beautiful eyes; something devastated in the set of his face.

“Okay.” He mumbles, shadows murmuring the softest apologies where they snake along the walls and floor; brush along my ankles.

“Okay.” I return, choosing to believe I’ve made myself clear; that he understands. I look away—twist towards the exit—heart an unsteady thing within my chest; exhaustion weighing heavy on my mind. “Goodnight, Azriel.”

“Wait—” He takes a step, and I pause—form wreathed in a halo of white—eyeing the male now gaping a pace away; words caught in his throat. In time, resignation replaces the uncertainty within his eyes; his wings drooping just so. “Goodnight, Estelle.”

I leave, chest heavy with words unsaid—questions unasked—feeding the silence of another sleepless night.

Chapter Text

Rain breeds disaster for any stationary camp, situated on a rise or not. Combined with the growing unrest amongst the war-crazed Illyrians, Cassian orders them to dig trenches, and I join them; disguised as one of their own.

Without a plan—a far-fetched idea to test—or the need to gather food, I take on the shell of a young, unassuming Illyrian male; with but one cobalt siphon to his name. Designed to be neither respected nor mocked; merely an adequate but invisible foot-soldier.

“I want these roads dry by nightfall, you hear me!” Cassian barks, a looming presence amidst it all; rain catching the crimson sheen of his seven siphons.

Bastard, some mutter, yet they dig all the same. I don’t complain—though the persistent rain does make it seem like an intentionally impossible task—forging a furrow from the healers’ tent’s disposal pit; where bloody water is dumped between washings of wounds.

“Hey! You!” Cassian barks, and I realise he’s addressing me once I look up to find those harsh eyes trained on my false shell; above my actual eyes by the nature of my illusion. “Connect that with the—” He pauses some steps away—sniffs the air—and cringes. “What the hell, Estelle,” He hisses, glaring daggers at my false self; failing to meet my eye. “What are you doing here?”

“Digging a trench, General.” I mutter, voice forcefully low.

Cassian curses, hand pressed to his damp brow; the rain curling his locks.

“How’d you tell it was me?” I ask, genuinely confused—although scent is one obvious factor—pushing the sharp point of my shovel into the softened earth.

“There’s not a lick of mud on you.” He sighs, gesturing animately, and I look down; wide eyed.

Low and behold, not a hint of dirt sullies my boots, or leathers.

Such a juvenile mistake—beneath me—I’ve done this for five centuries, I should know to add—

“Mud…,” I breathe, jerking the shovel out of the earth. I look to Cassian, lingering a pace or two away; expression both disturbed and confused. “You’re a blasted genius, Cass.” I shove the tool into his arms; which he scrambles to get hold of.

“What?” He hollers—flabbergasted—as I fade into the light and spear for Azriel.

He’s in the midst of lunch—gnawing at a strip of dried meat—when I appear in his tent; as the unveiled mess of mud and rain I’ve become.

“Mud!” I exclaim, a madness stirring within my mind; hope fluttering within my heart.

He frowns.

“Mud, Azriel—a glamour is only as good as the mud it animates—the rain it lets through.” His eyes twinkle at that, the jerky surrendered to his tray.

“What are you thinking.” He urges, and I pace the room, arms widespread as I pull the light close; warp it into the un-muddied male I was before.

“Wards and illusions can’t be inherently dirty—the caster must intentionally add these natural effects, or find themselves clean when one should be dirty.” Another flick, and I’ve printed the sight of said mud onto the frame of my Illyrian shell. “Hybern’s wards are intricate, but if I can forget to muddy my shoes while digging a trench, then Hybern can forget to do the same—might forget to let the rain pass through the veil.” I laugh. A mad thing. A desperate thing.

Fuelled by a need to outwit this bastard of a King.

“What if Hybern’s army is a—a blank field in the midst of snow—or a dry meadow nestled in the middle of a rainstorm.”

Azriel’s chuckle is a breathy thing, his smile subtle but bright; eyes sparkling.

“You’re insane.” He breathes, and they’re the most endearing two words he’s ever said to me.

“Nearly.” I retort, grinning; dispelling my illusion. “I’m going, I’ve at least eight hours of sunlight left—if this yields nothing, I’m going to scream.” He cringes, but smiles still.

~O~

I return to Summer come dusk. Return to a camp pummelled by torrential rain—thunder rumbling on the northern horizon—but any fear for my well being is lost in the fury of my continual failure. Thus, when I return, I don’t go to Azriel’s tent, but to a field overlooking the carnage from four days passed; and I scream.

Scream, and rage and curse the fucking heavens themselves.

Outwitted at every turn—from the moment I stepped foot on his cursed island—no matter how I try; how I scheme and hope and pray.

I need him to suffer—need Hybern to fall—yet he hides behind impenetrable walls like a coward.

The tree I punch is innocent—and young—but the face I imagine is the King’s. Is Brannagh and Dagdan, the vengeance of their deaths robbed from me before I even knew I desired it, leaving only this festering rage.

If they cannot die by my hand, Hybern will.

His soldiers. His friends. Himself.

I will rip his heart from his cursed chest, should I find him; should he be fool enough to face me.

Thunder crackles through the evening sky—rain pummelling the earth—yet I rage. I stay, and I scream, and I beat this tree until my knuckles split, and the rain mixes with my blood; with my tears.

Twelve years I spent in the dark—at his mercy—and now I dwell in limbo; my life teetering on the edge of a knife.

Still, I stand at his mercy.

Still, he keeps me trapped in a box.

When tears overtake rage—douse the frozen flame—and sobs overshadow my screams, I press my bloodied knuckles to the young stem, let my palms smooth along the harsh bark, and lean my brow against it much the same.

I just want to be free.

In time, I realise that the heartbeat pounding in my ears isn’t mine, and I turn to find Azriel stood beneath the shade of a young aspen; but drenched nonetheless.

If not for this war, would he…

Would we’ve been allowed the time to… To know eachother properly?

He extends a hand, and tears fall anew—silent but raw—because I wish he would hold me; would wrap me into his arms and wipe my tears away.

The shadows beckon—thunder looms closer—and I push away from the brutalised tree, accepting that outstretched hand; allowing that murmuring darkness to consume me; to spirit us away. To his tent—bright and dry—Azriel’s hold of my hand lingering as he summons a clean cloth on a cobalt wind; dabbing it along my split knuckles.

“We’ll find him.” He whispers, pressing that cloth to the wounds; staunching the bleed.

I look into his eyes, the hazel sombre and tired; dark circles etching ever deeper.

“We better.” I hiss with a cold that burns, and he exchanges one hand for the other; wiping it dry of blood and rain.

“We will.” He insists, cupping my hand within both of his; cloth all which separates us.

I can only close my eyes and sigh, resisting the urge to cry—silencing the need to scream—violence coiled tight within my limbs; despair pulsing through my veins.

“I—” A flash of lighting illuminates the dimming world—violent and sudden—and I flinch, tugging my hand out of his grip; curling them close to my chest. My knuckles have already begun to heal; skin knitting together breath by stuttering breath. “I need to go—” I step back, but he grips my elbow—glues me to the spot—my eyes wide and bleary as I look to him.

He doesn’t speak, but darkness pours from him like a living blanket, settling along the walls and roof like an impenetrable film of oily black.

When thunder rumbles overhead, there was never a flash; only the steady sheen of his faelight.

Quiet as death, he lets go of me—tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear—and motions to a familiar spread of furs tucked away in the corner. The feeling flooding my heart then is not… not vengeance or despair—nor rage—but… something just as raw.

I nod—just slightly—rain and tears dripping from my chin, and turn for that assortment of pelts, sinking onto them with a defeated sigh; wings folding close around my body.

Azriel turns for his desk, reaches for the lantern upon it, and snuffs out the light.

Chapter Text

I find it. A legion graced by unobscured sunlight, marching northward along the border between Summer and Autumn; straight for the Winter Court. The speed with which I spear back into my body is beyond anything I’ve ever attempted, practically falling off of the bench as I come to; hands softening my fall as I scramble to get words forth.

Azriel’s on his feet in a heartbeat, before me in another; hands grasping mine as he helps me stand.

“I found them.” I breathe, legs trembling beneath the wight of sudden existence; the haste of my pounding heart. “Marching north between Summer and Autumn.” Shock widens the set of his eyes; fractures his stoic facade.

“Are you sure?” I bare my teeth in a quiet growl.

“Am I sure?” Azriel flinches. “Go look for yourself, you prat.” I hiss—letting go of his hands—watching him vanish in a puff of shadow; those who linger whispering apologies in my ears.

I sigh, rub at my brow, ashamed of myself—for snapping this way—but this past week has been… hell; but we’ve bigger issues than my gradually declining mental state.

That army… Gods.

What are they even doing? What do they stand to gain by doing this?

I make for Azriel’s desk, brace my hands upon the worn wood and study the annotated map unfurled upon it, placing a marker to symbolise Hybern; its location a rough estimate based on surrounding geology.

A series of valleys lead into the mountainous border of Winter, another pass bound to funnel the force into the frozen fields of the west; where the regional capital stands amidst the snow only a day’s march north.

Is that it, truly? Do they seek to strike Winter at its heart? Erase an ally from our roster?

It feels reckless, especially to do so in this manner, rather than march east from the coastline, and to leave the army un-warded…

Azriel returns, breathless and wide-eyed, wings flared in wordless fury; membranes rippling with the remnants of flight. He extends a hand, and I take it, letting him shift us to Feyre and Rhysand’s personal tent.

Before long, we’re tucked away in a war-tent—a grand but rudimentary council room—surrounded by Summer and Night Court Fae alike; an argument brewing amidst us.

Surrender the advantageous position we’re currently in and stop this rogue army from ever reaching Winter—possibly playing into Hybern’s plans—or stay and do nothing; leave Winter to defend themselves.

They’ve been warned, but whether it’ll be enough to earn them an advantage…

Leaving them to fend for themselves is simply not an option, but splitting the army in two in order to deal with the horde would leave us outnumbered, and vulnerable on all fronts.

I’m not a General, or War-chief, or High Lord, but I look at that map and see the impossibility of our situation; have seen the look upon Rhysand’s face mirrored in Drakon’s a hundred times over. The creeping dread within my heart is no different.

Varian dismisses every lesser lord and war-chief—with the stern efficiency of a male who commands respect—leaving only his sister, Tarquin, and our Circle within the tent walls.

“We march north and we stay.” He proclaims—displaying a brand of madness I can get behind—and Rhys arches a brow; Cassian frowns. Varian does not balk, jabbing a finger at the map we stand around. “You can do it, can you not?” He addresses me of all people. “Make it seem as if we’re still here.” All eyes fall to me—to the High Fae disguise I wear beneath the faelight.

“It doesn’t work at night.” I explain in form of apology, though Varian remains unfazed, eyes darting to Rhysand’s in my stead.

“A glamour then—a good one. So that if anyone walks by here, they see and hear and smell an army. Put whatever spell in place to repel them from actually coming up to it, but let Hybern’s eyes report that we chose to stay here.”

“While we march north under a sight shield.” Cassian murmurs, rubbing at his jaw; considering Varian’s plan. “It could work.” He decides, casting Varian a grin. “If you ever get sick of all that sunshine, you can come play with us in Velaris.” Despite the frown upon his brow, something twinkles in the Summer Prince’s eyes.

Tarquin looks to Rhys.

“You could make such a deception?” Rhys nods, winking at Feyre.

“With a little help from my mate.”

Chapter Text

“The sight shield,” Cassian begins—Feyre and Rhys already off weaving this gruelling glamour—amassing the attention of all in attendance; though his eyes are on me. “Can you do it?” I nod, though a beat of uncertainty threatens to unthread my resolve. “Then we’re done here. Mor, tell Kier to ready the Darkbringers.” The golden female nods, vanishing in a blip of power.

“We will ready our troops.” Tarquin announces, he and his kin vanishing all the same; a sparkle of sea-foam in their wake.

Leaving me, Azriel, and Cassian.

On the other side of the table, Cass straightens, glaring at Hybern’s offending army with unfiltered disdain; violence brewing in his hazel eyes.

“That prick’s either stupid or luring us into a trap.” He mutters, shaking his head; stray curls bobbing about his brow. “Shame we’ve got to gamble either way.”

“We’ve faced worse odds.” Azriel remarks; undoubtedly in reference to the old war. Cassian only hums, while I silently study the odds presented to us.

“You’re looking a little pale, Estelle.” Cass comments, and my eyes flick to his, finding a faint smirk upon the General’s lips.

“Funny.” I huff, crossing my arms, assessing those blocks marking our locale within Summer; each representing a predetermined number.

“Sure you can do it?” I hold my tongue, consider the scale; the how. “If it’s too much—”

“It’s not.” I cut in, heaving a quiet, steadying breath. “I can do it—but it’ll require… finesse.”

“Go on,” Cassian urges, face focused but open; the smirk smoothed over. “Run it by me—I’ll brief the others by morning.” I nod, sparing a moment to gather my thoughts; putting them into words that’ll make sense.

“First of all, Tarquin and Kier will need to keep their forces close to the Illyrans. Since this isn’t a stationary illusion, I can’t bind it to a set point, meaning I’ll have to actively maintain it, and… shape it like a… sphere of distortion with me at its centre.” I begin, Cassian’s slow nod suggesting some manner of comprehension.

In the name of clarity, I conjure a simplified graphic above the tabletop, the Illyrian host a dark outline within a globe of white haze, while Summer and the Darkbringers are represented by a black mist and blue wave respectively; far below the former.

“Whether we fly at a pace they can keep up with, or the terrestrial armies winnow along, it’ll need to be done in bursts, and always within the borders of this filed.” Cassian’s eyes gleam with a subtle hint of awe at the sight of my animation, the blue and black now moving; gradually falling behind only to blip ahead come the sphere’s edge. “I can weave a scent shield along the perimeter—and sound for that matter—so it’s easier to tell where my influence ends, it adds no significant layer of difficulty, but…,”

“But?” The General presses, an expectant brow arched.

“An illusion of this scale—this intricate—it’ll require everything I have to maintain. I can’t… I can’t be conscious.” Confusion flashes in his eyes. “I’ll be there—mentally—but my body… I can’t spare the effort required to exist. I’ll need to be carried.” A curt nod, understanding settling in the General’s eyes; even if he might not fully grasp the intricacies of my power.

Some days even I don’t; know there’s much I’ve yet to learn.

“Mor can winnow you.” Cassian suggests, and I withhold a cringe; brace to be difficult.

“Afraid not.” I will apology into my eyes; dismiss my simulation with but a thought. “Winnowing disrupts my natural connection to the light—severs it. My illusion might hold between jumps, but it’ll… flicker, possibly unravelling this whole operation.” I heave a breath. “No, I’ll need to be flown by someone—so I’ve consistent access to the light.”

“Alright.” Cassian doesn’t argue, though I feel he’s every right to be frustrated; to find my aid more trouble than it’s worth.

But it’s not. Even if we save but a few drops of Rhysand’s power, this is worth it; could mean all the difference, in the end.

“One of the Illyrian’s can—”

“No.” Azriel cuts in—stepping out of the shadows—and I catch Cass’ frown in the corner of my eye as I turn, seeing as much as feeling the cold violence oozing from him in flickers of cobalt and swirl of hissing darkness.

“No?” I question, frown curling upon my brow; the cobalt sheen of his siphons caught in the gold of his eyes as they peer into mine.

“No.” He insists—a low growl underlying the word—the bond trembling with the familiar edge of a brewing storm.

“Az—” Cass starts, earning himself a glare.

“You can’t mean to put her unconscious body in the hands of some—” He cuts himself off, a sneer tugging at his lips, only to settle into a thin line of forced neutrality. Shadows gathering, I just barely glimpse the slow clench of his fists, and the flare of his jaw.

“Might you fly me then?” I ask, earning his attention; shadows passing over his cool expression. “If the simple solution won’t do.” I allow a flicker of annoyance to show alongside those words, because while endearing, his display of over-protectiveness is only a nuisance in this instance.

“I need you out there surveying the land, Az.” Cass answers for him; tone almost apologetic. “Locate a suitable place to intercept them, and if possible, herd them somewhere advantageous on our end.” Azriel’s growl is low and deep—a rumbling promise of violence—but the cross of his arms and dip of his chin is a display of begrudging acceptance.

“Rhys—would he do it?” I pose the question; pushing the subject forward. Cass shakes his head.

“No. He’ll be too busy looking pretty and important…,” I sigh, starting down the path of whether I could do it while in the light, or if that’d be just as taxing as flying myself. “I’ll do it.” Cass announces, and I shoot him a frown.

“But the army—”

“Rhys can lead it—it makes no difference to me.” Some part of me doubts that—knows he’s fought hard to earn the respect his title demands—but Cassian’s eyes are nothing but sincere across the table. They avert—drift to my left—a sparkle of amusement amidst the specks of green. “That good enough for you, Azzy?” Glancing his way, I find a carefully unmoving face—though his heart betrays him—assessing his brother with cold eyes.

A subtle shrug—nonchalant and detached—and he vanishes in a flurry of shadow; his pounding heart fading to nothing between one breath and another.

Cassian chuckles.

“Remember that conversation we had on the roof?” I glare, finding a toothy grin on the males lips.

“I remember punching you in the gut.” I retort coolly—facing the gleeful male—at which Cass only sighs, arms folding before his chest.

“Anything else I should know—about tomorrow.” He asks instead—valuing his life—and I consider. Weigh whether it’d be wise to say something, or better to just… “That look tells me there’s something.” I jolt, eyes wide, something knowing and studious in Cassian’s expression. “Out with it.” He’s the General for a reason.

It requires a different sort of intricacy than spy-work, but understanding your allies—and your enemies—is a huge part of leading an army.

“Should my nose start bleeding, ignore it.” I relent, Cass’ expression contorting with a frown; something disturbed laced beneath.

“What?”

“Just—” I shake my head. “There’s a chance—when managing an illusion of this size—that I… It puts a strain on my mind and body—to maintain it—so if my nose starts to bleed, ignore it.”

“You can’t ask that of me—is that even healthy?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, ease my thumb and index to my brow; knead the ache blooming there.

“No, but—if you break my trance, this whole thing will fall apart. And since you won’t let me fight, then at least let me do this one thing properly—allow me this one oversight.” Cassian’s lips thin with displeasure, while I all but beg with my eyes alone. “Let me be be useful, Cass—let me bleed like the rest of you.” The moment his shoulders slump is the moment I know I’ve won.

Chapter Text

The glamour takes all day and night to complete, but the end result come dawn is so convincing it’s genuinely frightening; granted you don’t look too close at any one thing for too long. From a distance—the armies gathered in an adjacent field as we brace to depart—you can’t tell at all; which would be the point.

I find Cassian amidst the Illyrians—all of which aching to take flight—and I do the male a quiet service by vanishing the sight of me in his arms, once he settles me therein; the act no added strain to an already straining task ahead.

His arms are solid, and safe—tucking me close to his chest—and the smile offered is answered by one of my own.

“Sweet dreams, Pigeon.” I snort, roll my eyes, and lay my head to rest against his shoulder.

“Don’t drop me.” I mutter, already slipping; already threading my consciousness throughout the light, augmenting it to my will. Cassian’s chuckle rattles through his chest and into my ear. “Hush—I’m trying to focus…,” A soft sigh displaces a few stray hairs at my brow.

Mercifully, he remains silent, and I slip into the aether, both detached from the world within which I dwell and entirely too aware of every little nuance. Every flutter of leaves. Every whisper of wind upon a field of gold and wildflowers. Every insect carried away on the breeze.

Every living being stood waiting within this trampled field.

I cup them in the metaphysical palm of my consciousness and make them disappear to all beyond its grasp, leaving only the world as it was in our absence; before our feet littered the serenity.

Next, I lock a dome of golden wind in place, and watch more so then feel myself take flight; from the perspective of someone far, far away; absently aware of existence; of time.

The world passes by in a flurry of ever-changing environments, and time presents itself in the sun’s path towards the horizon, but the hours between dawn and noon—they are alien to me. I know only the light. Know only the illusion I spin. The army I shroud.

When Cassian lands upon the ridge—overlooking the valley bound to house a slaughter—sitting me down upon a rock, I glimpse his face for but a moment; note an air of concern in its pane. It’s gone as quickly as it came, my senses slipping away, the task of shrouding the slow construction of camp from eyes and ears and keen senses forcing me back into the vast sea of light within which we bathe; attempting to lock this deception in place with jarring lack of success.

The light slips from my grasp—resists the incessant pull of my mental hand—forcing me into a tug of war; a battle of will and endurance.

It is mine to command, and I will not surrender to the substitute of a glamour.

I will not relinquish my usefulness because I’m tired.

No, I will fight. The light will obey.

Come dusk, and the arrival of Hybern’s army—seeking to settle in the valley for the evening—I know I’ve succeeded.

Rhys and Tarquin gather their troops—bracing to strike—heavy clouds looming ominously in the east; the sun dipping dangerously low in the west.

Drop the illusion. Rhysand’s words invade my mind—still housed within my body—and I let go; let Hybern see who’s come for them.

I dissolve. Crumple upon this stone like a wilting flower. Manage to catch myself—hands pressed to my knees—but only barely; only enough to not fall face first upon the rocky earth. Past the outcrop—in the valley below—I hear the battle commence; hear the telltale war-cries and clang of steel on steel. It’s muffled past the ringing in my ears; past the soft patter of rain.

Drip… Drip… Falling in droplets of red, staining my hands.

I watch it pool—grow with each breath—and can only stare. So tried. So terribly tired.

“Estelle,” Mor—somewhere ahead—somewhere past the haze. “Are you—” I lift my head—the world trembling at the seams—and the female before me rears back with a start; a soft yelp. “By the Gods—your face.” She summons a cloth, crouches before me, and presses the white fabric to my nose; steadily staining red.

For a moment, she doesn’t look like Mor.

Her eyes darken—hair a corded black—skin a rich ebony.

I blink, and she’s gone; back to normal.

“You should have said something—we’d have replaced the illusion with a glamour. I would have done it.” I can’t answer. Can’t find the words.

Instead, I bring a hand to my face and pluck the cloth from hers; press it to my nose on my own.

Mor sighs.

“Stay here. You’ve done enough.” She turns—leaves—joining Feyre and Nesta by the ridge; observing the battle.

A battle that… It sounds less like a bloodbath—as we’d expected—and more like a struggle.

Hybern expected us.

They weren’t worn down—settling for the night after a day-long march—but preparing to face us.

I should have known. Should have seen. I’ve made this mistake before, but this—

Not again. Not again.

Shakily, I stand, stumbling to the ledge; clutching a tree as I behold the mess.

The coiling shadows of Darkbringer Fae sputter out, the front lines wavering; our forces cut down like stalks of wheat.

I taste iron on my tongue—waver on my feet—yet the urge to spear into this chaos and fight…

Below, I hear Cassian barking orders—for Kier to hold the lines—see the telltale crimson of his siphons amidst the brewing chaos.

Things are well and truly going to hell, and as Cassian said a week before, I’m free to start bursting lungs any moment now—swoop in as a last resort—yet here I stand, nose bleeding, head swimming, the battle before me bleeding into another; centuries behind us.

A different valley. A different continent. A different male I stand to lose.

The foreboding clouds above unleash their torrential rain, turning the battlefield into a muddy hellscape within moments, and in that mess, faebane comes into play.

We’re immune—thanks to the innovation of Dawn—but the weapons coated in the substance still can’t be stopped by magical means, and I watch Illyrian shields sputter and fade; watch them die at harrowing speeds before exchanging magic for steel.

Despite it all—despite this unexpected resistance—Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand keep fighting; have no choice but to do so.

Empowered by the rain, the Summer Court hold their own, managing to spare the Darkbringers the aid they require, but I watch the seam unravel; the thread unspool. Watch the line of Summer and Darkbringer soldiers cave beneath the punishing pressure of Hybern’s forces.

“Shit.” I hear Mor hiss; further down the ridge. “Shit.” A little louder; a little harsher.

Shit indeed.

Like watching a dam burst, Hybern’s forces pour through the breach, cleaving Kier’s front line in half.

Cassian’s roar bellows across the valley—defiant and booming—and a breath later he’s flying straight for that mess of bloodshed; ignoring Rhysand’s bark to wait. He lands, crimson shield so faint it hardly protects him—flashing gold in the tattered mess of my mind—as he unleashes himself upon the enemy.

Efforts divided—drained from his glamouring the night before—Rhysand’s power kills dozen rather than hundreds, and in turn, Hybern continues to divide our ranks.

Turns one army into two. Divides us. Corners us.

I need—I need to fight. I need to help.

But my head—

“Re-form the lines.” Mor mutters. “Re-form the damned lines!” I watch him try. Watch in horror as Azriel lunges into the fray to help, nothing more than shadow and cobalt as he tears his way towards Cassian; the General utterly surrounded.

Now.

Now.

I need to go now.

“Mother above.” Nesta’s voice, drenched in horror.

“They can fix this.” Feyre insists, but her fear is just as pungent.

This… This is but a fraction of Hybern’s might.

Red flares in the heart of battle, leaving a circle of death in its wake, but more push in, an endless horde Cass can’t tackle on his own; one even Azriel can’t push through to aid him.

It must come from above. From me.

I won’t make the same mistake twice.

I refuse.