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Chapter Text

The air is thick. Like it too can tell something is amiss. It’s the way the wind murmurs of something dark, and how the starlight is dimmed from witnessing something sinister. It’s from the eerie sway of the trees and the bone-chilling breeze that make the hairs on your body prick up. It’s the absence of the night life which has instead been drowned out by the deathly silence.

But mostly it’s the shadows. Their quite whispers. Relaying the harrowing scene they observe from the corners in which they lurk. Always watching. Always waiting. Looming just out of sight, they’re the most devastatingly perfect predator. And thus the perfect spy.

Their language is both words and feeling. Retelling what they see and hear. And yet there is no language at all. Just a dark quiet that somehow translates what needs to be known. They’re always whispering and yet they don’t speak at all.

She thinks she must be going insane. If she has resorted to hearing darkness talking. But with the five minutes of silence that has graced her, she can hear the distant whispering over the lapping waves. They sound so far away and yet like someone’s talking right into her ear.

A cool ocean breeze manages to sweep through the cracks and crevices of the charcoal rocks. It ruffles her onyx hair and sends shivers down her nearly bare body. With a painful grimace she lets her wings unfurl from behind her back and encircles them around herself to provide some protection against the cold. They tremble slightly at their extreme sensitivity, the small gash on her right wing stinging from the wind.

She wraps her arms around her malnourished frame and lets her head drop against the hard rocks. She wishes it was her mother’s warm arms holding her in a safe cocoon. Her mother’s gentle voice whispering comforts into her ear. But they’re wishes she knows will never come true. Not when her nights are filled with the same memory of the last time she ver saw her admirable mother.

She closes her eyes and prays to the Cauldron. To the Mother. To anyone that will listen. Over and over pleading to be free. To never have to be exposed to the vile things she’s already endured again. She begs to see the sun again some day. Her skin soaking up the welcome warmth of its rays. Even the stars would be a welcome view. Anything but these rocks and the inside of this haunted castle.

Sharp, blood-curdling screams fill the eerie silence. She opens her eyes with a sigh. She got seven minutes this time. Sometimes she’s even lucky to get ten. But she knows they won’t stop for hours now because of the extra time. It’s become a white noise for her. Sick and twisted as it may be, but it’s the cruel truth. She closes her eyes again and lets the high pitch crying and pleading fill her head.

When it becomes too much, she starts to hum a tune she remembers from when she was only little. It begins to block out the torture invading her every senses, so she opens her mouth and starts to sing. She sings to no one in particular, but she pretends there’s an audience in the shadows. What she wasn’t expecting however, was for them to sing back.

Chapter Text

Droplets of sweat trail down the sides of my face. But they do nothing to cool me down. My head is bowed as I take in panting breaths like a starved scavenger. All I can taste is the iron tang of blood as the crimson liquid fills my mouth. From both my bloody nose and cut lip. My head feels like a dead weight and my mind is all disoriented, but lucid enough to still feel. To still understand what’s happening to me.
“Tsk. Raise your head. You know I like it when you look into my eyes” that sickly sweet taunting voice coos wickedly.
I don’t though. I can’t. For the first time, they’ve broken me. For the first time, I let my head drop down. Five-hundred-and-forty years of withholding my pride, and now they’ve finally cracked it. No. Don’t let them see.

A cool, sharp blade digs into my chin and forces my head up before I can even attempt to raise it. So now I’m face to face with my personal abuser.
“There’s those pretty eyes” Dagdan smirks maliciously.
I force myself not to be too weak. Not to give any more than I already have. So I snarl at him and then spit directly into his own evil brown eyes. He barely recoils, being used to this from me by now. But his smirk is replaced with a leering glare as he wipes away my saliva and steps closer. So close his nose is nearly brushing mine and I can smell his repulsive scent.
He sighs and says “You know, I thought we were getting past this. Seems like you need to be taught how to behave for a little longer.”
And before I can blink the blade is cutting deeply into my forearm. So slowly it’s driving my mind insane with the nearly unbearable pain. I grit my teeth and scrunch my face, still determined not to give too much. Don’t scream. Don’t let him hear.
And then he digs the blade in even deeper and my body starts thrashing by it’s own accord. But it’s futile. My wrists and ankles are tied with an iron chain embedded with faebane. Keeping me in place while he plays.
“Come on my sweet, I want to hear you,” Dagdan coos malevolently in my ear.
And then he stabs the dagger into the inside of my right thigh and my throat is destroyed as an ear splitting scream tears through me.

💫

My throat is red raw. My knees are digging into the cold tiles. And a single tear escapes my watering eyes. But it just keeps coming. Hurling up from my gut and straight into the toilet bowl.

It only stops when the little amount of food from the last few days is no longer inside of me, so all I’m left with is acidic fluids. With a disgusted groan I lean away from the toilet and let my head fall back onto the wall. It reeks of bile in here now, only making my nausea return. I wipe my mouth and then slowly get up onto my slightly shaking legs. I flush the toilet and brace myself before exiting the small lavatory.

I step out into the grand bathroom attached to the toilet. I can’t even take a deep breath before hands are upon me again. Ushering me over to the bathtub big enough for four. It’s already filled with steaming water, soaps and oils waiting on the side. One of the priestesses starts undressing me with hurried movements. Like she can’t stand to touch me.

I hate them. Not once since I’ve been here has a priestess looked me in the eyes. Except for Ianthe. They always keep their heads bowed, like they know that the horrendous things occurring in this wicked place is disturbingly wrong. And they’re ashamed of their involvement. At least that’s the impression I receive from their total avoidance of me.

The priestess with dark skin turns me so I’m forced to face the mirror that stretches across the wall of the basin. I grimace at the female looking back. Underneath my random spray of freckles, my skin is peaky and my cheekbones cut sharply against my hollowed eyes. The once shining onyx hair that I used to adore is now a silvery white with bristle ends and an unkempt look. And my eyes. My eyes look like two voids just swimming with the darkness that consumes me.

I force myself to look away from my gaunt face and hesitantly wander my gaze down to my body. My collarbones jut out, matching my too visible ribs and pointy hipbones. I turn to the side slightly to examine my torso, my left hand coming to rest over an old scar. I breath out shakily as my hand roams over the barely visible bump. But it’s there. I can feel it round out as I bring my fingers down from my sternum and to my lower abdomen. Another teardrop trails down my cheek, breaking my trance and bringing me back to reality. I can’t bear to look any lower than my pelvis. Knowing the sight of the still bleeding cut on my thigh will break me further.

I revert my eyes to my neck when the priestess begins taking off my bloody pants. My hand instinctively rises to touch the golden collar that pinches tightly into my skin. I’ve been wearing it for four-hundred years. The only times it ever comes off is when my unique skills are required, or when I bathe once a month. The gleaming metal is embedded with faebane. A necessity to ensure I cannot escape or lash out, turned into a mockery of how I have become a pet. A plaything for the royals to use as they so please.

A dark, delicate hand swats my calloused one away from the collar and I turn to glare at the priestess. But she’s not looking at me. She’s staring at my thigh. My gut twists into tight knots as a new wave of rage and nausea bombard me simultaneously. I can’t stop my body from buckling into itself. Three pairs of hands are instantly grabbing a hold of me and dragging my light body over to the bath. I let them push my body around. I secretly thank the Mother for it, knowing I sure as hell would have curled up into a ball and remained on the cold tiled floor forever.

A hiss of both pain and pleasure elicits from my chapped lips as the hot water meets my skin. Slowly, the priestesses lower me into the water until I’m seated on one of the chairs on the side of the tub. Again, I don’t get a second to relish in the feel of the warm water. Instead hands are scrubbing at my skin so harshly it turns a raw pink. Another set are carelessly pulling at my hair as they lavish some vanilla-scented soap through it. I close my eyes and sink into the feeling anyway. Rough and restricted as it may be, it will most likely be another four weeks until I get this small luxury again.

I already know the meaning of this cleansing though. I had my monthly bath around a week ago. The only other time I’m scrubbed and polished is when I’m to be in the presence of the Devil. There’s no one I loathe more than the blandly handsome male who lounges atop his golden throne whilst his little collection of puppets do everything for him- well, that’s not entirely true. Underneath the ruddy skin and cruel beauty are hateful, depthless black eyes that are far too cunning for anyone’s benefit. There’s only one male I hate more than the King. With every fibre within me, the mere thought of him has my blood boiling. The only positive is that I get to relish in the fact that he’s long dead. Good riddance- But the King is a close second. Underneath that heavy jewelled crown is a monster born from pure sadistic evil. Even the Naga would keel at his demonic power.

My thoughts of all the ways I wish to kill the Devil with just my bare hands are swept away when the collar around my neck is unlocked. Even as the priestesses quickly lock chains around my wrists to compensate, I can finally breath. I even welcome the sponge that scrubs at my neck, enjoying the feel of something other than the metal touching my skin. But all too quickly my short breathe of freedom is gone. The weight of the gold collar returns almost as quickly as it vanished. Hands pull me up from under my arms as another pair starts to dry me off. I close my eyes to ensure I don’t look at the bloodied water.

They dress me into a black velvet two piece that barely covers my body. Wide slits rise up on either side my legs, meeting the extremely low waistline. The top is nearly more of a bra with long sleeves attached that flare out at the ends. They make quick work of braiding my hair back, threading a golden material through it to highlight my collar. If the circumstances were different and I didn’t look on the brink of death, it would have been a stunning outfit. I snicker at myself for the absurd thought, causing the priestesses to share glances with each other. I don’t have to be a daementi to understand them. I know they think I’m crazy. Which in all truth, I probably am.

When we exit the bathroom four guards immediately fall into place around me. Two at the front and two at the back. I roll my eyes, something one of them catches and leers at me for it. A promise to punish me if I should act up. The priestesses bow to them and then scurry away down the long hallway. Cowards. With an unnecessary shove at my back the guards start shepherding me in the opposite direction. I shamelessly stare at each of them. It’s not like I have anything else to do. Or to lose.

The two leading me share the same sandy-blonde hair that curls at their pointed ears. Their shoulders are impressively broad and their stiff posture highlights the bulk of muscle underneath their dark grey uniform. Twins then. Or at least brothers. I turn my neck to judge the other two behind me without a care in the world. A rather handsome male with dark chocolate hair to match his bushy eyebrows continues to stare ahead, apparently pretending he doesn’t notice my blatant staring. I smirk as he readjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword. The other guard is the complete opposite. He, like me, is glaring right into my eyes. I just widen my smirk and look him up and down. Not in a seductive way. More of a ‘you are pathetic and have nothing to offer’ kind of way. He doesn’t seem to appreciate it in the slightest.

I’m suddenly pushed up against the cold cobblestone wall, narrowly avoiding a torch bracket.
“You are nothing but a filthy bastard bitch! Look at me again and I will be more than happy to show you just what a whore you are” he spits right into my face.
I glare right into his dull brown eyes, all carelessness vanishing like a gust of wind extinguishing all warmth of a flame. The male has the good sense to back away slightly, a hint of fear flickering over his ugly face.
Though I am a prisoner in this wretched castle, I am also the King’s Second. Unofficially, but the impression is widely known. If I wasn’t bound by faebane right now, these guards wouldn’t have even dared to walk so close to me. In fact, they wouldn’t have even agreed to escort me. They’d end up drowning in pools of their dirty blood.

“Tut tut, play nice. You know you can’t tame a feral beast.”
I freeze at the overly sweet voice. And then I let out a humourless bark of laughter.
“Is that what you tell yourself when you stare into the mirror at night Ianthe?” I croon, meeting her steady gaze.
The beautiful priestess cocks her head slightly as she drinks me in, her expression remaining placid. Her eyes however give her irritation away. But as quickly as it came it disappears as she smiles at me.
“Perhaps a mirror would serve you better than me. You could certainly use one down there” she sweeps her eyes over me to emphasise her meaning.
“I’m getting bored of the same things coming out of your mouth. At least spice it up a little” I quip back.
Ianthe just smiles wider and then turns to the twin guards. She doesn’t bow.
“He’s ready for her” she says and swiftly turns to open the great bit double doors.

Much like everything else, I hate this room. The high ceiling is arched, though it makes it more intimidating than welcoming. The walls are a charcoal marble that shine in the light from the three marvellous chandeliers. The floors, however, are a white marble. That way it’s easier to see the blood from whom ever the Devil last tortured. I follow Ianthe’s swaying form down the isle to the dias at the end of the room. A large throne made purely of gold is positioned in the centre. And seated in it’s glory is the King of Hybern. Or, by the many well-earned titles I have bestowed upon him: Fiend, Sadist, Monster, and The Devil. He is no King to me.

Ianthe bows to The Devil, along with the guards that are now stationed behind me. I remain with my chin held high, my eyes piercing into his black ones.
He smirks cruelly down at me as he says, “My trophy, looking beautiful as ever.”
My back stiffens at his words. Though it’s a degradation I’ve spent years enduring, it still clouds my vision with rage. And he knows it too. The sparkle in his eyes is indication enough.
“The cuffs” he demands, though his eyes never stray from mine.
Someone scurries forward, nearly stumbling as they stop in front of me. I avert my eyes away from The Devil to look down at the small priestess. I watch as she shakily grabs my left wrist and quickly clasps a golden cuff around it. She puts another matching one around my right wrist and then hurries away, most likely to go faint. I stare at the two golden bracelets that match my collar perfectly. And then I lift my head and smirk at the egotistical Sadist. I’m supposed to be wailing with fury and distress at the extra faebane holding me back. But instead triumph swirls within me. He must think me quite a threat if he thinks the collar isn’t enough anymore.

“Thank you” I say sweetly, “I’ve been meaning to purchase some more accessories.”
The Devil scowls at me, flashing his teeth in what would be a threatening way if I hadn’t been subjected to this look thousands of times.
“You are to leave tonight and enter enemy territory. Lose the snarky attitude or I’ll make sure you return without a limb.”
Ah, so that’s why I’ve been summoned. I let out an internal breath of relief. If I hold my tongue, my blood will hopefully not stain this pristine floor by the time I leave.
“What am I to do this time? Gut out some faeries? Scare little sleeping children?” I ask sarcastically before I can stop myself.
But the Fiend only smiles as he observes me. I don’t like it. It makes my skin crawl and I get the sudden urge to rip it off with my nails. Whatever he needs me to do, he’s going to get great satisfaction out of it.
“I need allies. Our numbers are growing, yes, but I need someone on the inside” he muses, “Someone whom has been stomped on and kept in the shadows for too long.”
I dart my eyes to stare directly into the bottomless pits of The Devils, not liking where this is going.
“You will visit Hewn City in the Court of Nightmares. You will speak to Keir without being seen by anyone else. You will get him to join forces. And then you will return back to your cell like the good female you are.”
I don’t need to ask what will happen if I don’t return with a new ally. Those black gleaming eyes scream loud enough.
My heart starts rattling against my ribcage. The last place I want to be in is the Court of Nightmares. And Keir is someone I never wish to see again.

“Why not send him” I jab my thumb at the Attor who just flew into the room through one of the open windows.
His thin leathery wings send a light gust of wind past me as he lands next to The Devil’s throne. An ugly smile twists his thin lips as the deathly creature notices me.
“Because he will leave a trail of blood that I do not have the time to cover up” The Devil replies sternly.
The Attor’s red eyes glint as if to highlight that he would in deed tear into anything that crosses his path and feast on their blood.
“And who’s to say I won’t either?” I counter boldly.
The Devil stares at me for a long moment, the Attor doing the same. The former beholds an expression of interest and consideration, the latter showing pure malevolence with his sharp razor teeth.
“Because I have not asked you to” the King states with a predatory grin, “And you only do what I ask.”

Chapter Text

Twisting around each other like serpentine creatures, the beasts bare their sharp fangs in a threat to anyone who dares enter Hewn City. Not a warning, but a promise that if you enter past these gates, there’s no guarantee you will ever exit them. Luckily for me, I don’t need to use the horrendous decor meant to scare off cowards. I fall into my shadows once again and let them whisk me back into their in-between. A moment later I’m standing on the other side of the gates, facing the city known for it’s nightmares. Hence the name of the court. With one last glance back at the tall gates, I silently creep forwards, ensuring my body is shrouded in shadows.

Dungeons below are flooding with all kinds of blood, a shadow whispers into my ear. Lovely. As if it was the ringleader, I get bombarded as they all start whispering secrets to me at once.

Screams, innocent and guilty, echo off the castle walls.

Darkbringers lurk at every corner, be careful our Dark Mother.

Gamblers are cheating in the tavern two streets downtown. They’re still losing by seven.

The steward Keir’s wife seeks pleasure from another male in a hidden suit on the bottom level of the castle.

I snort quietly at that information. Perhaps something I can use to my advantage if need be. Getting impatient with sleuthing through the dark streets, I allow myself to be encompassed by my shadows once more. When I exit the dark abyss of their home I come face to face with a grand castle. Opposite to popular opinion, I find the building to be quite beautiful. It has three tall turrets that appear as though they’re touching the moon. The intimidating infrastructure is made of what appears to be black glass, so it gleams in the silver illuminance of the night sky.

A window on the second floor has been left opened and unguarded, a shadow informs me, The left side of the castle, fourth window along.

I thank the shadow and immediately get moving again. I can see the Darknringers stationed fifteen feet apart from each other around the castle. Swords strapped across their backs and numerous daggers holstered on their bulky figures. Their eyes seem to glow in this oppressing darkness blanketing the city. Like they never see the sun. I spot the open window and internally groan when I see a Darknringer a few feet away from it.

You said there were no guards, I hiss to the shadow.
There is no one guarding the window.

I roll my eyes at it’s technicality. It’s something that’s cost me greatly in the past. But in all truthfulness, it’s my slip up. I should have known how to interpret my shadows by now. But only being able to actually use them every five weeks or so doesn’t allow for a strong bond that I once had with them. I should also just have every possibility and an outcome prepared either way.

I take a moment to asses the scene, making note of the proximity of the window from me, and the Darkbringers close enough to spot me. Luckily there are only three on this side of the castle so it’s an easy win. I send a few shadows down toward the back of the castle, making sure they enter the moonlight. It’s a trick that never fails me. And tonight isn’t the night for failures. One of the Darkbringers notices the movement and starts drawing his weapons, creeping closer. The shadow moves again and I order it to start moving faster away from the window. The guard yells out to the others and then starts running after it, prompting the other two to run after him.

All clear our Dark Mother, a shadow coos into my ear.

I smirk as I watch the Darkbringers disappear into the tree line, leaving the entire left side vacant. Ignorant fools.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing as I summon my wings out. It feels like someone is stabbing my shoulder blades so slowly as they materialise onto my back. Once it’s done though I can’t help but smile at the comforting weight they bring. Being cooped up in a small cell is never an ideal situation for aero-faeries. Especially for someone with wings as big as mine. So I make sure not to take it for granted as I push off the ground and launch myself into the twilight sky. The wind already gushes past me as I beat my strong wings, forcing my hood to fall back, and half of my hair to fall out of it’s tight braid. I look up towards the night sky and get an painful longing in my heart to soar up to meet the twinkling stars. I momentarily close my eyes and let my face bathe in the moonlight, a feeling of familiar warmth washing over my body.

I don’t have time to frolic in the sky however, so I zero in on the open window and call more shadows to me. Once I’m securely covered in their dark facade I rise up with one great flap, and then I pull my wings in tight and dive down directly toward the window. When I’m close enough I start to spin my body so I’m spiralling through the air and then successfully shoot through the window. Before I can smash into a wall I flare my wings out once more to catch me so I’m suspended in the air. Slowly and silently I lower myself to the plush carpeted floor and dismiss my wings. Their absence already muting the short-lived elation of being in the air once more. Stay on task, I reprimand myself and pull my hood back over my head.

The room I’ve landed in is thankfully empty. Of both people and furniture. Only a wall-length bookshelf and a small desk fill up the high-ceilinged room. I press my ear up against the closed door and listen intently for signs of life. After a comfortable two minutes I carefully twist the door knob and slink out of the bare room. I step out into a long hallway with a dark wood floor that reflects the chandeliers above. It appears all grim castles have similar grand furnishing. I stick to the wall as I silently creep down the hallway, keeping all my senses on high alert for any signs of movement. When I make it to the end I’m met with a fork, the left turn leading to a staircase that appears to descend, and the right side ending in another fork.

Take the left if you seek the one who bathes in others fear.
Is that why it reeks of depressing death? I reply to the shadow who chuckles back.

Staying true to my trusted spies I make the left turn. Almost immediately a door slams open, forcing me to push up against the wall and envelope myself in shadows. I hold my breath as a male with dark buzzed hair and an ugly scar down his right cheek storms out. He stalks down the hallway without taking a second look at me and turns right. I slowly release my breath and tentatively continue down the hallway. I halt in my tracks however when I reach the room the male just vacated. With practised caution I peer inside the room and my gut twists at what my eyes see. A female is seated on the edge of a table, her blonde hair dishevelled. Her hands are shaking as she buttons up her blouse, silent tears streaming down her cheeks and dropping onto her lap. A wave of fury consumes me at the sick bastard who defiled her and I have to restrain myself not to comfort the female or rip the vile male’s head off. I force myself to keep moving. If all goes smoothly, perhaps I will leave with that ugly head in my hands.

The staircase is made of dark stone and spirals downwards into a dark abyss. My shadows tell me who I seek is down there, so with a heavy sigh I start to descend. As I get lower and lower the stench of blood and rotting flesh stings my nostrils, eliciting bile to rise up my throat. I don’t have to imagine what horrid things happen down here. I already know. When I finally make it to the bottom of the staircase I remain hidden in the darkness and listen once again for any threats.

Only those behind cells reside in this deathly chamber. And their cruel punisher.

I swallow the rough lump in my throat before entering the underground torture hole. Every cell in my body screams at me to walk away and never return, but I push that uncanny feeling aside and start down the haunted hallway. Some of the cells have bars restraining their prisoners, whilst others have heavy steel doors. I force my vision to stay strictly ahead as I know if I were to glimpse one of the prisoners, I would be fighting that stupid hero complex to get them as far away from this hell as possible.

I reach the end of the hallway where I can hear faint whimpering behind the thick metal door. When they turn into heart-wrenching screams, I use the loud noise as coverage and warily open the heavy door. I close it behind me again when I’m securely inside, though I wish for nothing else than to open it and run the other way. I’ve spent countless hours tied up in a variety of different chains and ropes. Endured weeks on end without seeing another soul as my own rots away. Nearly losing my sanity as my body is subject to pain beyond imagination. But seeing this still makes me want to throw up my insides.

A male hangs in the centre of the charcoal cave chamber. His body suspended in the air by chains snaking up his arms. They’re so tight they’ve managed to cut into his unnaturally pale skin. His face is unidentifiable with both eyes puffy and bruised and his nose and lips covered in crimson blood. But what had my knees weak and my nausea threatening to give me away is the male’s abdomen. His shirt has been discarded, giving a perfect view of the barbaric punishment I’m certain he just received. I can see his organs from where his skin and flesh have been carelessly slashed open. Blood is gushing out from the wound like someone turned on a tap. Gurgled prayers are coming from his moth in between pitiful sobs. And standing with his back to me is none other than Keir, a sharp blade coated in blood flipping between his cruel fingers.

I don’t need my shadows to tell me that the male deserves the punishment. That he committed despicable crimes. Either way I wouldn’t change my mind. Without another second of hesitation I unsheathe my small dagger from my thigh and throw it. The chamber becomes unnervingly silent. The sound of the male’s blood dripping onto the cave floor is the only noise to be heard. I watch as Keir’s stiffened figure slowly pivots on his heel, turning his back on the male with my dagger directly between his lifeless eyes. The dark brown ones on the steward, however, hold such ferocity and callousness that I understand why so many cower away from him. But as soon as I come out of my shadows and he takes a moment to look at me, his eyes widen with shock and his whole body freezes.

“The King of Hybern sends his regards” I announce myself, maintaining an air of arrogance that said Devil demands.
Keir visibly relaxes his rigid body, falling into a haughty composure. Though his slightly twitching fingers and weary dark eyes say otherwise. My stomach flips uncomfortably when he tilts his head to the side and smiles as his eyes drink me in. It’s not a welcoming smile that one would think to receive from the steward of Hewn City. No, this smile is gleaming with predatory mirth.
“I always wondered what Cronan did with you” Keir says casually like he was pondering how to torture his next victim.
And just like that my barriers shatter. I feel like I got punched in the gut. My breath disappears along with my hearing as a loud ringing of panic consumes me.

Keir chuckles cruelly and steps closer, wiping his blade on a cloth.
“If he were alive today, I’m sure he would regret his decision to ship you off like a piece of insignificant cargo” the steward muses.
I know what he’s doing. I know he wants me weakened and riled up. And fortunately for him, it’s working. My fists clench so tightly my nails break the barrier of skin on my palms. But I don’t allow myself to show any other hint of emotion. This puny male is nothing compared to the things I’ve had to survive. I’m sure I can handle a few insults.
“Although,” his lip curls cruelly again, “you always were just that. Insignificant.”
The speed of light wasn’t even fast enough to capture my vengeful lunge toward the male. In a flash I have him shoved against the hard cave wall, his own weapon in my hand and digging into his neck.
“I didn’t come to listen to your whining over a cup of tea” I seethe right into his paled face, “You know why I’m here. At least, I hope you’re not as stupid as rumours say.”
Keir snarls at me and pushes against me. I let myself take a step back, but continue to hold the blade under his chin.
“You always were an insufferable little brat” he spits.
I flash my teeth at him with a smile as I reply, “And you still are a puny excuse of a male.”
He growls again but doesn’t move to fight against me. He just maintains a loathing glare that could send others running. I, however, take another calmed step back and drop the blade to my side.

“The King has sent me to win over your allegiance. He claims that you’re a dog in a gutter that could do with some pruning. A chance to leave behind the pretend world of dress ups and come join the new Pyrithian.”
Keir doesn’t speak for a long minute. He continues to glare at me while I watch his brain tick behind his dark eyes.
“And exactly what would I gain from this pruning?” the steward asks mockingly.
“Power” I reply simply.
Keir cocks his head as he ponders my answer. And then he laughs mirthlessly.
“Power? The King of Hybern promises power? I don’t need power l girl. I already have it.”
“Do you though?” I croon, “Does Lord Rhysand listen to your suggestions? Does he show an inkling of care for your people? Does the High Lord of Night promise to let you see the sun?”
That shuts the arrogant arsehole right up. I know I’ve hit home. His guarded eyes, despite their lack of emotion, speak volumes. But what he says next surprises me so greatly my own guard wavers.
“I know what kind of male the King is. I know what power he seeks to possess. I hate Lord Rhysand with all of my being, but I do not wish to be in a world where me and my people will be even more submissive to a greedy male on a throne.”
I just blink at him. Not having any clue how to take his words. Not wanting to take them back to the Sadist.
“You can scurry back to your little prison and tell your King that he wasted his time,” Keir says with finality.
I clench my jaw and straighten my shoulders.
“I hope you meet the same sticky ending as your brother” I whisper callously as I start to walk backwards.
Keir smiles at me and replies “No, that is what you wish upon yourself. Send my regards to the King.”
It takes every fibre in my body to stop myself from throwing another dagger and aiming for his cold heart. Or to command my shadows to swarm him until he can’t breathe. They certainly want to. But instead I open the door and stalk out.
“Tell the King he can expect to hear from me in the future” Keir calls after me, making me halt, “I always like to leave my options open.”
I ground my teeth and keep walking, not caring about sneaking around anymore. My body feels like it’s going to combust with the rage that’s blinding me. All I know is that I’m going straight to that male with the ugly scar and giving him another ten to match.

💫

I have blood on my leathers now. The smell of it burns my nose, but I ignore it as I storm out of the castle and into the cold night. My shadows are whirling around me, some whispering vengeful words while others continue to give intel of my surroundings. I know I’m being careless, but I honestly couldn’t give a shit anymore. Either way I’m going to end up unconscious at the King’s polished boots. I summon my wings out again and soar up into the air, letting the wind carry me up until the dull city below look like pinpricks on a map.

I close my eyes and take long deep breathes into my heaving lungs. The frosty air breezes against my skin, no doubt tinting my nose and cheeks red. I silently my eyes and stare up at the round moon. It’s about three nights away from a full moon. I can feel it as it shines down on me, soaking into my skin and into my blood. With a heavy sigh I take one last glance at the starlit sky and then descend downwards. As I get closer to the city I note a vacant balcony on what appears to be some kind of temple. Before I can think better of it I alter my course and slowly lower myself onto the platform.

I draw my wings back in and pull my hood back up to conceal myself from the cruel world. I lean against the railing and stare out at the nightlife of Hewn City. Almost everyone is up and about. Flowing from tavern to tavern, laughter rippling off of the exotic buildings. I get a distant yearning to be one of them. To be five drinks away from falling over into a harmless sleep. To not have to worry about the reality of the harsh world we live in. But I can feel the cuffs on my wrists slowly closing tighter. Digging into my frail skin and only minutes away from cutting into it. Just another one of Hybern’s ways to ensure I return to him.

He sings to us. A sweet melody, a shadow whispers excitedly into my ear. I freeze at the peculiar comment. I know for a fact it’s not referring to the King, they always either keel or become raging menaces in his presence.
He’s coming closer, we can hear him. Let him come to us. Let him sing to us!

I don’t have time to consider what exactly the shadow means. A heavy weight suddenly knocks me off of my feet as I’m blasted against the doors of the balcony. I can’t even catch my winded breath before a deadly blade is held against my neck.
“Who are you?” a low voice devoid of warmth demands.
I struggle to get enough air into me under the weight of the male, but my shadows don’t seem to care. They’re still fluttery and excited. With great strength I wasn’t sure I could call upon, I shove the male away from me and whip out two of my own short swords. But when my eyes fall onto the male regaining his warrior stance, my whole existence freezes.

Shadows. Dark and dangerous. Slithering up his legs and coiling around his tan neck. Covering his great Illyrian wings with their wispy shapes. I laugh. A mix between disbelief and anger.
“Of course the King didn’t tell me about you” I say breathlessly, more to myself.
The Shadowsinger’s sharp hazel eyes flicker with confusion, but otherwise he doesn’t reveal any other sign of reaction. His devastatingly beautiful face remains stern, every line portraying a cold promise of death. Seven cobalt siphons adorning his muscled physique glow with simmering power.
“Who. Are. You?” the male repeats in a deadly calm voice, “I won’t ask again.”
“Ooo” I feign fear, “I’m so scared. What ever will I do?”
The male rumbles a low growl as he prowls closer, his teeth flashing with warning.
“My blade doesn’t show mercy. And either do I” the Shadowsinger promises.
And by the way he’s glaring at me with such mighty dark power rippling off of him, I believe him.
“And I don’t fall at male’s knees” I reply in a whisper.

He lunges for me again, but this time I’m prepared. I dodge him and use his strength against him, slipping my foot behind me and causing him to fall onto his stomach. I don’t wait another second as I pince on top of him, holding both of his wrists securely behind his back and shoving one knee into his neck while the other dogs into his lower back. We’re both panting lightly as we adjust to the new situation, the male wriggling to get out of my grasp. I bang my knee into his neck again, causing his head to smash against the stone floor with a loud thud and a groan from the male.

“Do you know what happens to little boys who play with fire?” I whisper into his ear, smirking as his body stiffens, “They get burned.”
I send a jolt of power through my hands, effectively searing his wrists as promised. He lets out a low snarl as he jerks away from me, his hands instinctively reaching for his blade. But I’ve already jumped off of him and taken three steps away, calling my shadows around me. The Illyrian male pales considerably as he takes on my swarm of shadows. His eyes dart to lock onto mine as I begin to wisp away into the darkness. He stumbles back from me as a look of horror overtakes his handsome features. I frown at his sudden change in demeanour, but don’t hesitate for another second. Shimmering hazel eyes are the last thing I see as I fall into my shadows and let them carry me back to my personal hell.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

“Is that even possible?” Mor whispers, her brown eyes darting around the room.
Azriel quickly diverts his gaze before she can lock eyes with him.
“Why not? You’re standing in a room with one right now” Amren comments plainly.
He shifts his feet once under everyone’s heavy gaze, but otherwise he remains as expressionless as ever.
“Azriel, you’re sure about this?” Rhysand asks carefully.
“Yes” Azriel replies firmly for the fifth time since he returned.

He stayed atop the balcony in Hewn City for an hour before he managed to find the strength to return to Valaris. Even as rain started to poor down on him, his body stayed still as he continued to stare where the female disappeared into her shadows. Her Shadows. Just like his. Just as dark and powerful. If not more unruly. He’d felt a few of them as they tried to sneakily climb up his leg and then retreat like little giggling pests. His own had flared enthusiastically at their touch. They had begged for Azriel to let them loose so they could get closer to the female, but he had managed to maintain a firm grip on them.

“Az?”
Azriel snaps his eyes up to meet Rhys’s violet ones. Their purple hue reminding him of the midnight amethyst eyes now engraved into his mind forever.
“I asked if you’d seen her before?” his High Lord repeats.
He thinks of her slightly too slim form in the blood-coated leathers. Her soft yet deadly voice as she taunted him like he was nothing. Her unmatchable agility and the flawless accuracy of her movements. Those gleaming amethyst eyes that tore apart his world brick by brick.
“No” Azriel shakes his head firmly, “I’ve never seen her before.”
Rhysand sighs and burrows his face into his palms. Cassian and Mor share a look with each other and then glance back at their High Lord. Cassian, Azriel notes, hasn’t spoken since he swore profusely after Azriel revealed the news of another Shadowsinger. His fingers beat against his knees and his face is tight.

He stresses for his family, a shadow whispers, He already worries about not having a big enough army. Not training them well enough.

Azriel didn’t need his shadows to tell him that. He already knows the burden his brother carries. Both of his brothers. As well as Azriel himself. The three of them go to endless lengths to ensure their family and people are safe. But it never seems like enough.
“And you’re certain she’s working for Hybern boy?” Amren suddenly asks him.
Azriel meets her glowing red eyes and forces himself not to bulk under the power simmering behind them. She’s always been the only being that he’s ever truly felt powerless next to. Until tonight that is.
“She said “Of course the King didn’t tell me about you.” What other King do we know of other than Hybern?” Azriel answers solemnly.

Amren doesn’t reply. She sinks back into the velvet sofa and continues her deep pondering. Rhysand removes his face from his hands and stands up. Azriel watches as he walks over to the drink cabinet and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid and four glasses. With a wordless flick of his hand, the bottle pours a generous amount of its contents into the four glasses. Rhysand sculls his straight away as the other three float toward Cassian, Mor and Azriel. He’s barely taken two sips of the strong liquor as Rhys down another shot.
“If Hybern’s got a Shadowsinger we need to heighten our security. He could gain priceless information about our plans without us even knowing. We basically need to be on guard for another Azriel, but on the opposing side” Rhysand starts, his voice quickly changing to that of a High Lord, “The real question is what does he already know? What has she already seen?”
It’s something that’s been gnawing at Azriel since he got back. After getting over his initial shock, his mind went into overdrive of what it meant to have another spy just as skilled and secretive as him.
“My shadows can still alert me of her presence. They did tonight” Azriel states, remembering how they called him into Hewn City.
“That’s something at least” Rhys sighs, ruffling his dark hair with his hand for the hundredth time.

“There was something odd about her though” Azriel begins again as the memories keep rotating in his head, “I could feel… it was like she was holding back. Or something was restraining her.”
All three of them frown at Azriel, even Amren pulls out of her thoughts to listen to him.
“I could feel her power rolling off of her. But it was almost as if it was trapped there. Being contained to her.”
Amren leans forwards so her elbows rest on her little knees, her hands closing together as she stares at Azriel.
“An anchor” the little female mutters.
“Come again?” Rhys says quickly to his second.
Amren sighs and says more loudly, “An anchor. Someone who is bound by a magical tether of sorts to another. It can be by blood magic or a complex spell.”
“Okay…” Rhysand urges for her to continue.
“Honestly boy, do you ever read?” Amren snaps but continues none the less, “In theory, the one who completes the spell has a degree of control over the selected being. My guess is that Hybern is the Shadowsinger’s anchor.”
“But why would he anchor her? Wouldn’t he want to unleash her power on us?” Cassian asks with a frown marking his face.
“No. At least not yet. Hybern wasn’t planning on her being caught tonight. She is meant to be an element of surprise. Something to use against us when we’re least expecting it. He must be restraining her power so there’s less of a chance that she’ll be noticed” Rhysand muses and starts pacing again.
“Cauldron boil me” Cassian curses under his breath, “Does anything ever work in our favour?”
Mor gives him a sympathetic look and answers grimly, “Those pink leather pants I got you last starfall seemed to work wonders for you.”

Despite the situation, the room fills with light chuckles. From all of them except Azriel. His shadows have started to cling closer to him, submerging him into their darkness. Mirroring exactly how he feels. The group begin talking again, but he’s zoned out. Too lost in the feel of the tether pulling at his chest. Of the way his heart aches from the long distance. How his shadows continue whispering into his ears, begging him to go back.

A warm hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his thoughts. His eyes catch Mor’s which soften at him. His heart may tug at her proximity, and his skin may burn from her touch, but it’s all dampened by the other feelings racing through him. And then she’s walking past him and out of the room with a fierce step.
“Cassian, go to Hewn City and tell Keir to station more Darkbringers on the borders of the Night Court. Then go to the Illyrian camps and order soldiers to rotate between flight patrols” his High Lord commands his general.
Cassian gives Rhysand a firm nod and then follows Mor out the door, clapping Azriel on the back as he leaves. Azriel frowns, turning his attention back to Rhysand whom is now addressing Amren.
“…just do whatever it is you do” he waves her off.
Amren raises a sharp brow but otherwise doesn’t react. She merely opens up a thick book that she had earlier discarded and continues reading. When Rhysand finally turns to Azriel, he stares at him for a long while before speaking.
“Are you alright brother?” Rhys asks him cautiously.
“I’m fine” Azriel replies coldly.
His shadows, or his face, must have given him away earlier. Given the way Cass and Mor acted, and now Rhysand’s worry.
Rhysand doesn’t seem convinced but he doesn’t push Azriel further. He thanks the Morher for it, not knowing how he would react to his High Lord’s prying right now. He ensures his mental shield are up high. The last thing he needs is for Rhysand to see into his mind.
“Take the night off. But tomorrow, I want you to begin working your way into Hybern. We need more intel on this female” Rhys orders him.
Azriel gives him a stiff nod in reply and starts to leave, but he’s stopped by Rhysand once more.
“Be careful Az. Don’t do anything that’s going to put you in fatal harm.”
Azriel glances over his shoulder to look at his brother whom has lines of worry etching into his handsome face. He nods softer this time, his lingering gaze saying what his words will not.

When he’s finally in the comforts of his private bedchamber, Azriel punches the wall with a growl. He does it again. And again. And again. Until his knuckles are bleeding and scarlet blood drips onto his floorboards. He rinses his scarred hands under cold water, not even flinching at the stinging pain. He should bathe. He’s covered in sweat, grime and blood. But he can’t seem to find the energy to clean himself any more. He slowly removes his weapons and dirty leathers and gently places Truth-Teller on his night stand. With a heavy sigh he falls onto the plushy cushions and bed covers, shoving his face into his silk pillow. He already knows he won’t sleep tonight. Perhaps for the rest of his nights. Not when the same word replays through his mind as a mantra.

Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.

💫

NYX

The whip cracks through the silence. Hitting it’s target and echoing off of the cave walls like rumbling thunder. Fifty. A beat of silence. Then it strikes for another time. Fifty one. I don’t even feel it anymore. I can’t. Numbness has taken over from my nerves being utterly destroyed all over my back. Fifty two. The Devil hasn’t spoken a word since I relayed what Keir said. And he doesn’t say a word as he opens the door and closes it behind him, leaving me alone. He doesn’t need to say anything though. The marks on my back convey exactly what he thinks.

Just like the male Keir was torturing, I hang suspended in the air by shackles digging into my wrists. My big toes just barely scrape the rough ground, igniting that torturous irritation of my freedom being out of reach. But the most humiliating part is my bare body. The Devil had stripped me of my fighting leathers before he bound me in chains, not hesitating to remove my undergarments. He does this mostly every time he personally torments me. Not only for his sick amusement, but to further reduce me to nothing. Two birds with one stone.
The golden collar reunited with my neck as soon as I stepped foot into the castle, and it’s been tightened three times since. A reminder. Of who I belong to. Of what I am.

The door opens again and I don’t bother raising my head to see who. I already know it will be the Healers. Coming to revitalise my savaged back and re-seal the no doubt deep gashing wounds. They tend to me every time I’ve been handled by the Monster or his niece and nephew. Apparently so I can continue being eye candy for them to ogle over whilst they abuse me some more. Sometimes the Healers are ordered to wait a certain amount of time until they tend to the damage, depending on how severe my muck up is. But here they are, keeping their heads down as they shuffle around me to inspect my bloodied back. They don’t say anything before starting the painful process of piecing me back together. Like clockwork.

After rubbing salve into my back which will eventually remove the scar tissue, the healers leave. They don’t undo my shackles. They don’t offer any words of sympathy, or even a smile. They just leave me. And I know I’ll be hanging here for a while. My shoulders are already starting to burn from my arms holding all of my weight. But I know this isn’t the end of it. The King would have beaten me to a pulp if he was going to punish me to the extent of my poor performance. No, he’s got something else’s in store for me I’m sure. Another mission most likely. And not one where I simply pass on a message. One of the ones where I return covered in blood that isn’t my own and unable to speak for days on end. At least one good thing came out of my failed assignment. I just wish I could see the look on Keir’s face when he finds it.

My shadows flicker on the corners of the room. Trying and failing to reach me. It’s always like this when I wear the collar. I can still hear them and feel their presence, but I can’t respond or command them. And they can’t encompass me with their familiar touch. It’s an odd feeling. Like a piece of me is missing. As if without them I’m not completely whole. Then again, I have never felt complete, even with my shadows. I wonder whether the Shadowsinger feels the same. I jerk my head back as a frown spreads over my face. Where the hell did that come from? I’ve given the male Shadowsinger little thought since returning. I didn’t have time to ponder on his flaring dark shadows and harsh ferocity. Or his admirable big black wings and an unfairly beautiful face. But now I can’t help but wonder.

Does he become frustrated when they are too vague, too detailed? Does he ever become overwhelmed and wish for them to disappear, sick of hearing people’s darkest secrets? Does he fall back into his shadows when he seeks that feeling of safety and familiarity? Does he too feel lost if they ever leave him? I never considered the possibility of another Shadowsinger. Another being like me. But now that I know, now that there is a mysterious Illyrian flying around listening to his shadows, I’m itching to have all of my questions answered. And I’m scared what this newfound curiosity brings me. Because the Mother knows how dangerous hope can be.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Azriel and Rhysand stalk down the dimly lit hallway with superiority lacing their every step. Few passers by eye them warily and skirt around them, as if if they got close enough, the High Lord and Spymaster would bite their heads off. Others turn their noses up at them and pin the powerful pair with such loathing it makes Rhysand’s smirk widen. But there’s an urgency in their stride as they walk down the halls of Hewn City castle. Azriel’s hand has been securely positioned at the hilt of Truth-Teller since Rhysand had interrupted his training and told him they’d been called by Cassian.

Azriel had been beating the shit out of the practice dummy in the training ring. He couldn’t feel anything in his hands or feet as he continuously punched and kicked the rubber figure. He had tipped it over again and again but it wasn’t enough. No matter how hard he threw his arm, no matter the energy and strength he put into each attack, he couldn’t get the thought of his mate out of his head. Not even for one moment. He was drawing out blades to start ripping the stupid dummy apart when Rhysand landed behind him with a thud. He turned around to see not his brother, but his High Lord with a grim face. Azriel had just blinked at him, dagger halted in the air and chest heaving.
“Cassian reached out to me. Said we need to get to Hewn City Palace. Now” Rhysand had said seriously.
Azriel straightened his back and nodded once, returning the dagger to his hip and moving his hand over to Truth-Teller. Then Rhsydand had winnowed them from the House of Wind and to the Court of Nightmares.

Now Rhysand follows Cassian’s directions as they make their way further into the uncanny palace. Azriel’s shadows keep darting off and returning to relay the hidden secrets of this ghastly place. But he focusses on the ones that pull him toward whatever it is Cassian has called them for. His shadows seem to be in a conflict though. Some cower at what they see, whilst others become jittery and excitable. It’s rare for them to act like that, having only done so recently because of… her. His stomach drops as he and Rhysand turn a corner and are met with a monstrosity.

A naked male with a newly shaved head hangs by a rope tied around his neck from a high torch bracket. He looks like he’s been mauled. His face is barely recognisable from the puffiness and black bruises, a scar that looks years old slashed down his right cheek. But it’s nothing compared to what’s been done to his body. If he didn’t have to deal with things like this, do things like this, then Azriel would have balked at the sight. Though his gut still churns as his eyes rove over the savaged male.

His arms are spread out by his sides, and with a sickening realisation Azriel notes that his hands have been nailed into the stone wall behind him. The male’s muscled chest and torso have been used as a blank canvas for the perpetrator. With a sharp blade, words have been carved out of his flesh. His bright red blood highlighting the script against his rather pale skin. Azriel notes the elegance of the handwriting, the way it curves perfectly and deeply. The male would have been begging hopelessly for death.
A dick for a dick.
Azriel lowers his gaze and this time he pauses at the horrific sight. Bile actually rises in the back of his throat as his own body twitches at the mere thought of what’s been done to this male. Because sure enough, his masculinity has been ripped from him. Literally. Azriel has to remove his eyes, his gaze returning to the writing and then to the male’s face.

A dick for a dick.
There could be two meanings behind it, but Azriel can already guess which one. This male was probably a complete pig, a dick. So someone fought back. A dick for a dick. If it wasn’t so fucked up, he may have even laughed. This male, if Azriel is correct on his assumptions, probably deserved what he got.

“So where is it?” is the first thing Rhysand says.
When all he gets are questioning looks, Rhys nods towards the male and reiterates, “His dick.”
Silence for a beat. And then-
“My pillow,” Keir replies coldly.
Azriel can’t help himself from the snicker that rises within him, his shadows joining in delight. Cassian and Rhysand glance at him with amusement, but Keir glowers like Azriel is the one who put it there.
“I didn’t realise you were so intimate with cocks,” Rhysand mockingly muses to the steward, a cruel smirk on his face.
Keir sneers at his High Lord and counters harshly, “Perhaps you would find more use for it, by the way you carry around those dogs.”
Rhysand glances at Azriel and Cassian with a considerable expression, though Azriel can see the amusement twinkling in those violet eyes. He then looks at the male for a long while before turning back to the steward with a serious face.
“He’s not my type.”
Keir continues to sneer at them before turning back to examine the male.
“Who is he?” Cassian asks, stepping closer to the dismantled High Fae to take a closer look.
“Flyn Strark” Keir answers and then adds a almost hesitantly, “First commander of the Darkbringers.”

A long, heavy silence follows the revelation. Azriel tilts his head as he examines the male more closely. Noting the unique scar on his face and dark buzzed hair. He’d had the unfortunate experience of meeting with the Commander more than once. He’d been crude and obnoxious. Exactly what is engraved into his flesh, a complete dick. But he was powerful. Well known in Hewn City for his merciless blood-count and immense strength of two Illyrian soldiers. So the question lays loudly between them. Who could have overpowered the Captain of the Night Courts’s Darkbringers?

“I’m sure many people would have wanted his head,” Rhysand breaks the silence, “But who actually has the nerve to… throughly ensure his death?”
Keir merely shrugs, still staring at his dead Commander.

He knows. The steward has known since he found the genital in his bedchamber last night, a shadow whispers into Azriel’s ear.

“Why bother lying when you know my specialty in getting the truth out of people” Azriel says lowly to Keir, making sure Truth-Teller glints in the light.
Keir slowly turns to glance at Azriel. His dark, cold eyes drop to Truth-Teller before returning to Azriel’s hard face. Years of cruelty have enabled the steward to maintain a mask of unflinching carelessness, but Azriel can see that small flicker of fear in the tiny twitch of his finger.
“You’re accusing me of lying?” Keir merely states.
“I know you’re lying. You know who did this. And you will answer your High Lord” Azriel snarls, his siphons flashing.
Keir’s cruel eyes bore into Azriel’s. But then they flicker to the shadows circling around him. His suspicion is confirmed and he forces himself to ignore the knot in his chest when he speaks again.
“It was the shadowsinger. She visited you last night. Why?”
Keir’s eyes flash with surprise, but he shows no other reaction to Azriel’s forwardness. He can feel Rhysand and Cassian’s stare, but he continues to keep his eyes locked on the steward’s.
“You met?” Keir questions with a small tilt of his head and a smile that makes Azriel’s gut twist, “What did you think of her? Quite the female, isn’t she?”
Azriel can’t stop the deep, possessive growl that rumbles in his chest. Keir simply smirks.
“Don’t avoid the question. What did she want from you?” Cassian demands.
Keir turns to face the general with a disgusted snarl, “I don’t answer to you, Illyrian bastard.”
Azriel’s siphons flash again just as Rhysand’s power rolls off of him. Rhysand takes a step toward his uncle and looks down at him.
“We can do this the easy way” Rhysand coos, “Or the hard way.”

Of course Keir knows Rhysand can destroy his mind with his sharp talons. Rip into his brain and devour everything until he gets the i formation he desires. So of course Keir has no other choice then to answer. But it doesn’t stop the glare on his face or the loathing bite to his words.
“She was merely a messenger for the King of Hybern. Apparently he’s so pathetic that he needs more recruits.”
The three brothers glance at each other, each of their faces grim. Their predictions on the female Shadowsinger’s relationship with Hybern had been all too correct. The confirmation sends a knife into Azriel’s heart.
“And what exactly did you tell her?” Rhysand asks, every bit of arrogance replaced with the cold power of the High Lord.
“That I am perfectly fine where I am. And that I require a higher price than some measly power.”
Cassian rolls his eyes at the steward, but Rhysand doesn’t wily as he stares at Keir. Probably sifting through his mind to see if he’s telling the truth. But Azriel can tell the steward isn’t lying. And when Rhysand returns to the present and doesn’t say otherwise, Azriel drops his shoulders an inch. At least Keir isn’t conspiring against the Night Court. Not yet anyway.

“Nice sentiments,” Rhysand drawls to Keir and then turns to Azriel.
He doesn’t speak though, not aloud. He taps Azriel’s mind with his talon and Azriel doesn’t hesitate to let him in.
You want me to go to Hybern now? Azriel asks before his High Lord can speak.
Always so intuitive, Rhysand jests but then adds solemnly, Be careful. Clearly he’s got more in that ghastly castle then we thought.
Azriel nods, the only response Rhysand needs as he retreats from his brothers mind. They both know he won’t actually be going into the castle. Not with Hybern’s enchantments keeping him out. But he takes Rhysand’s warning to heart anyway. Not that he needs it. He’s always careful. Everything he does is calculated and precise. Even when faced with death, every movement has been planned in his brain three seconds before he does it. So unlike the raw impulsiveness of the Shadowsinger the other night-

Azriel snaps himself from that thought as he nods once more to Rhysand and Cassian before calling his shadows to encircle him. Just as he’s falling into their in-between to transport him across borders, he catches one last glimpse of the violated male. He doesn’t know what to think of the sheer ruthlessness the female Shadowsinger must contain to do something so barbaric. And he doesn’t know what to do with that small piece of him that almost admires her for it.

He completely vanishes from sight as he focusses on getting all the way across to the Spring Court border. Flashes of black and white life hurtle past him as he partly winnows through the shadow realm. Once he reaches the Spring Court forest he taps back into his reality and takes a moment to recoup his energy. He hides amongst the darkness of the thick trees as he remains alert and scans his surroundings. What was once a lush, thriving environment is now on the brink of being completely barren. Bushes have been reduced to nothing but dead branches and thorns, the absence of their vibrant flowers a gaping hole. The ground is no longer a healthy green, but a sickly yellow and brown from the dead grass and fallen leaves. Indeed, Tamlin appears to be on a tight leash between sanity and insanity. Everything Rhysand has conveyed about the Spring Lord’s slow downward spiral is true. This dying forest says it all. Azriel gets a sudden urge to go and get Feyre from the beasts claws and put her safeky into Rhysand’s waiting arms. But he knows he can’t. Not without revealing what she is to Rhysand. Not without completely violating the laws of the High Lord’s and the Courts.

With a sigh, Azriel returns to his shadows and transports once more. This time he jumps across the ocean, a harder feat requiring more power and concentration due to the lack of shadows. But his body suddenly jerks back as it’s met with a hard barrier. His wings catch him as he stops mid-air, the ocean waves crashing into charcoal rocks beneath him. He stays airborne as he overlooks the island. Though enchantments and tricky spell work keep intruders out, Azriel can still see Hybern. And his shadows can still slip into the dark cracks and crevices of the large castle and see the dark things happening inside it’s walls. To a certain an extent. It’s almost fuzzy, like everything is blurred. Like his shadows can’t give him the full detail. Much like when he’s in the in-between realm of his shadows.

He tries to push further, his siphons glowing slightly as he exerts more power. But no matter how hard he attempts to make contact, it’s to no avail. He huffs out his irritation and tries again anyway. And again. And again. Each time with the same result.

Dark things are being exploited inside those suffocating walls.

Things that shouldn’t be thought are thought. Things that shouldn’t be attempted are attempted. Things that shouldn’t be touched are touched.

We hear it. There. Inside. We hear it. We hear it. We here it. That sweet song.

And Azriel begins to hear it too. Or more so feel it. That distant, ever so present soft thump in his chest. That faint beat that isn’t from his own pounding heart. Ba-bump. Ba-bump… Ba-bump Ba-bump.

NYX

Hide. Hide our Dark Mother. She comes. She comes for us.

I don’t try to tell the frantic shadow that I can’t hide. Not when I know it won’t be able to hear me. Instead I squeeze my eyes shut and take long deep breaths, bracing myself for the oncoming intrusion. No more than ten seconds later I hear heels clicking on the stone floor outside the chamber. I open my eyes and raise my head when the lock on the door clicks and it swings open to reveal the smirking Princess of Hybern. With that haughty bounce in her step, Brannagh steps into the cold, dark room and closes the door softly behind her. Her dark eyes roam over my naked body, her plump lips twisting up further as my stomach drops down. All beauty on the princesses face disappears as she bares her white teeth at me. Not a second later she’s in front of me in a flash, my chin held tightly in her slender fingers with her sharp nails digging into my skin.

“Have you been a bad girl again?” Brannagh coos in that stupid baby voice she adopts when tormenting me.
I roll my eyes, not bothering to hide it from her. It only makes her smile widen. She releases her grasp on my chin and slowly lets her cold fingers glide down my skin. Down my neck and to my sternum where it rests. Goosebumps shiver along my skin, my body already reacting to what’s to come. What has been done so many times. She notices this too, and a malicious glint is the only thing that sparkles in those dark eyes.
“You know, I’ve missed this body. It’s been too long, don’t you think?”
“I think a little longer would have been welcome,” I ground out through gritted teeth, though I try to sound bored.
Brannagh cocks her head as she replies in that baby voice again, “Aww, don’t say that. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
“What feelings?” the rhetorical words tumble out of my mouth.
She only chuckles hysterically, her head falling back dramatically. I just wait, pure dread unfurling in my gut.
“I’ve missed that mouth of yours too,” she says, flashing me a sick grin, “Despite how disobedient it can be.”
I raise an eyebrow and reply, if only to buy me some time, “What? Ianthe hasn’t been tending to your wounds?”

The princesses face falls from the cruel amusement to disgust and irritation. I let out a breath as she opens her mouth and starts speaking. Knowing I’ve got a few extra minutes while she rattles on and on.
“I can’t stand Ianthe anymore. All she does is prattle on and on and on about Tamlin and his little human whore. Well, she’s not human anymore, but it doesn’t change the fact that her blood is dirty. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Ianthe is to totally obsessed with them. Trying to get them married even after the first wedding fell through…”
Brannagh keeps ranting about Ianthe and Tamlin, occasionally throwing bites at the new made fae female Feyre. I’ve heard snippets of the human girl who saved Prythian from Amarantha’s reign. How she died and came back to life from the power of all seven High Lords. How she resides in the Spring Court under the protection of her faience Tamlin. I didn’t, however, hear that their wedding didn’t go through. Or that the Spring Court is where Ianthe has been slipping off to all this time. She must see some potential for her own gain by the union of the Spring High Lord and the saviour of Prythian. Well, either she or The Devil does.

“… completely and utterly foolish. I mean, why even bother? It’s such a waste of time, but Uncle doesn’t care for my opinion. He never does.”
Brannagh always sounds like a spoiled brat when she raves and whines like this. So different from her twin. Dagdan is mostly silent unless he’s talking to his sister, and isn’t nearly as easy to distract as she is. Ever since the twins were exposed to my presence and allowed permission from their uncle to do as they please with me- expect kill me- Brannagh has found it in good authority to use me as her diary. Despite how her voice makes me want to rip my ears off, it’s been quite beneficial. Where my shadows are refrained from travelling as far as they normally can without my restraints, Brannagh’s ranting fills in the gaps. But as always, she gets bored and soon runs out of things to say. And that’s when she turns to me.

Brannagh sighs as she skims her eyes over me again, one hand twisting the ends of her long, black hair whilst her other starts stroking the skin below my right breast.
“Now, what shall we do today?”
the princess muses as she tilts her head up in contemplation.
“Have a tea party?” I suggest monotonously.
Brannagh chuckles, the callous sound making the hairs on my neck prick up.
“I’m more hungry for something a little more… filling,” she says, her eyes roving over me once more.
My gut twists more, making nausea begin to crawl up my throat. I try not to jerk away as her nails lightly scratch down my torso, digging in harder and harder as she makes the slow decent. She chuckles again and stops her hand at my pelvis, drawing circles with her nails.
“The question is, just how will I make you scream this time?” she whispers into my ear.

I close my eyes and force myself to breath. In and out. In and out. In and out.
Just don’t think about it. Pretend you’re not here. You’re not in a cell, hanging from chains around your wrists. You’re not trapped ten feet below a castle. You’re soul and body does not belong to a wicked Monster. You are free. You are flying. The salty wind crashes against your face as your skin soaks up the sunlight. You’re laughing freely as you dive downward, feet grazing along the cool water…
A soft thrum enters my chest. So faint and distant that I focus on it. On the beating that begins to match my heart. On the small piece of light and reprieve that it brings me. I focus so intently on the pulse as it drums inside of me that I almost can’t feel what’s happening to me.

Chapter Text

My wrists are still swollen and bruised. After spending so long in those sharp shackles, just hanging limply by my arms, the Sadist wanted to leave a lasting impression. And now I’ve been underground in my cell for ten days. I only know it’s been so long due to the one meal I get a day. It’s how I mostly count my time here. Unless I can drag it out of Brannagh.

I still remember when I was first taken and forced into this very cell. The first time Dagdan and Brannagh had introduced themselves to me. I had been vulnerable and weak back then. Trembling with fear and begging to be released. I remember seeing the two highly attractive twins as they opened the metal door and let themselves in. They had smiles on their faces, and being young and naive, I took them as kind smiles. I remember holding my ground though, unsure of what they wanted from me. Somehow I managed talking in a steady voice as I demanded to know how long I had been trapped in the dark. How long since my mother had been slaughtered. The twins had looked at each other, their smiles becoming demonic, their dark eyes flashing with wicked amusement. Dagdan took a step toward me and I mirrored him by taking a step back. That had made Banngrah laugh hysterically. Dagdan had just leered at me. And then he pounced. A perfect feline predator conquering its prey. I was on the rocky ground seconds later, all breath stolen from me and my mind scrambling to catch up. The next thing I knew my pants were being pulled down and searing pain erupted on my right hip. I started thrashing, my screams tearing my throat until it was completely raw. But Brannagh held me down while her brother continued my torment. Finally he had stopped, and by that time I was nearly unconscious from the pain. When I looked at what he had done, I threw up. He had engraved twenty-eight marks into my skin with one of his sharp nails. Each line representing one day that I had been there.

The lines are nearly gone now. With my advanced fae healing and five centuries worth of time, they are but fading scars. Memories of the beginning. Just as all the scars littered on my skin represent unpleasant memories that I will never forget. Their lasting imprints ensuring just that.
The many locks and enchantments on my door suddenly begin unwinding and I straighten my back. As if I had summoned them from my dark thoughts, the twins stand in the doorway. Just like last time they’re smiling, though this time I know what those cruel smiles mean.
“You can’t go out wearing that,” Brannagh crinkles her nose in disgust.
I glance down to the loose white pants and singlet top. Well, they used to be white. Now they’re covered in dirt and blood. I look back at the twins, my expression remaining blank.
“The King has ordered you to accompany us,“ Dagdan announces coldly, “Put this on.”
With a flick of his wrist clothes appear on the straw matt on the floor. Also known as my bed. With a heavy sigh I reach down and unfold the usual leather uniform. Though these appear much more luxurious than what I usually wear. I don’t bother asking why, and I don’t bother telling them to leave either. Waste of breathe and time.

After watching me stripping and donning the body-fitted leathers, Brannagh and Dagdan turn on their heels in unison and leave my cell without another word. With a sigh and a roll of my eyes I grudgingly follow the pair down the nearly pitch-black walkway. It’s always damp and musty down here. So far down below the surface that the charcoal rocks are always wet and dripping. Throw in the stench of years old blood and dark magic, and the smell is so revolting it still brings a sting to my eyes. Every so often low moaning travels throughout the otherwise silent tunnels. They’re not pleasured sounds though. They are filled with agony and despair so deep it stabs knife after knife into my chest. I try not to think about how some of the occupants are trapped down here because of me. Or how some of their cries for mercy are from the things I have done to them. Instead I focus on the silky feel of the leather against my skin, it’s silence as we trudge through this hell.

Only when we reach the trap door and climb up into the stone dungeons does my chest ease slightly. But I still hold my breath and clench my fists so tight that half-moon crescents embed my skin. Now we walk past the open cells. Brannagh and Dagdan could winnow us out in a heat beat. But I know they want to torture me with this. As well as remind those behind the iron bars of my existence. I envy how the twins don’t bat an eye at the the various residents of the cells we pass. Occasionally they will jeer or offer malicious smiles, but otherwise they continue on like there aren’t hundreds of broken, lost eyes upon them. I, on the other hand, can feel those heavy gazes on me like I’m under a spotlight. Sweat begins to trail down the nape of my neck and my skin crawls with every small sound. I block out the shouts and spitting words. The pleas for release and the promises of my torturous death. I have to refrain from giving myself up to them. Little do they know how much I wish for them to rip me apart and offer me death rather than spend another day in this life.

After what felt like hours, we reach the iron gates that lead out to the polished halls of the castle. The guards on post bristle at the sight of the royal twins and scramble to unlock the gates and let us through. I pretend not to notice their burning stares as I strut past them. Now the King of Hybern’s Second. When we make a left turn instead of right, I can’t hold my tongue any longer.
“Where are we going?”
Brannagh shares a glance with her brother before turning around so she’s walking backwards and smiling at me with those sharp teeth.
“A little family vacation. We’ll have some sister bonding time,” she replies with sick sweetness.
“I’m drowning in excitement,” I say sarcastically, my face stone cold.
Brannagh sighs one of those dramatic sighs and says, “You better not be this boring on our trip. And you know not to ask any questions.”
She turns back around, luckily just in time to miss me flipping her off. Fine. At least we’re not going to see The Devil first.

The moon is hiding behind the stormy clouds as we exit through the great golden double doors. A coldness settles over me in its absence, leaving me feeling even more lonely. I close my eyes as a small breeze flows past me and welcome the fresh air with a big inhale. Something I will never take advantage of. Dagdan suddenly stops and turns to face me so that I nearly walk into his chest. He looks at me with distaste before reluctantly extending his arm. I glance down at his empty hand to see my twin blades appear in his grasp. My heart skips a beat. Rovina and Salestra. Ruin and Salvation. They’re near identical. The size of my arm in length but skinnier than swords and delicately thinner. Their bases extend outward before attaching to their hilts and the tips are dangerously pointy, almost forming a long, skinny triangle. But their most riveting feature is the ancient Obsidian metal in which they were forged from. So instead of a silver blade reflecting light, the black blades seem to suck in all the brightness. The only difference between the twins are their black hilts. Salestra’s has three amethyst crystals embedded into it in a horizontal line, like starlight against a dark velvety night, whereas Rovina’s crystals are a milky white, akin to moonlight.

These are weapons of death. The blades impregnated with unfathomable amounts of various blood. Many horrid and unforgiving sins have been committed at their mercy. All carried out by me. Whilst some undeniably deserve the torturous agony, it’s never gotten easier. I still can’t stomach the horrors plastered in my memories, the sickening smell of death and the raw screams of pain. All caused by these two beautiful blades.

I take the blades from Dagdan and hold them in my hands for a moment, letting their familiar weight ground me. But with the sharp look I receive from the Prince I make quick work of raising them and sliding them into the holsters strapped to my back. The thought of slicing the royal twin’s heads off crosses over my mind, as it always does in situations like this when I have my loyal weapons by my side. I’ve attempted it numerous times in the past. But that’s as far as I’ve ever gotten. Brannagh and Dagdan, being thousand-year-old daemiti’s, we’re able to intervene before I ever got to make any fatal blows. Plus the collar around my neck puts up a god fight. I’ve learnt my lesson the hard way.

They don’t attach the golden cuffs around my wrists. And they don’t remove the collar, so wherever it is we’re going, I mustn’t need much of my powers. Just upholding the appearance of the deadly assassin and unofficial second to Devil of Hell.
The twins don’t say anything else before digging their nails into my biceps and winnowing away. The usual fleeting sensation of being plunged into icy water passes quickly and within five seconds we’re already appearing at our destination. The air is different here, it’s more thick, and that smell-
“Why the fuck are we in the human realm?” I demand in a hiss without thinking.
Two sharp pains shoot through either arm as the twins squeeze me roughly.
“Shut that smart mouth and don’t open it again until it’s required of you,” Brannagh scolds warningly.

I don’t have a chance to react, we dissolve into time and space again, this time only lasting three seconds. When my vision clears I take a single step back at the magnificently ginormous building before me. White sandstone bricks form various layers of tall turrets, all with golden roofs that glint in the luminous moonlight. All the blood drains from my face as I take in the Palace of the Mortal Queens. Not from feeling threatened- I could snap their fragile pretty necks in the blink of an eye- but from what scheming the King must be up to to require a visit to the Seven Mortal Queens.
“Don’t speak out of line,” is all Dagdan mutters before knocking on the intricately carved wooden doors.
No more than ten seconds of quite anticipation passes by before the large doors are creaking open. Two human male guards in dark grey uniforms are positioned on either side of a rather young maiden whom stands with her shaking hands clasped in front of her. Her big doe-eyes are wide as they rove over us. I don’t blame her a single bit. The three of us probably look like Hell has arrived on the doorstep. But her gaunt face remains indifferent, her pointed chin raised.

“Welcome to the Mortal Lands. If you would please follow me, the Queens are expecting your presence,” the girl says in a surprisingly steady voice.
Brannagh and Dagdan share raised eyebrows, cruel smiles slowly twisting their plump lips. They don’t say anything though as they step forward into the great hall to follow the maiden. An insult. I pray to the Mother before trailing after them, noting more guards in grey following closely behind. Pointless. Utterly and positively futile against the three of us. I try to reach out to my shadows, but only mange to stroke their wispy existence. I focus on willing them to cling as close as possible to me though. Their intel could be extremely valuable, plus their comfort will help soothe my jittery senses.

We walk down three pristine halls decked out in glamour only riches can buy. The thought of human villages nearby suffering from food shortages and illnesses while these Queens surround themselves in riches sends a bolt of disgusted rage through me. But I hold it at bay as the maiden finally stops before a set of golden doors, also carved with beautiful designs of vines and flowers. She knocks twice before swinging open the doors to reveal a large domed room. An alter extends up to a dias where seven thrones of authority are stationed. And seated in those thrones are beautiful human women staring right back at us. The maiden ushers is into the room and we walk painfully slowly up the alter until we come to the base of the dias.

I don’t shy away from the intense gazes of the Queens. I’m the King of Hybern’s scary Second in Command. A shadow whispers faintly to me, but I still hear it. I glance to the throne on the end, and sure enough it’s empty. Interesting.
“Welcome to our Palace, Prince and Princess of Hybern,” the brown-skinned Queen seated in the middle says in a voice of ethereal coldness.
Her sharp, cold eyes pierce into each of us as she takes her time to survey us. Wrinkles mare her ageing face, but her perfectly straight posture and body-fitted blue gown indicate she is anything but old. Her dark eyes penetrate me for a long while before she turns her attention back to the twins.
“The King sends his regards,” Brannagh sings in that sweet voice, though her eyes are equally as cold and dangerous.
Dagdan starts speaking to the eldest Queen but my focus becomes interrupted as I notice the youngest Queen staring at me. Her hair falls into untameable golden curls, accentuating her freckled dusted skin and purest amber eyes. Her head is tilted elegantly as she unabashedly continues to stare. I square my shoulders and meet her gaze with my own challenging one. But a small smile graces her blossom lips before diverting her eyes away.

“And who are you?”
I turn my head to the Queen who addressed me in that belittling voice. Sure enough her black eyes are staring me down like I’m a piece of dust that her servants haven’t swept away. Her black straight hair glistens in the light as she raises her pointed chin.
I meet her cunning eyes and reply with a dark velvety tone, “I’m what you humans call the boogeyman.”
The Queen narrows her eyes, the others regarding me with wary interest. One Queen with fair skin and a stony face takes all of me in with a fearful gaze. Brannagh and Dagdan stiffen, the latter sending me a warning glare.
“And what are you called in your realm?” the Queen with wild curls asks me.
“Nyx, Second in Command to the King of Hybern,” I answer swiftly.
I can’t bury the smirk that pulls on my face as the Queen with dark and cruel features stops looking at me with distaste, to be replaced with intimidation. Recognition flashes on the Oldest Queen’s face, whilst the youngest stares at me again with heavy interest.
“And who are all of you?” I dare ask with an arrogant smirk, and then clarify , “Beside your royal titles.”
A claw scratches sharply against my mental walls, and I recognise it as Dagdan’s. I manage to grind my teeth and push it away, not bothering with his warning.
The youngest Queen chuckles at me however and answers, “I’m Demetra. This is Briallyn,” she gestures to the cunning queen next to her.
“Andromeda,” the dark-skinned woman with a sweet smile and kind eyes says.
I glance toward the last two, waiting.
“I’m Evelyn,” the granite-faced Queen grounds out.
“Hyacinth,” the Eldest Queen finally says in an ancient yet young voice.
I not once at their introductions, however grudgingly given, before looking at the empty throne.
“And where is the seventh Queen?” I ask.
Few of the Queens share glances, Demetra just stares sadly at the empty throne to her right. Interesting.
“She is ill. And being tended to,” Briallyn answers coldly, ending the subject.
Odd. Very, very odd.

“Now, let’s address the real reason for your visit. You didn’t come all of this way to ask for our names,” Queen Hyacinth says.
Brannagh and Dagdan share another look before staring down the Queens. I brace myself, still unaware of why I’m standing here also.
“The Book of Breathings. The King demands for the half you posses,” Brannagh replies in a tone that makes prey flee.
Well fuck. We’re all royally fucked.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Azriel had dreaded the day he would find his mate ever since he knew of the preciously rare bond. His life has been tainted in so many ways imaginable. He grew up in the dark, unable to spread his wings and learn to fight like his Illyrian instincts screamed at him to do. Shunned from a loving family, his scarred, twisted hands revealing as much. Thrust into a camp of dominant Illyrian brutes with only his jittery shadows for company. Beaten bloody over and over and over until he finally rose above them and pushed back with dark determination. A prized possession of Cronan, the High Lord of Nightmares, who forged Azriel into a weapon. Who forced him into what he remains today: a killer.

What female could ever be his soul’s equal? How could the Mother ever tie someone down to his darkened heart? He had asked himself over and over again, hoping that he would never lock eyes with someone and seal their fate to him. He quickly forgot about it though when he met Mor. The fierce, stunningly bright female of Truth. She was so unlike him, bubbling with energy and shining smiles. Constantly talking everyone’s ears off, even in the bleakest of times. He couldn’t help but be intrigued by her. Couldn’t stop his pulse from quickening every time she looked at him with those warm brown eyes. But the longer his feelings went unreciprocated and the more his heart ached when she looked away, Azriel knew she wasn’t meant for him. And so the worrisome thoughts returned in a swirling storm. Who’s soul could possibly be sacrificed to a lifetime with a monster?

But never, not once, did Azriel stop to think that maybe The Mother knows exactly what she is doing. That his mate would be just as lethal, just as dark as him. Nor did he ever consider his mate to be on the opposing side. An enemy to his court and family. An enemy to him. As fucked up as it is, The Mother certainly knows what she’s done. That his soul is so far gone that his equal is someone born of evil.

He hates himself for it, but he can’t stop the bitter jealousy settling inside of him as he waits in the dining room of the House of Wind. Standing rigidly next to Cassian, Mor and Amren sitting on dark wooden chairs. The small female of many lives admiring the jewelled rings on her tiny fingers, while Mor hums quietly to herself and stares out of the window. Azriel senses their arrival before they open the door, his shadows curling around his ears and whispering of the strange female just outside. The door handle turns, making Mor sit up straight with anticipation and Cassian clasp his hands behind his back. Amren however doesn’t remove those silvery eyes from her jewels as Rhysand enters the room, his mate hesitantly following after him.

Feyre Archeron. Human made Fae.
Cursebreaker, a shadow hisses quietly.
And unknowingly mated to the High Lord of Night. She tentatively stops just behind Rhysand and tucks a pice of her golden-brown hair behind a pointed ear. Some of the bluest eyes Azriel has ever seen dart across the room, making sure not to stay too long on any of them. She seems to catch her nervous state however and straightens her spine, raising her chin and claiming a look of cool indifference.
“Come on Feyre. We don’t bite. Unless you ask us to,” Cassian jests with a wink.
Azriel refrains from rolling his eyes, but at least his brothers charismatic personality has Feyre’s shoulders relaxing and taking another step closer.

“The last I heard, Cassian, no one has ever taken you up on that offer,” Rhys says coolly.
Azriel snorted before he could stop himself. Those blue eyes land on him, and he immediately stiffens, his shadows curling closer around him. Luckily Cassian, being the loud brute he is, starts blabbering again.
“So fancy tonight brother,” he surveys Rhys formal black attire and then looks at Feyre, “And you made poor Feyre dress up too.”
Feyre attempted a small smile as Rhys flippantly responded to Cassian. But Feyre returned her curious eyes to Azriel once again. He noted the way she looked at Truth-Teller sheathed to his thigh, how her eyes regarded his shadows.
Rhys also appeared to notice her gaze and says, “This is Azriel, my spymaster.”
His body tenses again under the attention, but he forces himself to meet Feyre’s eyes.
“Welcome,” is all he can think to say.
He ignores the amused looks from his brothers and extends his left hand to her. It’s something he doesn’t do often, given the brutally ugly scarred skin on his hands. She seems to hesitate before accepting, clasping her soft hand into his. He gives her hand a rough squeeze before dropping it and letting it fall back to his side. Feyre seems almost relived as she steps back next to Rhys, and Azriel mirrors that relief. He’s never been one for touch and affection.
“You’re brothers?” Feyre questions, more to Rhysand.
“Brothers in the sense that all bastards are brothers of sorts,” Rhys amends with a nod.
Feyre glances at Cassian and asks, “And you?”
“I command Rhys’s armies,” he answers with a shrug.
Azriel does roll his eyes this time. Cassian is always belittling his role in this court. He notices Feyre shift on her feet though and decides a small intervention would be helpful.
“Cassian also excels at pissing everyone off. Especially amongst our friends. So, as a friend of Rhysand… good luck,” he says in some attempt of friendliness.
A little flicker of a smile crossed the beautiful females face before Cass lightly shoved Azriel.
“How the hell did you make that bone ladder in the Middengard Wyrm’s lair when you look like your own bones can snap at any moment?” Cassian demands disbelievingly.
He really has no filter-
“How the hell did you manage to survive this long without anyone killing you?” Feyre shoots back.
Azriel raises his brows in amusement while Cassian bellows a bark of laughter.
“If Cassian is howling, I hope it means Feyre told him to shut his fat mouth,” Mor interrupts as she rises from her seat, a smile on her flawless face. She’s wearing a chiffon red gown that flows perfectly on her body, combs holding back her curly hair. Azriel has to remind himself to look away, his blood turning cold when he notices Feyre eyeing him with a knowing look. Shit.
“I don’t know why I ever forgot you two are related. You two and your clothes,” Cassian gestures to Mor and Rhys.
Mor raises her brow and gives Cassian a once over before replying, “I wanted to impress Feyre. You could have at least bothered to comb your hair.”
They continue quipping back and forth as they always do, slowly migrating to the chairs around the large wooden table. Azriel blocks them out as he takes his seat near the end of the table to Amgen’s right.

He only reared his attention back in when Amren, whom Feyre had been eyeing uneasily, finally spoke.
“Your taste remains excellent, High Lord. Thank you,” the small female says, lifting her gaze from her rings.
“It suits you Amren,” Rhys answers with a wave of his hand.
“Everything suits me,” she replies flippantly and then bored her eyes into Feyre.
Azriel can feel the females discomfort from across the table. He doesn’t blame her. He still remembers the first time he was introduced the the tiny female with too much power to withstand. Even his shadows had balked in her presence.
“So there are two of us now,” Amren muses.
Azriel was thankful for Feyre’s confusion so he didn’t need to voice his own.
“We who are born something else- and found ourselves trapped in new, strange bodies,” she adds in explanation.
Ah, here we go. All her talk of riddles and ancient history. Good luck to Feyre. He zones out again as Amren talks of being made. Of Miryam, someone he often forgets about due to the Seraphiam’s being in hiding for so long.

His mind wonders back to his budding envy as he examines Rhys watch his mate intently. The love simmering in those violet eyes that Azriel can see from a mile a way, whilst Feyre remains ignorant. He feels guilty for being jealous of his brother on this. For hating this happiness that Rhys very much deserves after everything. It’s something Azriel will never deserve, but he can’t help himself from wanting it.

“….Can’t we eat-eat-eat, and then talk,” Mor groans loudly, snapping Azriel from his bleak thoughts.
He chuckles softly at her charm and obliges her, sticking his fork into the roast and taking a bit of the perfectly cooked meat. He can feel Feyre’s gaze on him throughout the meal. It only makes his shadows a swirling mess as they cocoon him from her judgement. It makes his wings twitch and every movement of eating rigid. He finds himself unable to ignore her curious glances anymore and meets her gaze. A small blush creeps over her cheeks at being caught.
“They’re called Siphons,” Azriel answers her silent question, “They concentrate and focus our power in battle.”
Feyre only blinks, eyes flickering from his cobalt Siphons to Cassian’s gleaming red ones.
“The power of stronger Illyrians tends toward ‘incinerate now, ask questions later.’ They have little magical gifts behind that- the killing power,” Rhys explains further.
Azriel snorts. That’s one way of putting it.
“The gift of violent, warmongering people,” Amren adds to which Azriel nods in agreement.
He can feel Cassian’s sharp gaze on the side of his face, but he ignores it and continues to look at Feyre whilst Rhys continues.
“The Illyrians bred the power to give them advantage in battle, yes. The Siphons filter that raw power and allow Cassian and Azriel to transform it into something more subtle and varied. Into shields and weapons, arrows and spears. They allow for the magic to be nimble, precise on the battlefield- when it’s natural state lends itself toward something far messier and unrefined, and potentially dangerous when fighting in tight quarters.”

A small silence ensues and Feyre again turns her attention to Azriel. He knows his shadows and unreadable face draw people in, but he just wishes she wouldn’t stare. Though he does understand why she’s here, why they’re having this dinner. For her to see if she wants to work with them against Hybern. Against his mate.
“How did you- I mean, how do you and Lord Cassian-“ but Feyre is cut off as Cassian spits his wine out, spraying it all over Mor’s dress.
A smile tugs up Azriel’s lip as Mor jumps up and exclaims various curses at Cassian for ruining her dress. Cassian starts howling in laughter again, oh making Azriel’s smile widen.
“Cassian is not a lord. Though I’m sure he appreciates you thinking he is,” Rhys drawls and then adds, “Neither is Azriel. Nor Amren. Mor, believe it or not, is the only pureblooded, titled person in this room.”
Feyre frowns at Rhysand, the question clear in her eyes, so he answers, “I’m half-Illyrian. As good as a bastard where the thoroughbred High Fae are concerned.”
“So you three aren’t High Fae?” Feyre clarifies.
“Illyriana are certainly not High Fae. And glad of it. And we’re not lesser faeries, though some to try to call us that. We’re just- Illyrians. Considered expendable aerial cavalry for the Might Court at the best of times, mindless solider grunts at the worst,” Cassian answers airily.
“Which is most of the time,” Azriel mutters darkly.
He’s always hated his Illyrian heritage. Where his brother is overtly proud of it. It’s one of the few things they’ve always fought over. But after what he endured, Azriel could never justify the barbaric nature of his race.

He zones out for a third time when Cassian starts telling the long story of how they became such close brothers. Their time spent in Windhaven, learning to become Illyrian soldiers. How Rhys’s beautiful mother had taken him and Cass in under her wing. How they all hated each other until they realised that as three bastards, all they had were each other. He still remembers the feeling of being apart of a family for the first time. Having brothers that actually cared for him. And then feeling lost when Cronan separated them out of fear. Azriel will never forget the relief and happiness he felt when Rhys became High Lord and invited them all into his inner circle. A huge FUCK EVERYONE ELSE. He glances at Feyre as she listens intently to Cassian and Rhysand recounting their past. Her eyes shine with sadness, understanding, laughter and warmth all at once. He’ll have to teach her how to guard her emotions if she’s going to join their cause.

“I accept your offer- to work with you. To earn my keep. And help with Hybern in any way I can,” Feyre announces to Rhys.
Azriel raises a brow in approval, though his stomach twists at that word. It always does now.
“Good. Because we start tomorrow,” Rhysand replies with a glint in those violet eyes.
Feyre’s brows bridge together as she asks, “Where? And what?”
Questions Azriel also would like to know the answers to. His High Lord is always ten steps ahead of everything. Self-sacrificing bastard.
“Because the King of Hybern is indeed about to launch a war, and he wants to resurrect Jurian to do it,” Rhys replies.
Well shit. Azriel did not see that one coming. His shadows flicker and swirl fretfully around him, hissing insults and facts about the dead human solider.
“Bullshit. There’s no way to do that,” Cass bellows with a concerned frown.
He wishes he could agree, but Azriel knows that resurrection isn’t so improbable. Not after all the shit that he’s seen and heard of.
“Why would the King want to resurrect Jurian? He was so odious. All he liked to do was talk about himself,” Mor groans.
“That’s what I want to find out. And how the King intends to do it,” Rhys says darkly.
“Word will have reached him about Feyre’s making. He knows it’s possible for the dead to be remade,” Amren speaks up in a bleak voice.
Mor counters, “All seven High Lords would have to agree to that.”
“There’s not a chance it happens. He’ll take another route. All the slaughtering- the massacres at temples. You think it’s tied to this?”
“I know it’s tied to this,” Rhys answers gravely, “I didn’t want to tell you before I knew for sure. But Azriel informed me that they’d raided the memorial in Sangravah three days ago. They’re looking for something- or found it.”
“That’s why the ring and finger bone vanished after Amarantha died. For this. But who… They never caught the Attor, did they?” Feyre says breathlessly.
“No. No they didn’t,” Rhys answers grimly and then turns to Amren, “How does one take an eye and finger bone and make it into a man again? And how do we stop it?”
“You already know how to find the answer. Go to the prison. Talk to the Bone Carver,” Rhys’s Second says with a small frown.
Fuck. This is wholly fucked up. Azriel didn’t think the temples raid had anything to with Hybern. They still thought it was rogue Illyrians. Rhysand, however, appeared to piece it together.
“Perhaps you would be more effective Amren,” Rhys suggests and Azriel braces himself for the small females answer.
Sure enough she hisses and snarls back, “I will not set foot in the Prison, Rhysand, and you know it. So go yourself or send one of these dogs to do it for you.”
Azriel doesn’t hesitate to speak before anyone can object, “I’ll go. The Prison sentries know me- what I am.”
“If anyone’s going to the Prison it’s me. And Feyre,” Rhys intervenes.
“What?” Mor and Azriel demand simultaneously.
“He won’t talk to Rhys, or to Azriel. Or any of us. We’ve got nothing to offer him. But an immortal with a mortal soul… The Bone Carver might be willing indeed to talk to her,” Armenian muses, contemplating Feyre across the table.
“Your choice Feyre,” Rhys says casually, though Azriel notes the strain in his face as he thinks about his mate in danger.
“How bad can it be?” Feyre replies.
“Bad,” Cassian deadpans.

A sharp, agonising pain stabs into his chest. The sudden ache has Azriel dropping his wine glass, the floor becoming stained with blood-red wine as the glass shatters. All eyes dart upon him, alert and wary. But he pays them no mind. Even as they ask him what’s wrong, he continues to ignore them. His fists clench tightly and his wings flare out behind him. It feels as though an enormous weight has been dropped on him, crushing his lungs, pressuring his bones. He can’t breathe- he can’t think-
And suddenly it vanishes. He takes in a deep, shuddering breath and slowly straightens his back. He hadn’t even realised he’d hunched over. He can feel the weight of their questioning eyes, but still he doesn’t acknowledge them. He rises from the table and stalks silently for the door. His shadows are writhing around him, screaming, pleading. He ignores them too.
“Sorry about the glass,” he mutters before slipping out of the room.

He doesn’t stop walking until he reaches the balcony. The harsh wind aggressively plays with his dark hair and brushes against his flared wings. He knows it was his mate. He was thinking about her so much tonight that he accessed the bond between them. He wonders if like Feyre, his mate remains ignorant to the bond. Or if she knows the Mother has tied her soul to his. If she knows he was feeling the horrible anguish she was. Despite her status, he can’t stop the primal protectiveness that overtakes him. His mate was in pain. So much agonising pain that even he couldn’t breathe. Azriel growls out and punches the wall. And again. And again. Making his already ugly hands even more messed up.

Only when he can’t feel anything does he stop. Chest heaving, he makes his way over to the balcony railing. He doesn’t pay his bloody hands any mind as he clenches the silver bar. He closes his eyes and lets the wind tear through him. His wings spread out further behind him, preparing for flight, when Azriel senses the presence behind him.
“When were you going to mention you had a mate?”
Azriel freezes. His entire being filling with dread as he slowly turns around. His heartbeat tenfolds as he meets his brothers eyes, violet and shining with a knowing look.

💫

NYX

“Fuck you,” I seethe through panting breathes.
“Oh believe me, I will,” Dagdan purrs back.
His magic finally relents, that invisible rope retreating from my body. It’s one of the worst aspects of his many skills. That ability to conjure invisible weapons. His most favourite is the iron-like rope that constricts around my body like a serpent, squeezing until only a thread keeps me stitched to this miserable life.
“Right after we return to fill in the King on everything, during our expenditure,” he finishes with that dog-eating grin.
“Prick,” I snarl, spitting blood at his boots.

So I might have raised my voice. So I might have demanded why the fuck The Devil is meddling with the Cauldron. And maybe Brannagh and Dagdan had to use their daemiti gifts to alter the Mortal Queens memories. Erasing my not so civilised outburst from their dainty minds. But they walked into this themselves. How could they drop this on me and not expect me to react? The Devil should know me better. Perhaps he wanted me in this situation. More reasons to torment and abuse me.

Dagdan grips my chin with punishing fingers, his dark eyes flashing mercilessly, “When we go back out there, you will not say one word. Not unless one of them speaks to you. Am I clear?”
I glare right back at him, baring my teeth. He roughly shakes my head and growls a guttural noise akin to a feral beast.
“Answer me!”
“Yes, Prince, I will remain silent,” I grudgingly ground out.
A satisfied smile nearly makes him appear like a handsome fae Prince. But his soulless eyes betray that facade. He shoves me away and straightens his black robes, not giving a single care that I’ve fallen onto my arse. I grit my teeth to contain my irritation and jump back to my feet, wiping away the blood from underneath my nose. With one last leering look at me Dagdan swiftly pivots and exits the storeroom he’d dragged me into only minutes ago. I follow, willing the raging war inside my mind to settle, if only while in the presence of the Queens.

By the time we re-enter the throne room I’ve drifted from my body. Only blank eyes see the shimmering room. Only listening ears hear the elegantly trained voices of the Queens. Legs walk mindlessly toward the dias, heart beating and lungs breathing on primal instinct. The bodily systems continue to function while the mind barricades itself from the world. All conscious feeling of physical and emotional pain so distant the body is like a walking corpse. Every single word flows in one ear and is stored inside, left to be dissected, analysed and evaluated later.
“We were given this half of the Book of Breathings when the wall went up to ensure it doesn’t come down,” Hyacinth says with a gravely tone, “Why should we hand it over when the King’s sole purpose is to diminish the wall?”
“That is not the only goal of the King. There are many ambitions in which he works to see carried out. For instance, giving those of a mortal lifespan, immortality,” Dagdan replies with heavy implication on the unsaid offer.
Briallyn leans forward, eyes sharp and brimming with greed, “You mean to suggest the King has the power to turn us immortal?”
Brannagh smiles wickedly and says, “That is exactly what we are saying. A life changing offer that only a fool would decline.”
“And how do we know we can trust you? Trust that it will work?” Demetra inquires, her expression not hiding her doubt and suspicion.
“The King plans on… a demonstration of sorts. To show you a human made immortal. It has been done before of course, only recently. A human girl named Feyre Archeron became immortal by the Seven High Lords. Of course they would never agree to turning anyone else. Therefore the Cauldron is the only solution,” Brannagh answers in the authority of a royal, “The Book of Breathings would be most helpful.”
None of the Queens say anything for a long while. Some share glances whilst others, Demetra and Andromeda mostly, assess the twins closely. Finally the eldest Queen, Hyacinth, breaks the deafening silence.
“We shall have the night to think over it. Esmay will show you to your chambers.”
Brannagh doesn’t attempt to conceal the sour expression on her face. She dutifully looks at each of them with distaste before turning on her heel and swaying for the exit. Her brother, however, inclines his head by the slightest millimetre and quips a tight, “Of course,” before following his sister.
Not wanting to spend another moment in the suffocating room, my legs make a move to quickly exit. But not before locking eyes with the youngest Queen once more, her amber gaze enough for me to understand all I need to.

The maiden, Esmay, silently leads us through the winding hallways. Up three flights of stairs and all the way to the east wing of the castle. If my mind wasn’t so preoccupied, I may have taken a moment to admire the beauty of the architecture and artworks. Instead I spent the whole journey wholly focused on listening to every detail my shadows relay to me. Seems as I cannot order them to do my bidding, I can only take what I can get. Luckily for me my shadows are smart. Like they already know what I need to know.

We each have our own chamber. Brannagh and Dagdan’s a connecting suit apparently. Mine directly across the hall. The look Dagdan gives me before closing his door tells me all I need to know: I’m still a prisoner under his jurisdiction. I just brush it off and enter my own room for the night. I nearly cry out when my eyes immediately land on the large four-poster bed on the centre of the specious room. The last time I lay in the comfort of a bed was thirteen years ago. That time we were ‘guests’ in Vallahn. Despite the child-like desire to run and jump onto the plush-looking silk cushions and soft mattress, I force myself to scan the room first. Two windows; both with the cream drapes already closed. Two doors; the one to exit and enter, and the one connecting to the ensuite. Three vents; one on the polished floorboards and two on the high ceiling. That’s seven ways to access this room shall someone wish to. Or seven ways to escape should the situation arise. After skirting the large room and double checking that it’s free of unwanted guests or traps, I finally allow myself to remove my shoes and leap onto the awaiting bed.

I don’t stop the groan from leaving my lips. It’s the most pleasure I’ve felt in… well, thirteen years. My tense body sinks into the mattress, the fluffy bed cover smooth on what skin remains exposed. The many cushions and pillows are like clouds underneath my head and for a moment I let myself believe that this is my bed. My bed that I fall into every night after a days work strolling through the beautiful gardens and sipping red wine with a book in my hand. It doesn’t take long for that dream to be ripped away, scrunched up and burnt into ash. Because I won’t be sleeping in this bed. No matter how exhausted my limbs are and how overworked my brain is, my body is nocturnal. Has been for nearly five-hundred years and certainly won’t change in one night. One of the cruel delights of the King’s ingenuity; only letting me leave his lair when the moons out. But that’s not the only reason I won’t be sleeping. No, I still have work to do.

I allow another ten minutes to rest in the unfamiliar comfort of the expensive bedding before getting up. I quietly sift through the desk draw and sigh in relief when I find a notebook and a few quills and ink. As quietly as possible I rip a piece of paper from the leather notebook, making sure to leave no sign of a page being taken out. I dip a quill into a pot of ink and write as neatly as my muscle memory can. I take care in the curved script, ensuring each word is relevant and thought out. Once I’m done I read over it ten times before feeling satisfied with what I’ve written. I fold it in half and gently tuck it into the side of my pants by my hip. I then make quick work of positioning a bunch of pillows to appear as though I’m tucked under the covers, sleeping soundly. It’s pathetic, but it may be enough should anyone simply peek into the room.
I stand with my ear against the wooden door until I’m confident the hall is empty. With a steadying breath I slowly twist the knob and creep the door open. I thank the Mother that it doesn’t creak and ensure that it doesn’t make a sound as I close it behind me.

The evil twins find comfort in each other. They remain ignorant to your movements, a shadow whispers.

For now, I think, my gut twisting with each silent step I make down the now dark hallway. I stick to the wall, praying my shadows keep me concealed enough to remain undetected. I pass sentries at ever corner, my heart freezing and breath halting each time. But no one stops me. I continue down the path I memorised on my way, remembering what the shadows told me. No longer than thirty minutes pass by when I arrive at my destination. Four guards in navy blue uniforms stand just outside the dark oak doors. I can’t use my shadow trick when I can’t access them properly, so I have to resort to the old fashioned techniques. I pull the small round pebble I nicked from the ensuite from my pocket. Once I’m certain no guards are looking my way I swiftly hurtle the small stone at the beautiful porcelain vase further down the hall on a windowsill. The sound of glass shattering is almost like a canon due to the silence of the night. Sure enough the guards jump for their swords and settle into a combative formation. They transfer few signals and slowly stalk closer to the shattered vase. I don’t waste a second. I creep closer to the door which they vacated and stop when I’m directly across from it still against the wall. I quickly pull the folded note from my pants and carefully drop into a crouched position. I glance back at the guards and then return my focus to the door when I see only their backs to me. With careful calculations I slide the paper across the polished floor, thankful that it hardly makes a noise. My heart skips a few beats when the note safely makes it under the gap of Queen Demetra’s door. I don’t even take a breath before I’m up and slipping away, back to the bed that will never be mine.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Azriel just blinks. What can he even say? Where in the hell does he even begin? That his mate is the enemy? The screaming silence stretches between them like no other time before. He wishes for nothing else but to fly away from everything and never look back. Rhysand seems to see all of this by the way his eyes soften.
“I understand what it is to feel your mates pain to the point it’s unbearable. I saw the haunted anguish in your eyes, Az,” his brother says quietly.
It’s all Azriel needs to completely break down. His wings crumple behind him and his body falls back to lean against the railing. His face is buried in his calloused palms next, his breaths getting heavier. He feels Rhysand slowly approach and lean his forearms on the railing next to him. He doesn’t say anything for a while, and Azriel sure as hell doesn’t speak. He hates that his brother is seeing him like this. So defeated. So utterly at a loss of what to do. He can’t really remember the last time someone saw him fall. He despises it more than anything else.

“It’s never easy. Discovering the weight of what the Mother gifts to us by binding our souls with another. Our equal,” Rhys starts, his own voice hoarse no doubt from experience with Feyre, “But any female-or male-would be the luckiest being alive to have you as their mate brother.”
Azriel doesn’t know how Rhysand knows the exact thoughts swirling through his mind. He is a daemiti, but he would never impose on his family in a situation like this. Or ever, unless absolutely necessary. It only enhances the love and anger he feels toward his brother in this moment. He still doesn’t say anything. Rhysand sighs and shifts next to him. A hand, warm and comforting, rests on his right shoulder.
“You deserve to be happy brother. You alway have. Despite what you may think about yourself, you deserve so much from life.”
Azriel just shakes his head, releasing it from his hands which fall by his sides. He can’t look his brother in the eye. Not when everything he’s said is a lie. Not when he feels like he could crumple to the ground. But Rhys’s next words has his blood chilling and his instincts jump to combative mode.
“Who is it?” Rhysand gently, carefully asks.
Azriel clenches and unclenches his jaw, his fists matching. So slowly he turns his head and meets the starry eyes watching him warily, but mostly with pained love.
“You already know who,” Azriel whispers, not able to hide the crack in his voice.

💫

NYX

“I can’t deny my dissatisfaction,” that ancient voice dripping with honeyed evil drawls, “Having the Book of Breathings would make this all so much easier.”
“It is not a fail yet, Uncle. The Queens are undoubtedly invested in our alliance,” Dagdan supplies.
I don’t know why he tries. If The Devil says he’s disappointed, there’s no alternative. We’re all to be at the receiving end of his displeasure as he sees fit. Of course my punishment will be ten times worse than what he does to his niece and nephew. Though sharing the same blood still doesn’t deter The Sadist from unleashing ruthless horrors.
“Invested,” The Devil repeats slowly, “Not devoted. Not bowing at my feet offering their loyalty and union.”

When we met with the Queens again this morning only I left victorious. And the welfare of the humans. They claimed that their trust in the fae is not strong enough to hand over the one thing keeping them safe. Smarter than I thought. Brannagh nearly threw a fit. Dagdan had to take her hand to stop her from exploding with unforgiving power.

“At least one of my soldiers came back successful,” The Devil says, making my heartbeat pick up in dread.
I can feel him behind us now. He must have crept inside and made a slow prowl to sneak up on us. His presence is unnerving. Like nails scratching unforgivingly down metal. I know he’s right behind me. The morbid feeling of death and decay crawls over my skin, resulting in an eruption of goosebumps.
“I would never fail you,” the Attor says in a voice of shifting sand, his breath grazing my neck.
I internally applaud myself for not moving or attacking when a single, jagged claw scrapes across my shoulders in a slow stroke. My body shivers of its own accord however, something the Attor realises by the way he chuckles lowly and does it again. Dagdan and Brannagh don’t bat an eye.
“Unlike some, I understand an order,” he finishes.
“Demonic prick,” I mutter under my breath.
The Attor just smiles at me with those razor sharp teeth as he strides pass. His leathery wings whacking me in the head. I refrain from throwing myself at him and settle to scowl deeply as he bows before another beast.

“As I was saying, we have one success that will move us along greatly. The objects,” The Devil holds out his hand.
The Attor extends one of his muscled arms and drops two things into The Devil’s waiting palm. A palm so smooth and graceful, the river of lines ones I ashamedly know well. When the winged beast takes a step back I’m able to see what exactly he was sent to fetch, and the sight of the eyeball and finger bone multiplies the dread settling in the pit of my gut. There’s no way-
The Devil’s long fingers curl over them and his dull eyes gleam with wicked intent as he croons, “An old foe, sentenced to a lifetime of incarceration through his own eye. A foe turned friend.”
“You can’t be serious?” Brannagh scoffs my own sentiments.
Her Uncle smiles cruelly down at her, his eyes piercing directly into her very similar ones.
“Do I appear to be joking, niece?”
Brannagh clenches and unclenches her jaw before bowing her head and responding apprehensively, “Of course not my King. I merely mean to inquire the reasoning for this.”
The Devil tilts his head, his onyx shoulder-length hair shining in the light. It’s a shame really that such a beautifully sculptured face should be given to such a vile, ugly soul. A horrible truth that that slapped me across the face and punched me n the gut. And still to this day I am wounded. He takes his time toying with the eyeball and finger bone, elongating our anticipation for his own pleasure.
Finally he brings his attention back to us and that expression on his face is one that I’ve seen many times. And not once has it resulted in anything remotely good.
“We need to bring the wall down. The mortal lands have no business to live freely. Humans are pathetic creatures that are born only to serve under us. And for that, we need the Mortal Queen’s allegiance,” he gives a pointed glare at me, “And who better than to do all of this than one of their own kind?”

My heart is pounding now. My palms are sweating and my head is threatening to crack with the building pressure.
“You’re implying we can resurrect the dead,” Dagdan says tightly, though his eyes flash with hunger for more unethical power.
The Devil smiles widely and replies, “Correct. Jurian, general in the first war, shall be walking amongst us once more. Only this time he will be fighting for me.”
“How?” I whisper in sheer disbelief.
“Why, by the power of the Cauldron of course,” The Devil answers casually. Like the Cauldron isn’t the most important artefact in our world.
“You have it then? The Cauldron?”
“Most of it. I’ve been sending scouts out to various locations in search of its missing feet. Twice they have returned successful,” he reveals.
“You’re messing with magic that shouldn’t be explored,” I growl.
“Is that so? How could you think such a thing when in your very veins ancient magic runs?” The Devik inquires, this charcoal eyes burning through me.

I don’t answer him. I need to sit down. My knees are going to give way and my head is going to split into two. Only twice they were successful. Meaning there must have been so many other times where they slaughtered for naught. He’s rebuilding the Motherfucken Caludron. Created by the Mother herself. The most powerful object in our world. In the hands of the cruelest, most power-hungry male there is. I want to throw up. I want to scream. I want to cry and yell and pound my fists into everything within my reach. I want death. Sweet, sweet death. But I never get what I want. Never.

“A pattern I discovered- foolish on the High Lord’s behalf- is that the feet were being safeguarded at Priestess Temples across Pyrthian” The Devil continues, looking at me as if he can see the turmoil in my mind, “And I’ve just discovered the location of the last foot.”
Shit. No. No no no no. The Attor’s wings ruffle next to me, but I pay him no mind. Not when I know why The Devil is looking right at me. Not when I’m about to receive my final punishment for failing him twice.
The Devil’s smile turns pure lethal as he says directly to me, “And you will travel to Cerce Temple and retrieve it for me. Tonight.”
No. He can’t- I can’t. I won’t be able to take this. I won’t be able to survive it. All the innocent blood that’s going to cover my hands until they’re unwashable. I can’t-
“You will lead a group of twelve soldiers. You will sneak in and seek the last piece of the Cauldron. You will kill anyone or anything that gets in your way- except for my soldiers. And you will send it back to me as soon as you obtain it. Do not fail me again, Deathbringer. That is an order.”

That title. Deathbringer. It’s one I haven’t heard from him in years. The weight it carries is nearly unbearable, and the idea of wearing it again makes me light headed. My collar tightens around my neck. All I can do is nod. My voice isn’t an option right now. It’s enough for the Monster anyway. He waves a hand in dismal, saying something to the Attor that my numb brain doesn’t hear. But when sandpaper hands wrap around my bicep and start pulling me away, I deduce he’s ordered the Attor to return me to my cell. To prepare for my expedition.
Before we leave the throne room I glance back over my shoulder. The Devil is talking to his twin descendants. Something important from the straight backs of the twins and the stern expression on The Devil’s cruel face. And in his fingertips, an eyeball and finger bone twirl.

I begin the process of clearing my mind on the long walk to the underground caves. It’s a delicate art that I’ve managed to master after countless experiences of doing The Devil’s dirty work. If I didn’t manage to close off my mind, then I wouldn’t have survived this long. I would have become insane years ago. So mentally ill that it would have killed me. Because what I do- what I’ve done… I stop the train of thought and refocus on numbing myself until only a puppet solider remains. But it proves difficult in the clutches of the leering Attor by my side. He’s been snapping his teeth and making vile comments the whole time. If I weren’t so distraught about what I have to do and set on preparing myself, I would have already snapped back.

“They make lovely sounds, the Priestesses. Right as I twist the blade in their gut, just before their last breath. Ahh, those screams and cries are just beautiful,” he sighs, each word grating.
I take two deep breaths and continue looking straight ahead. I have enough to worry about-
“I envy you for all the blood you get to spill. Priestess blood as well. How will you make them scream? I quite enjoyed watching you slice the arteries of the little-“
A growl so ferocious rips from the back of my throat. And then I’m shoving the rotten monster against the wall, shoving my elbow into his windpipe. He snarls at me, the sound so warped and unlike any living thing that it actually scares me.
“Bitch,” he hisses.
“Do not speak to me. Do not look at me-“
“Or what?” the Attor purrs tauntingly, his disgusting nails tapping rhythmically on my gold collar, “You’ll do what, exactly?”
He continues to tap the collar, the sound like a ticking countdown until my death between us. His big blood-red eyes stare into mine with words that don’t need to be said; You can’t kill me. Try all you want, but this collar would sooner destroy you. And I actually consider it. Tearing my insides apart in a slow torture as I rip into the monstrous beast. The world would be lesser of two evils. I wouldn’t have to endure this unending pain-
“Uh ah ah,” the Atter reprimands me like he could see the deep contemplation in my eyes.
He’s gripping my bicep once more, tighter this time so his claws break my skin.
“I am going to kill you. I vow it. I will kill you,” I promise, my eyes staring right through his and into his blemished soul.
A cheshire smile twists up his horrid face as he replies in that unearthly voice, “I shall count down the days,” but the scent of fear is enough for me to know he knows I mean every word.

Chapter Text

Every sound is amplified. The low whistle of the wind as it brushes by, making small debris rustle along the cobblestone floor. The powerful flap of a bats wings as it chases its squeaking prey. Leaves and pine cones rubbing up against their neighbours. Water trickling down moss-covered rocks into a small stream. Twelve sets of lungs, each pair breathing slightly differently from the last. Some are deep and controlled, while others are hollow and impatient. And the occasional scuffle of soft shoes on a stone floor just beyond the sacred doors. Belonging to a Priestess unaware of the thirteen soldiers standing outside in the suffocating dark night.

A male hisses something behind me. To me. I block it out. I keep my ears trained on listening to everything beyond the gorgeously crafted double doors. The shining silver material has been moulded to portray a story. One that I am not consciously able to understand or dissect in my current headspace. When it has been three minutes since the last pair of feet walked past, I set into motion. We have another six minutes until someone else strolls past. More than enough time. My arm reaches out and I carefully twist the dark stone knob which clicks once it unlocks. Slowly I push the door open to reveal a spectacle that I can’t admire. Emerald pillars extending to a high-arched ceiling with various paintings adorning it. The floor is close to an obsidian stone, parting in the middle to accommodate the waterway passing through. Sacred. Holly. Safe.

I unsheathe Ravina and Salestra from my back and silently prowl inside. Twelve pairs of feet follow closely behind me. Leaving behind the ten guards we killed out in the cool night. I signal to the last solider to close the door and he obliged without hesitation.
“The Cauldron foot is our priority,” a cold, flat voice comes from my moving mouth, “Do not procrastinate. Do not make a mess. Report back to me should you find it.”
I wait until each one of the male soldiers have given a sharp nod, a light twinge in my gut ensues at some of their reluctance. I push it aside. With two hand signals I gesture for them to split. Six go right and six go left, barely a boot on stone to be heard. I bask myself in shadows and go straight.

Koi fish of warm colours splash peacefully in the skinny stream I walk beside. I use it as a guide through the temple’s grand interior. When I reach a set of emerald stairs leading down toward an open courtyard I have to quickly conceal myself. Four Priestesses sit in a circle on plush cushions in the centre. Their hoods are pulled over their heads and a quite chanting hum seems to make their opal gems glow. I quietly descend the steps and gracefully leap across the stream which ends in an oval pool just before the Priestesses. Carefully I skirt around them, ordering my shadows to hide me from sight. I let out a deep breath when I make it to the archway that leads to another lower level. Though looking down, these emerald stairs lead to somewhere underground.

A high, raw-pitched scream echoes throughout the near silent temple, bouncing off of the tiled walls and filling the night with what is only the beginning of horrors. All of my precious attempts of remaining unseen and unheard swivels down a drain that sucks everything else with it. In a second more shouts and screams disrupt the tranquil atmosphere. Doors open and slam shut. Running footfalls echo down hallways, their panicked voices loud and clear. The meditating Priestesses leap up to their feet in a fright and look to each other in desperate silence of what to do. I don’t hang around to see what they choose. I swiftly turn on my heel and descend the second set of steps, this time much more hurried. Sure enough I enter a darker area that seems to glow a faint green. The hairs on my body spike up and something prickles at the back of my neck. Magic. Ancient, powerful magic born from the Mother.

The screams are becoming more frequent up above so I jog down the narrow walkway toward the tomb barricaded by a smooth boulder. Four guards await my arrival. Swords already held out before them, legs positioned in a fighting stance. I don’t reveal myself from the shadows as I slash my twin blades across their throats in two elegant motions. The smell of fresh blood fills the air as is spurts from their open wounds. Gargles and cries of shock leave the guards lips. I don’t hesitate to run my weapons of death through their hearts, efficiently taking their lives. Once their bodies lay lifeless on the floor, red blood pooling around them, I place Salestra back in her holster and use my spare hand as a transmitter of my magic. I focus on the boulder. On the weight of it. And then I send a jolt of my crackling power from my hand directly to the rock. It cracks perfectly down the middle and slowly splits apart. The magic that flows from the room which the boulder was blocking brings goosebumps to my skin and a cold shiver down my spine. I step over the bodies and into the icy cold room. It’s like falling into a frozen lake. But I don’t get to interpret anything else before a figure steps into my path. She’s utterly beautiful. Her hood is pulled back to reveal her stunning face. Sharp green eyes beholding a fierce look of a warrior- not a Priestess. Though telling by the large purple gem hanging over her forehead, she is a High Priestess. Here to protect a piece of the object that made the land and magic which they worship. Her big eyes quickly glance to the dead guards behind me and then bounce back to mine. This time holding such anger and fear. For me. Of me. And it’s only now I realise I’ve stopped concealing myself from the naked eye. Hence why the High Priestess can see me.

“You sinful creature. Go back to the hell in which you were born,” her angelic voice doesn’t match her ugly threat.
Creature. The title rings through my head. Not person. Not fae. Creature.
“Hand over the foot and no one else shall need to be harmed,” I say calmly, a small piece of me poking through, begging that this female just listens to me.
She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
“Run. Go, run!” she shouts, but her eyes remain on me as she pulls a long sword from under her robes.
Three pairs of feet patter on the ground as they sprint away as told, growing fainter and fainter the farther away they get.
“Please, don’t make me do this,” I allow myself to whisper. One last chance for her to save herself. To perhaps reduce the blood on my hands.
“A monster will never stop being a monster” the High Priestess hisses instead.
And then she lunges. She has strength in her arms. And well-practiced grace. But against a trained warrior like me. Against a monster as she put it, she is like a mouse against a lion. Sentenced to death. I make it quick. Someone like her doesn’t deserve a second of suffering. Her head drops to the floor with a thud, followed by her no longer working body. The gemstone, it’s light now flickering out, rolls across the floor and lands right next to a large wooden box. I don’t look back as I prance for the hatchet and force it open with my own grit and strength. I only have to pry the lid open a small amount to know that the third foot of the Cauldron lays within. A glowing light leaks out of the gap in a wave of power that has my two braids rising up. I snap it shut again and allow myself a moment to take a long, deep breath. Footsteps getting closer prompt me into action. As ordered, I command my shadows to safely transport the box back to Hybern. Straight to The Devil. By the time the five guards and two priestesses arrive, the foot has already been swept away into thin air.

“Where is the foot?” a priestess shrieks from the entry behind me.
“Drop your weapon and surrender,” a deep male voice booms into the chamber.
I raise my right hand up slowly, my left still clutching onto Ravina. I start to pivot on my heel to face them, my arms rising higher and bending over to reach for the missing twin blade. Just as they realise what I’m doing I already have Salestra out in front of me, swinging the weightless blade down and effectively slicing the guard’s abdomen. I lunge for the next male, opting to swing my left arm down and slash his calves. A roar escapes his mouth but I silence him by sticking Ravina into his back, all the while blocking the next guard’s sword from cutting off my head with Salestra. I pull Ravina back to my side and push against the male who stumbles back, fear flashing in his brown eyes. I split his body into two and don’t blink as I move onto the next one. And then the next. And the next as they keep coming. Leaving a bloody trail in my wake.

My hands rise and fall, bend and twist, swing and slash, the gold cuffs clamped around my wrists gleaming in the glowing light. As if they are the minds controlling my movements. Telling my hands what to do. I can’t distinguish who my blades slice into anymore. They just keep swinging and plunging into anyone that steps into my path. Efficiently killing them without an ounce of effort. I reach the courtyard once again and it’s so starkly opposite to the calming refuge it used to be. Blood stains the stone floor, seeping into the cracks and forever haunting this place with death. Bodies lie sprawled and unmoving, some in torn robes and others in brown uniforms. Five Hybern soldiers dance with what small amount of guards remain. I don’t need to sit and watch to know the outcome of their caper of death. Instead I continue forwards, past the deceased and still fighting, swinging my lethal blades at those who dare oppose me. Cries and wails fill my ears, blood and decay consume my nose. I push on, not really sure of my intention or destination. The thought is enough to sober me enough to call out to the soldiers still fighting behind me.
“Leave them. Get the hell out.”

I make a sharp left turn onto an alcove and nearly collide into two Priestesses. I raise Ravina and am about to swing down when I see the little group of children behind them. They’re huddled together, tears streaming down their cheeks and bodies quaking with fear. My heart beats loudly in my chest, banging on my ribcage as if demanding to be freed. Begging my conscious to see what I’m about to do. It works. Mother help me it works. I drop my arm and take a shaky step back, eyes wide and roaming over the terrified children. The two Priestesses blink at me in shock. I can already feel the fire starting to burn at my wrists. That powerful urge pulling at me to strike. I don’t know what my face betrays but it appears to be enough for one of the Priestesses to tell the other to take the children and hide them underneath. The female with copper hair and bright teal eyes seems reluctant to leave, but the other with matching eyes but blonde hair just squeezes her hand. The copper-haired Priestess doesn’t wait another second before turning around and ushering the children away. My veins are on fire now, smouldering my insides to the point that the smoke is suffocating and my blood boiling-
The remaining Priestess pulls two small daggers from her silk robes. Why didn’t she run as well? I can’t stop my arms from raising again, Ravina and Salestra prepared to strike. The lithe female dodges my first blow and swivels behind me, stabbing a dagger into my left side as she goes. It’s only a pinprick compared to the pain I’m used to, but it still effects my body. It still sentences the female to her death as The Sadist’s words rattle through me. Kill anyone or anything that gets in your way. So I do. My cuffed hands pull my blades back once again and my shadows shoot out, binding the Priestesses hands to her sides. She struggles against them but it’s a waste of her rage-fuelled energy. I make her death quick as well, much like the High Priestess, I remove the females head from her body. I stare at her wide teal eyes for a moment, still portraying a look of fierce determination. A warriors death.

I pull my eyes away and force my legs to keep moving. I need to round up all of the soldiers and send them back. I follow the screams as my guide. I only encounter lifeless bodies as I race through hallways. When I turn down a right corner I bump into four Hybern soldiers. They almost appear to recoil as they take me in and I don’t want to know what they see. I wordlessly grab two of them and jump all the way back to Hybern. I leave them outside the castle, the cold coastal wind a short reprieve before I’m already returning to Cerce Temple. Luckily the other two guards didn’t move, so I make quick work of transporting them back to Hybern as well. Back in the bloodied halls I keep running toward the heart-wrenching cries and yells of mercy. Stopping thrice more to send more soldiers back. By the time I reach the main open chamber where the fighting still commenced, already seven of Hybern’s soldiers are back on the island. Thank the Mother.

I stop short when my eyes digest the scene unfolding before me. Five males, all Hybern bred, wear matching malicious grins as they corner a group of Priestesses. Behind them lay too many bodies to count, thick crimson liquid gushing from their many wounds. Slow, agonising deaths.
Some of the Soldiers are taunting the cowering females, but my head is pounding too loud to hear. I make a step forward but freeze at a movement in my peripheral vision. I twist, blade ready to kill, but halt my motion when I face myself. The window rises as tall as the ceiling and extends nearly as far as the wall. The lack of sunlight makes my reflection less translucent so it’s almost like staring into a mirror. My hood has fallen off, revealing my two tight braids that have have become a mess. My silver hair is grubby with grime and blood, the red substance also splattered over my face and all down my leathers. I pull my black hood back up and over my head, shadow concealing most of my face. Blood oozes from the small stabbing wound on my left side, but otherwise every other speck of crimson isn’t my own. I look like a monster. A creature of hell. When I stare into those blank, expressionless amethyst eyes, I crack.

Suddenly everything becomes too overwhelming. Noises are too loud. The ground I crumple onto is too hard, too sticky. The smell of death and blood and tears and shit and- It’s too much. It’s too much. I can’t- I- slaughtered and murdered and took blood- life after life after life-
My hands drop the blades and my nails claw into my head before dragging down my cheeks, breaking into my flesh. But It’s not enough. The pain isn’t enough for what I’ve done- I cup my ears and bring my knees up to my chest, by body rocking back and forth, begging for it end. Pleading to the Mother to make it stop. My shadows are a swirling storm around me, mirroring my every emotion. And I don’t even know what I’m thinking when I start begging through the shadows. Crying out for someone to hear. Begging and begging and begging for that shadowsinger to hear my calls.

A shriek unlike any other tears through the room and sounds so distraught that I open my eyes. I wish I hadn’t. Bile bolts up my oesophagus and I’m vomiting onto the floor, onto my pants. Tears well in my eyes as I continue to sob and retch. Those poor females being violated- entirely helpless at the hands of greedy, vile males. Get up. Get up, get up, get up! I force myself to to get my shit together, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and then picking up Ravina and Salestra. Rage so murderous swells within me that it’s blinding as I stand to my feet. The time it takes for me to get across the room to the Hybern soldiers defiling the priestesses praying for them to stop can’t be measured. Pure, undying hot fury powers me as I scream through my teeth and rip the male off of a crying copper-haired female. I don’t think about anything other than destroying this disgusting pig pinned beneath me. I lift his shoulders and bash the back of his head into the stone floor again and again. Blood spills from the growing wound, his shouts and attempts to get free only provoking me more. I ignore the white hot burning of my wrists as I retrieve my twin blades of death and raise them high above my head where the Hybern soldier’s dark beady eyes can see them. He has the good authority to pale with unmistakable fear at the black blades.
“Plea-“
I cut his cowardly plea off with a a roar so loud it blocks everything else out. And then I’m wielding the infamous blades down and plunging them into his abdomen. Stab after stab after stab. His body is convulsing. My arms repeatedly move in the same motion, the blades plunging into his flesh and slicing through all the way to the other side. I keep going. His blood and guts spraying all over. I don’t care. I don’t care that that fire is wrapping around my lungs, my heart, and burning so heatedly that it’s killing me. I keep stabbing the male. Up and down my blades go. In and out of his butchered front. Hot tears trail down my cheeks as I plunge these weapons of death into him, a scream and roar and wail filled with agony and rage ripping my throat apart. A sudden loud, thundering beat starts pounding inside of my chest and my head, and I decide they’re the drums of death-

Large hands pull on my shoulders but I shake them off and keep stabbing. I can’t see- I can’t feel- all there is that drumming and red red red. Arms wrap around my waist this time and heave me off of the males mutilated body. I keep screaming and thrashing my arms in a stabbing movement, cutting my own leg in the distressing movements. A hiss of pain behind me indicates I managed to strike my handler as well. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. All I want is to tear those males apart- and then myself. We don’t deserve to breathe this air. We don’t deserve to see the wonders of the world. They don’t deserve to live. I don’t deserve to live. But I sure as hell don’t deserve the sweetness of death either. No, that’d be too easy. Too painless. I should be hung up like a pig for slaughter at the mercy of all the innocents that I’ve ever harmed.

Those strong hands roughly drop me down into a chair and pry my twin blades from the tight clutches of my fingers. I let them. I don’t want to hold those death sticks any longer. Not unless they’re slicing through my corrupt skin and bones. A broad figure enters my vision, but they’re blurred just like everything else. My body is shaking so violently that I nearly fall off of the chair. The same hands catch me by the sides of my arms and hold me there in place. They’re talking. Low and slowly, but my ringing ears can’t make out the words. It’s all too much-
A shadow, cool and delicate, slithers tentatively onto my arm. My senses zone in on it as is snakes up toward my neck. I know it’s not one of my own by the way it seems to almost hesitate before caressing my cheek. I let out a shuddering exhale. My eyelids flutter shut and I just focus on the welcoming cold touch of the shadow. The pounding in my head starts to settle down. Enough so so that I can distinguish noises around me.

Voices unfamiliar to me are yelling orders. Boots stomping on the stone floor. Bodies being dragged-
“Don’t think about them. Focus on my voice,” that low soothing voice says in front of me.
It’s like the first snowfall after a blizzard. The first sun-rays peeking through the clouds after a storm. Like the calm lapping ocean waves after a raging hurricane. So I do. I focus on his voice as he continues speaking to me.
“Breathe deep. In for four and out for five. Do it with me,” the male softly instructs, “In,” he inhales deeply and I find myself instinctively copying, “And out,” he exhales.
We do the breathing exercise again and again until my head has cleared enough for me to see properly. I open my eyes to come face to face with the Shadowsinger from Hewn City. His muscled body is crouched down to be level with me, clad in tight Illyrian leathers with seven glowing cobalt Siphons on display. But I’m mesmerised by his face. His eyes are closed, still inhaling and exhaling through his nose like he’s the one who needed to calm down. His long, thick lashes kiss his high cheekbones. Dark brows furrowed together in concentration. His perfectly straight nose meets defined cupid-bow lips that are currently pursed. The chiseled line of his jawline could cut like a blade, carved from marble by the Mother herself. Shadows ripple his silky onyx hair, the ends curling at his rounded ears and the nape of his neck. A few strands fall onto his forehead as he takes a particularly deep inhale and my eyes dart to them. My hands twitch with the urge to reach out and-

Honey is the first thought that comes to mind as his eyes snap open. Golden honey- purer than any gold crown or throne. They’re burning with murderous intent, icy and sharp and deadly. Eyes that see so much, know so much, stare right into mine. My breath hitches and I have to mentally remind myself to keep breathing.
“You need to come with me,” the Shadowsinger whispers softly and yet his voice is cold and firm.
I nod dumbly. For some stupid unknown reason to me, I nod. Because for some other reason also unbeknown to me, his presence… calms me. Almost as if- as if I don’t have to worry about anything at all. And that feeling, while tripling my roaring anxiety, uncovers a whisper of something I can’t refuse. He rises from the crouched position and his height towers over me. It’s only now that I notice his wings. Sprayed out wide behind him and encapsulating the perfect portrait of a fierce warrior. They’re beautiful. Similar to the riveting wings of the bats that so often visit me in the caves, and yet so entirely different and extraordinary. Near midnight black in colour, the leathery skin is so delicate that the membranes can be seen- reminding me of a map- as moonlight shines through them. Sharp, thick talons curl inwards on the strong tips so that when they’re closer together, a halo would from around his head. An angel of Darkness and Shadows.
Utterly bewitching and-
“Remarkable,” I whisper aloud.
The Shadowsinger shifts on his feet and twitches his membranous wings, as if he can tell exactly what I was talking about.

He extends an open palm to me. I stare at it. At first I’m unsure what to do. No one has offered me their hand in- since him. I blink up at the Shadowsinger to see his hazel eyes already on me. I look back at his waiting hand, his fingers slightly twitching as though apprehensive for my acceptance. With a deep breath I shakily place my hand in his. His calloused one nearly swallows mine with how much larger it is. His fingers stiffly wrap around my trembling hand and I catch a glimpse of skin so mutilated and scarred that I nearly gasp. He doesn’t allow me to stare however, and pulls me to my feet. My chest lightly brushes against his front and I crane my neck to look up at him with wide eyes. He’s not that much taller now that I’m on my feet. The tip of my head reaches just below his chin, my eyes gifted the perfect view of his toned neck. The Shadowsinger freezes for what feels like hours before he takes two steps back and drops my hand. I don’t like the loss of contact. My shadows apparently agree as they start whining to be close to him once more.

The Shadowsinger reaches around me and grabs Ravina and Salestra from a table I failed to miss in my disorientation. So he must have been the one to take them from me then. I don’t know what to think when he slides them into the holsters behind my back. But I don’t comment. I don’t know if my voice will even work. From both all the raw screaming and now the overbearing shock. He then places a gentle hand on either of my biceps, and before I can fully discern why, I’m being engulfed by whispering darkness.

And then I’m gulping in air greedily. But there’s no kind breeze or fresh air here. The smell of rotting bodies and withering souls invades my sense of smell. It’s cold. Eerily cold. And there’s no light. No… anything. Just cruel darkness. In a cell. I’m in a cell. Underground. Without light. No. No. No, no no no…

“No, no no no. No” I breath out dazedly.
I can’t focus. My recovered breathing becomes short rasps that claw at my throat and burn my lungs with icy flames. My mind is going haywire as memories come flooding in of being trapped, tortured and defiled in a lightless cave. Imprisoned. A lab rat for an evil experiment. A puppet. A killer. Alone.
“No” I repeat more firmly, determined not to be abused again at the hands of another.
Not when I thought that maybe I was safe.
Foolish, desperate girl. Grappling onto any hint of a way out. Especially with my mind so disoriented, I leaped at the first sign of help. I fell for the handsome hero, swooping in to save my disheveled soul. Again. After I swore to myself that I would rather die than fall for such a folly once more. That I would rip my own heart out, suffocate my own lungs, melt my own brain, if it meant avoiding the deceptive beauty of males.

The Shadowsinger, whom I can barely even see in this foreboding darkness, is staring right at me. Shadows cast over his face from the soft glow of his cobalt Siphons, illuminating only his angular jaw and neck. His grip tightens on my arms as his breath fans over my forehead with his steady exhale. But then he lets me go and steps back, getting further away from me. Leaving me alone. And when my mind catches up I realise he’s closing the cell door and locking it with his mighty power. I sprint to the metal bars and wrap my fingers around the cool poles.
“Don’t you dare leave me here” I demand through gritted teeth, hating how hoarse and croaky my voice sounds.
The Shadowsinger doesn’t so much as flinch. Those hazel eyes only examine me with cold indifference, any previous softness dissolved and reforged into rough edges. Like the harsh beauty of a blade. This male is lethal and cunning. Merciless and devoted to his cause. I glare into his calculating eyes and snarl my lip, unable to control my rising rage and betrayal. I don’t really know why I feel betrayed by the Shadowsinger. I don’t even know his name. And yet just because he helped me once, helped those Priestesses… I tighten my grip on the bars as my anger turns into self-reproach. How could I let my guard down, despite how little? How could I allow that spark of hope turn into an ember?

He starts to back away again, indicating his departure. And a sudden wave of desperation surges through me. Who knows when he’ll decide to come back? It could be years.. decades- And The Devil. That Monster- I can’t- he will-
“Shadowsinger!” I yell and bang the bars.
But he keeps walking. His immaculate figure slowly disappearing as the darkness begins to consume him. And my mind isn’t it’s own. And my heart is racing so fast I feel like it may give out soon. My body crumples in defeat and I try one last time.
“Please” I whisper, not even cringing at the raw desperation in my voice.
I know he hears. Because he falters. Magnificent wings drawn in tightly behind him. But then he dissolves into shadows and leaves me falling to the cold stone floor. Head banging against the metal bars and drooping in defeat.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Smooth, stroking motions. Almost like gently caressing. Starting from the hilt and then gliding all the way down to the tip of the blade. It’s calming work, which is why Azriel so often sharpens his blades- especially Truth-Teller. Onlookers look at him like he’s a sadistic killing machine obsessed with his weapons- sometimes his family included- and he doesn’t attempt correct them. It feels oddly personal. And he doesn’t want his family to be involved with what his most treasured weapon has done.

So again and again he runs the stone along Truth-Teller’s polished silver blade, which rests upon his knee. The dark scabbard lays carefully on the coffee table, it’s silver Illyrian engravings unmistakable in the faelight of the lounge room. Azriel lightly grips the obsidian hilt in his left hand, whilst his right skilfully works. He’s always loved the dark azure stone embedded in the end of the hilt and how it unintentionally matches his seven blue Siphons. Like he was meant to have this weapon. And in turn this deadly blade was forged for him.

“You’re falling into a nasty game boy. One you may not be able to triumph in,” Amren’s ethereal voice harshly warns, not lifting her eyes from her puzzle.
Rhysand snarls at his Second and grumbles “Are you suggesting I sit back and let this all unfold? Watch from the by-stands as my home is destroyed?”
Amren takes her time to reply. Delicately putting four pieces into place before sitting back on her knees and looking up at Rhysand. Those silver depths never fail to sober up a room.
“No. I’m merely implying that you take time to think this through. Just because the Bone Carver told you to seek the Book of Breathings, it doesn’t mean you drop everything to do it,” she replies stonily.
“I disagree,” Rhys grounds out, voice as cold as the Winter Court and as dark as night, “Hybern already has the Cauldron. The book is the only way to nullify it’s power and thus the only way to prevent Hybern from blowing us up.”
Dark tendrils begin to shroud the room in shadows. But they’re not normal shadows. Not like the ones Azriel holds dear, currently playing in his hair and occasionally whispering about the happenings of Velaris.

Rhysand and Feyre returned back from the Prison yesterday. Shaken up and needing time to process what they’d learned. The Bone Carver apparently had a lot to say about Hybern. And Feyre’s powers that she leeched from the High Lords when she was remade. Azriel doesn’t know where the Cursebreaker currently is, and he knows better than to ask his brooding brother. He’s been sitting in this room for two hours now. Listening intently to everything Rhys has recounted from his journey to the Prison. His blood had chilled when his brother revealed that Hybern had found the long lost Cauldron and plans on unleashing it’s mighty power. But that was an hour ago now. Ever since then everyone has been down each other’s throats, and that’s when Azriel unsheathed Truth-Teller and began sharpening its divine blade.

“I’m not your mother Rhysand. I’m not going to tell you what to do. Just don’t get yourself killed,” Amren barks back and returns her attention to the puzzle.
Rhys sighs deeply, no doubt to reign in his bubbling temper. Sure enough the darkness recedes back into the corners of the room, but not fully disappearing. Azriel returns his eyes to his task at hand, not wanting to be subject to his High Lord’s wrath.
“Are we sure Hybern has the bloody Cauldron? How can we trust th-“
“The Bone Carver doesn’t lie,” Amren cuts Cassian off without so much as looking at him.

You’ve been awfully quite. Anything you wish to input? Rhys’s frustrated voice drawls in his head.
You’re all giving me a headache, Azriel responds with a light tone.
It’s enough for Rhysand to huff a chuckle and say, I’m giving myself a headache. This is- I don’t know, Az. I don’t know what to do.
There are so many emotions in his brothers strained voice that Azriel stops sharpening his blade and looks up. His eyes seek out the violet irises and he only speaks once they hold eye contact.
One day at a time. A war won’t be won over night based on rash decisions. And despite what you think, you don’t have to do this alone.
The hard lines on Rhysand’s face slowly melt as a sorrowful yet gratifying expression takes form.
When did you grow to be so wise? Rhys jests with a light prod in Azriel’s mind.
Azriel smirks and replies coolly, When you were busy chatting up females and pissing off your father.
Rhysand’s booming laughter is drowned out by the sudden banging on Azriel’s mental walls.

All at once his shadows swarm around him in a wild flurry, screaming the same thing over and over.
Help. Help. Help. Help.
As quick as it came it abruptly stops as a fiery rage consumes him, pushing away any other feeling. But it’s not his rage. It’s not his head that is pounding nor his heart that is jumping at incorrigible speed. And his side- he knows what kind of wound that is. A stabbing wound, open and bleeding.
“Azriel?” Rhysand’s sharp voice brings him back to reality.
Azriel blinks a few times to clear his vision. And then he’s on his feet, strapping his scabbard back to his thigh, and slipping Truth-Teller back inside. His wings are flared out behind him, as if he’s going to take flight at any moment. His shadows are still a swirling mess around him, but he orders a few off to investigate where the pleading shadows came from.

“What’s happening?” Cassian demands, standing from the couch and marching over to them.
“Azriel?” Rhys asks more harshly this time.
He can’t think straight. All there is rage. Pure, burning rage. And despair so deep that it hurts too much, so that he can’t breathe-
“Az!” both his brothers call out as he stumbles back.
“Somethings not right. Something…” he breaths, trailing off when his shadows return.

Massacre. Blood and decay. In a place of holy, death conquers.
Where? Azriel demands.
Cerce Temple.
Our sweet Queen of Night. Mother of Shadows. She cries. Hurry our Dark Master.
He’s moving in an instant. A new found resolve taking over and wiping out any other coherent thought. Protect. Protect. Protect. With a tap of each Siphon atop his hands, his Illyrian fighting leathers begin spreading up his arms and down his legs, moulding onto his body. Two Siphons become seven, all already glowing cobalt with immense power begging to be unleashed without mercy.
“Cerce Temple has been ambushed. It’s already- we need to go now,” Azriel firmly informs his brothers, both of whom are watching him with wide eyes.
Azriel doesn’t wait for them to get their shit together. He’s transporting through his shadows before anyone can stop him. When he arrives outside the wooden doors, Truth-Teller is already in his palm and poised to kill.

He kicks open the doors so hard they fall off of their hinges. Immediately he gets knocked back by the smell of fresh blood. The screams and shouts follow soon after, invading any sanity that remained. He charges through the hallways splattered with dark crimson, so many bodies sprawled awkwardly on the floor. His heart beats wildly in his chest, threatening to jump up his throat. Where were you? How could you let this happen? He passes a male guard impaled on a torch bracket, still clutching onto the small thread of life that taunts him. But Azriel doesn’t falter, he follows that drumming in his chest and the shadows yelling at him to hurry. So many dead. A genocide of Priestesses. How much more sinister could you get? But when Azriel enters the main hall, the nightmarish scene answers his question.

The stone floor is nearly completely covered by bodies. Slain brutally, more and more blood pooling from their horrific wounds. But in the farthest right corner- Azriel wants to throw up and blow this place apart simultaneously. His Siphons flare almost blindingly as his power accumulates, mixing with his murderous fury at the Hybern soldiers taking advantage of the helpless Priestesses. However, he hasn’t even taken a full step forward before a sudden roar echoes throughout the room. In a flash, a dark figure Azriel somehow missed bolts across the room with, leaping over the dead with unnatural speed and agility toward the soldiers. With strength of ten males, the petite fae rips one of the soldiers away from a Priestess and throws him into the wall. She doesn’t stop to breathe as she pounces onto him and effectively locks the male underneath her. Her skinny arms smash the soldiers skull into the ground, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the male. Azriel can only watch with wide eyes and a racing heart as she raises two fearsome blades and plunges them into the male.

Again and again she stabs the now dead soldier. Deranged and cruel and unhinged. A sound so raw, so primal tears through her that Azriel drops to his knees with the utter agony. It’s killing him. Setting his insides on fire in a swirling storm of flame-
A pleading cry strings his distorted mind back together. There are still Priestesses that need his aid. He’s the Spymaster and Shadowsinger of the Night Court and he’ll be damned if he stays keeling on his knees. With his own guttural growl Azriel jumps to his feet and is upon the remaining soldiers in seconds. Two of them have already backed away with weapons drawn. Either from the sudden wrath of the roaring female, or from Azriel’s pulsating power. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He sends a wave of his power directly toward the two males still violating the sobbing Priestesses. They’re blown away to the other side of the room, smashing into the window which cracks at the pressure, and leaving a trail of blood as they slide down to the ground, their necks completely shattered.

He’s in front the two remaining soldiers in the next breath. The looks on their paled faces revealing their cowardly acceptance of death. But Azriel wants to take his time with these ones. He wants to carve their skin off. Cut off their fingers one by one. Slice out their tongues and then stab out their eyes. He wants them to be wailing on their knees, shitting themselves, begging Azriel to kill them. And he will gladly oblige. But not here. He needs to take them into the Night Court dungeons to be interrogated first. And there are survivors that need to be tended to. So Azriel, with a snarl of a beast, lunges for the soldiers and swings Truth-Teller in one graceful swipe. The males stand shocked at first, their dark eyes flickering from him to each other. And then they’re falling to the floor, yelping in pain as blood starts to spurt from the clean slashes across their thighs, cutting deep into their femoral arteries. Azriel makes quick work of binding them in thick tendrils of shadow, ordering the black wisps to crush them slowly until they’re unconscious.

The raw scream is still ringing in Azriel’s ears and one glance at his deranged mate nearly has him collapsing again. She’s gone absolutely insane. The body underneath her isn’t even distinguishable anymore. The males abdomen has been viciously butchered, his insides torn and cut up and splattering everywhere. He’s about to reach for her when a sob sobers his muddled mind once more. Duty first, Spymaster. Azriel looks over his shoulder to find the Priestesses on their feet, bodies trembling with their cries. He glances back at his mate one last time before painfully turning his back to her and slowly approaching the petrified females.

He raises his hands up as he nears them, willing his eyes to clear from their blood-lust haze to lesson his fearsome exterior. They still back away from him though, and he doesn’t blame them one single bit.
“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I promise on the Mother that I will not harm you. You are safe,” Azriel says as gently as possible.
Voices and rushed footsteps sound behind him as back up enters the grand hall. He doesn’t break eye contact from the Priestess in front of him though, even when her bloodshot teal eyes dart to the movement behind him. He knows it’s Cass and Rhys, he can feel and scent them.
“I am Azriel. I work for the High Lord and it is my duty to keep you safe,” he assures the Priestess, taking another careful step closer.
When she doesn’t move backwards Azriel takes it as invitation to slowly approach. He summons his cloak from shadows as he gets closer and offers it to the quivering female with a soft smile. Her teal eyes stare at his scarred hands for a long moment and he lets her look despite every instinct yelling at him to snatch it away and hide it from view. Tentatively she reaches out with a shaking arm and takes his cloak from his hand, putting it around her shoulders and covering up her body.

“Azriel” Rhysand’s worried voice carries across the room.
Azriel pulls his eyes away from the Priestess to look at his brother. But Rhysand isn’t looking at Azriel. He’s staring dumbly at the female crying over the mauled solider she still continues to stab stab stab. Cassian attempts to pull her away, but she shoves him off with surprising strength and keeps pouring all of her rage into pounding her blades into flesh. He’s at his mate’s side in a flash, cobalt light radiating off of him as his insides flare with primordial protectiveness. Azriel bares his teeth at his brothers in a low growl- both males a sudden threat to his vulnerable mate. Cassian takes a step back, his face ashen and eyes round with shock. He glares at the Illyrian General before turning his back to them and focusing on his mate. She’s scarily unstable. With a calculated carefulness Azriel loops his arms around her slim waist right as she raises her weapons. He yanks her off of the body and lifts her back tightly to his chest. Her arms are still in motion however and a distant stinging prickling in Azriel’s right thigh implies she stabbed herself with her wild movements. He hisses at the pain despite himself but doesn’t falter for a second. Protect. Protect. Protect.

He places her down into a nearby chair more roughly than he would have liked. She’s still sobbing and yelling, her body jerking and thrashing. An unpredictable danger to herself, Azriel carefully pries her blades from the firm grip of her skinny fingers. He marvels at their stunning forgery as he places them onto the table behind her, never having seen obsidian blades. His attention is immediately on her again though, every cell in his body yearning for him to take her pain away.
“Hey,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
He internally scolds himself for his stupidity. Hey? He clenches his jaw as he drops into a crouch so that his eyes are in direct line of hers. The chaotic world around them seems to fade as he stares into those amethyst crystals. They’re exactly how he remembers them, although this time they’re hollow and lifeless. It fractures his soul into tiny pieces. He stares at the face concealed underneath her hood and is sickeningly reminded of a skull. Her cheeks are carved and hollow, protruding cheekbones nearly breaking her peaky skin. The orbit around her eyes is unhealthily gaunt, the skin appearing stained black from years of sleep deprivation and fatigue. But it’s the whole piece, not just the little puzzle pieces, that has Azriel wanting to bring down mountains. Because one look at her is enough to see the haunted horrors she’s experienced. It’s a look Azriel knows very intimately.

“You told me not to play with fire” Azriel finds himself whispering to her, “But I would rather burn than let you suffer anymore.”
She doesn’t make any indication of hearing him. Her body is trembling badly and before he can realise she’s falling out of the chair. His arms dart out to catch her and he successfully stabilises her, holding her arms by her sides and gently coaxing her back into the seat. A shadow sneakily travels from his hand and curls around her arm. By the way her breath halts he knows she’s felt it. So he let’s it continue it’s tentative exploration up her arm and neck.

His attention is drawn to her own shadows then. They’re like a storm of darkness. Spiralling and wizzing around her in distressed movements. He sends a shadow out to them with the intention to try and settle their frazzled state. When he feels his mate’s heartbeat begin to slowly decrease, Azriel tries to talk to her again.
“Can you hear me?” he asks her, refraining himself from wiping the tears from her cheeks.
But her attention seems to be caught by the movements behind them. He glances over his shoulder to see Darkbringers hauling the dead bodies to one side of the room. Cass and Rhys are attempting to aid the remaining Priestesses and calling for healers. Azriel turns back around to the female in front of him and tries again.
“Dont listen to them. Just focus on my voice.”
He releases the breath he was holding captive as her head inches toward him. Her own breath stuttering. A sign of her gradually returning lucidity. That she heard him.
“Breathe deep. In for four and out for five. Do it with me. In,” he inhales deeply, his shoulders relaxing when she copies him “And out,” he exhales.
He continues to guide her breathing, matching each of her breaths with his own. Listening to the thrum of her heartbeat like it’s his lifeline. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he finds himself popping them open at the weight of someone’s stare.

Sure enough amethyst eyes are scanning his face. They lock onto his and remain there. The weight of that stare- he feels like he’s frozen in place as her captive. And that part of him that breathes for her, bleeds for her, beats for her- it wants nothing more than to be her slave for her every need. Azriel blocks out the thrumming in his chest and ignores the tether plucking on his ribs. He buries any yearning for the disheveled female before him and rebuilds layer upon layer of his carefully crafted mental walls. Like turning off a tap or pouring a pail of water over a blazing fire, his emotions vanish. Buried so far down that even he feels cold inside. Because despite being his mate, what this female has done…

Azriel abruptly stands, her head following the movement like a magnet. His wings involuntarily flare outwards to shield her from the barbarous world, that instinctive need to protect her still distantly present despite his attempts to shut it out. He hates how his body bristles as those eyes zero in on his wings. It feels like he’s under the heat of a spotlight, one thousand gazes weighing him down. And then, she speaks. His entire existence crumbling into rubble and being rebuilt piece by pice along with that whispered word.
“Remarkable.”
Her voice is hoarse and pained and dead, but there’s no mistaking the awe and admiration. His wings twitch, dragging his failed attempt to appear stoic and unaffected across the bloody floor. Bloody floor. Bodies. So many lifeless bodies. Azriel snaps himself out of his stupor. His body screams murder at him for what he’s about to do, where he’s going to take her, but his mind is stronger. He stiffly extends a hand to her and tries not to dwell on the way she stares at his simple gesture. So much restraint is used when her shaking hand finally rests in him open palm. The size comparison is nearly laughable. And her hand, so fragile, so soft yet calloused- Stop. Azriel pulls her from the chair, his irrational senses not considering her limp body weight. As a consequence she stumbles forwards and comes nearly flush against his heaving chest. His breath stutters as those eyes, wide and blinking, stare up into his. Her shallow breath is warm as it tickles his neck, making his heart beat erratically. It gives everything he has to take a step back, putting much needed distance between them before Azriel does something he will regret.

He reaches around her to retrieve the beautifully crafted blades of hers. Sharp, ruthless, supple and elegant.
Just like our Queen of Night, Mother of Shadows. Your sweet, beauti-
Azriel hisses at his shadows to quit it. With quick movements he sheathes the blades into the holsters across her back. She won’t be able to harm anyone where he’s taking her, even with her death sticks. And just in case they get ambushed, she’ll have some means of defending herself-
He doesn’t give himself another second to think before encompassing them in his fluttering shadows. A particular cell in the Court of Nightmares as his destination.

Chapter Text

I can tell it’s been roughly 15 hours of me still slumped in the same position. I’ve been counting my breaths, trying to meditate and clear my mind. But it’s not enough. I can feel Banngrah’s hands trailing down my skin. Her long nails drawing blood. Hear Dagdan’s malicious voice as he bites my ear, my neck, mixed with my agonising screams. But mostly it’s the terrified eyes and the pleas of mercy of those Priestesses that are evocative. Their screams shall forever be ringing in the back of my head, taunting and haunting. Their disbelief on their faces as I stole their lives etched into my mind. The complete and utter sorrow they shared as a sisterhood, watching each other be slaughtered like they were nothing. And those children- quaking and crying and forever scarred with trauma. All. Because. Of. Me.
I’m trying not close my eyes. Because if I do, I know I’ll only see what I’m remembering. I can feel the tears brimming my stinging bloodshot eyes. Feel the breakdown building as each memory hurdles over the next. But I force myself not to let it out. To hold it under the surface until I can push it back down. Deep, deep down where it’s all been for the last Four-hundred years.

I can’t ignore how my legs are beginning to loose feeling or the way my back is aching in my awkward position anymore. With a shaky exhale I slowly sit up to my knees and then rise to my feet, clutching the bars for support due to my unstable limbs. I don’t want to do anything expect keel over and die, but I do some slow squats and walk in a small circle to get some physical feeling back none the less. I still feel numb. So I dig my nails into my palms, my forearms, my biceps. Nothing. I swing my arms from one side to the other, hitting myself as I swish back and forth. Still, my body remains numb. That unwanted friend, Anxiety, begins to knock on my door. But I don’t want him anywhere near me. I want him to leave, to leave my aching heart and my mushy mind alone. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe.

In- one, two, three, four- and out.
In- one, two, three- and out.
In- one, two, three, four-
Like a pebble plopping into a still lake, my resolve ripples and then completely shatters. Acid is rising up my throat and out of my mouth. The smell of bile quickly filling up the stale cell. Like breaking a dam wall, every feeling, every thought and memory, every bottled up emotion comes crashing down onto me all at once. I can’t breathe. The hateful words are drowning me. Blaring inside my mind like the deafening beat of war drums.
You don’t deserve to breath. You don’t deserve to see. You don’t deserve to feel. You don’t deserve to have a beating heart. You don’t deserve to walk this land. You don’t deserve your wings. You. Do. Not. Deserve. You vile, disgusting beast. So much blood on your hands you could bathe in it for the rest of your life. Monster. Killer. Nothing but a missile for your blades.

It’s only now that I realise I’m still armed. I can feel the weight of Ravina and Salestra on my spine and the daggers in my boots engraving into my skin. I’m unsheathing Salestra before I even realise it. The black blade is nothing short of beguiling. It’s weightless and yet the strength and power it possesses is extraordinary. I run my fingers along the smooth blade which remains perfect despite all it’s been through. Not even a speck of blood lingers. Almost like it absorbs it. Absorbs the death carried out by it’s lethal blade. By my hands. I run my fingers along it again and wonder if it will be my undoing as well. If it will be my salvation. If I should slit my own neck or stab my own heart. I know I don’t deserve it, but sometimes even the strongest of souls have a weakness. Being subjected to torture for years on end in another cell is something I cannot- will not endure. Besides, I certainly don’t deserve to live either. My entire existence is a curse to this world. I am nothing but a killing machine. A monster. I’m no better than The Devil. Or the Attor. Or Dagdan and Brannagh. Everything I touch burns into ash. I’m no better than death herself.
My heart is pounding at incorrigible speed, but my mind, for once, is settled. Calm. Silence that I have never heard encircles my mind in a soft hold. It’s gentle touch like a kiss goodnight. I lift Salestra out in front of me, the exquisite pointy tip in direct line of my heart. I close my eyes and take one last deep breath-

Salestra vanishes in thin air, my taste of salvation with it. Along with Ravina and the two daggers in my boots. I whip my head around to see two large figures appearing out of the shadows and into the cell. Immediately the bubble of tranquility is bursted as if someone shattered a vase. A ripple of ungodly power rumbles through me like a wave. It reminds me of the nightmares that would consume me in my darkest hours. Wrapping around me like a blanket of foreboding darkness. It’s suffocating touch is like the dark velvet Night, and not the starry sky that I find comfort in. No, this Night is pitch-black and threatening to suck me into it’s bottomless void. A magic only one born of Night could wield. A magic so magnificent that it can only be inherited. A magic of a High Lord. Memories that I locked away centuries ago come flooding into my mind that has my body instinctively cowering at that magic. Magic that I could never forget no matter how hard I tried to convince myself to.

My muscles are frozen. But my heart is performing the opposite. It’s pounding so fast against my ribcage it hurts. Because it knows. It knows that this is just going to be like last time. I’m going to end up near dead on the floor. Crimson blood nearly becoming my skin. Only for them to do it again the next day. And the next. And the next. You deserve it. Every last drop of your blood that falls to the floor. Every pang of pain. You deserve it all.
“You were about to stab yourself” I recognise the Shadowsinger’s cold voice. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. I don’t reply. I remain still as I watch the two hulking males coming closer into view of the dark cell, those cobalt Siphons once again serving as a light source. I bite the insides of my cheeks as the Shadowsinger and the High Lord of Night completely reveal themselves. I wonder how many people have seen these two powerfully wicked monsters before greeting death? How many souls begged them for mercy? How many lay down their weapons and accepted their fates as they stared into the faces of death? Because the sight of the two Dark Gods staring straight through me ashamedly has my knees wobbling and sweat perspiring at the nape of my neck.

“Sit”.
His voice contains the power of thunder that has me anxiously anticipating the wrath of lightning. It undoubtedly demands respect and chills my bones. But I dig my nails into my palms and will my body not to move.
“Kill me” I choose to say instead, my voice uncharacteristically and irritatingly croaky, “Just kill me now.”
The Shadowsinger twitches, as if he were going to take a step closer, but his body quickly returns to that eerily stillness like nothing happened. I saw it though. And the frown on his face indicates that he knows. The High Lord of Night merely cocks his head slightly as he takes me in, and I unabashedly mimic him. His hair is nearly identical to the soft silk of a ravens wings. The dark strands shimmering a midnight blue in certain lighting. Hair that used to be mine. A broad, heavily muscled figure belonging to a honed warrior that is successful in intimidating his prey. His tan face is unquestionably the most handsomely sculptured artwork I’ve ever seen. Different from the strikingly raw yet classical beauty of the male next to him, the High Lord’s beauty would make anyone drool. And his arrogance says that he knows he owns that dangerous power. My blood slowly begins to turn molten the longer I look at him. The after taste of sour lemon filling my mouth at the bitterness that starts to consume me at the sight of him.

“Sit. Now” he repeats with a stronger power in his deep voice.
A power that has my very blood burning to obey him. Even after all of these years, my mind and body still belong to this Court.
I stand there for another second, trying to figure out what to do. But I give into that felling of obedience and slowly walk toward the chair. I hate that I have to walk past them. I hate that I can feel their eyes burning through me. I hate that my magic is dampened by this cell and the stupid cuffs around my wrists. I hate that I don’t have the comfort of my weapons on me. But mostly I hate that when I sit down, the two males are towering over me. Like I’m an insignificant, helpless child receiving a scolding. I hate it. And I want to rip their throats out for it.

“I’m Rhysand, High Lo-“
“I know who you are” I cut him off sharply, my tone dripping with bitter resentment.
“Well then, it’s only fair I know who you are too” Rhysand says mockingly.
I keep my mouth shut. His eyes are twinkling like stars, yet beholding a deadly threat.
“Asking is only a courtesy when I’m feeling generous. There are other ways to get you to speak,” he all but purrs with dark intent.
I scoff and mutter, “I’d like to see you try.”
He’s delusional if he thinks that centuries worth of torture hasn’t forged me into an unfeeling stone. Whatever the High Lord of Night throws at me, I’m sure I’ll catch it. His dark brow rises into a perfect arch as an unamused expression settles onto his handsome face.
“A wish I can grant you,” he counters in a low voice that certainly promises pain.

He raises his tan hand towards me, but I don’t flinch. Its an action I’m used to by now. However, I nearly drop my jaw in surprise when he doesn’t hit me, but instead removes my hood from concealing me from him. Those dark midnight eyes widen as he really looks at me. What was he expecting? A scaled beast with finger-length fangs dripping with blood? Charcoal eyes that only see predator or prey? I feel naked. It’s been so long since someone has seen me- well, someone foreign to Hybern- without my hood. I want to squirm under his surprised gaze but I force myself to stay still. He glances at my hair, falling out of it’s braids that reach the curve of my lower back. The silvery strands nearly glowing amongst the darkness. Then he takes in my peaky skin and gaunt cheeks splayed with blood. I can only imagine how rabid and unhinged I appear. Not totally astray from how I was behaving. He’s staring into my eyes now, his own flickering back and forth as he searches mine as if they’re doors that conceal all the answers he seeks. For a brief moment his eyes leave me and look at the Shadowsinger. I follow his gaze only to find the male shrouded by dark velvet wisps staring directly at me. Those hazel eyes slowly scanning every inch of me. They meet mine for less then a second, my stomach flipping, before looking at the High Lord. I shiver. His heavy gaze making my skin crawl despite that minuscule, idiotic part of me that wants his eyes back on me. But the Shadowsinger and High Lord seem to be preoccupied with each other. I watch with a slight frown as they look one another in the eyes in a silent conversation.

Daemiti, a shadow whispers.

What blood was left in my face drains in an instant. Like a starved Naga clamping it’s pointed teeth into my neck and sucking out every last drop. Daemiti. The revelation is not surprising, but it’s fear-inducing. I have always detested the ability to breach someone’s mind and invade their privacy. To watch their darkest moments and to hear their filthiest secrets. It’s an abomination that should never be crossed. Though I suppose being a Shadowsinger is a close second, which is perhaps why I hate it so. Along with the fact that Brannagh and Dagdan are both skilled daemitis with no sense of limitations. It took a painfully long time for me to strengthen my mental walls in order to prevent the twins from tearing me inside out. I raise my hackles even higher now that I know just what the High Lord of Night is capable of. Though this faebane infused cell will definitely deter my mental barrier from reaching full strength against such a powerful daemiti.

When the High Lord returns his gaze back to me, his face is schooled back into that deathly calm arrogant mask. I try with all I have left to mimic him. I’ll be damned if he can read my emotions by just looking at me.
“Cerce Temple has been a refuge for Priestesses for longer than I have been alive,” Rhysand begins as if teaching a history class to children, his words a knife to my blackened heart, “A safe haven. A place of worship and praying. A sisterhood. A home.”
I know exactly what dirty game he is playing, and his tactic is all too strategic. My heart rate has tripled with each word, the screams ringing louder in my head. But I bite my tongue and hold my blank facade. The High Lord continues without mercy.
“To take a life is to mark oneself with sin. To take multiple lives is to paint them in blood. And to commit genocide is to maim them a cold-blooded killer.”
The sheer iciness in the High Lord’s eyes as he looks down his perfect nose at me chills my blood. Literally. There is no mistaking the disgust he holds towards me. But he doesn’t know half of the story. And his surely isn’t any better.
“It takes a killer to know a killer,” I whisper into the stifling silence, not balking from his potent gaze.
I nearly miss it with how fleeting it is, but I see the High Lord’s eyes flash with tribulation. It’s gone in a blink, a feline smirk creeping onto his face as he gently tilts his head at me. The mirror of a luring predator.
“Then you know how far I’ll go to get you to talk. Although, I think I may just allow my Spymaster to have his fun with you. His… skilled occupation is something no one is ever prepared for,” Rhysand says without mirth despite his careless exterior.

Not for the first time in the last thirty hours, I’m baffled. Like I arrogantly dodged the first blow but then got punched in the gut. Hard. The Spymaster of the Night Court. Cold, callous, cut-throat and cruel. And they’re only words beginning with C. A male that doesn’t know what mercy is. A predator. A hunter. A voracious killer. And apparently an infamously feared Shadowsinger. Even my shadows have steered away from spying on the Night Court’s most ruthless Spymaster. Though I have heard whispers over the years of the male so ferocious and elegantly crafted that actual fear threatens to creep up on me. But as I turn my head to look at the said male, I find myself lacking the petrified state that any other being would cripple into. Thickly muscled arms covered in exquisite leathers are crossed over his broad chest. His feet are in direct line with his hips, the casual stance a masquerade of the quick lethality in which he can move. Extraordinary leathery wings comfortably drawn behind his back, making him appear all the more godly. His dark wavy hair has fallen into his eyes, daring shadows flitting through the silky strands. And the beautiful bronze-skinned face reveals nothing, those golden-honey eyes colder than Winter.

“Fun?” I echo, though my eyes remain locked on the heady gaze of the Spymaster, “Perhaps we’ll be the best of friends by the end of his fun then.”
The Shadowsinger and Spymaster glares and says coldly “I don’t want to be your friend. I want to know why you have an explicit thirst for blood.”
I’m on my feet in a second, chest flush up against his and the nastiest snarl on my face as I growl up at him.
“Don’t you dare. Not when you’ve tasted more blood than a leech. Not when you don’t know a god’s damn thing about me.”
The Shadowsinger’s face becomes concernedly deadly. His wings spread out behind him and his siphons glare in warning.
“Step. Away. Now” he growls out dangerously.
I glare into his dark eyes shimmering with an unwavering threat of death. I snarl, my lip curling and revealing my bared teeth at him, and then take a stiff step backwards. But I don’t break eye contact. I won’t let him think I’m afraid. Because oddly, I’m not.
“I accepted my fate a long time ago Shadowsinger. My soul is already tainted beyond repair, I don’t need you telling me that” I say to him and then turn away, stalking back to the chair.

“Please, enlighten us of what we do not know about your tainted soul then,” Rhysand intervenes.
I stop short. A question suddenly bubbling to the surface and clearing all other lucid thoughts. What have I got to lose? The answer is as simple as breathing; Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“You want answers? Well, let’s start with my name then shall we?” I say sarcastically, beginning to fall into my delirious and disorderly state.
“That would be most welcome” the High Lord croons mockingly.
The words are tumbling from my mouth before my exhausted mind can reconsider. “Nyx. My Father named me Nyx. Referring to the darkness of the night. Kind of him, isn’t it?” I begin ironically, ignoring the two male’s furrowed brows, “Now, I say Father because biologically that’s what he is. But being my sire is where it ends. I have never hated anyone as much as I hate that wretched, poor excuse of a male. I thought he loved us, kept me and my Mother hidden to keep us safe from the horrors of his home. I believed for so long that what he and my Mother shared was unconditional love. But then, he met his mate. And my little bubble popped. My broken-hearted Mother and I were kicked out of his house and forced to be kept unseen. For a few years I still saw him once in a blue moon. He claimed to love my Mother despite his unyielding connection to his fierce mate. I clutched onto that promise and prayed to the stars every night to answer my dreams. And then his mate fell pregnant. My father was to have a son.”
I take a pause. Both to calm myself and to glare straight into Rhysand’s calculating eyes that for once betray his emotions. Confusion. Disbelief. Dread.
“We were exiled from his Court. I was only eight. My Mother fell into drunken despair and became a shell of the beautiful, fiery female she once was. It ruined us both. Our lives were torn apart and thrown out for the beasts to pick on. All because of an heir to my Father’s Court. An heir that I wasn’t,” I spit, my eyes watering as the rage, hatred, guilt and agony come crashing back down on me.

“Who is your father?”
It’s whispered. Haunted and disbelieving and scared. The infamous High Lord of Night is scared. I only blink at him.
“Who. Is. Your. Father?” Rhysand seethes this time, every letter threatening to skin me alive.
Dark tendrils whip uncontrollably around me, turning the already lightless cell pitch back. Suffocating any slither or whisper of happiness from existence. I make sure those stormy violet-blue eyes are staring directly into mine as I speak.
“That’s not going to intimidate me, Rhysand. Children of the Night aren’t afraid of the dark.”

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Being a Shadowsinger and Spymaster, Azriel likes to believe he knows everything. At least everything he should know. And his High Lord, his best friend, his brother, having a sister feels like one of those things he should have known. But he didn’t. And now he feels as though he’s drowning. Each chopped, icy breath filling his lungs with poisoned water. He can’t even imagine how Rhysand must be taking this. After losing Celeste, he was ruined. Heck, even Azriel didn’t eat or speak for months on end after seeing her head in that basket. So finding out he had another sister all this time, hidden far away, couldn’t be anything but gutting.

“You’re my sister,” Rhys whispers.
“Half-sister,” the female- Nyx- reprimands with a sassy fold of her arms.
That name. Nyx. Nyx. Nyx. Nyx. Keeps replaying over and over in his head since she revealed that small piece of information about herself. Azriel has never heard a bewitching name in his life.
“I- how?” Rhys blurts out rather uncharacteristically.
She tilts her head and replies, “Cronan fucked my Mother. She got pregnant and birthed me. And now here I am.”
Azriel would have snorted if he weren’t so utterly engrossed in the fact that his mate is Rhysand’s half-sister. And a murderous rampaging solider for Hybern. The Mother certainly has a wicked sense of humour. Though Azriel can’t find it in him to be amused in the slightest. Not. One. Bit.
“Charming,” his High Lord mutters and then tries to speak a coherent sentence, which Azriel is surprised that he actually does, “How did you end up here? Where did you go when my- our father?… banished you?”
His disheveled, bloodied, beautiful mate barks a laugh. But it’s far from joyous. It’s short, chilled and mirthless.
“I’m pretty sure your Shadowsinger brought me into this lovely cell. And as for my past, you don’t need to know,” Nyx replies in a clipped, dismissive manner.
Darkness begins pooling around them again, Azriel not even realising that it had momentarily disappeared in Rhysand’s shock.
“Why? Ashamed to admit that you’re licking Hybern’s boots?” Rhys snarls.

There’s that fearsome fire blazing in her eyes. The look she gives Rhysand could melt Kallias’s icebergs. Or freeze over Beron’s hottest flames.
“The only thing I’m ashamed of,” she says quietly, her voice unnervingly calm, “Is sharing the same blood as you.”
Azriel is stepping forward in a heartbeat. Truth-Teller drawn and personal problems and emotions pushed aside by his devotion to his court.
“Do not,” he hisses lowly, “Speak to the High Lord of Night in that brattish, disrespectful manner.”
Nyx’s eyes glance at his lethal blade and then slowly, torturously drag up his body. He uses all of five centuries worth of resilience not to move an inch under that heavy gaze. “Brattish? Is that really the best you can come up with bat boy?”
His wings flare out behind him as if in offence at her remark.

Such an amusing, sweet melody.
Fuck off.

Azriel glares at her, his troublesome shadows only riling him up further. Truth-Teller remains poised despite the obvious fact that he cannot hurt her. Neither he nor Rhys can for that matter, Azriel would never allow it. This stupid bond has a greater hold over him than he’s comfortable with. He hates not being in control. But she doesn’t know that. At least, he thinks she doesn’t know about the bond.
“You don’t even know, old hag” he counters, gesturing to her silver hair with a flick of his eyes- though she looks anything but old and hideous.
He swears a ghost of a smile twitches at her lips. He’s ashamed at the swell of masculine pleasure that arises within him at her reaction. But it’s gone as quick as it came, just as her face reverts back to it’s scowling.
“As much fun as this tea party has been, I must be getting back now,” Nyx croons with unmistakable sarcasm, standing to her feet.
Gone is the shakiness of her legs and trembling hands. An unyielding, menacing warrior stands tally before them now. Sharp chin raised and spine straighter than a pencil. Azriel is lost for words despite the bombarding thoughts racing through his mind, though it’s Rhysand that steps forward this time.

“We haven’t served the cakes yet,” Rhys replies darkly.
“That’s bad hosting on your part. But don’t fret, I’m not hungry anyway.”
How can she be so witty in a situation like this? After she was literally having a storming meltdown? Azriel has no idea. All he knows is that he is in awe. And in deep, deep trouble.
“Enough with the bullshit,” Rhys snaps, “What is Hybern planning with the Cauldron?”
Finally the cat has caught it’s tongue. Nyx’s eyes widen at Rhysand, her already gaunt face paling further. She takes one step backward like a stray animal being cornered by a predator.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says sharply, though her voice is raspy.
Rhys takes another step forward, “Don’t play dumb. What is Hybern doing with the Cauldron?”
It’s a demand. Azriel can feel it in his own blood. And given that her father was the previous High Lord… Myabe she still feels it as well. The way she swallows and fiddles with her wrists indicates as much.
“I- I can’t,” she rasps out, “I can’t tell you.”
Rhysand snarls, his white teeth baring and his talons poking through his clenched hands. More smothering darkness radiates off of him, brimming with unmistakable desire to be unleashed and destroy. However Azriel is preoccupied by the sudden sharpness at his wrists. It feels as though a cuff decorated with pins is clamping down around his wrists like a shackle. A million tiny needles stabbing into his skin repeatedly and injecting his blood with venom. He can feel the burning in his veins and boiling his blood, starting from his wrists and creeping up his arms. He glances down to survey himself, but finds nothing out of the ordinary. When his brain clicks, his mate has already stumbled into the chair and doubled over.

His mind goes on overdrive. Rhys stares at her, perplexed and calculating, as Azriel shoves past him and drops before the keeling female.
“You-“ she croaks with a cough, “Have to- let- me leave.”
“Like hell we will,” Azriel seethes.
He doesn’t know if it’s the instinctive nature of the bond or his role as Spymaster that speaks. Those amethyst orbs glance at him with weary confusion before squeezing shut as a hiss of pain elicits past her tightly clenched teeth. He can feel the fire raging within his chest now. Burning closer and closer to his racing heart.
“What is this?” Rhysand demands warily from behind them.
“The Ki-“ she bites her lip until blood leaks from the plump skin, “I’ll die. If I don’t- go now-“ another pained inhale, “I’ll- die.”
Azriel knows she’s not lying. He can feel it. Everywhere. Molten lava melting off his skin. Daggers stabbing into his eyes and crushing through to his skull, blinding him with blood. Tiny pins pricking into every inch of his skin contrasting with the thick swords impaling his gut, stomach and chest, twisting in agonising circles without mercy. Hands, covered in cruel thorns, shoving down his throat and squeezing his oesophagus, blocking any oxygen from entering his lungs or brain.

Azriel whips his head around so fast the nerves in his neck kink. He seeks his High Lord whom continues to observe his half-sister with brows furrowed and slightly parted lips.
“Rhys,” Azriel half-growls half-hisses.
Rhysand’s eyes dart toward him, kneeling on the ground with his face no doubt scrunched in agony.
“Rhys,” he repeats, this time more pleading.
It feels like an eternity of being burned from the inside out until his brother relents. Rhysand waves a hand and with that one small flick, the wards on the cell vanish.
“Go,” is all his brother says before winnowing out of the darkness.
Azriel turns back around to his mate and nearly roars with fury when he sees blood dripping down her hands. It’s only now that he notices the golden cuffs wrapped too snugly around her wrists. They’re digging into her skin, he can feel the cutting pain in his own wrists.
“You can go. The holding wards have been lifted,” Azriel tells her, desperate for her to hear.
She doesn’t show any sign of hearing him or make any attempt to move. Her shoulders are trembling as she clutches her arms close to her chest, her body slightly rocking back and forth with each pained breath. Azriel ever so gently rests his hands on either one of her shoulders and bites his lip to hold back the surprised gasp at how hot her skin is, even with her leathers as a barrier.
“You need to leave. Now,” he says firmly.
Nyx raises her head. Unshed tears blur her eyes and her chin wobbles as she remains diligent not to cry. But she stares at him. Really stares.
“Why?” she whispers.
Azriel doesn’t know what to say. Whether he should say anything at all. They look into each other’s eyes and for a brief moment the pain subsides. He opens his mouth to tell her that he could- would never let her die. That not everyone are heartless monsters. That he must protect protect protect. But none of those things are said in his gravely voice.
“Go.”
And she does. Shadows he didn’t even realise had begun to surround her completely encompass her and whisk her away from him.

💫

NYX

I rake in big, shuddering breaths as my feet stumble onto the polished floors. Two seconds don’t even pass before I’m falling like a deadweight. My body is too delayed to catch my fall, resulting in the side of my head smashing into the hard ground. It sends a bolt of hammering pain through my skull along with a fresh batch of warm blood trickling into my hair. I’m vomiting before I even know it. Yellow acidic fluids with the occasional clot of blood spurt from my mouth and onto the white marble, as well as my hand which I cannot find the energy to move. I’m coughing now. Big, lung wracking coughs as I continue to gag and wretch even when nothing is left. I don’t consciously know I’m crying. But I can feel the hot salty tears pouring down my cheeks like a waterfall after a season of rain.

I don’t hear them. The blurry sight of the dark brown leather boots in front of my eyes catches me off guard. Dread pools into my gut like smooth molten silver and hardens into lead. I know I look pathetic. Collapsed onto my side, face blotchy with tears, vomit and blood and grime soiling my entire body. But I don’t make any attempt to righten myself. I don’t even lift my head an inch to look up at him. The bone rattling chuckle that claws into my ears implies he knows just how feeble I am.
“You always come back to me,” The Devil’s voice is smooth and laced with false emotion.
My voice doesn’t work, so I can’t scream at him that the only reason I’m here, lying in a filthy heap at his feet, is because the alternative is my very painful death. The shame would be too heavy to say it aloud anyway. After convincing myself that that is exactly what I deserve, and yet I cannot find it within myself to actually die. Weak coward indeed.

In one swift movement The Devil is crouching before me, his soft fingers tilting my chin up. His charcoal eyes flicker back and forth between mine which just stare blankly back. There is no energy left inside for me to feel anything beyond disgust and exhaustion as I look at him.
“Did you have fun on your little excursion?” he questions mockingly as if speaking to a child.
Again I don’t answer. But The Devil is patient. He smiles down at me like a bear digging it’s talons into a fish it’s been trying to catch.
“Where did you go?” he asks coldly, all pretence left behind.
I open my mouth to tell him to go drown himself, but all that comes out is another cough of blood. The Devil doesn’t appreciate that. He snarls like a feral beast and grips my jaw roughly.
“Where did you go?”
Words fail me yet again as only a broken croak leaves my blubbering chapped lips. The Devil growls frustratedly and throws my head back as he stands. And then my body is being dragged along the floor, his hand fisted tightly around the end of my braid which he uses as a leash.

I’m thrown carelessly at the base of his dias, head smacking into the ground again. A muffled whimper leaves me at the head-splitting ache that ensues. Like a jagged sword sawing down and through the middle of my skull.
“Search her mind. I want to know everything from the past forty hours,” The Devil growls the demand.
I don’t have the time or energy to rebuild my
mental walls that have turned to rubble. Instead I just lay there with closed eyes as a sharp knife pierces into my brain and cuts deeper and deeper. I allow Dagdan to sift through everything. I just don’t care anymore. The pain recedes soon enough. A long silence follows and I know Dagdan is sharing what he saw in my mind with his Uncle. I’m slightly thankful that I’m so numb and exhausted because whatever The Devil has to say about where I’ve been, I don’t have the strength to deal with.

“So, the secret of the deceased High Lord of Night has been let out,” he states after some time, “Did you enjoy the family reunion?”
I manage a measly glare as my response. The Devil laughs.
“You really are something, aren’t you? Letting that Shadowsinger take you in the hope that you could get away from me? I must confess, I’m a little disappointed. I thought you had more respect.”
This time I find it within myself to speak. It’s quite and raspy and broken, but there’s no mistaking the striking blow in my words.
“I lost all respect for you four-hundred-and-twelve years ago.”
A small spark of satisfaction flickers inside of me as The Devil’s eyes flash with anger. It’s only a small reward however as his next words punch me in the face.
“I am going to gut out Rhysand like a fish. Organ by organ. Then I will hang his body in The Middle for all the feral creatures to tear him apart and feed upon. And you will watch every second of it. You will witness the last of your family be mauled and killed. Until all you have left is me.”
I want to vomit again but there’s absolutely nothing left to throw up. However there is nothing I want more than to stick my hand through this beasts chest and rip out his blackened heart.

I hate Rhysand. I really, really despise him. His existence is the reason my life turned to utter shit. He is everything that I am not. He had the life that I was rejected. So yes, I hate him. But he is the only one left. The only speck of hope that may just be enough to save me. Blood is blood. I can only pray that the High Lord feels some semblance of a connection to me. However little. Just as long as it’s enough for him to attempt to get me in his court. Even if he currently thinks I am loyal to The Devil. But the male currently sneering down at me can’t know that. So I use the last dregs of my vitality to keep it that way.
“You have already taken everything from me. The death of a monstrous High Lord will only make me laugh,” I reply stonily, withholding sizzling eye contact.
The Devil’s bewitching lips curl into a smirk. He takes two swift steps back and gracefully drops down into his throne. He doesn’t blink as he stares at me with callous mirth.
“One day, you will forgive me. Years upon years await us. You will lose all that you have until you are but skin and bone. And then, you will come crawling at my feet. And you will forgive me,” he says softly, adamantly.

My stomach twists. I open my mouth to shout vulgar curses and vows of death at him. To promise him that I could never, ever forgive him. Not ever. Not after what he did. What he’s done. Never. But I don’t get the opportunity to have that small bit of contentment. The Devil effortlessly flicks his wrist toward me and in the blink of an eye I’m suddenly lying on the damp rocky ground of my cell.

Chapter Text

My arm is sore but I keep going. Blending the water in slow circular motions with the charcoal sediment. I pour another trickle of water from my canteen into the mixture, making the paste turn smoother and lighter. I rub it in-between my fingers and sigh heavily with mild contentment. It will be good enough. As good as I can get it considering my very limited resources. I pick up my wooden food bowl and walk over to the wall opposite my straw matt. I stare at the expanse of dark rock for a moment while my mind envisions the story I want to tell. I step forwards so I’m only centimetres away from the wall, dip my index and middle finger into the grey paste, and begin to paint.

I learnt how to paint before I even knew how to speak. I grew up encircled by art. In a wondrous world of colour and imagination. Vibrant hues of greens, blues and purples in contrast with yellows, reds, oranges and pinks. And all of those in-between colours that I never understood. It was rare that a day went by where I didn’t have a splotch of paint on my fine clothes or a cheeky smudge on my face. I would spend hours and hours and hours in the same position; Paint brush in hand, head tilted slightly to the left with my tongue poking out, brows furrowed in deep concentration as I let my wrist glide along the canvas. There was nothing that could make me smile like the soul-lifting feeling of completing an artwork- though it’s said that an artists work is never truly complete. I loved it.

And it was all because of my Mother. She was an artist. The most creative, talented, devoted and gifted artist there was. I could never forget the feelings that shook through me when I looked at her masterpieces. Breathtaking awe, shivers of pleasure down my spine, immense amounts of joy and wonder. As well as those more negative emotions like fear and disgust when she painted something more visually challenging or dark. All introduced to me by her art. And so I would sit in the painting room happily on the floor and watch intently as my beautiful Mother stroked numerous colours with various brushes onto canvas, creating life and stories with the elegant curve of her hand and wrist. It wasn’t long before I was crawling to her supplies, sticking my fingers into the gooey colours and decorating the floorboards with paint. My Mother immediately put a brush into my hand, placed a pice of paper and a palette of paint down in front of me, and let me mimic her. She never removed the paint from the floor.

But the catch about art is it’s surrealism. And that’s exactly what it was to me. Surreal. Because then reality stuck like lighting. Cronan begun insisting he teach me how to utilise my magic at only five years old, taking time away from painting with my Mother. Not long after he kicked us out of his luxurious home. And two years later we were being exiled from the Night Court. I never saw our painting room again. And my Mother, skilled beyond belief, never picked up a paint brush again. But I did. I kept painting like it was the thread stringing me to this world. Like it was my lifeline. Which, after being discarded and then pushed into a war, it was.

So I paint now. With my water mixed with the sediment I managed to scrape together as paint, and my fingers acting as a brush. Because art has the capacity to arouse emotions from deep within people and thus it is a form of therapy. I paint my anger and frustration at the world. At my life and everyone who has wronged me. I paint the guilt, the self-hatred, and the shame I carry from all that I have done. I paint the fear and trauma shining in those children’s teary eyes. I paint the sorrow, the suffering and the heartache associated with death. I paint the cracks in my heart and the holes in my soul. I paint the despair, the loneliness and the depression that feeds on me. I paint the the door of freedom that is always locked, just an arms length out of my reach. I paint a monster. Lethal, bloodthirsty and hideous, yet alone, broken and scared.

I’m so engrossed in my vigorous painting that I don’t notice the newcomer.
“I see nothing has changed. Except for the dark cave and grimy clothes.”
My whole entire being freezes at that voice. I could recognise it anywhere. Sauve, literate and cultivating. And that scent of fresh soil, cedar and so unmistakably human. My heart is rattling against my ribcage so loudly that even his human ears can probably hear it’s distress. Nothing can prepare me for what’s to come, so I only take one deep breath before pivoting slowly on my heel. The sight of the man leaning his back against the titanium door, ankles crossed and arms folded, nearly has the bowl of paint dropping out of my weakened clutch.
“Jurian,” I breathe out.
A charming smile breaks across his mortally handsome face, crinkling the corners of his calculating brown eyes. He pushes off of the door with effortless grace that he always paraded and takes a step toward me. I’m not even thinking as I do drop the paint and run straight for him. Body crashing into his and arms slinging around his neck. His chuckle reverberates through us both and I squeeze my eyes shut at the familiar sound. He gently pats my back and embraces me tightly in return. But I’m already pulling him away at arms-length and scanning him over.

“So he really did it. He resurrected the General of the Mortal army,” I say disbelievingly.
Jurian glances down at himself and replies coolly, “It would appear that way, yes.”
I lightly slap his shoulder at his mocking tone but can’t stop the slight smile from creeping onto my face. A real smile. It feels… foreign. Too strange to me and my face muscles.
“How?” I demand.
“I don’t particularly want to relive it. Let’s just leave it at that it was gruesome and forever scarring. The Cauldron certainly isn’t something to be messed with,” he says flippantly, but I note the suppressed somber tone.
Having one’s soul trapped into an eyeball and stuck onto the back of a sadistic female’s finger calls for some dark and solemn thoughts though. But the Cauldron... I don’t even know if I want to know. A power source that grandiose couldn’t leave anything but scars. And now The Devil has a handle on it.

“Why are you here?” I abruptly ask.
“To visit an old friend. I thought that was rather obvious” he answers with another charming grin.
“No. I mean, why are you here? In this castle? You do know this is Hybern, right? Hybern,” I emphasise, wariness starting to creep in.
Jurian’s smile fades and he takes a step back. Putting distance between us. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.
“I was brought back to life here. By the King,” he says quietly.
“I’m aware,” I reply stiffly and mimic him by stepping backward.
The air has stolen any warmth and left behind only a cold chill. Dread and anger begin to trickle into my bloodstream, making me clench and unclench my fists.
“What do you expect Nyx? He’s given me a second chance. And besides, I can’t really just walk out the front do-“
“What’s he offering you?” I cut him off.
Jurian shuts his mouth into a thin line. He clasps his hands behind his back and then brings them to his sides. I glare. Letting him see just how much he repulses me right now.
“Myriam and Drakon,” he says resolutely.

Simultaneously I’m falling through a blackhole and being plunged into molten lava. I’m drowning in a bath of ice and being choked by unrelenting hands. My body and mind can’t decide on what emotions to settle on; Rage; Sorrow; Yearning; Betrayal; Hatred; Disgust; Fear. I’m shaking. I’m stumbling backwards into the rough wall. My eyes are stinging from being open for so long, staring at that traitor.
“How could you?” I whisper bluntly, “You bastard. Hypocritical, sick, bastard!”
Jurian sets his face into a cold, unwavering facade. Lips pursing and shoulders rolling back.
“I don’t need to explain to you why I want their heads. You were there,” he says stonily.
I shake my head and scoff, “Hybern literally tried to kill you. Started a bloody war to slaughter and enslave your kind. And you want to work along side him so you can get revenge?”
His defined jaw clenches.
“Yes,” is all he answers with.
I’m stepping forwards now. On a rampage aiming straight for the source of blood-curdling anger. He doesn’t move an inch as I stop mere centimetres from him.
“I mourned you. I grieved for you. I felt heartache for your wicked eternity of punishment” I shout and push his chest with each emphasis, and then I seethe, “Get out.”
“Ny-“
“Go and get your petty revenge and then hand over your own kind to The Devil on a silver platter.”
His face turns sour, “You always were too quick to jump to conclusions,” he spits.
I don’t have the capacity to understand what he’s talking about. And honestly, I don’t give a shit. I need him gone. Now. Before I rip him to shreds or burst into ugly, raw tears.

Jurian glares at me silently, pointedly. I smoulder him with my burning gaze. Eventually he takes slow steps backwards towards the door. Only when he reaches the metal barrier to my freedom does he put his back to me. But his hand pauses on the intricate handle- a magical one that never opens for me- and he twists his chin over his shoulder, glancing back at me.
“You were never meant to be kept in a dark cave underground,” he says quietly, and then adds softly, “You’re still not,” and then he opens the cell door and slips out like I’ve tried to do so many times. Only to be burned.

Ten minutes pass by. I’m standing in the same spot. Hands in tight fists by my sides, eyes locked on the spot where Jurian’s brown eyes were. My chest is heaving, my breathing getting shorter and faster. A growl begins to rumble from deep within my chest. It claws it’s way up like a beast fighting to escape it’s confines. And then it pounces free. A roaring scream erupts from me. Lacerating my throat and ripping apart my chest. My hands are fisting my loose hair, pulling and pounding into my aching skull. It goes on and on and on. Until only a croaking whimper is left. Until all my emotions are drained and resting far away on a sunny island.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”
Azriel watches silently at his brother. Pacing back and forth in his office, swearing the same words every twenty seconds. It’s been like this for ten excruciatingly long minutes.
“Fuck!” Rhysand exclaims yet again, pulling at his dishevelled hair.
“Rhys,” Azriel says firmly to pull him out of his loud brooding.
His brother doesn’t listen. He continues to walk the length of his office, hands fisting and eyes far away.
Azriel takes a step out of his wild mass of shadows and tries again louder and fiercer, “Rhysand.”
Finally he halts in his step. Chest and shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. Rhysand tilts his chin to his shoulder, not fully facing Azriel. But Azriel can see the turmoil and frustration feeding greedily on him.
“We need to devise a plan,” Azriel says curtly.
“I know Az!” Rhys shouts, completely exasperated, and then he crumples and repeats softer, “I know.”
Rhysand shuffles over to his chair and slumps down into it. He drags a hand down his face and rubs his eyes for a few seconds, more than one sigh of despair leaving him.

Not a wink of sleep in three days. We’ve been watching the Night Lord closely.
Not now, Azriel snaps at his shadows.
He doesn’t need their intel on his brother. He knows enough by just looking at him right now. Shoulders hunching in on himself, his usually flawless hair completely unkempt, his fine black clothes wrinkled and starting to smell, and his face unusually pale with dark rings under his sunken eyes.
“Where’s Cass?” Azriel asks, suddenly noticing his gaping absence.
“Windhaven,” Rhysand grumbles, “Some shit to sort out with Devlon.”
Azriel hums his acknowledgment. Cassian will most likely be another day or two. Everything is always so much more difficult when Illyrians are involved. So it’ll just be Azriel and Rhysand for now, seems as Amren is holed up in her apartment and Mor is running an errand for Rhys.
“We need to show them Velaris Az,” Rhysand says, every ounce of him defeated.
Azriel stops breathing. His blood runs cold and his heart thumps loudly in his ears. The ground feels like it’s falling from underneath his firmly rooted feet, as though he’s been dropped and there’s no ed to his fall. It’s only when his shadows yell at him to breathe does he take a long inhale.

“That’s a sick joke,” Azriel growls.
“I’m not joking. It’s the only way they’ll give it to us. We need to show them all we’ve built and kept protected.”
“We’ll find another way. Do a bargain with one of them. Or all of them,” Azriel says definitively.
Rhys sighs and shakes his head, looking at Azriel with regret and hopelessness as he replies solemnly, “No Az. There’s no other way. I’ve already sent a long letter. They refused a bargain. This is the only way.”
“You can’t bring them into Velaris Rhys! After everything you’ve sacrificed? That’s ludicrous, even for you!”
“I’m not going to bring them here,” Rhysand half-shouts.
“Then what?” Azriel demands frustratedly.
“I’ll show them Velaris through the orb.”
Azriel stares at his brother like he just sprouted another head. This is insane. Absolutely absurd. After centuries of keeping Velaris hidden, he’s just going to outright present it to the Mortal Queens?
“I’ve tried to find another way Az. I’ve tried. If there was anything else I could do, I’d do it,” Rhys says softly, pleadingly, “If giving up the secrecy of Velaris means saving Pyrthian. Saving the people I love, then I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”
Azriel stares at Rhysand and then sighs, letting everything go in the one exhale. He nods once to convey his understanding. And he does. He knows how much of a sacrifice this is to Rhys. How deeply this will cut into him. But it’s the only way to ensure their future.

“If it’s location we’re to get into another’s hands…” Azriel says, leaving the implication unsaid.
Rhysand bows his head into his hands and sucks in a deep breath. His fingers weave through his raven hair once more, scraping at his scalp. He’s always despised emotions, and Azriel utterly hates feeling such sorrow and empathy for his brother. It grows deep within him like untameable weeds, overtaking all the other maintained plants.
“It’s a risk we’re going to have to take. Besides, Velaris may already be known to our enemies,” Rhys finally responds heavily.
Azriel’s wings twitch as his heart misses a beat. He frowns frowns, not liking Rhys’s grim implication.
“What do you mean?” he asks flatly.
“The Shadowsinger. Who’s to say she hasn’t slipped past our wards and into the shadows of Velaris?”
“Your half-sister you mean?” Azriel bites before thinking it through.
The look Rhysand gives him is murderous. His defeated face becomes solid stone as his back turns rigid.
“I mean your mate,” he kicks back.

They haven’t spoken a word of what happened in that cell two weeks ago. Two whole weeks. Fourteen days. Not a single word. And Azriel has been losing his sanity with each passing second. He can’t stop thinking about her. How unhinged and wild she was. But also so broken that it physically hurt him when he looked into those cracked amethyst crystals. How she was cold and bitter, spitting out words of hatred. But it was interlaced with buried sadness and pent-up emotions. How she revealed she has the blood of the Night Court running through her veins, the same as Rhys. But she resides in Hybern, serving the callous King. How she was covered in blood of all those Priestesses and guards she slayed. But she savagely attacked that Hybern solider until he was a mauled piece of meat.

His mate is a complete contradictory in herself. And trying to figure her out is maddening. His mind tells him how rogue and monstrous she is. How wicked and twisted she must be to be able to do the things she’s done and serve such a heinous male. But his heart and soul pull him towards the absolute opposite. They lean toward that light tether that plucks strongly at his chest. Playing him like a broken violin. They compete with his thoughts with feelings. Feelings he doesn’t want to feel. Ever. Especially not in relation to her. They ache for her touch. Her closeness and her scent. They beg for her safety. Her well-being and her happiness. They plead for him to take her away from the world. To remove her from harm and protect her for eternity. They yearn for her affection. Her lips and her fingers and her body. It’s all too much. And it’s tearing him up from the inside like a beast clawing into it’s prey. He just wants it to end.

“You have to tell the others,” Azriel says coldly, slicing through the thick silence.
“So do you,” Rhys reprimands challengingly.
“That’s completely different and you know it,” Azriel snaps, his nostrils flaring in anger and a sudden protectiveness of his mate, “She’s your sister Rhys. A daughter of a High Lord. Royalty to our court. You need to tell them.”
Rhysand glares at Azriel for a long minute. He glances away, staring into the flames of the hearth as he rolls his wrists. When he looks back at Azriel, all the resentment is gone. Replaced with a brokenness that reminds Azriel of the very person they’re discussing.
“I have a sister,” Rhys breaths out, shaking his head as he continues, “All this time, I’ve had another sister. Banished to who knows where because of that motherfucking bastard. I didn’t think I could hate him any more than I already did. But I do.”
Azriel doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good at this part. The comforting. So he just remains silent and waits until his brother is ready to continue.
“And I have no clue where to even begin in regards to her. Am I supposed to bring her back here? Does she even want to be here? Does she want to be serving the Hybern, or has she been forced into it? I just don’t fuckning know Az!”
“I know Rhys. I know,” Azriel says gently, pushing his bleak understanding to the surface.

Rhysand looks at Azriel, and this time he really takes him in. He tries to remain rigid, but Azriel can’t help the slight twitch in his fingers as his High Lord scans his face.
“I can’t even imagine how hard this is for you,” Rhys finally says, eyes filling with sorrow, “Having your mate as a potential enemy. Not knowing where she is, what she’s doing. It must be eating you alive. I’m so sorry brother.”
“It is. And she is our enemy. You saw what she did,” he replies, looking away from his brothers heavy gaze.
“I did. And it was horrible. But what occurred in that cell… I’ve never seen anything like it. The King was forcing her return. It was killing her. You even felt it, Az. How can we just assume what she is?”
Azriel snaps his neck as he looks back to Rhysand and shouts, “She wasn’t begging at our feet for help. She never once mentioned being held captive or forced into being a murderous solider. In fact, she mostly said how she hates you and this Court. How your father ruined her life. A good enough reason for her to seek revenge.”
Azriel’s chest is heaving up and down. Rhysand stares at him. His handsome face unreadable. He blinks. Once, twice, and a third time before huffing a short breath.
“Why must I be everybody’s villain?” Rhysand sighs.
“Don’t,” is all Azriel says- his brother doesn’t need this weighing him down as well.
Azriel already knows he’s thinking of Celeste. Of his mother. How he blames himself for their deaths. And now he’s blaming himself for his half-sisters wrath.
“I suppose you’re right though. She never once indicated she needed help. But I can’t- I can’t just give up,” Rhys says earnestly.
“It’s not your responsibility to fail,” Azriel counters.

Rhysand sighs again and stands up from his chair. He braces both palms against his desk and looks Azriel right in the eyes. Azriel stares back at his High Lord, equally as stoic and professional.
“We go to Hewn City tomorrow night. Distract Kier as you slip past and retrieve the orb. Then we go to the Mortal Queens again and make them see reason. We will get that book. I cannot- will not fail anyone else,” his High Lord commands.
Azriel nods once. He doesn’t have any other option but to obey anyway. But he knows it’s the only choice. The right choice. So he gives his brother a little nod of understanding and goodbye before slipping into his shadows.

An evil critter lurks at the court border. Teeth as sharp as blades, eyes as evil as the darkest sins.
Azriel is immediately altering his course to the Night Court border. Truth-Teller rests in his right hand by the time he arrives. He keeps himself in the confines of his shadows as he scans the land from the sky, his sharp eyes seeking out the monster in the darkness.
To your left. In the black tree.
Azriel follows his companions directions and quietly descends into the low shrubs of the forest border. His footsteps are silent as he prowls along the foliage, his body invisible to the naked eye. He can sense the presence of another being now. They reek of blood and rotting flesh. It makes a stone of dread drop in Azriel’s stomach. His stance instinctively turns into combative mode as he reaches the tree in which the beast resides. He doesn’t wait to make his stealthy and swift advance. He has the creature pinned against the tree trunk, Truth-Teller digging into its neck and his spare hand locking its wrists in place. What Azriel wasn’t expecting however, was to be staring into the gleaming red eyes of the Attor.

Chapter Text

Everyone I’ve ever held dear has betrayed me in one way or another. My father, for kicking me and my Mother to the curb. My Mother, for turning to liquor instead of to me. My first love… in a time when I needed him most. And now one of my closet friends from a lifetime ago. Jurian was wrong. I am meant to be kept in a dark cave. Alone. Happiness and love are privileges of life that I do not rendezvous with. They are things one is rewarded with when they find those who touch their hearts and souls. But whenever I’ve come close to such a feeling, it’s been snatched from my hands and thrown to the ground, shattering into a million pieces. Just like my heart has. Over and over again. Clearly The Mother intended this life for me- if that’s what you can even call it. Is it living when all I do is obey orders to harm and kill? Is it really living when all my emotions are distant and cold, even to me? It is considered living when my only desire is to die? Is it living if I have nobody to hold, to laugh with, to love? I already have the answer. It’s why I’ve accepted my cruel fate.

I don’t know exactly how long it’s been since Jutian’s fleeting visit. But a long time has passed. I stopped counting the bowls of food after day nineteen, and that was a while ago now. I’ve spent my time keeping myself as preoccupied as I possible can in this small space. Going through fifteen different drills of training exercises. Treating the cave wall as my opponent and practicing offensive and defensive combative movements. Braiding my long bristle hair into a million different styles. Occasionally I will sit down, cross legged with my palms together, and still my mind. But I can’t last very long until unwanted thoughts begin banging on my closed doors. But I still do it. I will do all of these things again and again and again. Anything to keep my mind off of the canvas, brushes and paint pallets in the corner of my cell.

They appeared the morning after Jurian came. I haven’t touched them. Not even to move them out of my way. Not even to admire the rich colours and soft brushes. And I am determined to continue acting as though they don’t exist. I know who they are from. And I don’t know why he sent them, but I don’t give a shit about the twisted workings of his mind. It’s not the first time he’s done something like this. And just like this time, I have never interacted with whatever pathetic ‘gifts’ he sends to me. Though my eyes keep wandering over to the art supplies too much for my liking. I haven’t painted with the proper tools in over 400 years, and the temptation is making my fingers twitch. But every time I find myself inching towards it I shake myself and start moving again.

I’m on my back, knees tucked in in the middle of crunch number sixty-four when Brannagh appears in front of me. Usually I would ignore her and keep going until she made me stop. But the look on her face has me pausing and rising to my feet immediately. I’ve never, not once, seen the deranged Princess of Hybern look so serious. So troubled and stone cold. It has my walls rising up and up and fear to seep into my blood like hot molten gold.
“What’s happened?” I warily ask her.
Brannagh snaps her head to me, her near black eyes pinning me down. I don’t even breathe as she continues to stare at me like I am her next meal.
“The King demands your presence,” is all she says, her voice like a vicious wormhole sucking all the happiness out of the things around her.
I nod. I don’t know why. It’s not like I can refuse. Sure enough she doesn’t even acknowledge my small gesture as she digs her long nails into my bicep and winnows.

The lights in the Throne room blind me momentarily, sending sharp shooting pains down my eyes and into my skull. I blink multiple times, squeezing my eyes shut with each one, but it still takes a couple of minutes for them to adjust to the sudden brightness. All the while Brannagh is marching ahead of me, dragging my body behind her like a little girl would her rag doll. Trepidation and dread bombard me like a shock wave when that sickly sweet voice flows into my ears. It’s been near months since I’ve seen or heard of her. But I swallow all the distaste away when I hear what she’s talking about.
“… yesterday morning. I can confirm that Feyre Archeron no longer resides within the Spring Court,” Ianthe relays to The Devil, whom sits with a rigid composure, fingers tapping on his golden throne.
“Where is she?” The Devil’s voice grates out.
Ianthe’s hooded head bows slightly before she looks up at the king again, “The Night Court. I’m afraid the High Lord of Night has his talons hooked deep into her.”
My stomach drops at the name of my Half-brother. With undiluted hatred or apprehension I do not know. I don’t miss the way those black depths of The Devil’s eyes flicker to me. I mould my face into a neutral mask, not letting him see a single twitch of emotion or reaction.
“Leave,” The Devil growls at Ianthe, not even looking at her.
Ianthe appears as though she’s going to say something else with the way her mouth opens, but she clamps it shut and swiftly pivots on her heel. When she floats past me I receive one of her feline smirks. But there’s no mistaking the utter loathing behind her eyes. I’m not so subtle. I flip her off, my sarcastic grin turning her pretty face sour.

A hear a chuckle and I know it’s from the wicked Fiend looming above me. I’m surprised he can conjure such amusement in his riled up state. I take a deep breath before turning my body to face him. I only let him see the blank, flat face of a bored female. His eyes still search me though. The weight of them has the oxygen flow to my brain lessening the longer I hold my breath.
“Your family has a knack for getting in my way,” The Devil finally speaks.
“What family?” I ask innocently despite the way my heart leaps.
The Devil grins. Malicious and conniving. But just as quick it drops off of his face as a harsh, withered expression takes over.
“I suppose you won’t mind slaughtering your own blood then.”
My heart is beating so rapidly it’s all I can hear in my pounding ears. Like the drums of Calamani, reverberating through my entire being and luring me into a trance. I don’t want to ask, but I can’t stand the foreboding anymore.
“What do you mean?”
The Devil doesn’t blink as he answers, his tone a mixture of cunning and frustration, “The General returned back from the Mortal Queens empty handed. One of them, foolish and naive, gave their half of the book to that half-breed bastard. Do not fret though, she has been dealt with,” they way he says the last sentence with that cruel glint in his eyes indicates that we both know I wasn’t worried about the Queen’s betrayal.
“And you plan on what? Assassinating the High Lord of Night?,” I say disbelievingly.
“No. Not at all,” The Devil reprimands as though I am a mere child who said something foolish, “I have already sent my armies into his little City of Starlight. I am not going to assassinate the High Lord of Night, I’m going to destroy him by demolishing everything he has ever lived for.”
“What?” I breathe out.

I’m so disoriented with confusion and dread and queasiness. I need to sit down. I need to be plunged into an ice bath. I don’t know what to think. All I can focus on is the erratic beating of my heart.
“All this time, the wicked, mighty High Lord of Night has been hiding a whole city in his Court. It appears he’s not as cold as he lets on,” The Devil muses, clearly enjoying himself.
I still don’t know what the hell is going on. My mind won’t string a single coherent sentence together, and everything The Devil has said is swirling around and around like an endless whirlpool.
“You’ve sent armies?” I mange to say, my throat so dry that it hurts.
“They should be approaching within the hour. Lead by the Attor and The General.”
The Attor. I hadn’t seen him since I’ve been kept locked up for so long, but I head the whispers of my shadows. They were thrilled to relay that the Attor had been brutally tortured at the hand of the Night Court’s Shadow Master. I shared their delight greatly. As for Jurian… all my thoughts and emotions are too drained to think much of him anymore.
“What do you want from me?”
The Devil tilts his head to his right, so his luscious dark hair falls onto his shoulder. His smile returns, and this time it remains in place as he speaks too softly for what he has to say.
“To wreak havoc of course,” he coos, and then adds with more assertiveness, “You have an hour to go and prepare for battle. Return here once you’re finished.”

A pricking sting biting into my arm makes me flinch. I forgot Brannagh was here. She winnows me away before I have the chance to say something to The Devil. Though I don’t possibly know what I would have said. The room we appear in is a place I haven’t been in in many many years. And I wished I would never return. Brannagh vanishes without a word, leaving me alone in the cold, eerie gloom of the chamber. It’s exactly the same as the last time I was in here. Dark marble walls with a column in each corner that meet in a dome on the rounded ceiling. Four tall racks filled with weapons ranging from bows and arrows, to scabbards and shields are lined against the back wall. A wall-length mirror is to my right, and two steel tables occupying an assortment of fighting gear are to my left. My feet are walking over to the closest table before I even realise. I reach my arm out and pick up the helmet with such care that one would think I revere it. However, I hate it so much that it’s all can do to not throw it across the room. I stare at it for a long time. The hard metal had been immersed into molten obsidian, creating it into a beautiful, smooth shimmering black. The eyes are hollow, but the metal covers the rest of the face aside from the mouth and chin. And carefully carved into the cheeks and forehead are intricate golden swirls. On either side, just above the eyes, two gold spikes point backwards, almost like eyelashes. The back of it ends just before the nape of the neck. I suddenly want to vomit. This helmet alone represents fear and death. I hate it with all my being. I slam it back onto the table, my whole body shaking with anger and nausea.

Not wanting to spend any longer than I have to in this room I start to prepare for battle, just as I was instructed. I strip off my grimy white attire and slip into the leathers laid out on the table. I haven’t worn these in years. A shiny black leather cross-over halter neck corset that ties up at the back with a gold lace. More golden thread skirts the hem and collar of the tightly fitted top. Next I pull on the matching leather pants. They’re low-waisted, exposing a slither of my midriff. The Devil always prioritised appearance over practicality. I don the knee-high golden lace up boots next, and compete the outfit with adding the holsters to my thighs, waist and over my shoulder. I braid my hair next. Two big ones down the middle and then two smaller ones along the sides. I don’t dare glance in the mirror as I apply a thick layer of winged kohl to my eyes and paint a small Hybern insignia on my left bicep. I hate that feature the most. I swallow roughly and turn to the various selection of weapons next. I’ve always been stunned by how such lethal objects could appear so beautiful. I get a small pang of loss when I remember that Ravina and Salestra are still at the Night Court. But perhaps it’s for the best. I already have all I need to cause enough harm without them in my hands as well. I slip a stiletto dagger into each boot, a cinquedea and a jambya dagger into my waist holsters, and a longsword across my back. I only look in the mirror when I pick up the helmet and tentatively place it onto my head. I remember this female all too well. An acute portrait of a bringer of death, plucked straight from the depths of hell. Just as The Devil titled me all those years ago.

I actually feel a slight thankfulness when Brannagh shows up again. Because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to peel my eyes away from the monster in the mirror. In what feels like no time and yet an entire century, I’m in front of The Devil once again. My skin crawls with the way his eyes rove my body up and down before settling on my eyes.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, the sincerity making my stomach churn, “Such divine beauty.”
I don’t say anything. I’m afraid as soon as I open my mouth vomit will project out. The Devil doesn’t seem to mind though. He is perfectly happy admiring the killing machine he created. I feel as though I’m not in my body, but a bystander watching this all unfold. Watching the male who ruined my soul admire me like I’m the most valuable jewel in his treasure chest. Watching as my face stares blankly back, void of any sign of life. Only a submissive puppet. The Devil nods in the direction over my shoulder, but I can feel his sharp eyes still burning through me.

I stand rigid. Willing my heart to stay steady. Not daring to flinch as two guards appear by my sides to remove my collar. And one of the cuffs off of my wrist. Leaving me free, all except for that one golden band on my left wrist. That one small anchor still holding me to The Devil. I can already feel the surge of power rising within me. Coming to life after being asleep for so long. Never have I been without two cuffs or my collar.
“You will join the battle in the High Lord of Night’s little precious City of Starlight. You will fight,” I raise my head to lock eyes with those blackholes, holding my breath for him to finish, “And you will kill.”
A vicious smirk twists the handsome face of the evil male. I wait five seconds before letting out the breath I’d been keeping captive. And then another two before a smirk of my own curls up my lips. Fools would perceive it as mirroring the sinister thrill of The Devil. A look of sadistic pleasure in slaughtering innocents. But fools they all are.

I don’t wait another second before letting my shadows whisk me away. Before The Devil can say another word, another command. My veins are beginning to throb with the power that’s being unleashed. Trickling through my blood and pumping from my heart. My shadows are shouting to me all at once. Yelling at the horrors occurring in the streets of a town called Velaris. The massacre of hundreds of innocent lives at the hands of Hybern’s soldiers. Of the Attor, airborne and tearing apart anyone in his way. I close my eyes and clench my fists, and tell my shadows where I want to be. They oblige immediately and suddenly wind ripples past me as I’m falling.

I keep my eyes closed as I plummet downward, my back facing the oncoming ground. I can hear shouting and ear-splitting screams above the whistling of the wind in my ears. The shouts of commands being yelled at soldiers. The pleads for mercy. The screams of someone’s body and soul being ripped apart. But still I keep my eyes closed and fists clenched. I focus on the steady beat of my heart, the rhythm of my calm breaths. I delve deeper into myself, body and mind, until I can stroke that rising thrum of power. Until I can feel it’s welcoming embrace tingling everywhere. Until I feel the power of my ancestors inside of me, encouraging me to prevail. So I do.

My wings unfurl from my back, catching the wind and halting my fast decent. They beat great, powerful flaps as I open my eyes to come face to face with the Attor. His dark red eyes shine with confusion and shock as they roam over my wings, and then into my stormy eyes. He opens his mouth which drips with crimson blood, whether to snarl or bite me I don’t know, but I don’t wait to find out.
“See you in hell,” I growl.
Finally I release my fists, letting my fingers splay apart. Burning lightning crackles all throughout my body. The Attor has the decency to look afraid as I send a great jolt of the amethyst energy straight into his heart, followed by a thunderous crack throughout the cloudy sky. For a beat, nothing happens. For a moment the Attor stares into my eyes, that look of shock etched onto his monstrous face. And then the evil creature is falling. I watch in satisfaction as he falls to his death, his scarred leathery wings doing nothing to stop his inevitable meeting with the ground. I only tear my eyes away when his figure slams into the ground, crumpled and lifeless and utterly destroyed.

Hybern’s soldiers stare at me in complete shock. Those with wings dart their eyes between the dead Attor and me. And then my wings. Wings that no one has seen for five-hundred and twenty years. Wings that only me and a select few ever knew about. Wings that change so many things about what I am. Who I am. But I don’t care. Not right now when I don’t have a lot of time left. I call upon more of that vibrating lighting from within me and it sparks across my knuckles and wings. And before anyone can attempt to stop me, I send out a wave of the crackling power and set dozens upon dozens of Hybern’s soldiers to flames. Their screams of agony are short lived before they turn to ash that’s swept away with the unforgiving wind. Another thunderous clap has soldiers moving into motion again. Many winged beasts coming straight for me, while airborne Illyrians that had paused in their combat begin falling back into their lethal fighting once more. I glance to the streets below to see the fighting commencing again before turning back to the waves of soldiers that I fought with for so many years. And I prepare another shock of lighting as I dive straight for them, a grin of salvation gracing my face.
Hybern instructed me to fight. To kill. But he never specified which lives I am to end.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Azriel is furious. No- he’s enraged. He has never felt such self-loathing in the entirety of his dark life. How could he not have known? How did his shadows turn a blind eye? He swings Truth-Teller down, slashing another Hybern soldier’s abdomen open. The male’s intestines and guts spill out of the gashing wound. He howls out when Azriel grabs a handful of the slippery intestines and wraps them around another soldiers neck, pulling them off of a bloody Darkbringer. The solider grapples for breath, tugging at the slimy material cutting off his oxygen supply. With a quick strong tug using the intestine as a rope, Azriel snaps his neck and moves onto the next solider.

It’s a blood bath. Savage, unsparing and messy. Something that Azriel should have foreseen. Instead they have been bombarded by hundreds upon hundreds of Hybern’s army. How they managed to sneak up on them and break the wards is unbeknown to him. But a little voice in the back of Azriel’s mind is telling him he knows exactly who is responsible. He’s been looking for her the whole time. Every spare moment he gets in between stabbing his dagger into flesh or sending out bursts of his power, he looks for her. The flash of silvery hair or a glimpse of amethyst amongst all the crimson blood and black leathers. But he is yet to spot her. He is both relived and on edge about it. If he does see her, slicing her way through the people of Velaris and destroying his home, he hasn’t a clue as to what he would do. He would want to kill her. He is certain of it. But whether his bond to her would allow it is the the only obstacle that leaves him buzzing with anxiety.

A female solider with the Hybern insignia on her breastplate rages toward Azriel with a long sword. She roars out as she brings it up behind her head and lethally swings it down. It was on course to cleanly cut off his head, but it never came within an inch to his neck. Two of his shadows slipped around the deranged soldier’s knees and locked them together. Azriel struck Truth-Teller directly into her heart as she fell backwards, her face set in an expression of shock. A raw scream has him whipping his head around behind him. A monstrous winged creature has corned a group of unarmed young, a scrawny female already cradling her cheek from where the beast scratched her. Azriel leaps into the air and with one strong flap lands directly behind the creature. Spending half of his years gathering information out of his victims, he knows exactly where and how to strike to cause the most amount of anguish. Dutifully, Azriel cuts into the attaching joints of the beasts wings connecting to its back. The creature wails in pain, but his attempts to shrug Azriel off are futile. With one more heavy cut, the creatures wings fall to the floor, the remaining stumps on its back gushing with dark green blood. Sick of hearing it’s loud shrieking, Azriel swipes Truth-Teller across its leathery neck. Within seconds it’s lying crumpled on the ground, looking distorted without the large red wings.
“Hide,” Azriel orders the wide-eyed group of adolescents.

But before they can scurry away a deafening crack of thunder rumbles through the sky. He shivers involuntarily as it reverberates inside of him. It apparently freezes everyone in place as they glance toward the dark grey clouds, an invisible unsettling fog blanketing over the city. Azriel feels that beat beginning to thump in his chest and dread ties knots inside his gut as he too looks up to the sky. His breath catches at the sight of a lone black figure falling gracefully through the air. Almost like a feather that malted from a flying bird, letting the wind carry it to the ground. His mind catches up with his racing heart, and despite everything, Azriel leaps into the air. The only thing on his mind is her inevitable meeting with the hard ground. Something his primal instincts cannot allow. All he knows right then and there is to protect protect protect. Though just as he starts flying toward her, the unexpected happens.

Wings. Two extraordinary wings sprout from her back and catch her. He feels winded. Certain that he has never laid eyes upon anything as beautiful and fearsome. Because she looks like an angel. Dressed from head to toe in black war attire. Because the white feathers on her large wings shimmer silver with each strong beat. The delicate feathers skirting her wings as dark as a ravens. She is magnificent. Azriel can’t even try to describe the feeling deep within him as he stares at this remarkable beauty. But the trance begins to recede as a light purple energy flares around her. He feels like he’s witnessing a miracle as she begins glowing. The birth of a Goddess.
Suddenly Azriel feels like he’s been plunged into icy water as he remembers. The blood splattered on his leathers. The bodies strewn across the city. The horror, the pain, the loss. The affiliation his powerful mate has with all of it. He bites down on his tongue to stop the bond from taking over. He has to get to Nyx immediately. Before she can wreak more havoc on his home. Before his mate is his complete undoing in all the wrong ways. Before his thumping heart takes a hold over him. But again, before he can decide just how he’s going to intervene, the impossible happens.

Not impossible. Nothing is impossible for our Sweet Melody. Our Dark Queen.

Azriel watches with an open mouth as Nyx summons amethyst lighting and strikes the crackling energy directly into the Attor. The entire world seems to freeze in time. The only sound to be heard is the Attor’s heavy body falling against the wind, charred flesh and destroyed wings all that remains. Azriel can’t take his eyes away from Nyx, not even to watch the Attor splatter onto the ground. In that moment he knows she would only have to say the word and he would bow at her feet. It’s a deep feeling that both thrills and terrifies him. It freezes him in time as he stares up at this marvellous wonder. This glowing amethyst light against the dark sky. More lightning starts to sprint up and down her arms and wings, as if it’s warming up for the next deathly strike which she aims towards hundreds of Hybern’s army. Ashes and burnt limbs fill the sky, however it’s the bellowing crack of thunder that appears to break everyone’s trance. Hybern’s soldiers seem to become even more enraged. Their roars are louder as they embark upon Velaris and there is more recklessness gleaming in their eyes. Azriel wishes more than anything to go and meet with his mate. His body is physically pulling him toward her but he knows that many would be harmed if he left this area. Besides, as he stares at her one more time to engrave the image of this extraordinary female into his brain, he can see that she doesn’t need his assistance. In a span of three minutes she’s already killed at least four hundred soldiers and monsters of Hybern.

Rhys. You need to see this, Azriel tries to reach out to his brother again. He can’t believe the timing of Hybern and fears that Rhysand won’t make it back in time. They can hold off the soldiers, but they need him to reseal the wards. He’s been calling out in his mind every few minutes, but still there’s been no response. And he knows Cassian and Mor are doing the same. But what surprises him most is that Feyre is no doubt talking to him through their bond, and yet he still hasn’t come. It makes Azriel even more queasy. He quickly searches the ground for his brothers mate as a sudden fear taunts him of what horrible things would unleash if Feyre was found dead. His mind eases somewhat when he spots her. Pride and gratefulness fills him when he sees her protecting The Rainbow like a true warrior. He doesn’t have time to go and help her either though. Flying beasts are starting to swarm around him. He looks at each one of them like annoying flies that need to be swatted. And that’s exactly what he does. He lets each one drop one-by-one after retracting Truth-Teller from their grey flesh.

The foul taste of blood isn’t his own. He doesn’t even want to know how he must appear if he has the blood of his enemies in his mouth. His muscles are beginning to groan in protest and the rise and fall of his chest is becoming heavier. Just as he raises Truth-Teller for what feels like the one-thousandth time, a wave of power ripples throughout Velaris. An enormous amount of relief fills Azriel as he stabs a solider and then another. The darkness begins to heavily blanket the city, almost like a toxic gas that grows thicker and thicker by the second. He can’t see him, but Azriel knows that Rhysand is summoning all the will he has to not burst. He can’t stop the small uplift of his lips when red mist suddenly begins spitting down onto the streets. Many scrounge for shelter while Hybern’s soldiers begin retreating. Another wave of power fills the air, followed by more red mist and panicked shouting. Azriel kills the soldiers near him that attempted to fall back and then flies into the air, swishing Truth-Teller through whomever he can. He only stops when the boats are receding and Rhysand begins putting up his wards.

The streets are filled with devastation. Azriel can’t look anyone in the eyes without feeling guilty. He should have known. It’s his fault they suffered through this. His fault their homes are in ruins and that their lives will never be the same. So much could have been saved if his shadows had of warmed him. He wants to help his people recover, but he finds he can’t be near them. And there is a crushing weight on his chest that he needs to relive. So he leaps into he sky yet again and follows the strings pulling on his heart. When he finds her sitting on a piece of rubble, his chest caves slightly. Her silver hair is tangled and coloured with splotches of crimson, matching the blood on her very luxurious battle attire. Her amethyst eyes are distant as she stares at the helmet resting on her thighs, those long fingers lightly tapping a rhythm against it. He gets a sudden vivid flash of the great warrior, clad in black with two great wings, surrounded by purple energy. He blinks it away and focusses on this female instead. The one who appears to be very far away.

Nyx looks up when Azriel lands in front of her. His stomach lurches as those amethyst eyes lock onto his. He hates that he can’t read her. And he hates how reserved she looks. He hates that he has to speak first, because she doesn’t offer up anything for three long minutes.
“Why?” is all he can think of to say.
Why did you come? Why didn’t you fight against us? Why did you kill the Attor? Why did you never mention wings? Why did you betray Hybern? Why do you look so lost? Why can’t I breathe properly when I’m around you?
“When a starving predator is chasing its prey,” Nyx eventually says, her voice raw, “they are both running for their lives.”
Azriel hasn’t a clue as to what exactly she’s talking about, but the brevity behind her words is enough for him to understand they have a deeper meaning. Before he can gauge what exactly that meaning is, there is a knock on his mental walls. He skims over Nyx once more before letting his brother in.

Where are you?
We are near Roldouph fountain, Azriel replies.
No more than ten seconds pass before Rhysand appears by Azriel’s side. Another ten seconds pass in heavy silence before Cassian, Amren and Feryre arrive as well. The silence ensues as the five of them stare at Nyx, whom takes her time staring back at each one of them individually. Her final gaze rests back on Azriel and he has to fight himself not to look away. Azriel, always the last to speak, finds himself busting to break the tension. But thankfully he doesn’t need to.
“You are Seraphim,” Rhys states casually.
“You’re an Illyrian,” his half-sister replies.
Hearing her not deny the fact that she is a Seraphim is a tough blow. The last anyone had seen one of her kind was close to 500 years ago. During the first war with Myriam and Drakon.
Rhys sighs heavily and and folds his arms, “Now that we have established our genes, can you explain what exactly just-”
A sharp gasp of surprise cuts Rhysand off and everyone turns to see Mor stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Nyx with wide eyes. Azriel was getting ready to step in between the two of them when Nyx suddenly stood up and stared back at Mor with the same shocked expression.
“Mor?” Nyx whispers in disbelief.
“Oh my gosh,” Mor says shakily, “You’re alive.”
Azriel’s mind has barely caught up before the two clash together in a tight embrace. His heRt is beating wildly as his brain struggles to understand what is going on.
“What the fuck is going on?” Cass mutters Azriel’s exact thoughts.
Mor pulls back and glances over Nyx’s shoulder to look at us, her eyes watering with fresh tears.
“Nyx and I fought together in the first war. We were very close and quite the team- Jurian as well,” she explains with a wide smile.
Azriel notes the way his mate’s face darkens at the mention of the Mortal General and puts it aside to assess later. There is too much going on already that his mind needs to wrap around.

“So, you’ve already met my half-sister, excellent,” Rhys comments casually, dropping the bomb like it’s nothing.
“Sister?” Mor repeats, frantically glancing between the two.
“I’m sorry, did you say she’s your fucking sister?” Cass reiterates.
“Half-sister,” Nyx commends before Rhys has the chance to speak, “Half-Seraphim.”
“Rhys? How long have you known?” Feyre asks.
Rhysand has the audacity to look guilty as he glances at his mate and then to Cassian and Mor. When he looks to Azriel he rolls his eyes at the way Azriel mouths, ‘I told you to tell them.’
“A couple of months,” he confesses quietly.
“Months?” Mor shrieks, “And you’re only mentioning it now? After she just obliterated half of Hybern with lightning?”
“I would love to continue this conversation, but more pressingly I would like to know how and why she just obliterated half of Hybern’s army,” Rhysand says.
They all look back to Nyx now who still remains in Mor’s hold. She almost looks like a child who has been caught doing something they shouldn’t be doing.
“Well? Care to explain how yesterday you were one of The King of Hybern’s Generals, and today you killed a significant portion of his army to defend my home?”
Nyx is silent for a moment as she stares at her half-brother, most likely pondering how to respond.
“Haven’t you ever heard of that mortal saying? ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover?” she answers, her eyes cutting to Feyre.
Feyre tilts her head as the slightest of smiles lifts up the corner of her mouth.
“I have,” Rhys admits stonily, “But your cover was so well designed it was hard not to guess the story.”
“Well, that seems like a you problem,” Nyx replies with a small twinkle on her eyes.
Rhysand sighs again and says, “Cut the bull crap. Why are you here and why did you defend my city?” l

A long minute passes as everyone seems to hold their breath, glancing between the two siblings and waiting for her response.
“I will forever hate Cronan and I may hate you, but The Devil doesn’t belong on this world. I have spent nearly five centuries under his stupid castle, doing his sadistic bidding, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike,” she takes a deep breath and looks at Azriel when she says her next piece, “He is a starving predator. Hungry for power. And he will not stop until he gets it. He will chase his prey until his claws are shredding into it. I was his prey for some time. Running for my life. But I’m done running. I refuse to hide from him anymore- from what is right.”
Azriel feels stumped. All that matters right now is her. All he can think about is what she just said. Because this changes everything. She was never the enemy. He was so wrong. His mate has only been waiting, all this time, to betray her captor. He can’t help but think that know he can finally accept her. And how she just explained what she meant by her earlier comment on predators and prey… He wants to wrap her inside of his wings and shield her from the world, to feel her heartbeat against his, but he knows he can’t so much as look at her with any emotion. It stabs him repeatedly as she holds his gaze until Mor breaks the silence.

“Oh Nyx. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry,” she says and embraces her old friend once more.
Nyx closes her eyes as she wraps her arms around Mor and squeezes tightly. Azriel has to look away, both out of envy and because his heart can’t stand to see his mate in pain.
“Wait. You’re the other shadowsinger?” Cassian breaks the moment with his obliviousness.
Azriel glances back to Nyx to see her pulling away from Mor and wiping a single tear from her cheek. Sure enough her shadows have started swirling around her again. He swallows. Hard. Because he forgot how extraordinary she looked with her dark companions. His own shadows start to become giddy with glee as hers venture out cautiously towards them. Azriel has to completely ignore them altogether.
“I am a shadowsinger,” she replies.
“And a Seraphim and a purple-lighting wielder, and a daughter of the Night Court,” Cassian adds.
“Yes,” she confirms simply.
“Brilliant,” he says with mild sarcasm.
“Your father was also Rhysand’s father?” Feyre questions curiously.
Nyx asses her brother’s mate for a moment before nodding curtly, “Biologically.”
“He wasn’t much of a father to anyone. Don’t worry,” Rhysand mutters darkly.
Nyx wisely chooses to keep whatever retort she had on the tip of her tongue to herself. Instead Azriel watches closely as she takes a step away from Mor and looks down to her wrist. He sees her swallow once and then twice, and he knows something isn’t right.

“This has been… fun,” Nyx says, her voice rough, “But I have to be on my way now.”
Everyone shuts up and stares at her.
“Like hell you will,” Azriel finds himself growling lowly, and he gets a fleeting feeling of deja vu.
Nyx stares at him dead on, along with his family. He ignores their burning stares though and holds eye contact with Nyx. He can see the curiosity brimming behind her amethyst eyes, and as much as he aches for her to know that she’s his mate, he knows he has to say something.
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?,” he interrogates her, immediately hating himself.
She scoffs and shakes her head in disbelief.
“I am literally a truth reader. She’s telling the truth,” Mor says, frowning at Azriel strangely.
“No- no he’s right. I just disintegrated half of my beloved ‘masters' army just to trick you into believing I’m not a loyal slave to him,” Nyx says sarcastically.
Azriel scowls at her. She glares back.
Cassian whistles and interjects, “No need to jump down each others throats. Az- that was bullshit. Nyx- Az is just extremely protective.”
“Yes. I’ve noticed,” she replies dryly.
“Let’s get back to the part where you said you were leaving,” Rhysand butts in.
Nyx’s eyes flicker toward him before she looks away again, not making eye contact with anyone.

“I need to go. Back,” she says quietly but firmly.
“Why? You just said you want to end him,” Mor says.
“The anchor.”
All eyes dart to the small female. Cassian actually jumped. Amren hasn’t spoken the whole time and Azriel, for the first time in her presence, forgot she was there at all.
Nyx snaps her head to Amren and whispers disbelievingly, "How do you know about the anchor?”
“It is old magic. And I am older than old,” Amren replies.
“What is your name?” Nyx asks her curiously.
Azriel waits for Amren to give a snarky reply, but he surprised yet again when the small female obliges.
“Amren,” she says and then brushes it aside just as quickly with her own question, “Well? What is it?”
He’s confused as to what she’s asking for until Nyx extends her wrist. He sees a single golden band, like a bracelet, digging tightly into her skin. Almost as if it triggered it, a familiar pain begins throbbing in his own wrist.
“Usually it’s a golden collar,” Nyx says coldly, “and sometimes these bands depending on what he needs from me. He only left this one today so I could access as much of my power as I could. But it’s still enough for him to drag me back.”
A weighted silence ensues her confession. It takes a lot of will power for Azriel to remain still. He wants to punch a wall. Or tear someone apart. He wants to slice the King limb by limb and drown him in his own blood. He wants to embrace his mate.
“And there is no way we can do something to take it off? To allow you to stay?” Rhysand questions both Nyx and Amren.
Azriel can see from the lines on his brothers have that he is feeling guilty for his sisters anguish.
“No,” is all Nyx responds with.
“Not here,” Amren adds.
Azriel snaps his head to her again and can’t help from asking, “What do you mean?”
Amren looks at him like she can see right through him before she sighs and replies, “There is a way to sever an anchor. But both parties need to be in attendance. Meaning that the girl and the King need to be together to do it.”
More silence. The meaning of Amren’s explanation sits thickly in the air. He doesn’t want to admit it, but as he feels the pain climbing up his arm, Azriel knows Nyx has to go. Soon.

“I’m so sorry,” Mor says again, a heartbreaking crack in her voice.
Nyx offers her a small smile and says softly, “Not your fault- not anyone’s fault that is alive today.”
Azriel doesn’t miss the way she looks at Rhys when she says that last bit. Rhysand slightly nods his head in acknowledgement of her meaning, but Azriel knows he doesn’t accept it. Some sort of him will always blame himself. It’s just the way his brother is.
“Well- goodbye,” Nyx says awkwardly.
Mor gives her one last squeeze before stepping back, sniffing her tears away, “I’ll see you soon. I promise.”
Nyx tries to smile but she can’t. It breaks Azriel’s heart just that little bit more.
“I also vowel to see you again. Free,” Rhysand states, his violet eyes showing only promise as he looks at his sister.
Nyx just barley nods her head, but similarly she doesn’t fully believe him. It hurts Azriel even more that she doesn’t think she will ever be free. But he will make sure of it. If it is the last thing he ever does, he can die happily. That’s all he can think of as Nyx becomes engulfed by her shadows, which whisk her away from him. Again.

Chapter Text

NYX

I never thought I would have ever thought this, but I miss my small cave. I miss the smell of the damp rock walls from the ocean and the way the rough surface felt underneath my palms. I miss pacing around the perimeter or doing all kinds of physical exercises. I miss throwing things at the cell door and screaming out at the top of my lungs. I miss being able to get a wink of sleep. I miss the freedom that I had in there.

Now I know what it is to have absolutely no control over my entire being. To not have even a breath of reprieve or a taste of freedom.

I don’t know how much longer I can last. It’s safe to say that no one has ever felt as much pain as I have in the past... however long it has been. More than once I have been on the cusp of death, my mind floating so far away it was reaching for the next life. But I was pulled back each time. Only to be brutalised again and again and again.

I can’t remember how it feels to walk without every inch of my body aching. I can’t remember the sound of my voice. I can’t remember how it feels to swallow food without throwing it back up. I can’t remember what day it is or discern the time. I can’t remember how it feels to be present. I can’t remember the rhythm of my heartbeat.

I can’t remember when I last slept for more than an hour. It’s difficult when I’m chained to the male who destroyed me. While he sleeps soundly six feet away on his grandiose bed, I lie awake, staring at the steady rise and fall of his chest. Only once have I attempted to stab his heart in these quiet moments. The aftermath was enough for me to never try again. And though most of the time my thoughts are filled with leaving this lifetime, there is a small piece of thread that is holding me here; Hope that a certain promise will be fulfilled.

I’m tired. Beyond tired.

I don’t even have enough energy left to be angry or upset. I just want to close my eyes and never open them again. I want to be thrown into the ocean and let the tide wash me away. Staring at the sky slowly fade away.

I can’t stop coughing up blood. It shines brightly on the white tiled floor. I think it looks beautiful, like an abstract painting. For a brief moment a flicker of feeling pulses within me. I miss painting. But then I cough up more blood and my hand slips, sliding across the wet tiles. Another few brittle bones crack.

Footsteps echo throughout the square room. Strong hands pull me up from my underarms. My feet drag along the floor, one toe acting as a paintbrush as it makes a trail of scarlet. My mouth is wiped with something soft. A heavy weight around my neck pulls me down again. I’m lifted back up. I’m half-carried, half-dragged.

Lights, bright and glimmering, flash in and out of focus. Walls blend into one another.

Finally the movement stops. I feel nauseas. I vomit up acidic fluids mixed with blood. It looks brown, like dirt. My insides are turning muddy. A quiet groan slips past my swollen lips. A tug at my neck pulls me to the side until I crash into something hard. I blink. I’m standing next to the golden throne.

I’m hallucinating again. The Cauldron. Glorious and ethereal, is before me. And on the opposite side is the High Lord of the Night Court. A muffled sound startles me. I glance to my left to see big black wings twitching with swirling shadows. I blink again. The hazel eyes staring back at me are the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

💫

AZRIEL

He’s going to burn this place to the ground. He’s going to carve everyone with the patience of a woodcarver and then throw their remains into the flames. And watch on with a cruel smirk. But even then it won’t be enough. Nothing will ever amount to what they have done. What he has done. Azriel has never felt such fury in all of his existence. And he can’t even do anything about it. His own life is at the mercy of the ash arrow holding him hostage. And if he dies, there is no hope for his mate.

He can’t look at her but he also can’t look away. To the average eye she would be unrecognisable, and she almost is to Azriel if it weren’t for the drums in his chest and those amethyst eyes. But even then the beating is fainter than usual and her eyes look soulless. Certainly not the warrior who struck down hundreds from the sky only three weeks ago. This female has been cracked. And then shattered. He knows all of the pieces will never be put back perfectly together. And that is killing Azriel the most as he stares at her with such devastation. His mate- His Nyx, has survived horrors that even he himself cannot fathom.

This wasn’t meant to happen. Feyre was meant to read from the Book of Breathings and then they would have been in and out. But now, seeing the state his mate has been left in, he’s glad Jurian found them. Because he isn’t leaving without her. Though the ash bolt penetrating his chest is making it difficult to see straight, let alone slay the King. He doesn’t want to remove his eyes from Nyx, but he can’t hold his head up any longer. It lolls forward of its own accord and he can’t lift it back up. He feels Cassian shift to hold him up better and hates that he’s in this predicament of weakness. But one wrong move and the King can end his life in a heartbeat.

He can briefly hear the morbid conversation, smell the stench of Spring from whom he assumes is Tamlin and his emissary, but he can’t fully focus. He only understands snippets of what is being said, but he understands enough to know they have been betrayed by the High Lord of Spring. Another reason to add to the pile as to why Azriel wishes to shred the male into pieces. Though that would have to wait- he needs to think of a way out first. His mate by his side this time.

A sudden commotion pulls Azriel out of his stupor. He looks up in time to see Feyre winnow to them and Rhys smash his fist into Tamlin’s face. The motion makes him tumble slightly, but then Mor is by his side and swinging his arm over her shoulder. He doesn’t know how Feyre managed to break past the spell the King cloaked them with, but it’s something he will marvel at later. His heart has started beating frantically at the sudden opening to escape. But they can’t leave without Nyx. He won’t allow it. Even in his weakened state he will fight every last threat until she is out of this hell hole. He takes a moment to look at her again while the King continues to taunt, mentioning the mating bond between Rhys and Feyre.

He has to swallow bile as he watches Nyx’s dazed eyes flicker back and forth at the scene. Like she’s hallucinating what she’s seeing. She looks… void of life. Like death has been slowly feeding on her, taking its agonising time with her. And by the way she appears confused and empty, he can only assume her mind and soul have been missing for quite some time. She is all skin and bones. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Purple bruises mark her sickly peaky skin. On her body and face. Angry gashes are scattered over her arms and fresh blood is drying on the side of her face. And too many of her bones are evidently broken.
But it’s the collar around her neck that makes Azriel so enraged that his vision becomes blurred. The gold metal is so tight that it digs into her skin which has become an ugly shade of purple. And attached to it is a golden chain that links directly to the King’s wrist. Like a leash for a pet.

Nyx looks as though she has aged hundreds of years and yet appears so young and vulnerable. Her once strong posture has vanished as she curls into herself. Her eyes flinch at every loud noise or violent movement, but her body doesn’t recoil- it’s sickeningly used to it. Used to being a pawn, a punching bag and a pet. Used to not being cared for. A small part inside Azriel fractures at that thought but it only strengthens his need to get her out. Though once again he is distracted by the events unfolding in the room.

“The family reunion just keeps growing,” Azriel hears the King muse, followed by Feyre’s shriek.
He shifts his head as much as he can to see two disheveled women, gagged and bound, being dragged into the room. Immediately he knows they are Feyre’s sisters. They all share the same golden-honey hair. His stomach twists even more as he deducts that things are only going to get worse. And sure enough, the King orders for them to be forced into the Cauldron. To turn them fae. All for proof to the foolish Queens whom also betrayed them-

Sudden white hot blinding power fills the room, throwing Azriel to the ground along with his family. He heard Rhysand’s cry of pain and knows that he took the brunt of the impact. But what he sees next makes him so sick and enraged that his stomach churns over. Cassian’s wings- utterly destroyed. The delicate black membranes shredded to pieces from the powerful blast. He wants to yell at Cass for protecting him. But he can’t breathe right- the ash bolt in his chest feels like it has pushed in deeper with the hard fall. All he can do is stare in horror as blood gushes from Cassian’s wings. In the nest instant Mor is on her feet and charging for the King, dagger in hand. He doesn’t know what comes over him, but Azriel finds the energy to yell out to her. She halts in her tracks, eyes wide.

“What a mighty queen you are. What a prize,” the King says, his eyes intently watching Mor.
It sends something feral through Azriel and he snarls at the King to not touch her. Brief relief caresses him when Mor returns to him, her shaking hand covering his raw wound. It stings like hell but he laughs it away, instead covering Mor’s hand with his bloodied one. He sees Feyre live toward Cassian in the corner of his eye, only to be dragged away by a guard. A sudden blazing pain erupts inside of Azriel’s chest and he can’t contain the cry of utter agony that scratches his throat. His breathing is heavy as he struggles to blink back tears, forcing his conscience to stay awake.

“Please refrain from getting any stupid ideas, Rhysand,” the King says, “If any of you interfere, the shadowsinger dies- Pity about the brutes wings… Ladies, eternity waits. Prove to their majesties the Cauldron is safe for… strong-willed individuals.”
He doesn’t want to watch as the first sister, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, is forced forward. He can hear Feyre’s ragged breathing and Tamlin’s useless interjections. Time seems to slow as the beautiful sister, kicking and crying, is shoved into the unknown depths of the Cauldron. Everything is starting to became hazy again as Feyre’s other sisters’ screams fill the arched room. The aftermath unfolds all too quickly. The Cauldrun spits out the first sister, her clothes gone and her body curled up in a foetal ball. Azriel wanted to pull her away from the prying eyes and shelter her from this horrible world. He’d never been so happy to see Lucian as the male did exactly that, putting his cloak around the shivering female and holding her tightly in his arms.

What happened next was all too chaotic. The second sister, fighting every single step of the way, was forced under as well. Azriel could tell she has the fierce heart of a warrior by the way she dared to point her finger at the King. And just like her sister, when she was removed from the Cauldron she was no longer mortal. Both had been made fae. He knew things were about to turn to even more shit when the Queens begun accepting the King’s offer to be made immortal. He’s running out of time. He has to get to Nyx- to find some way to free her without her dying. He needs to sever the anchor holding her to the King. And as if Rhysand could hear his mental struggle, he spoke into his mind.

Feyre is going to give herself up.
What? No- no she can’t-
As a rouse. It will give us a way out alive. But I know you are not leaving without Nyx. Neither am I.
Relief swarmed Azriel as he glanced to his mate who was cowering at the floor, her hands cupping her ears and her body rocking back and forth.
I need to get her out, Azriel says.
I know. We don’t have much time, but we will get her out. She is family.
Azriel swallows thickly at that, an emotion he’s unfamiliar with filling his senses. He squelches it down and tried to refocus. He needs all the strength he can acquire.
How? he asks Rhysand.
When I give the signal, I need you t-

Rhys doesn’t get the chance to finish as the King decides to severe the bond between him and Feyre. The bargain and mating bond. Azriel doesn’t know if anyone has the power to do such a thing, but his brother is far too distracted now. As is the King. Without giving it much thought Azriel begins crawling along the white floor, his blood making a messy trail in his wake. With everyone so focused on what is transpiring, they don’t notice him inch closer to the dias where his mate continues to rock back and forth. He ignores the piercing pain in his chest as he pushes up onto his arms, gritting his teeth while pulling himself over the steps. Nyx doesn’t appear to notice his proximity and he’s half afraid to touch her in the fear that she will lash out like a frightened animal. Tentatively he extends his left hand, his fingers reaching for her arm-

“Uh-ah ah,” the King’s chiding voice says, his hand clamping around Azriel’s wrist, “You don’t get to touch My Jewel. My property.”
That beast buried deep down inside of Azriel snaps. He growls like a rabid animal, baring his teeth at the King.
“She is not your property,” Azriel snarls so fiercely the King actually flinches, “She is my mate!”
Silence befalls the entire room. He can feel all eyes on him, but he only stares at the King. And what he sees flicker across the male’s face stuns him. Disbelief but also… anger? Jealousy? Whatever it is disappears as the King drops Azriel’s wrist and takes a step back. He barks a loud, humourless laugh, his head tilting back. He then looks down at Nyx, those black eyes withholding so much.
“Do you hear that? You have a mate,” he says to her, and Azriel can’t quite tell the tone of his voice.
Nyx had stopped rocking and blinks blankly at Azriel. He stares into those amethyst eyes but doesn’t see a single emotion or thought inside of them. Then she slowly drags her gaze away from him and looks up to the King. Azriel watches them stare at one another for a long time, the rest of the onlookers still silent and watching. He feels something strange between the two as they continue to hold one another’s gaze. Everyone else apparently nonexistent to them.

“Take her," the King suddenly says quietly.
“What?" Azriel asks, whipping his head to meet the Kings eyes.
“Take her. She is your mate?” he says, voice hard and bored, “Then take her.”
How?- what? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would he just… give her up? After all of this time holding her captive? After all that he has done to her? And what she has to offer him on terms of power?
“She will die. She is bound to you,” Azriel replies instead, letting his anger flare through his words.
The King tilts his head, taking him in. And then a sudden silver glowing line appears between him and Nyx. It blazes brightly and then turns a dark red before turning to ash. Azriel watches, holding his breath, as the collar around her neck and the two shackles around her wrists burn a hot red and then fall away. They leave marks on her skin, but it doesn’t matter. She is… she is free.

Nyx still isn’t fully aware of her surroundings though, or that her freedom has just been bestowed upon her. She just continues to stare at the King with a blank face and lifeless eyes. But there is something there as one of her trembling hands softly touches her neck.
“You know the truth. Do with it what you wish,” the King says to Nyx, staring at her intently before fully turning away.
Azriel frowns at his words but doesn’t question them. Not now. He finally reaches out to Nyx and gently places his hand on hers. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t react at all. She doesn’t even look at him, but keeps her gaze on the King who is now talking to Tamlin. Azriel refuses to acknowledge the sour taste in his mouth and puts his whole focus on getting Nyx.
“I know you’re in there. I need you to look at me,” Azriel says softly, and when she doesn’t show any signs of listening he squeezes her hand and adds breathlessly, “Please?”
Ever so slowly Nyx turns her head and locks eye contact with him. His heart skips a beat and the drumming in his chest intensifies.
“Hi,” he manages to get out and mentally chides himself for the stupidity of it, “Nyx, I’m going to get you out of here. Okay? You are free. Do you hear me? You are finally free.”

Chapter Text

NYX

Cinnamon. Pine. Rough. Smooth. Soothing. Sweat. Shivering. Black. Blue. Bright. Darkness. Shadows. Drums.
Cinnamon… pine… rough. Drums.
Darkness- Blue… shadows.
Sweat- soothing…
Cinnamon…
Drums…..

Heaviness weighs upon my eyelids as they slowly flutter open. I see nothing but darkness and distorted shapes. I blink once- and then again, harder. When they flicker open once more my vision is still bleary, but- something shifts in the corner. Something dark and ethereal.. strange and yet familiar. I squeeze my eyes shut this time and when I reopen them my sight is almost normal. I stare at the corner for a while, but nothing moves. There is nothing there. I frown, confusion and uncertainty beginning to seep into my mind as my senses slowly kick in. I try to move my head but that slight movement catalyses a tsunami of pain throughout my body.

It feels as though a long dagger has been thrust through my skull and someone is simultaneously banging my head with a hammer. My neck and wrists are searing with hot pain like boiling water is being poured over them. My back- in between my shoulder blades… aches like hell. Agony I have never felt so strong that it makes me vomit. I don’t even have time to think about the acidic bile that scorches my throat or the putrid smell of it, instead I’m crying out at the aching bones in my arms and ribcage. Suddenly my entire body feels like it’s been set on fire. I rip the blanket off of me and thrash around, fingers scratching at my neck and digging into my skin-

A flash of blue. Rough hands grabbing a strong yet gentle hold of my shoulders. A sudden coolness settles over me as dark shadows dance lightly across my arms. I almost cry. My shadows. But also someone else’s. That realisation makes my panic return and I lash out again, pushing the hands away from me. More bile rises up my throat as the recollection of those hands on me return. The sinful things they did. I cry out in rage and sadness and despair. I cry out in defeat but also with a yearning for revenge. I cry out because I haven’t been able to while I was- while I… while he-
I start sobbing. Big ugly sobs that make my whole body shake. My mind and heart are all over the place, completely fucked up.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. I promise,” that soothing voice startles me out of my suffocating anguish.
I whip my head to the left to see a… a god? Cloaked in shadow with two spectacular black wings encompassing his tall, muscled body. Sapphire blue shines from him, illuminating his tan skin and that surreal beauty. So intimidatingly beautiful. And yet I am not necessarily afraid of him. Just wary. I will probably be wary around everyone I encounter for the rest of my life.
“Just take a deep breath. Relax yourself,” he says softly.
I stare into his eyes. A deep golden honey with flecks of green. I gasp as I recognise them. And I don’t know why, but I do breathe in deeply. And out. I hold his gaze as my pulse gradually slows and the burning lessens. There is something about the way he looks at me that sets me on edge. But also calms me. It doesn’t makes sense. His glorious lips part as if he’s going to speak again. But whatever he was going to say is lost as a sudden bang crashes through the dark room, sending me scrambling to the headboard and searching for something sharp.

“You’re awake,” someone says sharply and then adds in a cracked whisper, “Oh gods… you’re awake.”
My blood recognises him before I see him. A mixture of emotion whirls within me as Rhysand, High Lord of Night, my brother, steps into view. His hands are raised in a show of surrender as he slowly steps to the end of the bed. I somehow find it in me to be shocked by his attire… or rather lack thereof. He is dressed in a loose common white shirt, not fully buttoned up, over black trousers. His shiny raven onyx hair is ruffled and absent of a crown. If it weren’t for the violet blue eyes and dark power beneath his skin, you wouldn’t guess he was a High Lord. Especially not one as infamous as him.
“You’re awake,” he repeats.
I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say. Or to feel. Or what to make of this. Any of this. I feel so lost and confused. I don’t even know where I am.
“The Night Court,” Rhysand says in answer and I stare at him for a moment before remembering what he is.
I immediately rise my mental shields back up, double checking them to ensure he can’t get back in. By the way the High Lord sighs I know I effectively shut him out.
“Sorry. I just want to make this as easy for you as possible,” he amends cautiously, “You are currently in my home. In Velaris.”
Velaris… his- his City of Starlight. That’s what the Devil had called it. The safe haven Rhysand had kept secret for so many years. Only for it to be exploited by the Queens and the Devil. I have only ever seen it as a battlefield, piles of ruins and frightened people. And now I am here. In this obscenely large and comfortable bed. In the High Lord’s home.

“How are you feeling?” Rhysand questions, those violet eyes skimming over me.
I don’t like that. I hate that he is assessing me. Making mental note of all the weaknesses he can see. I pull the covers back over me like a child hiding from a monster. If I have a say now- if I can actually make choices, then no one is looking at my body. My injuries and scars. Not unless I allow them to. I will never let anyone abuse it again. Not after- not after… after-
“Hey hey hey. It’s okay, remember? Take deep breaths. In… and out.”
The smooth, deep voice rattles me. I momentarily forgot the other male was here. The Shadowsinger. We lock eyes once again as I do take a long inhale and release it back out. I can still see something hiding behind those irises, but I can’t make out what exactly it is.
“Nyx,” Rhysand says, gaining my attention once more, “I have no idea what you have been put through. No amount of apologies and sympathy will ever amount to it. But I’m here to help you now. I want to help you. Family or not, I will do whatever I can to support you,” he pauses to swallow and look away, and when he does return his gaze to me my breath catches at his watery eyes, “But I need your cooperation. I need you to speak to me and tell me what assistance you need. Medical and other.”
I turn away from his weighted gaze now. His sincerity is too much for me to digest. To believe. No one has ever shown such care. No one has ever given me a shred of anything. I swallow the rising lump in my throat and briefly close my eyes. It’s a lot to take in. Where I am. Who I am with. Who I’m not with. The fact I’m not bound my chains or locked up in a dingy cell… it’s all too much.

I can feel the anxiety perking up again. Feeding off of my traumas and using them for its amusement. My heart starts pumping faster, heating up my blood and consuming my senses. Suddenly I can’t be in this room anymore. This bed. These dark walls. Under the gaze of two males. Males with incredible strength and power. Males who could hurt me. Use me. No. I won’t let that happen. I can’t- I can’t I can’t I can’t! I rip the covers off of me again and clamber from the bed. Frantically I scan the objects around me for a weapon, my heart beating louder and louder in my chest. I hear the two males trying to calm me down but I ignore them. My eyes snag on a fire poker and I lunge for it. I grab the handle and raise the iron bar out in front of me, whipping around and pointing at the males. They’re still both speaking and have their arms raised, but my mind is too foggy to hear them.
“Back away! Get away!” I yell at them, not recognising my panicked voice.
They both shut up but they don’t move.
“I said get away!”
“Nyx, please. We’re not going to hurt you. I promise. We want to help you,” the wingless male says.
“No. No you don’t,” I shout, “Promises don’t mean shit.”
He stares at me with wide eyes. He doesn’t speak. Good. Movement in my peripheral vision makes me turn to my right, holding the fire poker out more.
“Nyx, please listen to me,” the male pleads in a calm manner, I don’t respond so he takes a breath and continues, “When I was a boy I was kept locked in a basement. Chained to the wall. I only ever saw the sun once a day for one hour. And my mother only once a week. I was abused emotionally and physically by my step-father and brothers. I still carry the scars of their cruelty. But one day I was freed. I was able to spread my wings. To sit out in the sun all day. To speak when I wished. To defend myself. It took me months- years to fully believe it… I understand that shock and disbelief. I do. I may not know what you have gone through, but I do understand this. And I am telling you, with all the honesty I have, that I will not let any harm befall you if I can prevent it. You are free. If you wish to leave this place, then you may leave. If you-“ he stops to swallow and then proceeds firmly, “if you really want to leave the Night Court, then you can leave. You have freedom now. Use it however you wish. But please, please let us heal your wounds.”

Heavy silence stretches out between us as I stare at him. My chest is heaving slightly with my uneven breathing and my heart still pounds loudly. But- but I can’t help but find some truth in his words. And his revelation of something so personal… so raw, touched a place deep within me that I haven’t felt in a long time. I slowly lower the fire poker but I don’t put it down. I walk back to the bed and sit on the edge, very aware of the two sets of eyes watching my every move.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Silence and then- “Okay… what?”
I look back at Rhysand and say quietly, “I will stay for the time being. I will- I will let a healer see to my injuries.”
I hear the breath the Shadowsinger releases but I don’t look at him. I keep my gaze on the High Lord who doesn’t attempt to conceal his relief.
“Okay. Good. That’s good,” he blabbers, “I’ll send my personal and very trusted healer Magda to see you when you are ready.”
I just nod my acceptance. I’m ready to lie back down as the very acute awareness of my pain begins to return, but then the questions start popping in my mind.
“How long have I been here?”
Rhysand blinks and then replies, “Three days. You’ve been mostly unconscious.”
I absently nod and then ask, “And how- how did I get here? How did you get me out- alive?”
Rhysand glances over my shoulder to where I assume the Shadowsinger stands. When he looks at me again his gaze is hard and he seems to be slightly frustrated. But what he says next has me stuck in disbelief that I push it aside.
“The King of Hybern let you go.”

The mention of that monster sends chills throughout me, but what Rhysand said is more concerning.
“No. That’s not- that’s not possible,” I stutter, shaking my head.
“I know how ridiculous it sounds. But it’s true. He severed the magical bond between you and let you go.”
It doesn’t make any sense. He would never.
“That’s not possible,” I say firmly, “The Dev-he would never do that.”
The look Rhysand gives me is one I don’t want to see. Ever. I may have gone through some horrible shit, but I don’t need the pity of others to know it.
“It’s the truth. So many unbelievable things happened. The Queens formed allegiance with the King. So did Tamlin- offering access to The Wall. He turned Feyre’s sisters into fae and Feyre- she- she got taken back to Spring.”
The hoarseness in Rhysand’s throat and the pure sorrow and rage on his face are so real that I know he’s telling the truth. And I can’t help but truly feel sorry for him.
“I thought you were mates,” I say softly.
“We-“ Rhysand clears his throat and then tries again, “We are. And always will be. She went to Spring to act as a spy. The sly, wicked female.”
If I could smile I would at the twinkle of love and admiration in his eyes. But I don’t think I will ver be able to smile again.
“That is very brave of her.”
Rhysand looks at me for a moment and then nods, “It is. No matter how much I resent her for it.”
“How long will she be gone for?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers, “But i there is time to talk about all of this in more depth later. For now you need to rest and recover- if that is what you want?”
I am silent for a long time as I process his words. The way he worded them. The meaning of them- That I have a choice. A decision that will effect my life placed into my hands for the first time in hundreds of years. I push the flicker of emotion down and take a deep breath.
“I am ready for Magda to see me,” I announce, pretending the confidence in my voice is real.

Chapter Text

NYX

All my dignity is gone, buried underneath all the blood and tears along with my sanity. I don’t have the mental capacity to feel shame as I reach a bleeding arm forward, clawing my bristled nails into the floor, and try to crawl away. I know it’s futile, but I’ll do anything to get away. To relive myself of this pain. Sure enough I only make it a few inches before I’m yanked back by my hair. My back crashes into a hard chest and my head is pulled back so I’m staring at the glistening cave ceiling. A single drop of water falls onto my cheek and trickles down my face. The hot breath in my ear makes me shiver with disgust and squeeze my heavy eyes closed.
“You know you cannot run from this. From me,” his grating voice invades me, “Deep down I know you do not want to run from me.”
He couldn’t be more wrong, but I’m too weak, too scared to say otherwise. All I can muster is a pathetic sob as I wish for nothing more than to die. I nearly vomit as his soft lips graze lightly against my jaw. They move down to my exposed neck and then suddenly his teeth are digging into the sensitive skin. I cry out at the unbearable pain, my fatigued body completely hopeless to pull away. Suddenly I’m being thrown onto the jagged floor again, my temple hitting a harsh rock. My vision turns black as hot sticky blood pools down the side of my head.
“You deserve this and nothing less. I hope you learn your lesson, my sweet. I know that one day this will all be behind us.”
His words are like an axe to the head. Or a hand reaching down my throat and squishing my stomach until it explodes. I attempt to yell back, put up a fight, but I can barely breathe properly past my cracked lips. Nothing matters however when suddenly a hot blade is hacking into my-

I jolt upward, a scream tearing through me and destroying my throat. Tears blur my sight as I push and shove the heated covers off of me, fighting to be free of the suffocating weight. But it’s not enough. The dark walls are closing in on me, closing my windpipe. I can’t breathe- I can’t see. I’m clawing at my arms, my neck and my
eyes. I’m going to die. Good. I’m going to combust into flames and burn myself alive. Even better. I start choking on air. My mind reels and my heart thumps ferociously. This is it. I’m dying. I’m finally going to die.
“No. You are not dying. I will not let you die.”
The firmness and sheer determination of the rough voice is able to penetrate the fire surrounding me. I stop shrieking. My whole body is shaking uncontrollably and I am vomiting before I even know it. I don’t have the strength to wipe my mouth. I can only lift my pounding head to come face to face with what can only be a hallucination. I’ve seen this god before. He’s come to me, saved me like he is now.
“You are not dying,” his ethereal voice repeats, softer this time, “You are safe. I won’t let any harm befall you.”
“I know,” I whisper, the few words enough to hurt my throat, “You are a god. You’ve saved me before.”
All I see are his golden eyes staring intensely through mine as I fall backwards into unconsciousness. Cinnamon, pine and a soothing coolness unknowingly lulling me into a dreamless sleep.

~

AZRIEL

He can’t stop pacing back and forth. Occasionally his eyes will latch onto the sleeping female and then they’ll quickly snap away. He can’t shake the unfamiliar fear of his mate wishing to die. He has been watching over her nearly every day and night. Standing concealed by his shadows in the corner as they whisper to him to move closer. To touch her and heal her. More than once he had given in. Pushing off of the wall and sitting at the edge of the bed, or sometimes kneeling in front of her. More often than not her brows are pulled together and her lips pursed taut, her mind no doubt trapped in a dark place far away. But sometimes her face is calm. Her eyes relaxed and her breathing gentle. She looks like a sleeping angel and it’s those moments when he becomes too weak to restrain himself. He’ll tentatively extend his scarred hand and lightly brush her white hair behind her pointed ears. He hates how ugly his hands look next to her beautiful face, but he can’t seem to care enough to pull away.
Last night he had stepped out of the room to make a quick trip to the toilet and kitchen. He was getting a large cup of coffe and hearing Nuala and Cerriden’s recent reports when sudden screaming filled his head. He’d dropped his mug and winnowed to Nyx in a heartbeat, his own pounding erratically against his ribs. When he saw her thrashing about and screaming in anguish, he wanted to collapse. And then he heard her voice. Loud and clear in his mind. Calling out for help. And then begging for death. He was next to her in an instant, demanding his shadows to cool her down while he attempted to talk to her. He will never forget the way she looked at him like he was a miraculous mirage. How she thought he was a god. If only she knew just how far from a godly person he truly was.

“… it is only natural. Anyone who has gone through half of what she has would be experiencing the same symptoms. Post-traumatic-stress-disorder is a cruel ghost that can haunt you forever.”
Azriel stops moving to stare at Magda. She is already watching him with those knowing dark eyes.
“I have done what I can to heal her physically. But her emotional scars are far more deeper. It is something that she needs to fight- and I encourage you to support her- but only she can conquer it,” the healer concludes with a heavy sigh full of pity.
“What was done to her?” Azriel demands before he even knows he’s asking.
Magda cocks her head as she assess him and then turns her gaze to Nyx.
“I can only guess. You need to ask her that question and respect her answer.”
He hates the wise words of the healer. Hates that he knows she’s right. He faintly hears Rhys thank Magda as she departs, but his focus lies on the steady rise and fall of Nyx’s chest. Her brows aren’t furrowed at this moment and her lips are parted the slightest bit.
Kiss them.
Azriel physically flinches at his shadows’ words. He forces himself to turn away from her to stop his mind from wondering where his dark companions already have, only to find Rhys staring at him. He has had many years to practice masking his emotions and he is grateful for it in this moment.

“Magda is right. We have to tread extra carefully around her,” Rhys says solemnly, breaking the prolonged silence.
Azriel doesn’t respond, instead he says softly, “I want to kill him.”
Rhysand’s dark brows flick up, but they quickly turn down into a frown.
“I do too. And we will, but all in due time. We cannot do anything reckless.”
Azriel repeatedly balls his hands into fists to contain his rage and bites his tongue to keep in the thoughts impulsively running through his mind. Fuck being careful. I want to rip his arrogant head from his neck. I want to take that stupid gold crown and pierce his heat with it. I want to put that damned collar around his neck until his spine snaps. Fuck the consequences. I will have his blood.
He’s certain Rhys can guess at what he’s thinking anyway by the way he’s scrutinising him. His brother opens his mouth no doubt to warn him further, but they’re both suddenly snapping their heads to the bed and the female crouched on it, a very sharp dagger held in her left hand.

“Nyx?” Rhys queries cautiously, slowly lifting his hands up.
She doesn’t speak but she raises the dagger up higher, her eyes cold and deadly. She looks feral in the way her lips curl into a snarl.
“Nyx, you’re in the Night Court, remember? I’m your charming brother Rhysand. And this is your m- my shadowsinger Azriel,” Rhys tries again.
Azriel would’ve glared at Rhys for his close slip up, but he’s too busy staring at his mate who looks ready to stab him. As if a switch is flicked her cloudy eyes clear and her tense muscles relax slightly. She takes a deep breath and lowers the dagger.
“Half-brother,” she murmurs croakily.
Rhys’s lips twitch as he waves her off and says “Semantics.”
Azriel watches closely as Nyx lowers herself into a cross-legged position, noting how she winces every two seconds. He sees the slight tremor in her hands and the way her body is now skittish, her eyes darting to the door. She looks like a scared child now. And then suddenly she’s lashing out again. She starts screaming and pounces off of the bed. She attempts to run for the door, slashing the air with the dagger, but her bones are too weak and she slips. She hits the floor with a thud and cries out louder, this time with more pain. Rhysand looks stricken as he tries to approach her without making matters worse.
“Nyx, it’s okay. I swear to you no one is going to hurt you,” he attempts to soothe her.
“No! N-no. Th- e walls. I can’t- can’t breathe. Don- don’t touch me!” she shrieks and scuttles away from him.
Azriel’s chest compresses tightly as he stands frozen and watches in horror as she falls apart. Do something. But he doesn’t know how to help without hurting her. How to touch her without breaking her further.

“I will make a bargain with you,” Rhys says, startling even Azriel with his High Lord voice, “It is an oath between us. I will vow to protect you and prevent any harm from reaching you to the best of my abilities. I will promise to never subject you to violence and provide you with a safe and comfortable life if that is what you want. All I ask for in return is for you to be cooperative and to try to look after yourself.”
Nyx has stopped thrashing and screaming, but her body is still shaking. Her breathing is ragged and her hand is holding the dagger tightly, but her eyes are locked onto Rhys, filled with curiosity and determination. Azriel can see the war wagering in her eyes. Whether she wants to be bound by magic again or not. She nods her head once in acceptance.
Rhysand blows out a breath and says more gently, “What are your terms?”
She doesn’t respond immediately. She takes a minute to glance around the room before looking back to Rhysand. When she does her shoulders are more rigid and her head held a little higher.
“I will be cooperate with you, and try to help myself, in return for your word that you will not abuse me in any way and as long as-” she stops short and then adds more assuredly, “As long as you let me see the sun everyday.”
Rhysand’s brows shoot up at her last request and Azriel can see his brothers features battle to hide his anger and pity. He too feels such rage and sorrow at the fact that Nyx had to ask to see the sun. The fucking sun.
Rhys nods and extends his arm toward her, “I accept.”
Nyx hesitates before clasping her hand into Rhysand’s. A moment later dark ink begins to form on her right bicep. She gasps quietly as she stares at the new image branded into her skin. She drops Rhys’s hand to graze her fingertips over the shining sun filled with little stars. A matching one appears on Rhysand’s palm.
“When was the last time you saw the sun?” Rhys asks her softly.
Nyx brushes the tattooed one on her arm once more, briefly squeezing her eyes shut, before looking up at Rhys.
“Four hundred and fifty-seven years,” she whispers.

The silence in the room is deafening. Rhysand looks as though he’s about to tear the whole house down. Azriel is attempting to stop himself from flying all the way to Hybern and burning it to the ground.
“Fuck,” Rhys shouts, “I swear to The Mother that fucking swine is going to rot in hell.”
Now Nyx is the one looking shocked and angry.
“Don’t act like you actually care,” she accuses him sourly.
Rhysand physically fumes down at her, “Excuse me? I have spent every second since discovering your existence trying to find a way for you to get here. I have risked my ass and my court for your safety. I just made a bargain to protect you! Don’t tell me I don’t care just because I don’t know you too well. You’re my sister. My family, whether you like it or not!”
Now the silence is so tense Azriel is sure he could slice it with Truth-Teller. Nyx’s haunted eyes are wide as she stares at Rhysand who holds her gaze, his fists clenched and jaw locked. She swallows roughly and looks away, apparently not yet ready to accept the truth of her brothers words.
“Come on,” Rhys says aggressively.
Nyx returns her gaze to him with a wary look, “Where?”
“Just follow me.”
And without further explanation Rhysand turns on his heel and stalks out the door. Nyx huffs out a breath and starts pushing on her palms to get up, only to fall back down. His heart is beating wildly in his chest as Azriel takes tentative steps toward her and extends his hand, palm facing up. He forces his emotions down as Nyx lifts her head to stare directly into his eyes. Azriel doesn’t blink or look away despite his body burning under her weighted gaze. Hesitantly she places her hand into his. He can’t help but notice how slender her fingers are as his calloused ones close over hers. But also the way her bones stick out too much. He lifts her up but let’s her do most of the work so as to not make her feel useless. He’s not ready for her to let go but loosens his grip anyway. But when she doesn’t let go, her body slightly leaning into him for support, he pushes down the daring smile and leads her out of the room.

He knows where Rhys has gone so he doesn’t bother calling out to him. He makes sure to walk a little slower than he normally would, though Nyx is doing better than he thought. However he knows she is still extremely unhealthy and it will take time for her to regain her strength. When they make it to the stairs Azriel doesn’t offer to lift her or winnow up, making her be the decider of how far she wishes to push herself. As he suspected Nyx takes a hold of the silver railing and takes the steps one at a time. She’s slow, her breath heavy and her legs wobbly, but Azriel doesn’t mind. He stays close behind her, his muscles tense with anticipation to catch her should she fall. When she makes it to the top she leans over to catch her breath and Azriel offers his arm to her again. She eyes it for a second before taking a hold of it again, and he doesn’t miss the flicker of shame in her eyes. He wants to tell her it’s okay to need and accept help, but he remains silent.
As soon as they round the corner a gentle wind washes over them, sending her white hair rippling behind her. He slides open the screen door and helps her step out onto the terrace. And then she freezes. Azriel quickly looks at her over his shoulder, preparing to combat whatever it is that is wrong. Only to be stunned by the raw beauty of her.

Her mouth hangs slightly open in awe and those amethyst eyes glisten with wonder as they widen. Her natural caramel skin, though peaky and frail, glows warmly as the golden sunlight shines down on her. It greets her like an old friend as it comes out from behind a patch of clouds. A strangled sound comes from her as she takes a deep shaky breath. And then she’s walking by herself towards the railing that overlooks the Sidra and the town of Valaris. She almost falls against the banister, using the metal as a support to hold her up. Azriel quietly walks up next to her, making sure to leave a decent amount of space between them so as not to disturb this for her. He can’t help but stare. Her face is tilted up toward the sun, silent tears streaming down her cheeks from her closed eyes. She looks radiant. Soaking up all that she had been deprived of for so long.
“You are free to feel the sunlight on your skin. To stare at it shining down on you. Whenever and wherever you like. It is a right that should have never been taken from you,” Rhysand says softly from behind them.
Azriel had forgot his brother was even there. He glances over at him now, not surprised to see the swell of emotion in his violet eyes as he watches Nyx as well. He knows Rhysand loves her already and will do anything to protect her. Especially after having lost his sister before.
“Thank you,” Nyx whispers the words, but there is no mistaking the gratitude and pain in her voice.

A sorrowful understanding overwhelms Azriel that fills him wish anguish as he watches her again. He takes note of the way she seems to lean toward the warmth of the sun. How her eyes hold a small amount of life again. The way her white hair blows gently around her. The soft curve of her parted lips. But mostly the way there is a glimpse of hope budding within her. That some small part of her is beginning to accept that she really is free. That she can have a life. And Azriel cannot be in it. No matter how much that string pulls him toward her and how loud the drums play in his chest, he knows he can’t be in her life. Not in the way he wishes. Not as her mate. To force that on he her would only be tying her down again after she just escaped her shackles. And he can’t do that to her. She deserves to choose how to spend the rest of her life and who with. It breaks him inside but he closes over the gaping wound and buries it deep down. He takes her in one last time before forcing himself to turn away and silently leave through his protesting shadows.

Chapter Text

NYX

For a week I pulled my withering body from the insanely plush mattress at dawn. I sat on the same lounge chair on the terrace, from sunrise till sunset. My eyes burned from hardly blinking, and my head pounded from being in the sun all day, but I didn’t care. I sat there and soaked up all that sunlight like a starved leech. I revelled in the warmth of it’s strong rays as it slowly moved from the east and over my head to the west. I marvelled at how the city below appeared to shimmer from the sun’s light, and the way the river glittered like thousands of crystals. I stared at the bright blue sky in wonder, the vibrant colour long forgotten from my memories. I played child as I named animals that the passing fluffy white clouds resembled. And then once the sun had fully set, casting the city in starlight and replacing the sky blue with a midnight hue, I walked back downstairs and into the awaiting bed.

But now I haven’t left the comfortable mattress and the many soft blankets. Now I just lay in the same spot, staring at the sun through the open windows, the curtains not once being drawn shut. My body has made its dent in the mattress so that when I move, there is a slight uneven bump. I only ever find the capacity to leave the bed when my bladder pleads to be released. And despite lying in my grime from not bathing, I do not wish to be lying in all of my filth. It takes a colossal effort to carry the weight of my heavy bones to the bathing chamber and back. The dizziness that attacks me as soon as I stand doesn’t help. The only thing that gets me standing back up from the toilet is the lack of sunlight in the bathing room, and the unfamiliar comfort of the bed.

For four days Rhysand has visited me with breakfast and lunch and dinner. Each visit he scolds me for being lazy. Then he begs me to get up. To stretch my muscles and get some fresh air. To eat more then two bites of the food he brings. And each time I hardly hear him, let alone reply. Sometimes I will eat five or six mouthfuls, or I’ll give him some semblance of communication, because of the sun inked onto my bicep. I promised to try. So I try to- attempt to try. But I don’t want to. And that’s what has me unmoving, unfeeling.

For the first few days here I felt something in my chest. Like soft drums, willing me to get up, to get better. Each time I felt the sun on my skin, I loosened up a little more. But then- then I was trapped again. And still am. And will continue to be forever. Whether I am here, flying through the clouds, or in a cell- I will always be trapped. Because my mind is broken and my soul filled only with despair. All I have to think about is the brutal memories that can’t be turned off repeat. So I lye here, in this bed staring at the sun as it makes different shadows in the room, playing the last few months over and over again. Trying to place all the pieces together. Because I do not recall a good chunk of time while I was separate from my conscious. But something happened. Something so vital and powerful that I can’t stop raking through my memories to remember it. No matter the endless darkness that consumes me with each lashing, carving, and degradation. However, it doesn’t matter how hard I push to the point of vomiting. I cannot grasp whatever it is that is tugging at me.

That’s not the only thing that wears me down. I can’t stop thinking about him. He just… let me go. It doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. And it- as shameful and disgusting as it is- but it hurts in a way. That he suddenly decided he did not want me. That he gave me away after all these years by his side. And it horrifies me to my very core. Because I should be ecstatic. I should be skipping and singing and laughing with joy. I should be out there in the world, becoming drunk on crappy liquor and dancing my freedom away. And yet- and yet here I lay. Still thinking of him. Still in his shackles. Just as the bastard Devil intended. Because so far deep, deep down, I know the truth. And I hate it. I refuse to accept it, and it’s holding me hostage in a different way. A way that makes me not want to move. Or eat. Or care.

I wriggle my toes and then shake my legs, letting some sort of blood flow circulate down my body. I’m staring at the the shadows in the corner of the room when the sound of the door creaking open catches my attention. Slowly, with too much effort required, I turn my head. I’m expecting Rhysand with a reprimanding expression and a tray of hot food. Instead, a tall, lithe female stands in the doorway. I have never seen her before, though she appears oddly familiar. Her golden-brown hair is pulled neatly back into a beautiful crown of plaits, accentuating her slim face. She looks… strange. Beautiful, but odd. Like she is troubled, her mind travelling somewhere far away. Her doe eyes stare at me unblinkingly. It’s unsettling. I don’t know what to say, or to think, so I just stare back.

A distant alertness warns me to at least grab a dagger as a precaution as she takes tentative steps toward me. It’s almost like she’s only just learnt to walk. Like a fawn on it’s unstable legs. Her hands are wringing in front of her as she stops at the end of the bed, her big brown eyes slowly grazing over the room and then me. I don’t like the way she looks at me. Like she can see my soul but also as though she can’t see me at all. I’m becoming more worried for her than for me the longer she just stares. And then something flashes across her eyes, making her beautiful, blank face melt into a soft frown.
“Your wings are stained red,” the femorale whispers in an eerie, unearthly voice.
My heart pauses and then triples its speed. What the fuck is she on about? My wings are- they’re not- they are not here. There are no wings for her to be looking at. And what does she mean “stained red?”
I can feel my face muscles pulling into a frown also. I open my mouth to ask her what she is talking about, but another voice, filled with fiery lethality, fills the uncanny space.

“Get away from my sister.”
I turn my head a lot faster this time, causing my neck to kink. As though I’m in a mirage, another similar-looking female stands in the doorway. The same golden-brown hair and natural beauty. However, this female is otherwise very different to the gentle, eerie, and doe-eyed one still staring at me. This female has fire in her pale blue eyes, and a certain aura of simmering power. Her hard face is set in a challenging glare, and her posture is stiff with dominance. I frown at her. How is any of this my fault? Her sister is the one who invaded my privacy.
“Elain, come on. Let’s go back to our room,” the female says, much more gently then when she growled at me.
I glance back at the other female- Elain. It’s a pretty name for a pretty female. Elain, however, does not appear to be listening to her sister. Her brows are still set in a frown as those damned eyes flicker over me.
“What have you done to her?” the sister demands, stepping further into the room.

I sigh. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken. I lick my chapped lips and swallow the dryness in my throat.
“I have done nothing,” my voice is cracked and quite. I try to clear my throat better and add, “She waltzed in here herself.”
The female glares at me, assessing and cruel, before looking at her sister. I see the way she softens just slightly as she walks up to Elain.
“Elain?”
Those doe-eyes blink. And then Elain lightly shakes her head and looks at her sister.
“Nesta? What’s wrong?” Elain asks like a nurturing healer.
I look at Nesta closely as she stares at Elain, almost hopelessly. Like she doesn’t know what to do with her sister. I can tell the smile she gives is false.
“Nothing. But we should leave,” Nesta says gently, putting a hand on Elain’s arm.
Elain looks at the hand and then averts her gaze back to me.
“She is so broken. I don’t know if she will be able to walk again,” Elain says sorrowfully, like I am not laying there listening.
“Excuse me?” I hiss. Just what is this deranged female on about? “Who even are you? And I can walk, thank you very much.”
I don’t mention that it has been nearly twenty-four hours since I have actually walked, but I’m pretty certain that I can still do it.

Nesta frowns at me harshly before replying coldly, “None of your concern. Don’t talk to my sister again. Elain, let’s go.”
“Rude,” I mutter, a feeling of sourness coating my tongue- I like the taste of it.
“I can be much more than rude, so you best watch yourself,” Nesta snaps.
There it is again. That flicker of- of annoyance. So small, but an ember breathing in the oxygen that’s being fed to it.
“I’d like to see what you could do against me,” I retort, somehow finding it in me to give her a lazy grin.
She doesn’t like that at all. I swear smoke comes from her nostrils as her eyes become icier. I actually almost feel like smirking.
“Listen carefully. If you so much as touch a hair on me or Elain, I will make you wish you’d never opened your smart mouth.”
Oh. Oh yes. I could laugh. I could actually laugh and I almost do. I want to punch her in the face. Because I feel so irritated by her. It’s the most I’ve properly felt in ages.
“Its Elain or I. Not me or Elain,” I reprimand her, the patronising smirk actually real.
My thrill only deepens with the smirk as Nesta physically recoils and then takes a daring step closer. She takes her time looking me up and down before replying.
“I would think twice about what you say next. You’re wasting away in a bed after all. Pathetic.”

And just like that the smile slowly fades away along with my somewhat uplifted mood. Because it’s another voice in my head now. Whispering how pathetic I am. How useless and shameful I have become. How cowardly. How disloyal. How I am nothing. How I am no one. I can feel it’s tantalising tone grating against my mind. It’s malicious words are feeding my aching heart. It’s skilled hands are breaking my body-

“Elain, we’re going.”
Nesta seems proud with herself, like she’s won whatever this little match was. Elain frowns again, looking back and forth between us. She stops on me though.
“You were there,” Elain whispers, making me freeze, “You were there that night.”
What night? My pulse thumps loudly in my head again. A trickle of dread leaks into my gut as I await whatever revelation is about to come from those soft blossom lips.
“Chained to that awful man. The King they called him,” Elain continues, clearly not aware of how my breath falters, “You were so- so destroyed. So terribly beaten.”
I want to tell her to stop. To mind her own business and leave me alone. I don’t think about what it means that she saw me in that state. Who exactly these two sisters are- I just want them to leave.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and it’s so genuine that I crumble.
“Leave,” I command, lethally calm.
Elain opens her mouth but she closes it when she sees the warning look in my eyes. Nesta glares at me and tugs on Elain’s hand. Elain looks at me for a moment longer, sorrow and troubled, before nodding to Nesta.

The sisters take their leave, and before she slams the door shut, I somehow find the momentum to call out to Nesta.
Nesta raises a sharp brow, waiting stonily for me to speak.
“Come back, and I’ll make you wish you never stepped foot in here,” I purr, but there is no warmness to my tone.
The female doesn’t deem me with a verbal reply. She screws her face up at me and then slams the door closed.

Chapter Text

NYX

“Get up.”
I flicker my eyes to the end of the bed where the High Lord of Night stands, arms crossed and feet wide. A warriors stance.
I go back to staring out the window, where a small sparrow admires itself in the reflection. It’s feathered wings are flapping quickly to stay airborne. I ignore the ache in between my shoulders blades.
“No,” I reply monotonously.
An irritated male sound comes from him as he repeats, this time much more demanding, “Get. Up.”
I sigh and look at him again. His tan face is set in stone, so cold and fierce I can truly see how so many pee themselves in his presence. His violet eyes simmer with resolve as they pierce through me, and his impressive muscles flex with determination. I hold eye contact with him as I too repeat myself.
“No.”

His nostrils flare like I imagine dragon’s would, and I can guarantee that if his wings were out, they would have twitched with irritation.
“You cannot lay in that bed forever,” Rhysand says pointedly.
“I can if I want to,” I retort, though it’s lacking any real substance.
“Nyx. You stink like shit. You have near black under eyes despite being in bed all the time. Your muscles and bones are growing weaker by the minute,” he lists angrily, but then adds a little softer, “You are wasting away.”
I clench my teeth together and look away. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want anyone to care about me. I just want to- I want to waste away. Its too much effort to try and live. And what do I even have to live for? Nothing. All that kept me going was my pulsating need to remove the Devil’s head from his body after slowly agonising him. But now not even vengeance means anything to me. He’s won. Killing him wont change that. I have no other purpose. I have nothing to remain for.
“Yes. You do,” Rhysand snaps.
I whip my head to him, a slither of rage igniting at his intrusion.
“I don’t give a shit if you don’t want me in your head. I don’t need to look inside anyway. Just looking at you tells me all I need to know.”
“Spit it out then,” I snarl, wanting him to just leave.
My half-brother looks me over before answering so coldly that I am slightly shocked at the cruel change, “You are a coward. Too lazy to try and heal yourself. Too scared as to what you might discover in the process. And too damn proud to admit you need help.”

I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a black hole. Like any semblance of myself has just…left. I am empty inside. All that I am is exactly what he said. Coward. Pathetic.
He continues, each word becoming louder.
“Despite what you may think, I know exactly what you’re going through. Hell- I’m still going through it! I only just got free of Amanthara’s leash! And you know what? I didn’t get to lie in my bed. I didn’t get to waste away- no. I had to run my court! I have to put my traumas aside while I tend to keeping my people safe!”
He’s breathing quicker and quicker, his chest quivering. His face has finally broken to reveal the turmoil festering on him. I just stare, empty and cold and shocked.
“I know what it feels like to want to give up. Believe me have I been so close to it. But do you know what picked me up? What slapped me in the face? Life isn’t fair. It never has been and never will be. All I can do is allow the people I love to be there by my side for every step. You need to accept that you can’t do this on your own. You need to acknowledge that you actually need to try- just try to see what life has to offer beyond the confines of your horrific past.”

It’s so deafeningly silent. His words hang heavily in the space between us, taunting and prodding. I feel sick. I want to scream and cry and vomit and submit to the darkness. I want to be someone else. A human, perhaps. Never exposed to magic, or the horrors is can possess. Not knowing of the monsters that haunt not only in nightmares, but in reality. I want to have never been born. And so I know every single thing Rhysand yelled was true, no matter how much I wish to deny it.
I can’t look away from him now. The terrors of his life swimming in his glistening eyes. The fear in his taught lips. The utter exhaust written across his face. All bare for me to see. The High Lord of Night completely exposed. I can feel something buried within me. I feel it shift, as if turning over in its deep slumber. It rattles me. And it frightens me to my core as I stare with wide eyes at my brother, seeing part of myself staring back. I don’t know what to say. I can’t find anything to say.
“I won’t be bringing you food anymore,” Rhysand finally breaks the weighted quiet, “And by that I mean that no one will be. The kitchen is always open should you find it in you to feed yourself. I’m done wasting my time forcing you to get better. Come and find me when you decide what you want.”
And with that verbal slap in the face, Rhysand turns on his heel and stalks from the room.

~

The dark floorboards are cold on my bare feet. I can hardly feel my toes. I mentally scold Rhysand for the hundredth time since his last pleasant visit three days ago. To say I was severely depressed is a major understatement. I didn’t move an inch for at least twelve hours. And then, the next morning, the same sparrow appeared at the window again. This time it pecked the glass at its reflection a few times before flying away. I realised that it was not admiring itself, but rather thought that it was another sparrow. I don’t know why, but for some reason that realisation did something inside of me. Perhaps because like me, the sparrow is alone, desperately trying to find its partner or even a friend.
So when it arrived again this morning, it’s high-pitched tweeting a nice reprieve from the silence, I got out of bed. I walked up to the window and stared right into the little bird’s eye. It pecked the window. And then it flew away. I stood there for a while staring at nothing before walking into the bathing chamber and filling the tub with warm water. And then I finally bathed. I scrubbed my skin three times and my hair four. I sat there until I became a prune.

The monstrous growling in my stomach pulls me further away from my room and deeper into the cold house. I don’t understand why they leave it so cold. It feels like all of the windows are open, letting in the autumn wind. Goosebumps cover me from head to toe, and I wish I had of put a sweater on. Instead I wear only blue satin flowing pants and a matching shirt. I forgot how comfortable and freeing the night court clothing is. As a child I always loved the fashion here. I always found it funny how scandalous Keir’s face became when he saw what some females wore- or really how little they wore. I quickly shut down those memories however as they twist my heart.

I don’t know where the kitchen is, but my aching stomach seems to have some kind of primal drive. It’s starving growl becomes worse with each shaky step closer. And when the luxurious scent of fresh muffins, toasted bread, and coffee fill my next inhale, I actually gag with how hungry I become. My body nearly falls to the floor as I suddenly become aware of just how starved and weak it is. Every movement is like lifting fifty tonnes of lead. My mouth becomes dry as I lean against the wall for support, groaning with anticipation and my lack of strength. I don’t even think about how I must appear as I drag myself the rest of the way, making all sorts of whiny noises. I sag in relief when I finally, finally make it to the open door that leads into the room with those glorious smells. Drums begin to thump softly in my chest. I grip onto the door knob and stumble into the bright kitchen. Two large windows on the left wall, a stovetop, oven and a bench space along the back wall, and a long oak table in the centre. A table with four pairs of eyes staring at me.

“Holy shit,” a male mutters not so quietly, but I pay it no mind.
No, all my attention is on the chocolate muffins with actual steam rising from them. The rumbling growl that my stomach makes would have been embarrassing if I wasn’t completely spaced out from the lack of food. My mouth begins to water as I just stand there and stare at the wonderful looking baked goods.
Someone clears their throat loud enough to pull me back to the present. I blink and look at the four occupants in the room. Rhysand- of course- an insanely buff male with long hair the same colour as his wings, a petite female with eyes that are too knowing for anyone’s own good, and a male shrouded in swirling shadows. My heart skips a beat as I stare at those shadows. The absence of mine suddenly makes me feel like I’m standing naked. The male’s hazel eyes- very familiar eyes- dart away when we meet gazes. His beautiful face is expressionless and cold. For some reason it irritates me.

“Hungry?” Rhysand taunts, thankfully ending the silence.
I squint my eyes at him and hope that my glare looks somewhat dirty. He drops the teasing smirk and folds his arms.
“What changed your mind?”
I briefly close my eyes and take a deep breath. I want be flippant and say something witty. To pretend our conversation (well, my verbal beating) never happened. But… all of that ends now. Here.
“If I’m to die, it will not be by starvation,” I say steadily, holding his gaze, “It will not be in a bed. My death will be in battle, or by my own sword.”
Tension creeps in from the corners of the warm room as they all stare at me. But then Rhysand nods just once before gesturing to the seat next to him. I’m about to take a careful step when suddenly a chair is scraping against the tiled stone floor. I watch in confusion as the Shadowsinger abruptly rises and stares harshly at my brother, something silent communicating between them. And then the deadly male gracefully storms right past me, his cool shadows briefly kissing my skin, leaving us all momentarily stunned.

“He’s got a bit of a… temper that one,” the burly warrior says with jest.
I assess him and a vague memory rises of the aftermath of a battle. The battle that occurred here. The one where I finally did something right. I remember this warrior. The Illyrian General, Cassian.
“So I’ve been told,” I respond dryly.
Cassian just grins wider at me, the smile no doubt charming to most females. Perhaps I would have appreciated his roguish handsomeness if I didn’t feel like collapsing. I don’t wait for Rhsydand to offer his arm like I know he would, rather I still hold onto my pride and hobble, head held high, toward the chair next to him. I try not to show the relief of sitting down and allowing my shaking muscles to rest, even though I know everyone here can see just how weak I am. My ravenous eyes lock onto the basket of chocolate muffins again. Gods they smell divine. Chocolate has always been a favourite treat of mine to the point where I would only stop when I became too sick to eat any more.
A plate of buttered toast is placed in front of me, and I look up to see Rhysand’s knowing eyes.
“Small steps,” is all he says before continuing his conservation with the wicked looking female across the table.

I sigh and pick up the warm bread. He’s right. I would probably projectile vomit everywhere after eating three bites of that sweet muffin. It’s been ages since I’ve had such sugary stuffed food. Still, I stare longingly at the muffin and vow that one day, I will eat a whole one. And then the whole basket full. But for now, one step at a time.
I bring the toast up to my lips and take a small nibble off of the corner. And then I take a bigger bite. I nearly groan as the melted butter and freshly baked bread bring some flavour back into my life. I could shove the whole slice down in ten seconds, but I force myself to remain paced. I need to be gentle with my body and let it readjust to a normal diet. A thing too brash will leave me sick. I take another small bite and close my eyes as I just focus on the feel of the grains in my mouth, and the nostalgic taste of the simple food. When I open them again, I catch the general watching. I hold his gaze and raise a single brow in question.

Cassian clears his throat and asks, “Where are your shadows?”
I momentarily freeze my chewing. My blood thumps hotly in my ears as I try to drown out the sorrow of their absence. I notice that Rhysand and the female have stopped talking to listen, but I pretend not to notice. I continue my slow eating as I think of how to respond.
“Despite their dangerous appearance, shadows are very childish,” I say, adopting a tone of indifference, “Mine are being petty. Hiding from the sunlight.”
Cassian frowns and says, “Why?”
I take a deep breath before responding, “Because before two weeks ago, they had never seen the sun.”
The silence is too unbearable so I force myself to keep talking.
“They were born in the darkest cave deep underground, and spent centuries confined to that darkness, evolving. The closest thing that they ever got to natural light was moonlight. That’s why they’re darker and more unpredictable than your Shadowsinger’s. And so now, they’re being whiny little beasts who refuse to come out into the sun.”

It’s the small female who speaks next, her voice sounding both ancient and young.
“Sounds like you need to teach them better discipline, girl.”
A flush of heat creeps up on me as both anger and embarrassment react to her chiding comment. I would have snapped back if I didn’t feel like the female would bite my head off in such a weakened state.
“My shadows… I have not raised them to be obedient to me. At first, I just indulged them as company- actually, I thought I was going insane and imagining their whispers. But once I understood they were real, I found comfort in them. And so when they stuck with me when I left the darkness of the cell, I decided I would not force them into anything. I would let them be loyal to me only if it is what they wish. I couldn’t- wouldn’t make them my puppets like I was made into for him.”
I didn’t realise my hand was shaking with rage until the toast fell from my grasp. I swallow and drop the females gaze, and choose to stare at the table instead.
“How valiant,” she says dryly, making me dig my nails into my palm, “Rhysand, I expect those papers by tomorrow. And you,” I reluctantly look up to meet her powerful gaze, “I want you ready to train with me by next week.”
I drop my mouth open in blatant shock as she struts from the kitchen like the owner of the house.

“What?” I finally manage to demand, looking at my half-brother.
He smiles sheepishly at me and says, “Oh, right. You’re to begin training with Amren on Monday.”
“What?” I reiterate.
Cassian chuckles and says “Good luck with that.”
I actually find it in me to glare at the general, who raises his hands and leans back in his chair. A stupid smirk on his stupid face.
“Amren requested you have personal lessons with her regarding your magic,” Rhysand explains carefully, “She is older than time, and knows more about your particular magic than anyone else would.”
“I don’t need training. I know how to use it,” I snap, folding my arms like a child having a tantrum.
“You know how to manipulate a small part of it. But what if you could do more? At least, Amren claims you should be able to.”
I shake my head, “And what if I refuse? What happened to doing whatever I wish?”
“You can refuse. No one’s forcing you into it, I just thought it might be something you would be interested in,” Rhysand replies with patience, “Though, Amren may drag you by the ear if you don’t show up.”

I pick up my toast and take another bite as I mull it all over. I’ve always had some sort of inkling suspicion there was a greater power buried deeper. I have felt it only a few times before, when I tap into my lightning-type magic. I have always ignored the tug of it though, being too scared of what I might be able to accomplish.
“I’ll see,” is all I say.
I can feel the two males staring at me as I take another nibble of bread. I try to ignore them, but-
“Don’t you have, I don’t know- High Lord business to be doing?” I snap at Rhysand, getting irritated by his weighted gaze.
He raises his dark brows and Cassian snorts not so discreetly.
“You wound me sister,” Rhysand whines and places a dramatic hand over his heart.
I just stare stonily back at him, not amused in the slightest. Rhysand sighs and stands from his chair.
“Okay then. I’ll be on my way. Got to fo attend to my “High Lord business” and what not.”
“Good,” I reply briskly.
Rhysand chuckles under his breath and bids the general farewell before also strutting from the room, whistling a very annoying merry tune. I have to refrain from throwing a muffin at his arrogant head.

“And you? Don’t you have something better to do than watch me eat?” I ask the general.
Cassian plops his booted feet onto the table and grins broadly, “Nope.”
I frown at him, but his smile doesn’t falter, so I sigh and go back to focussing on my task of eating the slice of toast- which has now gone cold. Only two minutes last before the male begins blabbering.
“You know, there’s a Library underneath the House of Wind- Rhys’s other property,” Cassian says casually.
I raise my eyes to him as if to say, And?
“Just thought you might like to check it out. It’s a- well I suppose it’s a sort of refuge for females who have gone through hardship. It’s a safe haven for them.”
Oh. My next swallow is rougher. I don’t- I don’t know what to think of that. If I am angry at the general for suggesting I need to go there- or if I am great full for this information.
“Doors are always open should you wish to go,” he adds softly, clearly noting my conflicted thoughts, but then he grins again and says, “On the other hand, you could come and train with us big boys.”
I quirk a brow but don’t verbally respond. I don’t really have anything to say to that either. He doesn’t push me for an answer. I know he’s just trying to be helpful in his own way.
A cold chill down my spine makes me shiver, and so I ask the general why it’s so damn cold in this house.
Cassian frowns for a moment and then says, “It’s not cold at all. I’ve already taken off my jacket.”
“Oh,” I mutter, frowning.
Cassian watches me, contemplating, but wisely chooses not to say anything. I go back to my toast and he takes his shoes off of the table.

“Right, well. Best be off to do better things,” the general teases, winking boyishly at me.
I squint at him, but he just chuckles as he lifts up his muscled body, plucking a muffin in the process.
“See you around, Nyx,” Cassian says, taking a bite of the chocolate muffin, and then swaggers from the kitchen as well.
I close my eyes and exhale as some tension leaves me. Gods it was difficult being social- if I could call that being social. At least I haven’t thrown up yet. And I actually felt some things. If if it was only some anger and annoyance.
It’s a start. That’s all I need. Just a start.

Chapter Text

NYX

Change. Ironically a very fickle thing. Something that cannot be foreseen or avoided. Or something that can be planned over a period of time. A necessary process in life for evolution.

The female in the mirror stares unblinkingly. Dull amethyst eyes, hollowed out by the dark rings underneath. Gaunt, waxy skin that stretches over the protruding cheekbones. Dry and cracked lips stuck together in a taut line. Freckles splattered across her face a stark contrast to the peaky tones. And thinning, mattered silvery-white hair that hangs down to her naval in brittle ends.

Change. It can be something so small and unnoticed, but be the catalyst for a huge alteration. It could be something no one even knows occurs, but determines the fate and survival of the world. It’s vital for the future.

The female grabs a chunk of her hair, just below her collarbones, and cuts is off with the blunt scissors.

~

I can feel the beads of sweat dripping down my neck, but I don’t swipe them away. I lower my nose to floor and try to breathe as I push back up on my shaking arms. And then I fall back down. Again. I growl in frustration. I haven’t even done ten pushups and I’m already trembling like a frightened animal. I’m thankful I didn’t take Cassian up on his offer. The humiliation of them seeing me so pathetic is something I could not allow. Instead I will just have to keep getting up before dawn to train myself. Until I am once again the lethal machine that I was honed into.

I let myself lie on the cold stone floor for a few breaths before forcing my trembling body to rise. The ache that punches through me is otherworldly.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
Too far. I fell too far into the darkness this time. Let it dig its claws in and drag me under. I’m certain my bones would snap if I so much as rolled an ankle. I haven’t been this week in… ever.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, “You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.”
But why does it feel like I’m dying? Why is my body begging for me to stop? Why do I feel the pull toward the edge of the terrace, where the wind could nudge me…
“Stop,” I snap at myself.
But my mind is not itself. It’s split into two. And that other, darker part is beckoning me to the silver railing…

I don’t even exactly remember getting from that spot on the floor to standing at the outlook. I stare out at the sun which is beginning to re-emerge into existence, creating a deep orange along the horizon. Casting light over the still slumbering city below. For a moment, I think about painting that rich colour. I imagine a set of brushes and a variety of paint scattered at a table while I ignore the world around me and just become consumed in capturing the sunrise. It’s beautiful. And unfair that this corrupt world is gifted with such a surreal beauty.

It’s a nice view. Stunning. Ethereal. Peaceful. So, so peaceful. The wind gently pulls my hair back and kisses my cheeks. As if saying goodbye. I briefly close my eyes and embrace its cool caress. I let it fill my entire being, breathing it in. And when I breathe out, I step over the edge. And for the first time, I’m glad I don’t have my wings as my body falls against the rushing wind. Toward the gravity at the centre of the planet that calls for me. For the first time, my mind is perfectly clear. That vibrant sunrise is all I see as I inch closer to the peace it offers. To the promise of calmness and nothingness.

I keep my eyes closed as I reach near the end. The whistling, humming wind a lament and lullaby and symphony. I’m ready. Ready to be a drop in the ocean. A star in the sky. A petal of a tulip. And I think I smile. A real smile. An accepting smile. A peaceful smile.

And then I’m frowning as gravity suddenly flips. Pulling me upward with a jolt. The wind is louder now, roaring and screaming. I can feel my arms and legs and body. I can feel the heaviness of my head as it lolls back. I can feel my heart pumping blood throughout my veins fast. So, so fast. I can feel my eyelids flutter open. And I see the sky lit up as a golden shrine. Getting closer and closer as my body is pulled up. Up and up by the mighty flaps of strong, dark wings. And I see him. The god. The one who always comes. With the golden eyes and blue light.

And then darkness finally retrieves me.

~

AZRIEL

Tears. Salty tears burn his eyes and he’s not sure they’re just from the harsh wind. He could potentially break her bones, but he doesn’t care. He will not loosen his hold, even if it would save this war. He would rather burn in hell for eternity than relent his strong grip. Never. Never would he let her fall.

So close. So fucken close did she get to the rocks. Too close. Azriel couldn’t think. Not as his mate was seconds from greeting death. Not as his world completely stopped and started to crumble down around him. All that mattered was her. All that matters is her. And he nearly didn’t make it…
He can’t even think about that right now. Not as his mate lies limp in his arms. Her skin so icy cold. Her figure so thin he’s scared she may just turn into snowflakes and be carried away by the wind.

He flies quicker to the terrace and tries to land as gently as possible. He readjusts his hold of her so that he’s cradling her petite frame to his heaving chest. And then he calls upon his frantic shadows and winnows. Not to her room, but to his.
Safe. Safe safe safe.
But he knows Nyx is not safe from the prison of her mind. The dark, ruthless thoughts that hold her captive. The thoughts that made her- made her jump. Willingly leap straight to her death.

Azriel had been feeling ashamed for the shadow he ordered to trail her. He had lasted all but a week of keeping away before he nearly exploded. He couldn’t live without knowing how his mate was recovering. How she was living. So he had let one wisp of a shadow watch her. Just to tell him that she ate and drank and breathed. That she got up from time to time. That she spoke with Rhysand and sometimes Elain. And he had been feeling guilty. Scolding himself for not being strong enough to stay well away.

But now… as he stares down at her serene, gaunt face… He takes it all back. He doesn’t want to imagine what would have happened if his shadow hadn’t urged him to the terrace. If it hadn’t screamed and begged for him to come and save her. He swallows the lump in his throat and holds her tighter. He doesn’t want to put her down. He never wants to leave her again. And yet- he will. He stands by what he silently promised her. A life of freedom.

But just not yet. For now, he will watch over her. For now, Azriel will hold her in his arms. Just two mates, seeking each other’s warmth.

Chapter Text

NYX

Orange. Bright, burning orange. Illuminating the waking sky with a golden hue. Raging wind and magnificent flapping wings. And eyes. Eyes of pure gold-

I snap my eyelids open, awareness hitting me like a knife pommel to the head. It awakens the cruel headache that threatens to explode through my skull. My breathing is uneven as I blink a few times to adjust my sight to the dark room bathed in sunshine. I know, even in my slightly groggy state, that I have never been in this room before. And a new feeling begins pulsing through me. Confusion laced with the bitterness of fear. My heart begins to beat irregularly as I try to become conscious of the rest of my body. It’s so heavy. And weak. And entirely drained. I won’t be able to fight my way out of whatever situation I have landed in. But how did I even get here? The last thing I can remember is… Oh, gods. Holy fucken gods.

The terrace. The pull toward the edge. The sunrise. And- and my graceful fall to death.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
I forget about my unfamiliar surroundings as my mind goes on overdrive into a frantic place. I don’t know what to feel or to think. If I am angry and disgusted with myself, or at whoever stopped me from the fate I had chosen. I was so close- so very near the end. The blackness. The nothingness. Or perhaps the burning of an eternity in hell.

I think I’m going to be sick. I can feel the acid in my stomach roiling and rising. I turn onto my side to get up, the immensely soft mattress briefly entering my mind. And then I freeze. Everything slips out of my brain as I nearly graze my nose against someone else’s. A nose so perfect that it pieces the rest of the devastatingly beautiful face together. The face of that God who always seems to have a hold on that thread that keeps me in this life.
No- not a god. The Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court. The ruthless, deadly, and powerful male who even the oldest of Fae have nightmares about. The handsome, strong and suave Illyrian with puddles of drool in his wake as everyone ogles after him. And he’s lying right next to me. Asleep. Completely serene as opposed to the usual cold, harsh mask he always has on.

I hold my breath as I study that wonderfully chiseled face. It’s unfair, really, how beautiful this male is. With his deep tan skin, decorated with dark tattoos that swirl up his neck and trail further down beneath his black shirt. Each one is unique and I find myself wanting to study them all. But my attention is snagged by the moving ones. But they’re not tattoos. They’re his shadows. Calmly swirling along his shoulders and behind his ears, and twirling throughout his dark curls. I lean back so I can take in the others flittering about his membranous wings. Wings so large and mighty, each dark vein creating a pattern on the leathery skin. I notice the few scar tissues marring his wings, and a feeling of deep sorrow and sympathy washes over me as I think about my own glorious wings. And again that ache between my shoulder blades sears through to my soul.

But I push it aside as I notice the other scars littering his exposed skin. A light, faded one by his left eyebrow. A few that must have been quite deep across his right shoulder. And I’m sure they are only just the beginning of a map of his life all over his body.
I’m about to carefully pull away when the Shadowsinger’s eyes dart open.
My heart stops and then starts. Thumping wildly against my ribs as those gold eyes stare right at me. Pinning me to the spot. To this moment. To this life.

He doesn’t even blink as his gaze slowly rakes over my face. My ears are ringing as drums begin to softly beat. I can feel them in my chest. In my heart. Strange. So strange and yet so… right. And I know I’ve heard these drums before. Felt them. Always whenever I’m near-

The spymaster blinks. Once, twice, and a third time. And then he’s quickly drawing away and swiftly sitting up. Leaving a large distance between us. An empty space that somehow fills my insides as well. I frown slightly, but I’m unable to think on it as he speaks.
“I’m sorry,” his voice is rough.
And The Mother is even more bias as she gifted this male with such an enchanting voice as well.
Aside from the fact that I lay dumbfounded by him, I don’t know what to say. So I just continue staring up at him, unsure of all the emotions erupting inside of me.
The Shadowsinger sighs heavily and looks out the windows. I watch his jaw clench and the muscles on his neck tighten. And then he turns back to me, face still soft, but much colder.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
I open my mouth but only a raspy noise comes out. He waits patiently as I clear my throat and try again.
“I’m fine. Just sore… And tired,” I mange to reply.
He considers me for a minute as his eyes flicker across my entire form. Something flashes in those golden orbs, but he chooses not to say whatever it is he thinks, instead nodding only once.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asks, this time his voice that of the harsh male I know.

Now I look away from him. Shame and deep fear of a different kind consumes me as I do recall what exactly happened. I can’t find it in me to meet his gaze. I just nod.
He doesn’t say anything, and then, “Do you know how foolish it was?”
I’m so taken aback by his cold, scolding tone that I whip my head toward him. His face is set in a hard, lethal expression.
“Do you?” he presses me.
“I-“ I stutter, and swallow the thick lump, “I don’t know what to think. I- I’m not entirely… myself. Or maybe I don’t know myself anymore and that’s the problem.”
I don’t know why I told him that. The honest words just tumbled right out.
The Shadowsinger’s face seems to soften a bit as he takes in my answer.
“Do you-“ now he stumbles over words and has to clear his throat, “Do you still… want that? To die?”

I hold my breath as the weight of his words settles over me. Such a heavy question. The answer still unknown to me.
I hold his intense eye contact as I whisper, “I don’t know… I- I don’t think so. But- I don’t know.”
I see the flinch. The momentary pain in his face. The sorrow in the way his shoulders and wings slightly droop. But it’s gone as soon as it came. I file that away for another time, with all the other curious things about him.
“You should rest,” he finally says, standing up from the bed.
My body is lifted up as his weight disappears from his side of the mattress. Holy hell he really does look like a God.
“I’ll get Rhysand and send him in.”
“No,” I blurt before I can think.
The Shadowsinger frowns at me but waits for me to explain further.
“Just- not yet. Please,” I say, and before the wildness leaves me I add, “Can you stay instead?”

I asked it so quietly I’m not sure he even heard it as he stands still and stares at me. I feel a slight blush creep up on my cheeks as the silence ensues. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why would he want to stay? He hates you. And why do you even want him to stay?
But my heart skips a beat as he gives me a stiff nod and not so gracefully sits back down. It’s so awkward that I find myself unable to focus on anything else.
“You can lie down. Or rest against the cushions,” I tell him.
I swear his breath catches. For a moment, nothing- and then he’s moving further onto the bed and leaning against the headboard, still leaving a generous gap between us. But I can feel his warmth again and I don’t think about it as I soak it in. Along with his calming scent of pine and coffee and fresh snow.

I can feel my eyelids growing heavier by the second, and my breaths becoming deeper. I try not to let the thoughts of this morning fill my mind. Instead I focus on the steady, occasionally uneven beat of the heart belonging the male beside me. I don’t know if his eyes are closed, or staring out the windows, or watching me. I don’t know what he’s thinking. But I don’t care. I just let myself fall into the feeling of safety as those drums continue to play as a lullaby.
“Thank you,” I murmur before a deep sleep takes me.

~

AZRIEL

Thank you. Her quiet, slightly broken voice echoes throughout his mind.
Thank you. It strokes that primal animal within him, the piece of him that needs to protect. Safe, he tells it- and himself. Safe safe safe. It purrs in response as Azriel looks at her. Far away in a deep slumber. He can only hope that it’s a place where the darkness cannot reach her.

So many things have happened in such a short period of time. Nyx trying, and nearly succeeding, to kill herself. Her admitting she doesn’t know if she wants that… And yet all he can think about is her small voice asking him to stay.
Azriel forces himself not to read too far into it. She is just in a vulnerable state and in need of a steady presence beside her while she recovers. He’s only ever been cold toward her, and she has certainly never shown any care for him. Not in the way he so desperately wants her to. So he buries those emotions far, far down and instead thinks about how he can help Nyx, his High Lord’s half-sister, daughter of the Night Court, and last remaining Seraphim, want to live. Because gods damn him if she doesn’t get to see what life can be like. Azriel vows that the motherfucken monster who did this to her will experience a pain so terrible he will be weeping blood at his boots.

He glances down at her, curled on her side in a half-foetal position. She looks so small despite her long limbs. Too depraved of muscle and fat on her brittle bones. She’s started eating again. And his shadows have told him for the past five days she has been on the terrace early in the mornings, trying to train her body again. But it’s not enough. She needs more. She needs help. And after this morning… they’re all going to have to step in whether she likes it or not. But Azriel has an inkling that she’s just too stubborn to ask them.

His stomach rumbles and a short shooting pain of hunger punches him. He’s been starving for hours now. But he can’t leave her. Not even for a minute. Because if she woke up and he wasn’t there, he would never forgive himself. So he’s been trying to ignore the nagging feeling by counting the freckles on Nyx’s face- he’s counted eight dark, prominent ones, and about forty tiny ones splattered across her nose and forehead. He’s decided that he’s never loved anything more than the galaxy of freckles on his mates face.
And the other long minutes have ticked by with Azriel’s mind going berserk about how to tell Rhysand. His brother is going to be devastated. And Nyx will probably hate him for it. But Rhys needs to know, and hopefully with time she will understand that.

As if knowing Azriel’s inner turmoil, the High Lord swaggers into the room, whistling. He begins reprimanding Azriel for still being in bed. And then he stops dead as he takes in the still body lying next to Azriel, save for the occasional rise and fall of her chest.
“What happened?” Rhysand demands.
Azriel, despite his hours of having this conversation and how he would explain it all to his brother, forgets it all and just rips the band-aid right off.
“She jumped off of the terrace,” he replies grimly.
Rhysand goes so still that Azriel isn’t sure he’s breathing. The High Lord’s face drains of blood as his eyes flicker from Azriel to Nyx’s sleeping body.
“What?”
Azriel swallows and says, “My shadows were yelling in a craze, telling me to get to the terrace. To get to her before it was too late,” he has to stop to take a breath and look at his mate, alive, he assures himself, “She jumped just as I got there. I- I just made it in time to catch her before- before she hit the rocks.”

Rhys doesn’t speak for a while. And Azriel waits patiently, his eyes glued to the steady inhale and exhale of the female next to him. She cut her hair. The silver strands hang by her collar bones, ending in thin waves. It is still mattered and lacking in nutrition- just like the rest of her- but it also has the breathtaking shine of a star.
“She’s not dying,” Rhysand suddenly says with adamance.
Azriel looks up at him. He stands tall and determined, his face that of the renowned High Lord of Night.
“Not by illness. Not by mental instability. And not by her own actions. She. Will. Not. Die.”
“I could not agree more,” Azriel answers just as resolute.

Rhys doesn’t say anything as he stares at Azriel, but then he speaks words that Azriel does not want to hear, “No, you do not agree. You do not agree because you will not be there for her in the way she needs you to be. You will not be honest with her and provide her with the support of someone who is bound to her. You refuse to give her her second half. Have you ever considered that she might need that? Need you, her mate?”
Azriel is immobile as the words slam into him like blows to the head. He doesn’t want to think about this right now. All he wants to do is focus on getting Nyx better. He knows for a fact that the best way to do that is for him to stay well away from her as her mate.
“Rhysand, she does not need me tying her dow-“
“No! Shut up and listen, Azriel! Don’t you understand what it is to have no one to fully let your guard down with? To open up and let them see your soul? Your heart? All the messy and horrific and shameful things? Because I did. Until I met my mate. My beautiful, amazingly strong Feyre. And when the bond was sealed… I have never felt more alive. More supported and loved. So don’t tell me what’s good for her, because you do not know.”

Rhysand is shaking with each heaved breath. His fists are clenched tightly and his eyes are dark with unmatched power. Azriel’s own power sparks at his fingers, rising with his burning anger. Part of him is worried Nyx has heard everything. Part of him is yelling at Rhysand to get the hell out. And then part of him is wondering whether it could be so simple as to just- No. Don’t be a fool. You know who are. What you are.
“You do not get to decide either of our fates in regard to this. That is up to me. And Nyx when she is ready. I think the best thing for her would be for you to leave. Now,” Azriel says with a lethal calm, flashing his fangs.
Rhys raises a perfect brow and snarls, “Did you just order me?”
Azriel growls, his hand shifting closer to Nyx. And then he catches himself. Nyx is not his. And his High Lord stands before him.
Azriel swallows and leans back against the headboard, taking a heavy breath.
“No,” he replies begrudgingly.
Rhys snarls once more before taking a step back. He stares out the window for a time before sighing and looking back at them both on the bed.
“Either way, her fate rests in your hands brother. If you hurt her, I will not forgive you.”
Azriel keeps hold of their eye contact as he replies, “I would never forgive myself either.”

Chapter Text

NYX

I know something is off as soon as my mind returns to consciousness. My surroundings have changed again. An unwelcome chill is wrapping around me. And there is a lack of that cinnamon-coffee, pine, and fresh snow smell. There is just a… lacking in general.
I groan as I roll onto my stiff back and lift my deadweight arms to rub my eyes. They are filled with crust and I make it a task to get every last bit of the sleep out from my lashes. When I’m satisfied, I finally peel my lids open and blink away the blur- And sigh as I stare at the charcoal ceiling of my room.

Sure enough, I’m lying on my canopy bed with a new set of clean cobalt blue silk sheets and pillows. They feel cool and smooth against my goosebumps and they smell of fresh linen. My body creaks as I move the stiff bones to bring back the circulation. I start with wiggling my toes, then rolling my ankles, then bending my knees. I work the whole way up my groaning and moaning body until I can sit up and crack my neck. It’s one of those sensations when the pain aches so much that is feels good. I let out a sigh as I roll my shoulders and head, loosening the tension in my muscles. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do to relive the throbbing headache in between my brows. I massage my temples deeply in slow circles, but the motion doesn’t do much.

Water. I need water. And a whole lot of medicine. And maybe I could keep down an apple to stop the burning in my stomach. But first, I desperately need to relive my bladder. Gods I really, really need to piss. I flip the covers off of me and slide my legs off of the mattress. My bare feet protest against the cold floorboards, but I’m already on the move to the wash chamber linked to my room. I feel like an idiot as I half-run the last of the way to the toilet, but holy hell I haven’t experienced this kind of torture in ages. I don’t hold back the sigh of relief as I sit on the toilet and let the urine flow free. When I’m done, I wash my hands and face with lukewarm water, avoiding my reflection in the mirror at all costs. I stare at the large bath and consider filling it with hot water and soaps, but then my stomach growls in a convincing debate. Food. I actually want to stuff my face with food.

I go back to my room and open the dark velvet curtains to let in the golden rays of sunlight. I watch the proceedings of the outside world for a moment, taking in the normalcy of it all. Of the occasional bird flying overhead the picturesque streets filled with morning markets and bustling early risers. Of the clouds slowly rolling by and the trees swaying in the wind. I must have slept for nearly twenty-four hours if it is morning. I try not to think about it as I turn from the large windows to find a robe I can quickly throw on. But I stop dead as I spot the male dressed in such finery, lounging on my chaise and watching me with faint amusement.

“A fine morning, don’t you think?” the High Lord muses with his notorious grin.
“I- how long have you been sitting there?” I splutter, embarrassment and horror wedging into me.
Rhysand smiles wider and replies teasingly, “Please don’t be embarrassed. We’ve all nearly wet ourselves from time to time.”
I open and close my mouth, a faint red surely blemishing my cheeks. Rhysand chuckles and sits forwards.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone… Yet.”
That seems to give me my words back as I snap at him, “I did not nearly wet myself, you prick. There is nothing to tell.”
“Oh really?” Rhysand raises a brow, “What about that little skipping number at the end? I thought that most elegant.”
“Oh piss off you old bastard,” I retort like an angry child.
Rhysand laughs, and I don’t know how to interpret the realness of that laugh. The genuine shine of amusement in his violet eyes. Just two siblings having a little banter match. A glimpse of what could have been. Rhysand’s eyes become slightly somber as if he is thinking the same thing. As if the same flicker of a life filled with love and laughter and petty banter teased him as it did me.

“Breakfast?” Rhysand questions, putting aside the momentary awkwardness.
I know he knows what happened. I know he knows exactly what I nearly did. I know who told him. I know he will probably talk to me about it and I know I will most likely want to punch him. Multiple times. I know I am still broken and I know that I cannot brush aside what happened. But that doesn’t mean we have to have that conversation now. It doesn’t mean I can only think about it and let it consume me. It doesn’t mean that I am but a glass doll on the edge of a shelf. And Rhysand knows all of this too. He knows it and so he is being Rhysand and putting it to the side, just like our rocky relationship.
“Yes. I’d love nothing more than to shove some eggs down my throat,” I reply.
Rhysand smiles at me and gives me a small nod.
“Excellent. There is enough food for about the whole of Velaris in the Kitchen,” he claps his hands together and turns on his heel.
I shake my head with a faint smile and follow after him.

My stomach flips with impatience as we stroll through the townhouse, so I distract myself with the unique artworks on the walls. Despite this being where the High Lord resides, this isn’t anything but a simple home with some slight luxury added to it. The art is probably the most interesting part about the place- at least in my opinion. Perhaps it is because I have always been infatuated with the rawness in art and how it makes me feel. Not to mention my love for painting. So I occasionally stop and stare at the oils on canvas that create a whole story with just a few colours. Some are of simple things, like beautiful landscapes and intriguing places. Others are abstracts so chaotic that they could be perceived in many different ways. Those are my favourite. When the artists has just let all of their emotions out on the blank canvas and turned it into something to be admired. Loved.

Rhysand waits patiently for me every time I stop, respectfully remaining silent as I examine the paintings. I know he is probably analysing everything I do, but for now I pretend not to notice. I just pretend that I am walking through this home decorated with inspirational artwork with my half-brother. I even pretend that I just a normal female living a normal life who is going to get some breakfast like every other day.

“You enjoy art?” Rhysand asks as we turn a corner into the hall that leads to the kitchen.
His footsteps echo off of the walls, but my bare feet make no sound.
“Art is the only thing that has ever had the capacity to explain how I feel. And it’s the only thing that I have never stoped loving,” I reply, giving him a piece of me. The real me.
Rhysand stops walking but then starts again. He puts his hands in his pockets, looks at me, and then looks ahead again. I stare at the floor, at my pale feet peeking out of the floor-length dark azure robe.
“The Rainbow would hold you captive then. It is filled with the most exquisite artists,” he says softly and adds, surprisingly slightly nervous, “I can show you around one day… if you’d like?”
A small smile forms on my chapped lips. A real, genuine smile born of a light feeling in my chest. It swells my heart and fills my soul. Hope, I tell myself.
I look up at Rhysand to see him already watching me, a mixture of anticipation and a gentle smile in his eyes.
“I think I would like that,” I tell him, letting him see the sincerity of it.
He smiles back at me and nods, a twinkle in those violet eyes, “I look forward to it.”
“Me too,” I reply, and I have to look away now because I’m not used to this.

Rhysand clears his throat and says “Well, I told you there was enough food for half a city in here.”
I look through the doorway where he’s gesturing and my stomach purrs in delight. And another wave of elation swells within me as my eyes light up at the glorious plates of food down the oak table. Because for the first time in months I am excited to eat. There are dishes of eggs scrambled, poached, or boiled, and stacks of bacon and mushrooms and tomatoes. And potatoes. Gods I love potatoes. But there are also bowls of porridge and plates of pancakes, with delicious pastries next to them. It honestly looks like a feast in heaven.
“I… honestly don’t know what to say,” I whisper in mouth-watering awe.
A deep chuckle startles me and I avert my gaze from the scrumptious food to the occupants of the room.

Cassian is leaning back in his chair, holding a plate mounting with eggs and bacon, and grinning at me. Next to him is that ancient female- Amren- who is eating a handful of cherries and looking at the Illyrian with disgust. At the far end Elain sits quietly and stares out the window, her bowl of porridge hardly touched. On the opposite side of the War General is the Shadowsinger. He sits straight-backed, poking at his poached eggs like they’re about to turn into some alien creature. It’s almost as if he is forcing all of his focus on his plate. His shadows swirl around his ears and wings in a flurry of excitement, and my lips curve up a bit. But I’m distracted by the female next to him who is smiling up at me with wide red lips.
“Mor,” I breathe out.
She jumps up from her seat and throws her arms around me. I’m still for a moment. At first I feel sick by the physical contact. I’m about to pull away when suddenly I get a waft of her scent. That odd mix of blossom and wine. And that smell takes me back five hundred years, and the next thing I know I’m squeezing her even tighter.
“Nyx,” Mor says as if to confirm its me.
She pulls away to look at me, unshed tears in her enchanting, slanted brown eyes. Her smile lights up her face, making her all the more beautiful. Just how I remember her. My best friend. My cousin- which of course she did not know of until a few months ago.

“There are croissants with raspberry and pistachio filling. I remember they were your weakness- Oh! And there’s potatoes!” Mor says excitedly, leading me further into the deliciously smelling kitchen.
She hands me a silver plate and begins piling it up, all the while jovially blabbering,“You can thank Elain for this. She’s been on a bit of a cooking frenzy- of course she did have Nuala and Cerridwen’s help. I honestly don’t know how they can do it. I despise being holed up in a kitchen cooking.”
“I don’t think she can eat all of that unless she wants to be puking up her guts for rest of the day,” Amren cuts in, her tone dripping with boredom.
Mor stops and looks at the plate that is nearly overflowing with food. She goes slightly red as she looks at me with an apologetic smile.
“It’s okay, I’ll eat what I can,” I tell her, taking the plate from her slender hands, “Thank you.”
Mor smiles wide again and says, “Make sure to leave room for the croissant.”
I chuckle and shake my head, “I can’t believe you remember that.”
Mor’s eyes sparkle as she grins and replies, “You literally punched a General for eating the last one at that base camp. I will never forget the way he tried not to cry.”

There are a few chuckles from Cassian and Rhysand, but they are distant. I recall that morning a whole lifetime ago. It was stifling hot and everything was sticky. I had only gotten back from the battlefield only four hours beforehand, and sleep was not kind to me. So I had trudged up to the meal tent with Jurian and Mor in the hope that a raspberry and pistachio croissant could lift my spirits. And that bastard male with a giant stick up his arrogant arse was finishing the last one. I have never punched someone as hard as I punched him. I think I was so delirious and slightly deranged from all the blood and fighting that I cracked up laughing with everyone else.

And that is what I do now. I laugh. It starts off small, like a child testing out something strange and new. And then it builds, like a flower blooming. It feels so completely foreign and yet so familiar. It moves my whole body and takes over my mind as all I think about is the sound coming from me and the feeling it is born of.
When I stop laughing I realise everyone is staring at me. I shift on my feet and try not to let the blush show.
“I think I need to hear this story,” Rhysand breaks the silence.
Mor laughs and says merrily, “Oh, I would love to tell it.”
I give Rhysand a thankful smile and he nods in response before walking over to the chair next to Amren. I glance across the table to choose where to sit and catch the golden eyes of the Shadowsinger. He’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before. But he quickly looks away, back to his damned poached eggs.

I straighten my spine and walk over to the seat on Cassian’s right, directly across from the Spymaster. I see him stiffen, but he doesn’t look at me.
Mor begins recounting the times when we fought side by side, along with Jurian. She mentions Myriam and Draken and their names stab me in the chest. But I pretend that it doesn’t hurt and instead focus on trying to eat the food on my plate.
“So, now that you’re putting some protein into you, what do you say about training?" Cassian whispers, leaning closer to me, but still watching and listening to Mor.
I pause my chewing at the unexpected question. I swallow and think about it for a second, weighing up the factors.
“Perhaps,” I quietly reply.
I see him grin in my peripheral vision, but my attention is on the Shadowsinger who looks up at me. I knew he was listening. And apparently my answer intrigues him.
He doesn’t look away this time- at least not yet, so I quickly make him keep his focus on me by talking to him.

“Thank you for doing exactly what I asked you not to do,” I say coldly with a fake smile.
The Shadowsinger raises a single brow, but otherwise doesn’t show any other reaction.
“I don’t abide by others wishes,” he merely replies just as cold.
Now I raise my eyebrows and answer condescendingly, “You don’t say.”
The Spymaster’s face doesn’t even flicker. He remains placid and cruel and perfectly beautiful. All the while expressing how much he wishes to strangle me.
“You will thank me soon enough,” he says flatly.
“Oh yes, because that is all females are good for. Kneeling at males feet,” I reply with mock sweetness.
His eyes seem to darken a fraction as he stares at me. His shadows swirl around him and then back off.
“It‘s certainly a great quality, but I wouldn’t say it’s all they’re good for,” he responds, his voice much lower now.
My stomach flips as his innuendo clicks. I don’t know if I’m more enraged or curious about this long forgotten feeling.
“Oh really?” I ask, “And what else do you think we are good for?”
The Shadowsinger’s eyes pierce into mine as a surge of emotions twinkle inside of them. But I can’t tell what exactly they are behind the mask he wears so well.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for conversation at the kitchen table,” he says quietly.
Fuck. How can he be so gods-damn hot without even doing anything? And why the fuck am I getting that curling sensation deep in my gut? This male is cruel and clearly does not like me. And I don’t like him. In fact, I think I may despise him. But why can’t I look away from those eyes?

“Ehm” Cassian clears his throat.
I blink, and so does the Shadowsinger. He clenches his teeth together and looks away from me. I frown at him before turning to the General beside me.
“Everyone is pretending not to notice the tension that is suddenly suffocating the room,” Cassian whispers into my ear.
I glance around the table and see Mor Rhysand and Amren still on conversation, but clearly also paying attention to us. Even Elain has stopped staring out the window and is watching me. I flush with embarrassment but then decide that there is nothing to be embarrassed by.
“What tension?” I ask flippantly and cut into my croissant.

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Honey. Warm, sugary honey that can turn any sour meal sweet. It can transform a bland bowl of porridge into a burst of delicious flavours. Anyone who gets a lick of the golden syrup would crave another taste, becoming a ravenous beast obsessed with getting more more more. That is what Azriel is turning into, because Nyx's laugh is honey, filling his stomach with warmth and desire. It's the most beautiful sound he has ever heard, surpassing any musical note known to the world. He plays it over and over in his mind in the fear that he will not be privileged to hear it again. Even his shadows sing that sweet sound like it's a sacred mantra just for them.
Her whole aura had transformed. Those immensely tense shoulders had loosened, along with the rest of her stiff body. Her gaunt, tight face had crinkled in delight as her head fell back and she laughed. Her cheeks were lightly flushed with an enchanting shade of pink. And those eyes. They had literally shined like illuminating moonlight on water. He knows he wasn't the only one dumbstruck by her infectious beauty. They were all staring at her like she was The Mother herself. But it had all vanished like rainwater down a drain. She had curled back into herself, and that haunted, glazed look returned to her shadowed eyes. It made the dagger in Azriel push even deeper.

And then she had sat right across from him. Looked him dead in the eye. And had spoken to him. It took him a minute to understand what she was talking about because he was so enraptured by her voice. But once he focused, he became increasingly agitated. And he has never been so confused in his entire life. Because how does someone make him feel so alive and ignite his passion, but also fill him with such vexation and irritation that he wants to set the world aflame? Plus pervade him with such raw desire that he wanted to lay her on the table and worship every inch of that godly body? It took a great effort to mask his arousal, and yet Cassian still managed to notice that there was something in the air. He couldn't look at either of them for the rest of breakfast. And he has avoided Rhys for two days.

He paces back and forth now, his body itching to escape before it's too late. The fresh morning wind nips at his face and neck but he's too worked up to feel anything besides the heat of anticipation, and to his own self-loathing, excitement. His shadows bounce around him like children all giddy about the first snowfall. He reprimands them, but they are too frivolous to listen and he is too nervous to try harder. He senses Cassian stand by the railing near where Azriel paces, but he doesn't acknowledge him. He just keeps going back and forth and occasionally glances at the terrace doors.
"So, has Rhys told you the drill?" Cass asks him casually.
"What?" Azriel answers, not really paying attention.
"Training with Nyx. Did Rhys go through the whole speech on how 'not to push her but don't let her know that were not pushing her but also push her so that she gets stronger'?"
Azriel stops, looks at Cassian, and then keeps pacing again.
"No, he didn't," he replies stiffly, "I'm not stupid. Neither are you. We know what to do."
Cassian sighs and says, "I know, that's what I told him. I think he's just being "fretful protective brother"."
Azriel doesn't respond. His most recent conversations with Rhys have not been pleasant. Or easy to digest.

"Shame he is so protective of her. I wouldn't have minded getting to know her better, if you know what I mean," Cass says flippantly.
Azriel freezes. Slowly he turns, calm rage washing over him, to face the male leaning arrogantly against the silver railing. The threat that he needs to rip apart and throw over the balcony. His shadows swarm in close to him and in juxtaposition his wings flare outward. An animals growl rumbles from him and his siphons glow a bright sapphire. The male across from him straightens, their eyes flashing with a flicker of fear.
"Az," the male gently says, raising their hands, "Az I was joking. I just said that to see how you would react- if I had of known you were going to turn in to a raging lunatic I wouldn't have been so stupid."
Azriel snarls, his top lip curling to show his pointed canines. He takes one step closer to the male, carefully calculating his pounce to end this threat.
"Fucks sake," the male mutters, "Azriel, it's me, Cass. Cassian? Your brother for five centuries? I'm not going to touch Nyx, okay?"
He speaks true. He was being a fool as usual, a shadow scowls in his ear.
It takes a few more seconds of Azriel fuming before he gradually returns to himself as that raging, protective beast inside of him eases off. He inhales deeply and lets it out in a big exhale, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. Holy fuck. He needs to get control over himself or he is going to be deep in shit. When he opens his eyes he winces as he meets Cassian's intense gaze.
"What the fuck man? You looked like you were about to throw me over!"
Azreil sighs and rubs at his temples, "I was," he mutters.
"Yeah, I gathered that," Cass says exasperatedly, and then adds with a cringe, "Though what I did was stupid. I know she is your mate, I just wanted you to admit it to me."
Azriel's insides turn to ice. He sharply looks at his brother with a hint of rising panic.
Cass's face softens and says, "I've known you five hundred years, Az. Never have I seen a female pluck your feathers like she does. Not even Mor," he sighs and Azriel looks away at the reminder of the female he had hopelessly loved for years, "I saw the way you looked at her. It's the same way Rhys looks at Feyre."
Azriel swallows roughly and buries his palms into his eyes. Gods he's already knee deep in shit. If Nyx were to catch onto these things like his two brothers in arms have... No, he cannot allow it. He will not.

All thoughts slide out of his mind as the drums in his chest begin to beat. His body locks up and his shadows flurry around him again.
She comes to us! Our sweet, Dark Mother. Our Queen.
Azriel ignores them as his keen ears pick up her light footsteps up the stairs. A few torturous seconds later, his mate appears through the glass doors onto the terrace. He holds his breath as he watches her body still, her eyes drifting to the edge where she jumped for her messy ending less than a week ago. His heart aches as he sees the pain in her expression, and he wants to walk over to her to let her know he's there for her. Just like he was last time, and how he always will be. But he doesn't. He remains standing stiffly, watching and waiting in silent agony. It's Cassian who steps in, interluding the trauma holding his mate hostage.
"So, are you ready to be thrown on your arse?" he teases playfully.
Nyx blinks, draws her shoulders back and swaggers the rest of the way towards them, a loose smirk on her damn sensual lips.
"I think my greatest achievement will be teaching you humility," she quips back.
Cassian grins at her, "Many have tried sweetie, but none have succeeded."
Azriel clears his throat, drawing both of them to look to him.
"Fine," Cassian sighs, "This bastard has three times."
"Seven. But who's counting?" Azriel says casually.
Nyx blinks, and then his world falls apart, brick by brick, at what she does next. She chuckles. And that sugary honey warms his insides again. The fact that such a small sound can affect him so has Azriel reeling down an endless hole. So he immediately stamps out the daring smile that is simmering just behind his mask.
"Okay, Shadowsinger and Spymaster. I'd like to see you put him in is place then," she challenges him with a little devilish grin that sends a jolt of heat too far down south.

“I told you. I don’t abide by others wishes,” Azriel says coldly, and then adds because Nyx’s frown doesn’t sit well with him, “Though it happens often enough that I’m sure you’ll become bored of seeing me trip him onto his big arse.”
“Hey!” Cassian exclaims, slapping Azriel’s shoulder, “You’re just jealous of this big arse.”
Azriel raises his brows at him in his silent way of saying, ‘You’re insane and I want to punch you. Very hard.’
Nyx is leaning back on her left leg, her arms folded and eyebrows raised as she judges them with mirth. He could’ve sworn there was a slight smile on her lips before they returned their attention to her.
“You are both like big children,” she scolds them teasingly.
Cassian mutters, “Not you too,” and then demands Nyx, “Has our High Lady been getting your head?”
Nyx frowns, “What are you on about?”
“Feyre has a habit of calling us big Illyrian babies,” Azriel replies with a painful wince.
Nyx blinks at them both, and then breaks into a toothy grin. Azriel becomes breathless and his stomach swoops at the divine beauty before him. And then it does flips when for the third time in two days, she laughs.
Magnificent, his awed shadows whisper, and Azriel has never agreed with them more.

Cassian claps his hands together and says, “Alright then, now that we have been belittled, shall we hit the skies and get to the House of Wind?”
Shadows cast over Nyx‘s face, making the previous liveliness fade away. Her hands fidget together and suddenly she can’t seem to look at either of them. He hates seeing her like this. Like an empty shell with fractures throughout. Never to be perfectly intact ever again, no matter how strong the glue is. But she is perfect. As perfect as his hot coffee on a winter’s morning. As perfect as the sun just before is disappears below the horizon, painting the sky in ethereal colours. As perfect as those cherished moments at the crack of dawn when no one else is awake yet to disturb him. Just as perfect as his beloved blade always strapped to thigh, with its true aim and immaculately smooth edges. More perfect than he ever could have dreamed of. And The Mother is truly the most wicked being for making him feel this way. For dangling this beguiling, special, most perfect warrior before him when he can never have her.

“I uhh-,” Nyx clears her throat and tries again, “I think I’m too weak to winnow. And my shadows are still adamant on being cowardly children, so I can’t jump with them either.”
They keel away from the sunlight. We hear them squealing and hissing in the dark where the light does not reach.
Azriel frowns. He’s been so wrapped up in everything that he forgot that his mate is a Shadowsinger. How could he forget such a vital thing?
Love makes our Dark Master different. His mind has become a chaotic place.
Shut it, he snarls at his shadows.
“But you have wings,” Cass states, lifting his own for emphasis.
Now Nyx truly looks like a ghost. A darkness clouds her eyes, manifested from years of unimaginable horrors. She has become so distant that Azriel actually worries that she no longer remains in the present with them. He can’t help but take a step closer to her. She doesn’t seem to notice anyway. Her breathing becomes laboured and her face is unhealthily pale.
“Nyx?” Azriel gently coaxes her.
She doesn’t hear him. She’s been dragged too far under, stuck in a place of nightmares. Damn his promise, Azriel steps up i front of her and claps her cheeks in his hands.

Her face is like ice. It looks so small and fragile in his hands. He feels disgusted looking at his scars next to her beauty, but he shoves that aside.
“You are free. You control your body and mind and soul,” Azriel says firmly, willing her to hear him, “Nyx, you are free. Don’t go back there. Don’t let him win.”
She flinches. And blinks. But her mind remains trapped and her body frozen in place.
“Come on, you old hag,” Azriel says desperately now, remembering what he had called her the second time they had met.
“Come back,” he whispers, his thumb lightly swiping her cheekbone.
As if waking up from a deep sleep Nyx takes a sharp inhale and looks into Azriel’s eyes. Her amethyst ones are wide as they flicker between his and her lips are parted slightly as if in wonder. She is lightly shaking but her breathes are gradually becoming deeper, more paced. Her heartbeat, however, is skittering.
“I’m… I’m free,” she whispers uncertainly.
Azriel grips her face a little tighter as he replies adamantly, “You are free.”
Nyx shudders and closes her eyes. She takes a few deep breathes, and when she opens her eyes again there is a fierce determination burning in the amethyst crystal.
“I am free,” she repeats strongly.
Azriel nods and drops his hands, stepping back several paces. He feels cold both inside of out the further he gets from her.

“Bat boy,” she jests shakily, a half-smirk on her lips.
Azriel huffs a chuckle, “Old hag.”
Nyx rolls her eyes and, to his astonishment, pokes her tongue out at him. He doesn’t understand her. How she can be so completely broken one minute, and then the next she’s teasing him. But as long as she’s not being consumed by the dark traumas of her past, he will settle for anything.
“Are you alright?” Cassian asks warily.
Nyx glances out to the Mountains behind them. She clenches and unclenches her jaw, while simultaneously flexing her fingers.
“My wings…” her voice cracks and she swallows the thick lump in her throat, “They’re not- accessible.”
Azriel loses all sense of sanity. He becomes overcome with rage so that he doesn’t think about anything other than the sheer pain of his mate.
“What did he do?” he growls.
Nyx snaps her head to him, and so does Cassian. But he doesn’t care. He needs to know. He needs to know everything so that he can do it all and worse to those who dared to hurt her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she grounds out.
Azriel takes a step toward her and asks again, this time quietly, “What. Did. He. Do?”
Nyx stares at him, her face unreadable. He’s acting foolish. She might catch onto the fact that they’re mates and he is drowning in her pain as well. That all he seems to think about is protecting her. But she only sighs and rubs at her eyes. She shakes her head, drops her arms to her side, then folds them around her middle.

“He was furious,” she whispers, as though the King is standing just behind her, “I had never seen him so enraged.”
She closes her eyes and Azriel’s heart clenches as a single tear trails down her cheek. Cassian stiffens behind them.
“He made sure I understood how betrayed he felt. I don’t even recall half of it because I was only hanging on by a thinning thread,” Nyx says, her voice trembling, but she continues on, touching her neck, “He chained me to him. Like a dog. He did things that only a Devil could. He shred my dignity and sanity. It was a rape of my soul…”
He’s not sure he breathing. He’s not really sure he’s even on the terrace anymore as he becomes so engrossed in a wild, thunderstorm of rage. He is going to butcher the motherfucker. He is going to damn the fucked monster’s fucked up soul and then burn it.

He doesn’t want to have to ask it again as he demands with a deadly calm, “What did he do?”
Nyx swallows and finally looks deep into his eyes. They are shining with unshed tears, drowning in agony and despair. She takes a shaky inhale and blinks the salty tears down her face.
“He cut them off. With a jagged saw,” she breathes out, as if only just accepting it now, “Over three whole days.”

Chapter Text

NYX

"On your knees."
Aren't I already on my knees? I can't feel my legs. There is only a buzzing numbness, just like everywhere else... Until a dark force pushes down on my shoulders, shoving my body downward where my knees shatter onto the hard floor. Now I can feel them. My kneecaps pop, sending a wave of agony through them and down my shins. The raw bruises shout out at being targeted once again, the delicate skin splitting open to smear blood onto the white marble. My head lolls forward, its weight becoming too much to carry despite the emptiness inside. I choke as the tight band around my neck pulls at the clattering chain connecting me to the demonic Monster looming behind me.

"Why don't you ever listen," that cruel voice chides with a click of its tongue, "Even with a collared leash you still evade to be tame."
"Only when I am dead will I be tamed like a loyal dog," I rasp out, coughing and spitting blood.
It chuckles, the sound like grating stone, "We shall see how you reconsider after I take the one thing left that gives you any semblance of freedom."
My spine locks up as its purred, wicked words tantalize my already deteriorating brain.
"I was told it was quite the sight, seeing you fall from the sky like an angel from heaven," It murmurs, leaning down behind me to whisper into my ear, "Only for your glorious, godly wings to appear and save you. I can recall the first time you showed me them... I do not lie when I say the breath was taken from me."

No. No. Not my wings. Not my wings not my wings not my wings.
"I am truly devastated that I missed the show," it sighs with mock sorrow, and I feel its smirk when it murmurs, "But I think I'll enjoy this one much more. I think this one will be so much more thrilling."
I don't care what I have become in this moment. I don't care that I am but a voodoo doll for it to snap and bend and break. I do not care that I fall right into the Devil's cunning trap. I beg it.
"Please," I whisper, silent, heated tears streaming down my face, "Don't. Don't do this."
"For too long I have let you run rampant. Let your little acts of rebellion be brushed aside," it says with growing anger that waits patiently beneath the surface, "I have been kind. I have shown you mercy and generosity. But you have given me nothing but disloyalty and ungratefulness."
"You are truly fucked up," I sob almost hysterically, "But if you do this... there is no coming back. For either of us."
It is silent for a beat. The wicked tension building up, suffocating me like the overbearing heat when you sit in hot springs for too long.
It pushes its mouth against my ear, its hot breath kissing my skin as the Devil murmurs like a lover, "Then we shall rot in Hell for eternity together."

The memory makes me stumble. Tripping me backwards over my feet as the horrific recollection winds me. I feel gravity pulling my back toward the ground, but a strong, solid hand grabs my thin bicep. Stabilising me. "Nyx..." a deep voice whispers and trails off.
I blink up at the Shadowsinger who watches me with an assessing gaze. Dark strands of wavy hair hang down his forehead, teasing his vision as they just fall over his eyes. Perhaps a trim would do him some good. Freshen up his rugged, slightly crazed look. The lines on his face are tight, and the purple under his eyes is nearly as bad as mine. It also looks like he hasn't shaved in days, by the way fresh stubble is beginning to- My wayward thought process halts as reality smacks me across the head. What the hell? Why would you focus on that right now, you idiotic, ruined female. I reground myself and focus on bringing my mind back from the dark past, and to the all too real present. Indeed, the grip on my arm is unrelenting.
I swallow the bile that has burned up my throat and say, "I'm fine."

A sort of feral growl rumbles from the male as he steps closer, "Liar."
A burst of emotions erupt inside of me at that single, roughly-spoken word. Anger, shame, outrage, embarrassment, and, to my dismay and more shame, a kindling of lust. I instantly stomp it out with the cold anger until I can only feel icy rage as I stare up at him in disbelief. Who does he think he is? I rip my arm free, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process as I take a pointed step back- trying very hard not to wince at the pain shooting down my arm. Hell, his grip is strong.

"I'm fine," I reiterate, this time with much more vigor and a glare to match.
The Shadowersinger glares right back, the cold wind that ruffles his hair nowhere near as harsh as his expression. Gods I want to smack that cruel look right off of his handsome face. I want to punch him. Really, really hard. How can someone be so callous when clearly I am in a very vulnerable state? You were metaphorically and literally chained to someone for five centuries, Nyx. I think that answers your stupid question.
"Shit. I'm going insane," I whisper to myself before I can think better of it.
The Shadowsinger snorts and says coldly, "Glad you've finally reali-"
Quick as a wisp, my trembling fist meets its target. I'm too furious to cry out at the bones that break in my right hand from the impact of his sharp jaw. My left hand is already flying and punching that perfect nose. A thrill of satisfaction courses through me as the bone cracks and blood trickles from his now broken nose. I'm upon him again in a flash. Knuckles punching firm muscle, feet kicking strong legs, and a shrill scream tearing up my throat. Again and again I hit this punching bag of firm muscle, all that rage and despair and rancour pouring out of me with each sloppy strike. All I can think about is that ache between my shoulder blades. Of the hole in my heart that has been slowly dug over centuries of persecution an heartbreak.

It's not until my arms become a dead-weight and my lungs are begging for air that I really register the situation. The Shadowsinger is just standing there, taking each of my hits without so much as a word. Without a single movement to defend himself or stop my crazed attack.

I let my heavy arms fall to my sides and take an unsteady step back. My chest is rising and falling with my rugged breaths, and the salty tang of my tears leak into my parted lips. The burnt-amber eyes of the Shadowsinger never leave me once, his heavy gaze like a brand burning my skin. His body remains stiff, but otherwise he appears... unaffected. Calm, in a way. Confusion and suspicion waver through me again at his blatant fury toward the Devil's maltreatment of me, but I lock it away to dissect later. There are already a flurry of emotions grappling with my mind and heart that I need to settle.

"I-," my voice scratches my throat and I swallow before trying again, "I apologise for my... irrationality." I don't apologise for hitting him though. I'm not sorry or that in the slightest. The cold bastard deserved it. And by the way he's watching me now, and how he just allowed me to beat him, perhaps he knows he earned that broken nose too.
"Your hand," the Shadowsinger says, void of any emotion a per usual, "It's broken."
I glance down at the throbbing hand which has already swelled and bruised. It hurts more the longer I stare at it, so I put it back by my side and square my shoulders. Stubborn as the day I was born, as my Mother would always say.
"So is your nose," I point out.
Irritation flares in his golden eyes and he wipes away the dripping blood on the back of a sapphire-adorned hand, "Next time, I will strike back."
"Good," I snap, and wholly mean it.
"Fine," he quips back sharply.
We take it upon ourselves to transfer our little childish dispute to a silent argument through our burning eye contact. Luckily, there is still a sane person on the terrace, who steps up between us and exhales a big sigh of exhaust.

"Do I seriously need to tell you two to behave like civilised beings?" Cassian chides.
I don't break my gaze with the Shadowsinger's harsh glare as I reply stonily, "No. Just your prick bat-brother."
The Shadowsinger snorts, drowning out Cassian's sigh, "How mature of you."
I just flash him a wicked grin, devoid of any warmth. His returning scowl would have sent lesser fae sprinting in the opposite direction.
"Will you two just stop acting like fucking fools and focus on what's actually important here?" Cassian snarls impatiently, "Fucks sake. Nyx just drops a truly fucked up bomb and you're at each other's throats! How is that helping anything?"
I have always despised being scolded. And that hasn't changed. I feel the shame heat my cheeks as the truth of the General's words see reason in my mind. Gods I have truly been acting like an embarrassing fool. Cassian is right, there is so much more pressing issues that need to be addressed rather than wasting energy feeding that rage and anger toward the brooding Shadowsinger. I take a cleansing breath, ridding myself of the burning indignation, and finally break free of that golden gaze.

"You're right," I sigh and subconsciously hold my broken hand to my chest, "We should get to the training rings."
"What?" both males demand.
I raise a brow and ask, "What? That is where we were going before this whole mess, wasn't it?"
"Well, yes, but.." Cassian gestures to my body.
"But what?" I press him, daring him to finish.
"Your hand is broken and your mind is clearly not in a clear headspace," the Shadowsinger cuts in, straight to the point.
"I will manage just fine," I answer, "Besides, I think we can all agree I have dealt with much worse."
Cassian sighs and says gently, "Yes, you have. But that doesn't mean you need to."
I ignore the tightness in my chest at the General's kind words and say, "No. I need to get my body back into shape. I need to heal, to regain my strength. As soon as possible."
"I understand, but surely one day won't-"
"No," I cut him off harshly, "I will start today. Broken bones or not, I will get my physical health back."
"Why?" the Shadowsinger questions with slight curiosity and suspicion, "Why are you so adamant about this now?"
I meet his gaze again and answer him honestly, "Because if there is any chance of getting my wings back, then I will not let myself throw it away by falling down a well of self-pity and rage."
Both males stare at me with questioning looks, the rattling wind filling the weighted silence.
"What do you mean, get them back?" Cassian asks skeptically.
"I'm half Seraphim, remember?" I urge them, waiting for their nods to continue, "Seraphim are in the top hierarchy of celestial beings. The God's and The Mother herself bestowed our bloodline with rare magic and gifts. It is legend that the power in our blood can run so ancient and strong that if taken from us, we can regrow our wings."

The weight of my words hang between the three of us as we look at one another, the two male's appearing like blubbering fish out of water. The spark of hope turns into a burning ember that lights a flame of determination within me, willing myself to get back up. To succeed. To see Hybern's face when I fly down upon him and slit his throat.
"That... How is that possible?" Cassian breathes out.
"Are you sure it's even true?" the Shadowsinger adds before I can answer.
I fold my arms over my chest and scowl at them, "It is a legend told over our hearths, one we worship and admire greatly. The great Raguel was said to have his wings sliced off during battle, only for them to grow back overnight for him to conquer the next day. It is an old tale, but one we take very seriously. There have been mention of some other Seraphim regrowing their wings, but I have never seen it.”

I can remember those nights huddled around the large crackling fires when my Mother and I first settled with the Seraphim. After we were exiled by Cronan from the Night Court. Many were kind and welcoming, especially those who remembered my Mother. But there were also many who didn’t bother to hide their loathing. Their distrust and feelings of betrayal by my Mother for leaving and mingling with the notorious dark High Lord. And the way they tormented me… I never fully fit in there. Not with my stark silvery-white hair and deep amethyst eyes. Not with my white wings adorned with black feathers. Everywhere I went slurs were thrown at me. Half-breed. Dirty blood. Monster spawn. I never let them see my tears though. And I relished in their seething scowls when I rose to the top and became General.
But that was a long, long time ago now. A whole other lifetime.

“So you’re basing this off of an old tale?” the Shadowsinger questions skeptically.
I sigh with the roll of my eyes and retort, “I don’t care if you don’t believe it’s true. And I don’t care if you think I’m giving into a false hope. I may have done many horrible things because of it, but one thing I know is that I am a survivor. And I will not give up. I never have and I won’t start now.”
Something like reverence flickers across the males handsome face, and he offers a curt nod. Not in acceptance, I realise, but in understanding. So I give him a small nod in return. Civil enough.
“Well shit,” Cassian huffs, “Any more insanely magnificent things you want to pull from your ass?”
I manage a smile at the General and reply, “That’s for me to know a suoi to find out.”
Cassian huffs in annoyance but shoots me a winning grin. It lightens the weight on my chest just enough for me to feel somewhat steady. Prepared for the hardest part of the journey: recovery.

“Wait, sorry to be a mood kill, but wouldn’t your wings have grown back by now?” Cassian questions.
“My body has been too weak for me to stand, let alone regrow two large and strong wings. That’s why I need to get back to my fullest potential.”
Cassian nods as if taking it all in and assessing the best way to head into battle.
“Alright, but I’m still not letting you jump right into it. We do this my way and we take it at a pace that won’t wreck you, okay?”
I bite my tongue to stop the bubbling retort. I know he’s right. Despite my newfound desire to get my health and wings back, I can’t strain myself. Otherwise it will all be for nothing. Slow and steady wins the race.
“Okay,” I finally answer, “But we start today. Now. My hand will heal soon enough.”
The Shadowsinger sighs but I ignore him as Cassian nods again and says, “Deal.”

“So? Which one of you tough males will carry me up?” I quirk my brow, my gaze darting between them.
Cassian looks to his brother for a brief second before glancing back to me, a faint expression of uncertainty lingering on his roguish features. Odd.
“I’d be honoured to,” Cassian says charmingly.
I send him a playful grin and make to take a step toward him when the Shadowsinger steps forward.
“I can take you with me through my shadows. It’ll be faster, if you’d prefer.”
I can’t help but look at him with a slightly shocked reaction to his sincere offer. Almost as if he could sense the hiding trepidation of being in the sky without my own wings to carry me. Knowing I’d be familiar with the transportation of shadows…
“Alright…” I say almost uncertainly, “That would be nice.”
The Shadowsinger just nods and holds out his arm for me to grab. Tentatively I reach out and wrap my elbow through his, drawing our bodies a lot closer than I anticipated. I feel him stiffen up, but I pretend not to feel that tendril of hurt by his obvious disgust to be touching me.

“I’ll see you up there then,” Cassian winks and then leaps into the air.
We watch his impressive burly form become smaller and smaller with each great gust of his wings. My heart clenches with envy, but it only drives my determination. I will fly again. With my own wings. “Ready?” the male’s rough yet smooth voice breaks me out of my trance. I slightly turn my head toward the Shadowsinger and offer him a small nod as I breathe, “Yes.” His golden honey eyes simmer with something akin to a powerful warriors battle gaze. They’re the last things I see as the familiar darkness of shadows engulf us in their embrace.

Chapter Text

NYX

I’ve subconsciously fallen into a routine, but I cling onto it like a lifeline. Which, in a consciously messed up way, I suppose it is.
At 5:35 I wake up with the golden sun as it makes it’s ascension into the misty sky. It’s sublime rays creeping in through the windows and kissing my face. It lures me from the warm and cozy bed and into the wash chamber where I relive myself and then brush my teeth. I pad across the floor back into my room, now bathed in the deep orange hue of dawn, and stare, completely naked, at the gradually waking city.

I dress in the Illyrian leathers Cassian gifted me. Which now has been three times in the last month and a half as my body slowly packs on more weight and muscle. And with each new set of leathers comes some sort of new upgrade that the General has requested to suit my evolving body and combat skills. Yet despite the three different leathers, my figure is still no where near as built and lethal as it once was. The fact that I truly must have been just skin and bones makes me nauseous, but I try to focus on my development instead. Most of the time.

After getting ready for the day ahead I follow that pull, almost like a hook underneath my ribcage, that leads me to the kitchen. Where the bitter-sweet coffee is. And the Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court. I discovered, to no delight, that I am not the only early morning dweller. The brooding male is always sitting at the empty kitchen table, nursing a steaming cup of coffee, whenever I enter the room. Neither one of us speaks for the entirety that we share each others company. And at first I dreaded him being there, always silent and assessing, his devastatingly beautiful presence that never fails to put me on edge. But as the days and weeks carried on, I have become… accustomed to his presence across the table while I sit and drink my coffee. And I will certainly never tell the arrogant male that I have grown to depend on him being in there every morning. Routine. It keeps me walking straight. That’s all it is.

As I walk the silent halls of the townhouse my shadows slowly start to appear. Almost as if they peel away from their dark corners and follow me as I pass. I smile at their cool caress and hushed whisperings. A presence I will never take for granted ever again. They had finally joined me a couple of weeks ago. I was lying on my back by myself atop the House of Wind after a rather brutal training session, damp with sweat and salty tears. And perhaps it was pity that urged the little tendril of shadow to wipe away the tears, or maybe it was just to lick up the secret of my crying. Either way I don’t care what made them come to me again. I certainly didn’t let them get away with being such cry babies about the sun, but they don’t refrain from murmuring my little insecurities either.

I enter the toasty kitchen now, ignoring the little leap of my heart as I exchange a nod with the Shadowsinger. And that is as far as our interactions go in this little morning game of ours. I walk past the long table over to the stove where the coffee pot sits, the aroma of the rich substance a welcome drug as much as the addictive beverage itself. I reach up onto my tiptoes and get my favourite mug form the top shelf. It’s apparently made by a local pottery artist, whom creates all of her works with the clay found at the end of the Sidra. This particular mug has been sculptured and painted to resemble the sun setting behind the peaks of Ramiel. I pour the still hot liquid into the mug and watch as the steam swirls into the air and gently kisses my face. The caramel-toffee colour of it nearly matches the tone of my skin, which is slowly returning to what it once was before being subjected to the darkness.

The Shadowsinger is watching me when I turn around to sit down. It makes my heart skip a beat in my chest which clenches with anxiety when he doesn’t look away. I don’t let him see my squirming as I walk to the seat bathed in sunlight and sit down. About three chairs across from him. Where he still refuses to care that he is staring. Or is he glaring? Scowling? I’d like to think that I can read his subtle expressions by how much I spend analysing him when he’s unaware of my scrutiny. But there is still so much I cannot tell or even dream of understanding when it comes to this ambiguous male.
I glance out the window and sip my coffe, but I can feel the intensity of his stare. I sigh and put the mug down onto the table, the small thud breaking the tranquil quietness.

“What?” I demand softly, rebelling against our routine of silence.
The Shadowsinger takes a small gulp of his own coffee and then cradles it in his scarred hands again. His leisured movements set me on edge with ticking irritation.
“Nothing,” he replies monotonously.
I raise a single brow and say, “I know you can lie better than that.”
A slither of a smirk twitches the corner of his mouth, “If you must know, your top is inside out.”
I’m so stunned by his unexpected response that I actually blubber at him, glance down at my attire, and then flush. Because the damned bastard is right. I’ve put my high-neck leather long-sleeve on inside out.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself.
I know my face is tinged with embarrassment when I lock eyes with the Shadowsinger again, who has the audacity to wear that little smirk of his. Double bastard. Why must everything go askew in his presence? Just once I want to make him speechless or drowning in humiliation.

“Perhaps someone needs to train you in the proper application of clothing,” the little prick suggests smugly.
My skin prickles with anger and I’m about to snap a witty retort back when an idea suddenly strikes me. I suppress my own smirk, keeping a nonchalant facade, as I push my chair back and stand up. The Shadowsinger watches me with bland curiosity, his head tilting ever so slightly to the left. I hold his golden honey gaze as I reach behind my back and begin untying the strings of my armoured corset. I see it- the subtle change of his face. It’s in his eyes mostly, which flicker with shock, and to my guilty delight a shadow of lust.
“What are you doing?” he asks gruffly, his body becoming stiff.
“Learning the proper application of clothing,” I reply flippantly, “I need to begin from the start so I can get a good understanding though. Completely bare.”
Yes. Desire definitely darkens his eyes to an amber hue, making me smirk with sensual cruelty.

I know he hates me. I can see it in the scowl he’s giving me. But that doesn’t stop his body from responding to mine. Which probably makes him hate me more. Good, now I won’t be the only one.
“This is unnecessary,” he grounds out as the corset slips from my body.
“It was your idea,” I smile sweetly at him.
He folds his arms in indignation, but his eyes don’t leave me once. I mentally hesitate as my fingers skim the hem of the leather long-sleeve. I’m wearing an undergarment, but the nakedness still halts me. I have been stripped bare enough times in front of large crowds before, as well as in less desirable company, to not feel insecure about my bareness. But they weren’t events that I had control over. I wasn’t the one to voluntarily undress and parade my body. Not only that, but the decorations of the violence my body has endured- the scars and the still too thin figure- make me wary of exposing myself…Fuck it.

In one swift motion I pull the hem up and lift the leather sleeve right off. The warm air hugs around my skin, a nice reprieve from the coolness of the leather. I’m hardly thinking about that though. My mind is too wound up in the Shadowsinger, whose eyes seem determined to remain locked on mine. They become iced over with a cold resignation. I see him swallow, his Adams apple bopping, but otherwise he doesn’t show any other reaction to my partially naked body. Completely indifferent, if not slightly repulsed. It shouldn’t hurt me, but it does. I don’t falter though. Slowly, making my movements as sensual as possible, I righten the top so it’s the right way out. But before I put it back on, I pick up my armoured corset and glide around the table, never breaking eye contact. I stop directly next to the Shadowsinger, who turns in his chair to face me, his neck craning upwards to keep his eyes holding mine. The position makes my gut clench, igniting a primal instinct that has been extinguished for far too long. A highly inappropriate image flashes in my mind. Of those strong, skilled hands grabbing my waist, his delicious lips kissing down my sternum and navel, getting lower and lower…

The Spymasters body becomes unnaturally still, those hazel-amber eyes flaring. Fleeting embarrassment of my evident arousal brings me back to reality, driving out that ludicrous delusion. I mentally snort at myself- He seems more inclined to push me away than drag me closer. And still, his gaze doesn’t lower to my chest. To my perked breasts behind the soft, lacy undergarment. I can see the war behind those intense eyes though, battling his bodies urge to touch me and his minds disgust toward me. I make the choice for him and pull the leather long-sleeve back on, covering up my heated skin, and pretending not to care that he wasn’t really affected by my body.

I swiftly turn around so my back is to him, and wrap the corset around my waist.
“Make yourself useful, will you?” I ask over my shoulder, holding out the strings.
Anticipation curdles my stomach as the seconds tick by, hoping that he doesn’t tell me to fuck off- although I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. I let loose a silent breath of relief as his hands take the strings from mine, sending a bolt up my arms from his light touch. His movements are quick and efficient, like lacing up a corset is second nature to him. Perhaps it is. A male this beautiful must have multiple females in his bed. The sourness tang that fills my mouth makes me hate myself even more.
It doesn’t stop my breath from hitching when the Shadowsinger suddenly stands to finish the last top ties. I can feel his tall, hard muscled chest without it even touching me. Like his presence is so powerful I can feel his strength from here. And when he takes one step closer… his warm breath brushing the small hairs on the back of my neck…

“Enjoyed breakfast did we?”
My heart stops and starts, and the Shadowsinger’s movements freeze. We both move quickly, turning around to face the kitchen entrance. I ignore the overly big step the Spymaster takes away from me.
“No,” I reply grimly to Rhysand, “Neither of us have eaten.”
The Shadowsinger seems to choke next to me, making Rhysand raise a perfect brow and glance pointedly between us.
“Nyx needed some help with her laces,” the Shadowsinger says as explanation.
Rhysand squints at us, but then he shrugs a shoulder and waltz’s the rest of the way into the kitchen. I take a steadying breath and quickly finish tying the strings of my corset, not daring to look at the male still standing stoically next to me.
“You’d better eat soon. Cass won’t be too forgiving if you’re puking on him during training,” Rhysand says.
“Right,” I clear my throat, and then amend myself, “Actually… I was wondering- well, only if you’re not too busy of course- which seems as you’re a High Lord and there’s an impending war-“
“Just spit it out,” Rhysand thankfully cuts me off.
I shake myself and ask quietly, “I was thinking I would take you up on your offer? That we could go to the Rainbow today?”
Rhysand’s face softens and then breaks into a wide smile, “What an excellent thought.”
“So? Is that a yes then?” I urge him, despising the nervous feeling fluttering inside of me.
“Of course,” he replies softly, those violet eyes twinkling like the stars.

I bow my head slightly and let a small smile curl my lips. I feel like a child, acting all nervous and giddy. Like a little girl meeting her half-brother for the first time. I suppose that is exactly what we are, only it has been delayed by 500 years.
“You can break the news to Cassian. He gets quite attached to his routine, and I’m in no mood to damper his.”
“Me and him both,” I murmur with a sigh, my body already itching to get onto the fighting mats.
“Break what news to me?” Cassian’s loud voice enters the room.
I turn around to the kitchen entrance again to now see the third bat baby swagger inside. Gods, it’s no wonder this court holds such a revered, infamous reputation. These three males alone could rule Pyrthian just by their insanely handsome looks. Already the quite spacious room feels like it’s half its size with these three powerful legends inside. All with their weighted gazes on me.

I swallow the dryness in the back of my throat and say with a slight grimace, “I’m skipping training. Me and the arrogant prick over there are going to the Rainbow.”
“Excuse me?” Rhysand questions, sounding genuinely affronted.
“You can’t go after we train?” the General demands, ignoring his brother and crossing his arms over his chest.
I sigh and let my arms swing down by my sides, “No. I don’t want to think about… any of that today. I just want to- to be normal for once.”
I feel like turning into liquid and melting into the floor as the loud silence engulfs me in embarrassment. However, I’m determined to keep my shoulders squared and chin held high. Even though each one of these males have seen me at my lowest, most irrationally vulnerable episodes, I still bristle at the thought of them seeing me weak in any way. Humiliation being a high contender.
“Suit yourself,” Cassian shrugs, and the relief of his usual roguish manner makes my heart slow down, “But don’t come crying after me when you fall on your face tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head, turning away from the General and walking back to my seat, to my coffee which has gone cold. I contemplate making another, but my body is still buzzing with anxiety by the intimidating company. I know they’re all having a silent conversation, looking at me when they think I’m not paying attention. So I skull the remaining dregs of the bittersweet drink and make quick work of washing the mug.

“I’ll meet you out the front in an hour?” I ask Rhysand as I finish cleaning up.
He puts on a charming smile, but I know there is so much darkness swirling behind his well-practiced act, “You better dress in finery. I can’t walk down the streets next to someone in sweaty leathers.”
I frown at him and show him my favourite finger. He pretends to be offended and his two brothers huff in amusement.
“You literally have two overbearing bats dressed in stinky leathers as company all the time,” I gesture to the two snickering Illyrians.
Their faces fall, turning insulted, and I grin as Rhysand barks out a laugh. I only chance a quick glance at the Shadowsinger long enough to see the light amusement behind his scowl.
“I’ll have you know that I can dress incredibly better than you,” Cassian says, looking me up and down.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve been taught how to dress “properly,” so I think I will manage,” I say slyly, grinning a little at the Shadowsinger.
He frowns at me, but I’m already looking away. To face Rhysand who is watching us a little too closely.

“Right then,” I say, bouncing on my heels, “I’ll see you later.”
Rhysand nods at me and then begins making his breakfast, indulging Cassian in a heated debate about bacon. I nearly reach the exit when my path becomes blocked by a hand lightly gripping my bicep. I peer up questionably at the Shadowsinger, willing my frantic heart to settle down and for my stomach to stop flipping.
He leans down so that when he whispers, his words are meant only for me, “Normal means conforming to a standard. Ordinary. And you are anything but ordinary.”
He’s gone before I can so much as blink. Swallowed up by his monstrosity of dark shadows, and leaving me stunned. I stand there for a minute, completely rattled and confused, before knocking sense back into my brain. My legs carry me from the kitchen and into the hallway, and I hurriedly stride down it until I round the corner. I push my back against the cold wall and take a shaky breath. Closing my eyes and bracing my hands on my pounding chest. I can’t even begin to interpret what he said. And I don’t know if I even want to know what, exactly, he meant. The notion behind it. All I know is that whenever the Shadowsinger is near, my rationale dwindles like a petal falling off a rose.

~

Laughter. Undiluted, raw laughter rings in my ears. Filing the buzzing street with a pureness that makes my heart clench. It’s so alight with life here. All kinds of beings hustle and bustle throughout the colourful buildings. High fae adorned in unconventional fashion, hand-in-hand with the lesser fae of all types, stopping at the market stalls and uncaringly covered in splotches of paint or clay. I make it a game to count the number of colours on each being I pass covered in the makings of their work.

Everyone is so caught up in their own world and the art that hardly anyone recognises that their High Lord walks with them. Or the stranger who gawks in wonder by his side. I have no doubt that I look like a blubbering fish out of water as my wide eyes try to devour everything. But it’s truly impossible. I could spend a whole week here and still not have seen it all. And it’s just… it’s perfect. Being so used to being isolated and alone, I would have thought the large crowd would’ve been suffocating. I was certainly squeezing Rhysand’s arm a little too tightly on the walk down here. But as soon as we entered The Rainbow, I finally felt… awake.

“There are classes, if you wish to paint. Or perhaps sculpt? Dance? Sing?” Rhysand suggests as I ogle up at a beautifully old theatre.
“I think this is enough for now. Just seeing this is enough,” I reply quietly.
When I turn my gaze to him he has a soft smile that I’ve hardly ever witnessed. Like being here is helping him step away from his burdens as well. It suits him, rather than the harshly set jaw and cold, ruthless eyes that so many see. And I don’t know why, but I tell him.
“I know, more than you may think, the need to withhold a feared persona. But this- the soft upward-tilt of your lips and the stars in your eyes- looks much better on you.”
I watch my half-brother closely as he blinks at me, stunned. I see the merging emotions of grief and exhaust, but they’re outshined by gratefulness and hope. And I’m sure my own face mirrors his.
Rhysand breaks into the most genuine smile he’s gifted me and says, “I always look good, but thank you for the compliment.”
I bump my shoulder into his arm and huff, “Your ego could certainly do with dampening though.”
He chuckles and nudges me right back, and I can’t help but laugh.

He suddenly stops me in the middle of the street, not caring about the passers by who swindle to avoid us, and looks right into my eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispers, a heaviness to his tone.
I go red in the cheeks and shrug it off, “It was just a little compliment. Nothing to get all sappy about.”
Rhys grips my shoulders and says, “Thank you. For being here.”
I suck in a breath. I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I appreciate everything he has done for me. I could never be more grateful. And I know he isn’t what I was told he was- That he’s not his father- my father- but I still… haven’t healed that wound. Although, as I look back into those midnight eyes, his face comfortingly familiar… I know I want to. To close that throbbing gash deep in my heart. Cronan is dead. And my existence died with him. Rhysand didn’t know of me. No one did- well, expect Kier but that old bastard is a little weasel. And then, when Rhysand found out who I was… well, he didn’t really think twice before he decided to take me from The Devil’s clutches and bring me to his home. His wondrous City of Starlight. And now, because of him, I have been given a second chance. At life. Happiness, even.

I wrap my arms around him in a sudden burst of emotion that I can’t control. I squeeze his middle tightly, burying my face into his broad chest. I don’t hide the sob as he finally curls his arms around me and hugs me back. Squishing me in an embrace that speaks volumes. Laying out all of the words unspoken between us. I don’t know how long we stand like that, but when we eventually unwind and softly laugh it off, I feel different. In a good, albeit slightly scary way. But I take in stride as I wipe the tears from my cheeks, link my arm in his, and continue our stroll.

“Painting. That’s my most beloved art form. My favourite outlet,” I find myself saying as we pass many eccentric galleries.
Rhysand stares at the paintings with a light smile, his eyes becoming distant, “Just like Feyre.”
My heart pangs and suddenly I’m overcome with guilt and sorrow. How could I have totally disregarded that his mate is in a compromised position in Spring Court? Putting her life at risk for my half-brother and his family. His while Court?
“Rhysand… I’m so sorry. All this time I’ve been so caught up in my head that I forgot- I can’t even imagine how hard it must be for you to be seperate from her.”
Rhysand pats my hand and says gently, “You’ve had enough on your plate to be worrying about that. But yes, it is excruciating being here while she risks herself. It’s killing me.”
I frown, getting a sudden urge to do something about it. To go to Spring and beat the shit out of that poor excuse of a High Lord.
“We can’t- believe me I wish it everyday- but we can’t,” Rhysand sighs as if reading my thoughts, “We’re able to communicate occasionally- through the mating bond. Only brief words of love, sometimes updates on the circumstances. But we can’t use it too often in case it becomes revealed.”
“At least you know each other are okay,” I offer.
“She’ll be back soon anyway. The last time we spoke, those two Hybern spawn freaks were arriving in Spring Court-“
“What?” I breath out, cutting him off.

My heart bangs against my ribs, echoing into my ringing ears as Rhysand turns toward me. There is concern forming on his face as he skims over my paling features.
“The twins. Dagdan and Brannagh,” he says slowly, warily.
Fuck. My whole body locks up at those names. No. No no no. I try to shut out the memories that swarm me, grounding myself to the present. The bright buildings and enthusiastic dwellers around us. Rhysand’s arms linked with mine…
“Nyx? What is it?” he demands, shaking me slightly.
I blink up at him, the stench of fear replacing my short-lived happiness.
“You need to get her out of there. Now.”

Chapter Text

AZRIEL

Azriel, despite what everyone envisions him to be, is actually such an empathetic creature that it hurts. He’s always been like that, since only seeing his Mother once a week for an hour, and feeling so deeply saddened by her disheveled state. She would always try to put on a happy smile for him, but he knew she was already counting down the seconds they had, just as he always did. And even though he was the one kept chained in an underground room, shivering and his body spasming with his Illyrian need to fight and fly, he always felt more pity and sorrow for his Mother. And she would always tell him it was his biggest strength, but also his deepest flaw. She said that she knew because she was the exact same, it was the reason why Azriel was born. And why he was then locked up.

He didn’t fully understand what she meant then. But he does now. He should already be generating a plan of attack. Reaching out to his scattered spies, giving them orders. And yet, he still remains exactly where he was an hour ago. In the corner of Rhysand’s study in the Townhouse, Truth-Teller twirling like a lethal dance in his hands. Watching in anguish as his brother paces behind his oak desk, his usual flawless appearance long since discarded.
“We can’t go to Spring Court,” Rhys says for the thirteenth time.
“Well find a way to get her out of there,” Nyx responds- again.
“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” Rhys snarls, pulling at his hair, “She’s not opening her end of the bond.”
“I’ll go,” Nyx announces adamantly.
Rhysand stops pacing and stares at her. But Azriel is already stepping out of his corner, prepared to shut that notion down immediately.
“No way. You’re not strong enough yet,” Cassian beats him to it.
Nyx rounds on him, her braided silvery hair flying like a whip and her amethyst eyes flaring with anger. Azriel silently thanks The Mother that she’s not giving him that lethal look.
“I am,” she counters firmly.
His heart pangs at her fighting will to believe that- however he knows that everyone in the room can see past her facade. Including herself.

“The twins will recognise your scent before you even get close enough to Feyre. You’re the last person who should go,” Azriel says, making it his role to be the civil, clear-minded one.
Now Nyx fixates her glare on him, and he actually has to catch himself to not bulk at the sheer ferocity of it. He truly pities any foe that has the misfortune of getting in her path. However, he doesn’t show his awe-mingled hesitation and holds his steady ground. His face calm but unyielding. His warrior-don’t fuck with me- face. And Nyx, who’s rage dwindles slightly, appears to see that this is a battle that she will not win. Not today.
She sighs and rubs at her face, her next words spitting with sourness, “You’re right. They would smell me as soon as I enter that blasted court. They could sniff me out like hounds.”
He hates the truth of it. That those demented, fucked Hybern monsters spent so long abusing his mate, that now her intoxicating scent is like a familiar drug to them.

“No. None of us are doing anything. I trust Feyre. My mate is smart and powerful, and if she truly needs help she will call out,” Rhys says firmly, more to himself, “I will keep trying to get into contact with her, but until then, we have others things to do.”
Nyx’s shoulders fall, and she chews on her bottom lip- a habit of stress and worry that Azriel has noticed she does quite often. He wants to reach out, place a hand on her shoulder and tell her everything will be okay. He wants to pull her lithe body against his and hold her in an embrace of safety. He wants to take that damned lip into his own teeth- Fuck. Stop. Stop right now.
“Rhys… maybe it’s not such a terrible idea to just tell her to leave now-“ Cass begins, but Rhysand shuts it down with a warning growl.
“I’ll send my spies in Spring a message to keep a closer watch,” Azriel offers.
Rhysand nods and takes a few deep breaths, but the tension is far from gone. Azriel doubts it’ll ever really be lifted from his brother’s shoulders.

“I’m going to Hewn City soon. I need to make an appearance, but I also need to talk to Kier about the Darkbringers. Until then, return to your posts,” Rhys orders.
They can all sense the dismissal. Slowly they all nod. Nyx is the first to actually move into action though. She pats Rhysand’s shoulder, whispers something into his ear, and then strides from the room. But before she’s fully outside, she looks over her shoulder, her eyes alight with burning resolution. It sends another jolt down to Azriel’s navel.
“When you reach her,” Nyx says quietly, a coldness washing over her, “Tell her to give them hell.”
And then she turns and struts away, taking the crackling storm with her.
“She’s already come farther than I expected her to,” Cass admits, still staring at the doorway like the rest of them.
“That’s because she has a heart that refuses to accept giving up,” Rhysand answers, clear reverence in his broken voice.
“I don’t even want to know what Brannagh and Dagdan must have done to make her act like that. All that she endured in that rotting place,” Cassian says sorrowfully.
“I just hope their deaths are slow and agonising,” Azriel comments darkly.
Both his brothers blink at him, the only tell of their slight shock. It’s not uncommon for him to be wickedly cruel, but it is rare for him to so blatantly let his feelings be known. But whenever it comes to his mate, he doesn’t know how to keep them well-restrained.

“How long are you going to-“
“Stop,” Azriel snaps at Cassian, “Just… stop.”
Cass clamps his mouth shut, but Azriel can see the disapproval in his eyes. But he doesn’t want to talk about his messy relationship with Nyx right now. Or ever. Because he’s not going to tell her. And that’s that.
“I’m going to Illyria for a few days. I need to discuss some matters with Devlon, so you’re going to have to train Nyx every morning,” Cassian says.
“Fine,” Azriel responds bitingly.
Rhysand sighs and says tiredly, “I need to speak to Amren about that bloody book. See how far she’s come to cracking it- if at all.”
Ah. That whole matter as well. Of the war. The King of Hybern threatening to destroy everything he’s come to love. There really is no time for feelings. Azriel needs to be at his deadliest. Like a viper ready to strike.
“Take care of yourself, brother,” Cassian says softly, but then adds, “And have a bath. You stink.”
Rhys cracks a half-smile and says, “So do you. Both of you, actually. Maybe I need to put it on our schedules to clean ourselves up.”
Azriel snorts and Cassian huffs a laugh. Not one of them is alright, especially not his High Lord, but if they can still do this- make one another smile- then they must still be somewhat okay. They have to be. Azriel will accept nothing else.
“I’ll see you in a few days then,” Cassian says as farewell, clasping both their shoulders before leaving as well.

Azriel can feel the tension between him and Rhys now. They haven’t been alone for a while. Not since Rhysand told Azriel just what he thought of him and his bond to his half-sister. But Rhys doesn’t seem to be angry. He just looks exhausted. So, so exhausted that his shoulders are dropping inward.
“Feyre will be okay,” Azriel finds himself saying, and Rhys looks into his eyes, “She’s High Lady of the Night Court. Mated to the most powerful High Lord, and gifted with the magic of six others. Not to mention she’s damn clever. She’ll be okay.”
Rhys can only nod, unshed tears glistening his violet eyes. Azriel offers him a small nod and then turns to leave.
“Az-“ Rhys softly calls out, halting him in the doorway, “Just… take care of her.”
Azriel knows he’s not talking about Feyre. He doesn’t respond, just slightly bows his head and continues his exit.

….

He has never seen anyone so steadfast. So utterly engrossed and committed. So viscously deadly and yet each move a graceful flow. As if the fight is a dance of fluidity itself. She spins on her toe, her back leg kicking out behind her while her left arm strikes upward in a slashing motion. Both dummies fall to the ground, effectively dead if they had of been beings with beating hearts. They fall to the ground along with the surrounding other twelve. But Nyx doesn’t so much as falter, or take a breath, before she’s already advancing on the remaining three figures. Each hand grips a long dagger and she sends one flying, not waiting to see it go through one their heads, as she rolls, darting upward behind another and slashing its throat so quickly he almost missed it. Then, as if it’s second nature, Nyx prowls up to the last standing dummy and does a few foreign sequences of offensive combat before gutting the pretend solider.

Nyx’s shoulders rise and fall as she stands there in the centre of her outburst. Now that she has stopped moving, Azriel can appreciate how magnificent she looks like this. A mighty warrior clad in skin-tight leather pants and her matching turtle-neck, with her armoured corset over the top. And her moonlight hair braided into four tight plaits. Cassian had the outfit crafted to accomodate twenty daggers, sheathed in her boots, thighs, hips and ribs. Apparently, his mate has a speciality with the little knives. And Azriel, so completely enthralled by her, didn’t notice her shadows until it was too late.
“I know you’re there,” she calls out, her voice steady despite her breathlessness.
Azriel steps out of his own bubble of darkness and into the sunlight, the warmth of it easing off some of his earlier bitterness.
Nyx turns around to face him, her face slightly reddened and glistening with sweat. She looks at him with a single brow raised in expectation.
“I’ve never seen that style of combat,” Azriel says.
“That’s because you’ve never trained with Seraphim or Hybern soldiers,” she responds, crossing her arms over her chest.
Touché.
“You’re quick on your feet. And your skills are very obviously well-defined. But you leave your left side unguarded in between attacks- just for a split second, but enough so to let an opponent land a strike,” Azriel comments, walking up to the mats.

Nyx frowns, “Show me.”
Azriel burrows all of his personal issues and feelings, and let’s the role of cold instructor take over him. She needs an unwavering, no-bullshit teacher, and so that is what he shall be.
Azriel steps over a few brutalised dummies and stops opposite her. She looks at him through her eyelashes, her chin held high, and waits for his instruction.
“Attack me. However you would if you were in battle,” he orders.
“It changes every time. That’s the beauty of it- you adapt to the situation. To meet and then conquer the enemies fighting technique,” she replies, her voice turning slightly awed.
Such a violent female. He raises a brow but otherwise doesn’t react to her very valid point.
Azriel takes a single step closer and whispers, “Then adapt and conquer me.”

Azriel prances straight into action, unsheathing Truth-Teller and swinging it at her. But Nyx was ready, as if expecting him to do just that. She blocks his blow and twists to her left, avoiding his follow up jab that would have sent her down. She uses her lithe frame against his bulkier body, swiftly sliding through his parted legs and coming up behind him. Azriel swings his arm out as he quickly turns to face her, seeing her duck his blade and then draw one of her own. She begins advancing now. Throwing offensive attack after attack, occasionally altering to defensive against some of his onslaughts. He hasn’t fought anyone like her before. She actually keeps him on his toes, providing him with a challenge. Not even his shadows can give him little pointers, likely because her own are shielding her from his. Indeed, he may have met his match. His equal.

But finally Azriel spots his window. Just as he saw when he was watching her earlier, as she throws a sharp punch- which he blocks- and then moves to strike again, her left side is exposed. He attacks before she’s upon him again. Simultaneously grabbing her right wrist and sending his elbow into her left ribs. She lets out a gasp and tries to kick his shins, but Azriel pulls her to his chest and then swipes her legs from underneath herself. And then they’re on the ground, his hips straddling her and his thighs stopping her legs from being a problem, while his hands pin her arms above her head. Her eyes are wide as she stares up at him, and he resists the sudden urge to kiss her parted lips.
“I told you,” Azriel murmurs, his chest heaving, “Your left side is vulnerable.”
Nyx squirms in an attempt to get out of her helpless position, but she’s not strong enough. Not yet. So she gives up and groans, her head dropping to the mat.

“You’re heavy,” Nyx sighs, her eyes squinting at him in annoyance.
Azriel doesn’t budge, and she rolls her eyes.
“Okay. I see your point, but can you at least let go of my wrists? They’re hurting.”
He waits a few seconds before obliging, releasing his grip and leaning back. Nyx rotates her wrists and brings them to rest on her stomach.
“So? Are you going to be a good little bat boy and help me?” she asks him coaxingly.
Azriel doesn’t take the bait though. He dons a cruel smirk and leans on his hand next to her head. Bringing their faces just inches apart. Her amethyst eyes widen just a fraction, and he can feel the rapid drumming of her heart in his chest.
“Do you know what happens to little girls who play with fire?” he whispers her first words she ever spoke to him, and her breath hitches in response, “They get burned.”
They stare into one another’s eyes, gazes darting back and forth. He’s about to move away when suddenly she tentatively lifts her arm and cups his jaw in her palm.

Azriel freezes. His whole world stops. His brain, his heart, his breath. It all pauses at her touch. Delicate and warm against his skin. He can feel her callouses against his light stubble, and he has to suppress his shiver. He doesn’t know what to do. If he should pull away- or lean in closer. All there is is her. Her her her. This wondrous, incredible creature who came into his life like a raging storm. His mate. A wildfire that cannot be controlled. Unpredictable and deadly. He doesn’t want to see the day she becomes tame. No, the world should bow at her feet. This storm of magnificence-

Nyx slams her head into Azriel’s nose, the force and pain sending him darting backwards. She uses his surprise to wriggle free and flip him over, so that now she’s on top. She is restraining his arms above his head with one hand, and holding a dagger underneath his chin in the other.
“You let your guard down, Shadowsinger,” she tuts chidingly.
Damn it. You fucking fool. Azriel draws upon all his mental strength to block out his arousal and incredulity. He makes his face appear impassive, his eyes cold as he softly snarls. Nyx flashes him a wicked grin and then jumps up to her feet. She sheathes her dagger into a little slit on her corset and steps back, waiting for him to get off the damned floor. Azriel slowly gets to his feet, not breaking her intense gaze as if that is the true battle between them. She is tall, but he’s still a head taller than her, and yet he doesn’t feel it.

Equals, a daring shadow whispers his earlier thoughts.

Azriel ignores it though. He needs to focus. He slipped up, he can admit. But it won’t happen again. It can’t.
“It seems like we could both learn something from each other then,” Nyx says, gesturing between them.
“We’ll see,” is Azriel’s only response before he advances on her.
Again and again and again. They spar for the whole morning, lost in their little secret dance of knives. Completely oblivious to the world continuing on around them. Completely caught up in one another.

Chapter Text

NYX

Any slither of tolerability has vanished. Yesterday, the Shadowsinger was- well, tolerable. Today? I wouldn’t mind actually landing that killing blow. The Shadowsinger is relentless. Utterly and irrevocably ruthless. Like a cold-blooded, unmerciful beast. Since stepping onto the mats, his face has been stony, and his harsh body unwavering. And his eyes… I have suppressed the urge to shiver at the sheer spite inside of them multiple times. Perhaps he did not enjoy my little charade yesterday and so he’s making me pay. Or maybe he really is just as diabolical as they all whisper. Maybe he actually is the monster that parents tell stories about to their children to scare them. The cut-throat Spymaster and Shadowsinger of Nightmares.

“Again.”
His deep voice is emotionless and cruel. It grates on me and I bare my teeth as I oblige. Yes, I’m definitely leaning toward homicide. I do another twenty pull ups, each one painfully slow. Just as he instructed. My whole body is shaking and overheated when I finish the set and not so gracefully land on my feet. I take in a mindful breath and slowly breath out.
“Again,” he orders.
I can’t restrain myself anymore. I whirl around, letting all the fury and hatred show in my glare.
“This is ridiculous,” I snap, “I’ve been doing this for nearly a half-hour!”
The Shadowsinger doesn’t so much as flinch.
“And?”
I gape in exasperation and say, “And, my arms are about to drop off! What good is it if I can’t use my arms tomorrow?”
The heartless brute just folds his arms, unknowingly or knowingly snagging my attention to the muscles adorning them. Sculptured to perfection.
“What have you and Cassian been doing all this time if you can’t even do some basic strength exercises?”
“I can! My body just needs a break before it breaks! Gods,” I half-shout, swinging my arms about.

The Shadowsinger takes a step closer. It sets me even further over the edge. But I try to conceal my discomfort as best I can.
“There is no time for breaks during a war,” he says lowly.
I glare at him now. Like really, truly glare with hatred.
“I know. I have fought in too many,” I snarl softly, “Need I remind you I was a General as well?”
His cold eyes flicker, but otherwise he reveals no sign of caring. No, if anything he becomes even nastier. How is it that such dastard lethality can be so gods-damned hot?
“Then you should know better, General.”
Anger blurs my vision, eradicating any allure toward him I was fighting against only seconds ago.
“And you? Have you not had your fair share of scars that take time to heal? Do you not know that pushing me to breaking point isn’t how I’m going to overcome this?” I yell, completely disregarding any sense of care.
“On the contrary,” he counters just as heatedly, taking another step closer, “It is exactly how you will conquer. If you let yourself go at a leisurely pace, you won’t improve. It creates a mindset of simplicity and laziness, rather than training your body and mind to win against yourself everyday. Because that is what we’re doing here. Going up against your greatest enemy- you- and trying to come out victorious.”

I hate that I’m stunned by his very logical, candid words. And I resent him even more for being so… telling. But I’m still blindingly furious. I still want to scream and electrocute him with a bolt of lightning. I can feel the raw power begin to awaken underneath my skin, crackling throughout my veins.
“So, what have you and Cassian been doing?” he asks again.
“Why? Are you jealous?” I taunt him with an accompanying honeyed smile.
He doesn’t find it amusing in the slightest. Or even worth responding to.
I drop the pretend smile and scowl at him for little longer before answering coldly, “He’s been teaching me how to fight like an Illyrian.”
The Shadowsinger blinks- about the biggest reaction I can expect to get from him.
“Why?”
“Because I asked him to,” I sigh and roll my eyes.
“Why?”
I groan in frustration and reluctantly answer if not to just get him to stop being such a nosy bat, “So that I can be disciplined in five different fighting techniques. Much like being multilingual.”
The Shadowsinger blinks again, his head tilting to the right ever so slightly, “You are trained in five different arts of warfare?”
My heart stutters at his use of the word art. Because that is how I have always seen it.
I fold my arms defensively and nod, “I’m still learning to battle like a brute, but yes.”
I swear his lips twitch but it was so fleeting that I’m sure I imagined it.
The Shadowsinger takes several confident steps backwards, giving me room to breathe again.

Distance between you hurts, a shadow whines, bring us closer so we can hear his hypnotic drums.

I shoo the rouge shadow away and totally disregard whatever the hell it just said, praying the male opposite me didn’t hear it either. Though the thought halts me. It makes me too curious to turn it away. Preparing to be let down, I pinch my arms where he can’t see and just ask.
“Can you hear my shadows?”
The Shadowsinger stares at me. I hold my breath as anticipation curdles in my gut. His prolonged silence makes me nervous and I begin to think the worst.
“No,” he finally replies.
I let out a breath of relief. Thank the The Mother and that blasted Cauldron. That’s one less thing to worry about at least. Something I had never even had to consider before meeting another shadow-wielder.
“Why?” he questions sceptically, and I swear trepidation worries his face as he adds, “Can you hear mine?”
I’ve never noticed it before, but I stop to listen. Trying to phase out my own so I can be sure. I can definitely feel them, and I can make out their incoherent whisperings- though only just. I certainly cannot understand them.
I shake my head, “No. But- I think they can. Talk to each other.”
The Shadowsinger actually looks relieved, but then he frowns, “Yeah. I suspect that too.”

The silence that ensues is deathly awkward. Like having something in common between us is just downright ludicrous. Luckily, the male opposte me knows how to be callous and forthright (sometimes). He folds his arms in the defiant-warrior way once more and stares me down.
“Again,” he says with a nod to the damned bar behind me.

….

I have experienced every pain there is known to this world. Stabbing wounds. Whipping. Black eyes and broken nose. Winded gut. Cracked ribs. Snapped bones. Hair pulled out. Wings crippled and sawed off. Bruises that bled. Poisoned. Fingernails ripped off. Skin shaved. Chocked. Chained. Sexually abused. And worst of all- heartbreak.

But this? This is another sort of pain. It’s the only one I enjoy, despite cursing the male who put me in this position every five seconds. My muscles weigh me down like they’re made of lead. Each movement requires a certain amount of effort that taking a single step forward should not need. Every single part of my body aches. Burning with a soreness that can be born only from hard work. Too much hard work. Not for the first time since this morning I groan at the thought of waking up tomorrow to a very stiff body. And having to do it all again. And again. And again.

It’s no wonder the Shadowsinger’s body is carved to perfection. I can only imagine how every single muscle must be thoughtfully chiseled until hard and defined. How his back alone would look like an artwork if he were to do all those pull ups while I stood and watched. How the network of veins down his arms would pop. His deliciously tan skin slick with sweat, little beads trailing his working muscles…
Shit. I stop dead in the hallway. I’m wet. Burning with desire from something I conjured up in my mind. I’ve never even seen the male shirtless. And now that’s all I want. I want to rip it off of him to see that beautiful body in action. To trail my fingers along all the crooks and smooth ridges. Memorising the scars and tattoos I can only guess are adorning his skin…

Stop. Please, please stop. But… why?
Because he despises you and you aren’t very fond of him either. True. Very, very true. But- maybe I don’t? My body certainly seems to like him- Exactly! Your traitorous body. It’s only natural after so long. I sigh, because that’s true again. It is purely a physical reaction. I can’t control that. And the Shadowsinger and I are always ending up in each others presence, so I’m getting too accustomed to his undeniably attractive physique. I sigh out in slight relief. I’m just horny. And the Shadowsinger just happens to be around. A lot. Too bad he’s a stubborn, cold, meticulously cruel arsehole. Perhaps Cassian would be willing. He’s even more built with a warrior-honed figure. And he’s certainly got that ruggedly handsome appeal. Although, my body doesn’t really seem to jump at the thought of jumping him. He’s beginning to feel more like a brother anyway. Not to mention I have seen him eyeing that uptight, nasty Nesta. I don’t know what he sees in her other than her sharp beauty, but I certainly can’t spend more than a minute in her insufferable presence.

Her sister though, Elain, seems to be a nice, albeit troubled, character. Like the delicate flowers she spends so much time tending to in the garden. I often watch her from the sunroom in the afternoon, when the circular room is lit up with the golden light. I was actually headed there now, making a detour to grab some tea from the kitchen. But a sudden idea has me changing my beloved routine. I hurry to the kitchen as quickly as my groaning body will take me and put the kettle on. I lean against the counter and drum my fingers against the marble, becoming lost in thought once more as I wait for the water to boil. The loud whistling of the steaming water pulls me back into motion. I grab a tray and prepare a pot of tea, two teacups, and some macadamia cookies baked this morning. The walk to the back garden is even slower as I balance the tray of goods, my arms pathetically shaking by the time I place the tray on top the of the ornate table by the fountain.

Elain is on her knees, her lavender dress pooled around her and impressively hardly stained with the soil she’s digging around in. Her delicate hands are holding a bulb with a single green stem shooting upwards. I watch curiously as she gently places the roots and bulb into the small hole she’s dug, then fills it in with the surrounding dirt. There’s something about the way she does it, the attention and care she practices with each step, that makes it look therapeutic. Which, as she can so often be found here, I assume it is a form of therapy for her. Far away from the heightened noises her new fae ears are still not accustomed to. Away from the foreign smells and strange beings who she grew up fearing. Hating. Beings like me.

I pick up a spade discarded on the grass and tentatively walk over to Elain, being extra loud so as to avoid startling her. She doesn’t look at me as I kneel down next to her. Silently I begin digging a hole next to the one she’s already started. I watch her pale hands and mimic her moment’s as she plucks one of the shoots from the box and plants it. I pat the soil around the stem with the spade just as she does, but apparently it’s not the correct technique. Elain lightly places a soft hand over mine, stopping my motion. I let her show me how she does it, and then try again. She seems satisfied enough as she leans back on her feet and wipes her hands together.

“What are they?” I ask her, gesturing to the new row of little green shoots.
Elain smiles absently as she answers in that soft honeyed tone, “Purple snapdragons.”
I can only nod, not entirely sure what exactly that particular flower is.
“I was inspired by your eyes. And your brothers. Although yours are more purple, while his catch a deeper blue,” she offers, surprising me, “Strange, to have such peculiar colours for your eyes.”
“I used to despise looking at my reflection because of them,” I confess quietly, something I have only ever told one other soul.
Elain places those glassy doe-eyes on me, and I get the strange feeling that she can see my entire existence. Like I am an open book for her to read.
“Why?” she inquiries, titling her head to study me deeper.
“I didn’t like what they represented,” I answer, shrugging it off.
But Elain doesn’t take that as a sufficient response.
“Why?” she asks again.
I blow out a breath and lean back as well, wiping my hands on my leather pants. I stare up at the sky as I just let the words pour out of me.

“Because every time I stared into my eyes, I was looking at my father. A male who I held such deep hatred for that it slowly ate me alive for years. A male who told me he loved me and my mother, and then banished us to a foreign island. A male who taught me how to castrate enemies rather than read me stories, who showed me the technique of slicing arteries instead of teaching me how to read. When I looked at my eyes, I saw his exact ones the last time he ever spoke to me- when he told me that I was born for greatness, but he needed magnificence. That I could never be who he needed me to be. That I wasn’t enough. That we weren’t enough… He didn’t even give either of us a kiss goodbye. Just exiled us and left us for dead for all he cared. I hated him. Like some twisted obsession. It was the first time I was ever thirsty for blood… He- he was the catalyst for the monster that I am.”
I take a breath and let myself sit in the weighted confession, slightly stunned myself. I don’t necessarily feel… better, but a certain relief fills me with each breath as I come to terms with the truth.

“You’re not a monster,” Elain’s quaint voice draws me back.
I look at her beautiful face, framed by her long brown hair, and am about to tell her that I most definitely am a monster when she begins speaking in that eerily distant way again.
“You sacrificed yourself for those helpless children surrounded by black clouds. Blood oozing from your abdomen and eyesight blurred from the ashes. A monster wouldn’t do that.”
I have no words to offer because I’m aghast, my mind frozen with puzzlement. Because I cannot recall the incident. I certainly have not saved any children in peril in the past 500 or so years. And black clouds? What in the blasted Cauldron in that supposed to mean? The only thing I can relate to is having my abdomen openly wounded- something that has happened more than what one would consider healthy.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I finally say, frowning at her serene expression.
Elain doesn’t respond. She just continues to stare at me with glazed eyes. It unnerves me too much to sit still, so I stand up and walk over to the tea. I pour it into the the porcelain teacups and offer it to her. Gracefully she rises to her feet and strolls over to to the chair by the table, seating herself down before accepting the hot drink with a beautiful smile.

We sit in tranquil silence as we sip at our tea, and I can’t help but note how elegant and practiced her mannerisms are. I feel sloppy and rude next to her by how polite and graceful she is. I spent most of my time at Hybern being as vulgar and bad-mannered as possible. And then before my imprisonment, most of my life was spent training to be a warrior and then fighting on bloody battlefields. There never was much time or relevance for etiquette.
“You were there,” Elain says, startling me from my idle thoughts.
I look at her with a confused expression and wait for her to elaborate.
“Chained and mangled and bleeding. You were so broken,” she whispers, making my body lock up in defence, “You were there. When I was drowned and then reborn with this curse.”
Oh. Right. This again. Perhaps it is a trauma response- recognising a familiar face at the scene of whatever horror occurred. And my broken body- as she so nicely put it- is a stark reminder of that horrible night for her. Maybe I shouldn’t spend time with her, if it’ll only send her backwards again and again-
“Old bonds severed and stronger bonds forged,” she continues, making me even more wary.
“Sorry?” I question, not entirely sure what she’s on about now.
But Elain shakes her head as if coming out of some trance and smiles at me as if she didn’t just stump me with her words, “Will you come again tomorrow?”
“Oh… If you would like me to,” I reply tentatively.
She smiles wider and says, “I would.”
“Okay,” I nod, still watching her closely as she stares at the garden and drinks her tea.