Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s almost time, my pet.

Anastasia Howard awoke to the gentle chimes of her phone, signaling a new day—or rather, the start of her day. The rest of the world started their mornings much earlier than her. As she reached over the bed and silenced her device, she could feel it vibrate in her hand - signaling an incoming text message. Her lips tugged upwards, knowing the author of the message before she could even read his name.

Good morning, beautiful.

Anastasia’s smile widened as she read the message. Connor had been up for hours already, his office job keeping a much more normal schedule than hers. In fact, she thought, his workday was just about ending. But like clockwork, he texted her every afternoon the moment that her alarm sounded. It was a sweet gesture, one that he started after learning the nuances of her schedule.

And he never stopped.

They were still in the early days of this – well, whatever this was - they hadn’t quite defined what they were to each other yet.

But Anastasia hoped that as things progressed, these sweet good morning texts would continue.

Typing up a quick reply and sending it off, she looked next to her. The clock on the bedside table mockingly displayed 3:00 PM. With a groan, she stretched her limbs, coaxing her body to shake off the remnants of sleep that clung to her. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the partially drawn curtains, casting a warm glow across her room.

She moved through the routine of waking up, a process streamlined by years of practice in medical school. She raked her auburn hair into a makeshift bun, eyes squinting against the intrusion of sunlight that filtered through her curtains.  Making her way to the hallway bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, letting the temperature fire up her senses. As the fogginess of sleep faded from her mind, she glanced at herself in the mirror. Her smooth pale skin was marred with dark circles under her eyes, hard-earned from completing her third night shift in a row.

She had to wonder if they were a permanent feature on her face now.

Making a promise to herself that she'd catch up on sleep tomorrow – her long-awaited night off - Anastasia pulled a sports bra and sweatshirt over her head and padded into the living room, where a rolled-up yoga mat lay patiently waiting next to the door. She lazily swung it over her shoulder as she slipped on the shoes neatly placed next to it. Grabbing her keys that hung delicately on the wall next to the entryway, she threw open the door to her apartment and started towards her favorite “morning” routine.

As the studio door chimed her arrival, she exchanged a silent nod with Elise – the blonde instructor at the front of the room. Anastasia found her place and set up her spot, the cool touch of the mat sending a small shiver up her spine. Swept up in the sensation, she almost had not even noticed as a mat and water bottle were dropped into the spot next to her. She looked up to see Rose, a fellow resident at the hospital with unruly curls that seemed to defy all laws of gravity, smirking playfully at her.

Elise guided the class through the sequence of poses, and Anastasia was thankful for the burn of her muscles.

"Late night ahead, Ana?" Rose quipped during a downward dog pose.

Anastasia chuckled, "Night shift awaits. I thought a bit of yoga might offset whatever chaos awaits me tonight."

Rose grinned, "If chaos is what you're after, join us in Ortho. Never a dull moment with endless fractures and casts – especially with school back in session. It’s every damn day now.” She shifted back into child’s pose before continuing, “I mean seriously - I don’t remember high school sports being this violent."

"Fractures and casts on smelly teenagers?” Anastasia wrinkled her nose at the thought, “I'll stick to my scalpel and sutures, thank you very much."

“I wish our schedules lined up,” Rose whined as the class shifted into warrior pose, “A bunch of us are going out tonight – there is a band playing in Dorchester, supposed to be amazing. Harmony’s Descent – I think they’re called? I heard they have a killer electric violinist.”

Anastasia sighed at the mention of the social gathering – yet another one that she would have to miss.

 “Connor mentioned something about that a few days ago.” Anastasia frowned, “He invited me but with work…” She shrugged as her voice trailed off. Connor had been somewhat mad that she had turned down the invite – it had been the first real argument in their new relationship. But there was nothing she could do – as only a resident, her life currently belonged to Tufts Medical Center.

Despite the cute morning texts, she wasn’t sure that Connor had gotten over it yet.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Rose laughed. Her friend knew all too well the demands of their chosen career path, especially when it came to her romantic and social life. “Well, if I run into Connor tonight, I’ll be sure to say hi.”

Anastasia didn’t say more as she continued Elise’s carefully crafted sequence. She almost wondered if the blonde instructor deepened the stretches and poses to keep the two young women from talking. But her muscles burned as she deepened and held the poses, and Anastasia could only be grateful for that. A half-hour later, a thin sheen of sweat coated her body as she rolled up the yoga mat. Sometimes it seemed like physical activity was the only thing that kept her sane.

With a parting wave to Rose, Anastasia made her way back into her apartment to get herself ready for the day ahead.

-x-

The dim glow of overhead lights cast a subdued mood as Anastasia made her way through the hushed corridors of Tufts Medical Center. The familiar scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and Anastasia couldn’t help but shudder. She’d only just arrived at work, but she could already feel that it was going to be a long night.  

Upon entering the Emergency Department, Anastasia was greeted with chaos.

A nurse, fatigue etched on her face, approached Anastasia. "We've got an incoming case, Dr. Howard. Stab wound, vital signs unstable."

Anastasia's senses sharpened as she approached the trauma bay. The patient, covered in small lacerations, lay before her. Her eyes fell on the deep wound in his abdomen and sucked in a breath. She would never understand how people could do something like this to one another.

The attending physician, Dr. Rodriguez, cleared his throat, and Anastasia pulled her gaze from the unconscious man on the gurney.

"Let's get a rapid assessment. Start two large-bore IVs, type and cross for blood, and prep for an exploratory laparotomy," Dr. Rodriguez barked, his gaze unwavering.

The flurry of residents, Anastasia included, dispersed under the orders of their attending.

It was going to be a long night, indeed.

-x-

The night had taken its toll on Anastasia, her limbs becoming heavy with each passing step. It was the tail end of her shift, and she could feel that fact deep in her bones. She’d spent most of the night on her feet, running from patient to patient in what seemed like a never-ending cycle. It was never a dull moment working in the emergency room, and while she liked feeling busy at work, she couldn’t help but feel fatigued. Her calves ached from the night, and as the hum of activity dwindled, and the emergency department settled into an uneasy calm, she let herself momentarily sit down on one of the chairs at the nurse’s station.

For the first time all night, she pulled her phone from the pocket of her white lab coat. She had so many unread notifications from the hours she spent wrapped up in work – and she thumbed through them mindlessly: a text from Connor wishing her an easy shift, a notification that a celebrity that she’d never heard of died, a few liked Instagram posts…

Anastasia’s eyes landed on a text from Rose, sent to her at around midnight, momentarily distracting her from the enveloping fatigue. She opened the message, expecting casual banter or a shared snippet of Rose's night out. Instead, the words on the screen sent a jolt through Anastasia.

Saw him with someone else tonight. Sorry, Ana.

Just below the message was a picture, grainy from having been zoomed in too far in a too-dark club. But there was no mistaking the image of Connor, his arms wrapped around some sandy-haired woman as they watched the band in the crowded bar.

Anastasia's heart sank, and a pang of betrayal clenched in her chest. She shouldn’t feel like that, she knew. She and Connor had never actually defined what they were to one another or had said that they wouldn’t see other people. But that didn’t stop the sinking feeling in her chest as her eyes danced over the picture once more. She clicked her phone closed and shoved it back into her pocket, disgusted with the image on the screen and the pit in her stomach that it elicited.

She didn’t want to think about it; she needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the automatic doors swung open, admitting the chaotic whirlwind of a new emergency. A teenage girl, her face strained with pain, was wheeled in by paramedics. Her face was covered with dust and ash, graying her complexion. The red from the blood dripping from the corner of her mouth was the only pop of color on the young girl’s face. Anastasia pushed away all thoughts of Connor as the urgency of the situation unfolded before her.

Compartmentalizing her personal distress, Anastasia assumed her role as a surgical resident. She hastily rose from behind the nurses’ station to join her team as her attending debriefed them – a motor vehicle accident, most likely the result of a drunk driver. Dr. Rodriguez relayed the severity of the injuries – internal bleeding, fractures, and a dire need for immediate intervention. Surgery was inevitable, and Anastasia's focus shifted entirely to the life hanging in the balance before her.

After being dismissed by her attending, Anastasia threw herself entirely into the situation before her. The details of Rose's message lingered somewhere in the recesses of her mind, but the operating room demanded her full attention. Her heart broke for the young girl being prepped for surgery, and it was all she focused on as she went through the routine of scrubbing in.

The sterile air in the operating room hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic as Anastasia prepared for the surgery. The only sound in the operating room seemed to be the steady beep of the monitors, letting the doctors know that there was still a chance for their patient. The young girl lay unconscious on the operating table, the pale outline of her injuries revealing the brutality of the collision. Dr. Rodriguez nodded to his surgical team, signaling that he was ready to begin.

Anastasia's gloved hands hovered over the patient as she assessed the extent of the damage. The trauma had left the teenager's abdomen in shambles.

"Let's start by addressing the abdominal injuries. We need to control the bleeding," Dr. Rodriguez's voice cut through the silence, authoritative and focused.

"Aspirating the blood in the abdomen. Let's get a clear view," Anastasia replied, her voice steady.

With a small nod of permission from Dr. Rodriguez, Anastasia's scalpel sliced through the delicate layers of skin, exposing tissue that was marred by the impact of shattered glass and twisted metal. Dark blood pooled within the crevices of the girl's internal organs.

Dr. Rodriguez skillfully clamped blood vessels, while Anastasia navigated the incision to extract shards of glass and shrapnel embedded within the wounds. Each extraction sent a sickening squelch through the room, but Anastasia tried not to think about it.

"Can't pinpoint the source. We need more visibility," Anastasia's voice rose slightly, gravity lacing her words as she peeled away another sharp piece of debris wedged within the wounds. The attending's calm directives became laced with a sense of urgency as they painstakingly combed through the damaged tissue, searching for the origin of the hemorrhage.

"Hand me the suction,” Dr. Rodriguez called to someone behind him, before eyeing Anastasia once more, “Let's clear the field,"

The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air as Anastasia meticulously worked to suture the damaged vessels. Time seemed to warp as they navigated what seemed like the girl’s never-ending injuries – how long had Anastasia been in surgery? Fifteen minutes? Three hours? She couldn’t tell anymore. The attending's calm directives guided Anastasia through the meticulous process of repairing torn tissue and ligaments.

As they reached the core of the injuries, Anastasia's hands trembled momentarily.

"I can't see the bleeding origin. Dr. Rodriguez, we need to find it now," she urged, her voice firm. This had been going on for far too long, and with no source in sight, she was worried that they were running out of time.

Anastasia and Dr. Rodriguez worked in tandem, their efforts intensified by the mounting urgency. But despite their best efforts, they could not find the source of the young patient’s internal bleeding. The monitors, once a sign of hope for the patient, now screamed their despair electronic wails.

"Get another unit of packed red blood cells ready. We're losing her," Dr. Rodriguez's command over the screams of the monitors was laced with palpable frustration.

And then, as if surrendering to an invisible force, the girl's body faltered. The monitors' alarms escalated in urgency, but the rest of the room held its breath as the young life slipped away.

"I'm calling it. Time of death, 07:17," Dr. Rodriguez declared with a heavy sigh, his eyes betraying the weariness of a battle lost.

Anastasia's heart sank. The weight of the loss settled upon her shoulders. They had fought hard – the young girl on the table had fought hard – but it hadn’t been enough. The haunting sounds of the monitors persisted around them as time stood still. Her gloved hands hung in the air for a beat before she removed them, her eyes momentarily closing as she absorbed the profound sense of defeat. Losing a patient – especially one so young – was never easy.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, a tear nearly escaping her eye as she allowed herself a moment of grief before clearing the room for those performing post-mortem care.

-x-

Anastasia sank onto her bed, the soft cushioning of her mattress embracing her weary frame after the long day. The morning light tried to peak through her blackout curtains, casting a muted glow over her bedroom. She was grateful for the silence of her apartment after the incessant beeps and alarms of the OR – she needed it.

As she lay there, willing sleep to come after such a long day, images of the hospital flashed through her mind: a lifeless girl being wheeled in on a gurney, the wail of her vital monitors – it just wouldn’t stop. With her eyes closed, she couldn’t escape the operating room. She flipped over onto her side, trying to think of anything except that young girl.

Her phone lit up next to her, and she grabbed it – grateful for the distraction – before she groaned.

Hope you had a good shift. Good night, beautiful.

Something sank in the bit of her stomach as she recalled the text Rose had sent her earlier. She knew she shouldn’t be upset that Connor was out with anyone else – they technically hadn’t said anything about not seeing other people. She had no right to be distressed about it.

She turned over once more – there was no way that she would be able to sleep right now. Her mind was racing, and between her thoughts of Connor and the operating room, and she needed to clear it. Anastasia slipped out of her warm bed, her bare feet flexing as they hit the cold floor. She slipped on a black sports bra and leggings – if she wasn’t going to be able to sleep, then maybe a run would do the trick.

Anastasia slipped into her running shoes and stuck in her air pods, shutting the door behind her as she readied herself for her run. The muted glow of morning light served as a gentle backdrop as she left her apartment. The city outside was waking up, people peppered the streets on the way to their jobs. She weaved through the commuters as she ran in the direction of the nature preserve.

She preferred running on the trails of the nature preserve, rather than the harsh concrete of the city. It allowed her a sense of escape from the stresses of life in the city – something that she needed right now.  It was like another world, surrounded by towering cedar trees and wildlife, the hum of the city distant in the background. It was quiet here as if the preserve had already let go of summer and was now patiently awaiting autumn. Setting upon one of the trails she knew like the back of her hand, she pushed herself to full speed as the crowds of the city had all but disappeared.

The cool morning air stung her lungs, awakening her senses as she propelled herself forward. The muscles in her legs – already tired from a long night – burned as she pushed herself to move faster, far beyond the reaches of her racing thoughts. The trees of the preserve whipped past her as she picked up her pace, testing herself beyond her normal limits. It felt good – the searing pain of exertion was enough to clear her head.

The steady tempo of her breathing synchronized with the pounding of her heart. As the incline of the running trail steepened, Anastasia's legs screamed in protest, but she pressed on.

Keep going, a deep, alluring voice – not her own – egged her on from somewhere in the back of her mind. It’s only a little bit further.

Song after song played, as Anastasia continued pushing herself further. Once again, she seemed to lose track of time. Had she been running for over an hour now? But even as her body screamed in protest at the exertion, she wouldn’t allow herself to stop. Every time she felt the fatigue start to win out, that little voice in her head insisted that she keep going – just a little bit further. And so, she pressed on, and the trail ahead became a narrow tunnel, her focus narrowing to the immediate path beneath her feet.

The world beyond the periphery of her vision ceased to exist as her body surged forward.

She pressed onward, but somewhere along the way, her cadence had lost its rhythm. There was something wrong with her strides, almost as if her limbs were too long for the rest of her body. Her legs screamed in pain, stretching violently as her heels met the trail. Anastasia cried out as she tried to catch herself, but with each footfall, it was as if her body did not belong to her. Keep going, the voice – her subconscious? – insisted, you’re almost here.

She stumbled and her body surged forward to the ground beneath her. She closed her eyes as she braced for impact, putting her hands out in front of her to break her fall. Even her arms felt wrong, hitting the ground before she expected them to. These limbs, too, felt as though they had been pulled in different directions – stretching them out beyond their limits.

The pain was over in an instant, but Anastasia was left shaking. She sat up from the spot where she had fallen, putting her hands on her thighs to brace herself as she struggled to catch her breath. Her lungs greedily sucked in air, but the frigid air burned as she inhaled. It was colder than when she had first left her apartment, and the air was certainly crisper.

Her vision slowly returned to her, and she watched as her fingers – they seemed longer now – trembled as she lifted them to her eyes. She sucked in another breath, ignoring the searing pain as she did so. She realized, after a few more moments – that the air was thinner now too, like it had felt when she had visited the White Mountains. Anastasia looked around; her tunnel vision gone enough that she could take in her surroundings.

The cedar and maple trees of the nature reserve were nowhere to be found and had instead been replaced by towering pines and a thin layer of snow that covered the ground beneath them. Snow? It was barely through September; New England winters could be harsh, but Anastasia had never once experienced snow this early.

Come find me. The words, as faint in her mind like a whisper in the wind, surrounded her. It had sent a chill up her spine – that was most definitely not her subconscious. But Anastasia pushed the thoughts of it from her mind as she tried to figure out just where the hell she was.

Her heart hammered as she took in her surroundings; this was not a part of the nature preserve that she recognized. In fact, her gut was telling her that she was no longer in her favorite running spot. It was then that she noticed it was quiet – too quiet. Her music had stopped playing, and she unthinkingly reached up for her air pods. But as her fingers grazed her ears – no headphones in sight – she noticed that the tip of her ear was pointed.

“What the fuck?”

Her heart rate picked up, just as intense as it was when she pushed herself on her run. She trailed her fingers over her ears once more, not fully trusting her own senses. But once again, she could feel the delicate point where a curve should be. What the hell was happening to her? Running her hands over the rest of her body, checking for any other abnormalities, she did not hear the soft thud from behind her until it was too late.

Someone had spoken – a jumble of noises that she did not understand – and Anastasia whipped to look behind her. She stagged backward as she took in the sight of a dark-haired man striding towards her; he had definitely not been there just a few seconds earlier. She couldn’t make out much of his appearance, aside from the golden-bronze skin. He was dressed in some kind of leather get up and what looked like a large camping backpack strapped to his back.

“Hey, buddy,” She called out as she tried to hide her uneasiness at being snuck up on in an unfamiliar forest, “Did you get lost on the way to the Dungeons and Dragons convention or something?”

He inched closer, and Anastasia was able to get a good look at his face. Cropped dark hair only seemed to accentuate his bronze skin, and his eyes were a piercing shade of blue. If she hadn’t been so creeped out by the encounter, she might have thought that the man was attractive.

The man spoke again in a language that she could not recognize, his voice harsh and guttural. She jumped at the sound – she might not be able to understand him, but there was no mistaking the ferocity in his tone.

Anastasia shook her head as she tried to stop her voice from trembling, “I-I don’t understand what you’re saying. Do you speak English?”

He said something again, his tone clipped and authoritative. Was she being mugged? Was this something more sinister? Her heart was hammering in her chest as her eyes glanced around at the unfamiliar woods. How could she get out of the situation?

As he took another step towards her, she traced her own steps backward. If only she hadn’t dropped her phone somewhere along the running trail, she could have called for help.

“Listen,” She put her hands up, “I don’t have any money on me, and I don’t want any trouble.”

Anastasia didn’t know if the person before her understood what she was saying, or if he could just sense her fear. But a serpentine smile spread across his lips as he took another step towards her. His strides were longer, and he was much too close for comfort. Anastasia stumbled backward, her palms hitting the cold snow on the ground behind her as she attempted to scatter away from this man. She could feel her skin ripping as it skidded along the frozen ground, but she could not bring herself to care about that now. 

As the man drew closer, the camping backpack seemed to unfurl of its own accord. It spread out as if in slow motion and as he neared, she could see rising from behind him a set of leathery bat-like wings. 

Anastasia screamed.

Chapter Text

The air in the dimly lit tent was thin and harsh, and a metallic tang lingered on Anastasia's tongue as she slowly regained consciousness. The cold, hard ground beneath her sent shivers through her body, and the distant sounds of muffled footsteps and indistinct voices echoed in the cramped space. Anastasia groaned softly, her head pounding with a dull ache. As awareness seeped back into her foggy mind, she attempted to move, only to realize her limbs were bound with unforgiving metal shackles.

Panic surged within her as the reality of what happened settled over her.

Pathetic, a strange voice, distinctively male and alluring, bubbled up from somewhere inside of her, allowing yourself to be taken.

She winced against the sudden memory flashes, the last moments of her being ambushed by the crazed man with wings replaying over again in disjointed fragments: the chaos of the attack, the rough hands that had seized her, and the feeling of being forcibly restrained flooded her senses. Anastasia's heart raced as it all came flooding back to her, but none of it made any sense.

Kidnapped by some kind of LARPer in the woods?

No – this had to be a dream.

This is not a dream, pet. the voice echoed, a velvety murmur cutting through her feeble attempts at rationale.

Her shoulders collapsed as she came to the realization that the voice – whatever the hell that was – was right. As unbelievable as everything was, the pain radiating through her body - the clarity in all her senses, told her that it was most definitely not a dream.

Of course, this was just her luck.

With a strained groan, she pushed herself into a sitting position, taking in the bleak surroundings. The tent was positively spartan - dank and devoid of any comfort. Rusty shackles adorned her wrists and ankles, each movement accompanied by the jangling of chains. Her shackles were tethered to a stake in the ground at the center of the tent, limiting her freedom of movement. Anastasia's eyes flickered around, searching for anything that might be able to tell her where she was or help her get her out of her restraints.

But the room was so sparse, there was nothing there to help her.

Anxiety clawed at her throat, and she swallowed hard against the rising panic at the thought of her circumstances. Could she call out for help? The man who attacked her didn’t seem to understand what she was saying, and she sure as hell hadn’t been able to understand him. And even if they could understand her, would anyone even try to help her?

I will help you, the voice called to her, if you help me.

Great. She was hearing voices.

Instead of thinking too much about the voice, Anastasia took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. She attempted to steady herself by focusing on her breathing - just like Elise had instructed her at yoga.

Inhale.

Exhale.

When her heart rate slowed and the panic that had flooded her senses subsided enough for her to think straight, her surgeon's instincts began to kick in. Anastasia became acutely aware of her physical state. The throbbing ache in her head that she had woken up with was most likely due to some sort of blow or impact - it could also explain the strange male voice that she was hearing in her head.

As her fingers tentatively explored the contours of her skull, she noted the tenderness at its base. She hoped that she didn’t have a concussion.

Wincing as her fingers glazed over the bruise, Anastasia shifted her attention to her extremities. The cold metal of the shackles clung to her wrists, causing abrasions that were already beginning to form. Her hands displayed fresh lacerations from when she had first fallen in the woods. The skin was raw, and at one point must have been bleeding quite a bit. How long had she been out cold? The clinical part of her brain – the part that carried her through medical school and countless surgeries – told her that she’d need to get supplies and clean it out so that it didn’t get infected.

Looking around the empty tent, she let out a sigh – would she even be able to get the kind of medical supplies needed to prevent infection?

Her gaze traveled down her body, analyzing the state of her clothing, which had certainly seen better days. Her leggings, once neat and clean, were peppered with torn edges and mud stains. She was still only in the sports bra, which provided no relief from the cold hard ground beneath her.

Anastasia's gaze swept across the confines of the small tent, her mind racing as she assessed the limited options available to her. The metallic echo of her chains seemed to mock her. She scrutinized every inch of the tent, searching for any conceivable means of escape.

But there was none.

A surge of frustration welled within her.

She pulled on her restraints, hoping that the rusted metal would give. But the stake to which she was shackled, was driven into the ground so deep that there was no way she’d ever be able to pull it free. She pulled once more, as hard as her fatigued body would allow. But the unforgiving metal resisted her attempts to manipulate or loosen them.

Pathetic, that voice in her head repeated.

Anastasia took a deep breath, gathering her resolve. There had to be someone, anyone out there who would come to help her. People just didn’t go missing in this day and age – there were trackers. GPS. Drones. She couldn’t have been too far from the city of Boston – someone would be bound to hear her. Raising her voice, she called out, "Is there anyone out there? Can anyone hear me?"

The echoes of her own voice reverberated through the tent, but the response was nothing more than the muted rustling from beyond the fabric walls. She tried to peer out beyond the thin gaps in the fabric but could not see anything clear of the world beyond. What the hell was beyond the four walls of this god-forsaken tent?

Undeterred, she persisted, her calls for help becoming more urgent. "Please, someone, help me!"

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the distant sounds of whatever was beyond the camp. She could hear people just beyond the tent pause as they listened to her pleas, before swiftly picking up pace once again and moving on as if she did not exist. Anastasia's shoulders slumped, a mix of exhaustion and frustration settling in. Nobody was going to help her.

Moments later, the flap at the entrance rustled, and the winged man she had encountered before stepped inside. She couldn’t help but stare at his large form as he entered; Anastasia had never seen anything like that. His eyes, cold and inscrutable, met hers as he regarded her with an unsettling intensity.

Those same cold eyes landed at the flimsy sports bra – the only thing that was covering her – and Anastasia swore she could see a flash of some kind of primal hunger in him. It caused a shiver of fear to run up her spine; she swallowed it down, remembering how he had sensed her fear just before abducting her.

With a sweep of his wings – she still couldn’t believe that was real, they had to be prosthetics - he stepped aside. Behind him, another winged figure, adorned in a similar kind of leather armor, entered the tent. This man had brown-black hair, similar to the one who had captured her. He carried himself with a level of authority that Anastasia could only assume he was the leader of this – well, whatever it was. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, assessed Anastasia with scrutiny.

Her captor stood silently at attention. His wings, once formidable and terrifying, now folded with an air of deference to the other winged man. No, not man – there was nothing about these people that seemed even remotely human.

Illyrian scum, the voice in the back of her head hissed. Anastasia blinked, not even recognizing the word in her own mind. How could her subconscious even come up with that? But she pushed the thought of her dwindling sanity from her mind, more concerned with the brute standing directly in front of her.

Anastasia met the piercing gaze of the authoritative male. Her pulse quickened, but she tried to keep her face steady as he assessed her.  

His mouth opened, speaking words that she couldn’t understand. Just from the tone of voice, she could tell that he was barking directives at her – but she didn’t know what they wanted. Anastasia, bound and unable to understand their words, met their inscrutable stares with a mix of fear and confusion.

Anastasia shook her head, “I don- I don’t know what you’re saying.”

The male demanded something else, and even though she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying there was no mistaking the frustration lacing his words.

Anastasia, bewildered and desperate, could only offer a blank stare in return.

The first male – his hair darker than the other - took a step forward. He snapped something harsh at Anastasia.

"I already told you," Anastasia snapped back, her frustration getting the better of her, “I don’t know what you’re saying.” She slowed down her speech, enunciating carefully. But the words fell on deaf ears, as the frustration in the tent only escalated. The leader, unsatisfied with her lack of response, gestured impatiently as he said something to the dark-haired male.

With an abrupt, ferocious lunge, the dark-hailed male seized Anastasia, his fist landing down on her abdomen in a brutal physical blow. The wind seemed to leave her body with the strike, leaving her breathless and gasping for air. After a momentary pause in her abuse, she managed to choke out, “I do – I don’t know what you want from me.”

More incoherent sounds came from the leader, asking her a question that she did not know the answer to. The tears that she had tried to keep hidden were welling up in her eyes now.

“I’m a doc – doctor,” She sputtered, her teeth chattering from a mixture of both the cold and fear, “I didn’t d-do anything wrong.”  

Her pleas were met with the backhand of the dark-haired male.

The leader spoke again, and when Anastasia didn’t respond – couldn’t respond – he raised his fist again. The blows landed with a bone-chilling impact, and the metallic restraints clanged with each strike. The sickening thud of each contact reverberated through the tent.

At some point, during the relentless blows, Anastasia could taste blood in her mouth – how she didn’t know.

Anastasia's vision blurred and her senses dulled. A final, brutal impact sent her spiraling as everything went dark.

-x-

Anastasia stirred in the dimly lit tent; her body, battered and bruised, protested every attempt to move. The metallic taste of blood lingered in her mouth. As her senses slowly acclimated to the surroundings, she surveyed the tent, its fabric now twinged red with the residue of her suffering.

She shuddered at the sight.

The uncertainty of her captivity gnawed at her - how many days had it been since she had been taken? Weaving in and out of consciousness made it hard for her to keep track of the passing of time. It had to have been at least three days. Had someone at home reported her missing? Had the hospital called the police after she hadn’t shown up for her shifts?

There was really no way of telling how long she had been held prisoner. The dim light of the tent made it impossible for her to tell what time of day it was, and they had not so much as brought her a single meal.

Her stomach panged at the mere thought of food. Her hunger had evolved from a dull ache to an acute pain – another sign that she had been held in this tent for days. She could feel her body weakening from the lack of food.

Sighing, she looked at her hands. Covered in dirt and grime from the dirt floor of the tent, she tried to make out the cuts from her first day in captivity. What had been deep cuts that would have demanded medical attention in better circumstances were now only faint white lines below the grime. Her weary eyes widened – how did that happen? Had she been held here longer than she originally thought? It was impossible to heal that quickly.

The thought unsettled her, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chains.

Chains do not become you, my pet. It was the same voice she had been hearing on and off for the last few days and choosing to ignore. She’d been fearful that hearing voices meant she was going insane, but as she looked around the empty tent she didn’t know if there was much more she had to lose. At the very least, she thought, the strange voice in her head spoke English.

"Who are you?" she asked the empty air around her, immediately feeling silly for talking to herself. But there was something odd about this voice – most definitely not her own – that she couldn’t quite place.

Do not be frightened, the voice countered, and she could hear a chuckle reverberating through her mind, at least not of me.

“Who are you?” She demanded once more, her eyes darting around the confined space. If one of her captors were to come in and see her talking to herself, what would they think? What would they do to her? They thought she was up to something – if her daily interrogations were any indicator, and now she would only give them more of a reason to suspect something.

But Anastasia had to admit, it was nice to talk to someone.

Even if that someone was a surefire sign that she was going crazy.

Think of me as a friend, pet, it cooed, the word 'pet' sending a shiver down her spine. She scoffed; unsure she could ever consider this disembodied voice her friend. After all, wasn’t this a sign that she was going insane? After who knows how long in captivity, she had finally lost it.

Your plight intrigues me.

The single lantern's glow cast distorted shadows on the bare tent walls, looking almost alive. Anastasia's gaze flitted nervously as she watched them dance along the canvas. She looked around the bare tent before her gaze fell to the shackles on her wrists, “Could you help me get out of here?”

No, pet.

A heavy silence followed, and Anastasia’s shoulders sank, and she looked back down at the shackles that were chafing her wrists. Would she ever get out of them? And if she did, where would she even go? She didn’t even know where she was.

"Where am I?" Anastasia's voice cut through the quiet air of the tent.

Another chuckle reverberated through her mind before the voice responded, does it truly matter, pet? You are where you need to be.

Frustration creased her brow as she pressed for more, "How did I get here?"

That is a question for another time.

Anastasia's eyes narrowed with suspicion, the voice's elusive answers only deepening her sense of unease. "Why won't you give me a straight answer?"

Why are you not asking the right questions? The voice shot back.

“I don’t care about the right questions,” She grumbled, her frustration fueled by the increasingly cryptic responses, “I just want to get out of here.”

Patience, pet.  The voice chuckled, a low, resonant sound that sent shivers down her spine, if escape is what you seek, follow the threads that lead to answers.

Anastasia couldn’t help it – she rolled her eyes. "Just tell me where to go. Don't talk in riddles."

The voice only let out a breathy chuckle.

“Why are these people doing this to me?” She ran a shackled hand through her now matted hair, “What do they even want from me?”

The Illyrians are wary of you – they do not trust why you are here. As they should.

“What?” She scoffed at the absurdity, “What even are Illyrians? I’ve never heard of them.”

Lesser beings, the voice said dismissively, as if it wasn’t at all concerned about the monsters that had brutalized her, one day you will never have to concern yourself with them, pet. You will be so far above them – you can reduce the lot of them to nothing but ashes for all they have done to you.

She clenched her bound fists at his dismissiveness, her frustration mounting. "This is pointless – I don’t even know what you are talking about. Why are you even talking to me if you won't help?" Anastasia felt ridiculous, begging for information from a figment of her own subconscious.

Seek me, and you shall find the help you desire, the voice intoned, as it faded into the recesses of her mind. Anastasia sat, bound to the stake in the floor, contemplating her own sanity when she heard a faint rustling just outside of her tent.

The canvas of her tent flipped open, letting in a harsh light that caused Anastasia to wince – it was daylight, then. As her eyes adjusted to the bright light, the male who had found her in the woods marched in. His eyes assessed her coolly, the visible marks of his earlier beating seemed to have no effect on his conscience. He stepped towards her, ignoring her instinctive retreat as he edged closer to her.

With a single hand, he grabbed her left arm and lifted her up onto her feet. With his other hand, he masterfully undid the shackle on the ground, leaving her hands bound together but she was now free to move about. This newfound freedom allowed her to scramble backwards, out of the dark-haired male’s reach.

He grabbed her arm harder this time and Anastasia let out a small yelp at the contact. Without even waiting for Anastasia to find her footing, began dragging her out of the confines of her tent and into the light. Her eyes burned as they adjusted to the light after days in a dimly lit tent. But she looked around greedily, trying to take in any hint of where she might be.

The canvas of the sky stretched above, with a cool grayness that reflected the chill in the air. The crisp cold air, tinged with the scent of earth and campfires, held a certain wildness that made her uneasy.

Anastasia wasn’t sure what she had imagined that she would see when she left the tent, but it wasn’t this. It was a camp site, looking like something out of a medieval war movie.

The war camp sprawled across the rugged terrain, a mosaic of shelters and billowing smoke. Lean-tos erected with driftwood offered some more permanent structures towards the far side of the encampment. Small fires seemed to pepper the landscape, and gray plumes of smoke rose up into the air. How could something like this exist outside of Boston?

You’re not in Boston anymore, my pet.

“Where am I?” She asked, her voice raspy. But the voice did not respond, and the dark-haired male only pulled on her chains harder, leaving Anastasia to survey the war camp for any kind of clue as to where she was.

All around her, males with powerful wings and a stoic demeanor moved with a fierce grace that seemed inherent to some kind of warrior-like nature. All of them were dark-haired and clad in armor that reflected the brutality of their existence. Anastasia couldn’t help but shiver, wondering if they were just as violent at the man dragging her now.

There were females there too, much to Anastasia’s surprise. Some tended to the rudimentary fires, while others carried bundles of gathered herbs. A few even appeared to be wrangling small children. Their wings, however, bore a noticeable difference to the males. They were smaller and hung unevenly over their backs – as if they had been clipped. Anastasia looked at the females, trying to catch at least one of them by eye. She couldn’t imagine that they would be comfortable with a woman being held prisoner in their midst. Maybe someone would find it in their hearts to intervene on her behalf – to help her.

But as she was dragged through the camp, the females did not turn their attention towards her. In fact, they seemed to be averting their eyes, deliberately looking at anything else in the camp but her.

“Please,” She called out to them, ignoring the fact that the male’s grip on her forearm only tightened, “I need some help!”

They may not be able to understand her, but there was no way that they would mistake the desperation in her voice.

A few of the females looked up at the captive and their eyes shone with pity at her battered appearance. But they made no moves to do anything or intervene for her. Most of the females, however, just kept their eyes downcast. Disgust furled up inside her at these people – was it so acceptable to look injustice in the face and just turn a blind eye?

No one will help you, pet. No one but me.

Chapter Text

No one will help you, pet. No one but me.

Anastasia tried to ignore that voice in her head as she was ushered into another tent, this one much more opulent than the one she had been confined to. The fabric walls, adorned with intricate patterns, allowed dim to filter through, casting a muted glow upon the polished surfaces within. Little lights, with no visible electrical source, illuminated the space even more so that Anastasia could look upon her tormentor.

The male who had questioned her previously, draped in leather armor, sat upon a crude throne that loomed over the room. A smattering of rugs adorned the ground, preventing the cold from the earth from rising into the rest of the tent.

Anastasia’s eyes scanned her surroundings for any clues as to where she might be. Maps were sprawled across a worn wooden table and her eyes strained for a closer look. She could make out the shape of two islands with lines and symbols scattered around the page in ink. It did not look like a map of New England that she had ever seen – or anywhere else she recognized for that matter. None of it made sense to her – the drawing on the map did not resemble any country that she knew of.

A chair scraped loudly across the ground as it was brought forward to the table with the old map in the center. Anastasia, her movements restricted, was forced into a seated position by rough hands. Another male swiftly secured her restraints to the table, leaving her hands laid out flat against the wood and rendering her immobile once again.

The leader's eyes, piercing like shards of ice, fixed on Anastasia as she was brought before him. The dark-haired male - her captor - stepped back, giving ample space for the leader to approach her.

His voice, low and commanding, resonated through the tent in that guttural language. But Anastasia couldn’t string any meaning from them. She shook her head in a futile attempt to communicate her lack of understanding. If she had been able to communicate with them, would they let her go?

You are too much of a prize, pet, to be let go.

The leader's impatience simmered beneath the surface, his gaze hardening with each passing moment. When her silence persisted, he gestured to one of his subordinates, and the dark-haired male re-entered the tent, his presence an unspoken threat.

Anastasia's wide eyes darted between the leader and the silent menace circling her. The leader's commanding tone brooked no defiance, and any semblance of courage that lingered within Anastasia at the beginning of the day dissolved into a paralyzing fear.

The dark-haired male, acting on the orders that she did not understand, circled behind Anastasia. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see what appeared to be a mallet clenched in his right hand. His movements were silent, and the fear of what he would do hung over Anastasia, increasing with each passing minute.

The leader pointed at the larger of the two islands on the map – at a small symbol on what appeared to be a mountainside. It was further removed from all the other symbols, and Anastasia felt herself deflate. If that was where this camp was located, there was nothing else around for miles. They were well and truly remote out here. She peered closer at the map, trying to make sense of it all. But the land drawn on that piece of parchment was as foreign to her as whatever language they were speaking.

“Is that where we are?” Anastasia asked, knowing that her question would be pointless. But maybe – just maybe – if he could hear the confusion in her voice, he would understand that she did not know anything.

The male's finger traced a route on the map, leading from the mountainside to a location along what appeared to be a winding river. He hissed a question, his tone impatient.

“I don’t know where that is!” She insisted, her frustration at talking in circles bubbling to the surface.

His gaze shifted to the dark-haired man standing ominously behind her, a silent command hanging in the air between them. Without uttering another word, the dark-haired male stepped into her line of vision, wielding the mallet with brutal force. He brought it down on Anastasia's hand with a sickening impact, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from her as stars momentarily dotted her vision. The excruciating pain reverberated through her, leaving her breathless and disoriented.

As Anastasia was focused on the throbbing pain radiating from her hand, she could hear the shuffling of papers on the table. When she looked over, she could see a new map sprawled across the surface of the table. The same islands were on the map, but this one showed a more detailed, comprehensive view. Her interrogator’s finger landed on the small island to the west of the larger one, and he hissed another question at her.

She shook her head, hoping that he would see that she was being truthful in her responses.

He once again pointed to the small island, his voice laced with venom as he repeated his question. His eyes narrowed when Anastasia failed to provide the answers that he was looking for.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she managed to choke out, tears threatening but held at bay by the overwhelming stress of the interrogation. The pain in her hand, coupled with the relentless questioning, left her feeling weak and vulnerable.

The leader's response was swift and brutal. His hand, calloused and unrelenting, struck her face with a sudden, ruthless force. The impact reverberated through Anastasia's body, but she couldn’t flinch back bound as she was. He barked some more unintelligible commands, and when she continued to offer no coherent response, he raised his hand once more.

He gestured once more at the map, at the small island that Anastasia did not recognize. His voice was now a thunderous grow as he demanded something else of her. He spoke quickly, unleashing a torrent of words that held no meaning for Anastasia. She could only shake her head, “I don’t know what that is.”

Sensing the leader's escalating rage, the dark-haired male took the mallet to her fingers once more, intensifying the brutality of his blows with each unanswered question.

The echoes of her cries reverberated within the confines of the tent.

Anastasia's body tensed with each strike. Darkness pressed in from all sides, suffocating and relentless, until it finally swallowed her whole.

-x-

Anastasia's consciousness resurfaced in the dimly lit tent, a throbbing ache pulsing through her body. Blinking against the dim light, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. For the briefest of moments, she believed she had woken up in her apartment, after a horrible dream and slept away most of her day off. But as her senses returned to her, and she became more aware of the throbbing pain in her mangled hands, the understanding that this was most definitely real washed over her.

A female with wings – an Illyrian, as the voice in her head had called them – entered the tent, her silhouette backlit by a muted glow. The sound of the leathery wings rustling accompanied her movements as she carried a tray laden with some questionable-looking food. The aroma, an unsettling mix of unfamiliar herbs and charred remnants, wafted through the air. The tray was placed before Anastasia, and she couldn't help but regard the unappetizing contents with suspicion. She wouldn’t put It past these monsters to try and poison her.

Anastasia squinted at the winged figure, her eyes adjusting to her presence. The female's wings, though terrifying, bore the telltale signs of clippings as they hung unevenly across her back. 

Somehow, a spark of courage returned to Anastasia, and she gestured to the wings at the female’s back, “Did they do this to you?”

The female looked taken aback by the bluntness with which Anastasia spoke, and the gesture to the clipped wings. She looked back at the wings hesitantly and extended them outward as if answering some question that Anastasia hadn’t asked. Anastasia looked on, horrified, as she could see the mutilations up close. Scar tissue ran across the bottom edge of the wing, where it seemed as if the veins that were faintly visible throughout the wings seemed to stop abruptly.

Summoning all her courage, Anastasia grabbed the wrist of the female, holding it between her own shackled hands. She searched the female’s eyes, hoping to see something, anything that might indicate that she would help her.

“Help me,” Anastasia pleaded, “Help me get out of here.”

The female didn’t speak English, and she most certainly wasn’t speaking whatever language the monsters in this camp did. But at Anastasia’s words, something flickered in the female’s eyes. Anastasia latched on to it as if it was her only hope.

“Please,” She repeated, “I don’t know what they want from me – I didn’t do anything.”

A string of incoherent syllables erupted from the female’s mouth, and her eyes turned downcast towards the bare ground of the tent. Wrenching her hand back from Anastasia’s weak grasp, she turned to make her way back out of the bare tent.

The courage that had welled up in Anastasia earlier morphed into something else entirely. At the site of the female’s back turning away from her please - mutilated wings be damned – Anastasia burned with fury.

“You’re a monster, too,” She hissed, saliva spraying out like venom. The female paused momentarily as if understanding the rage pent up within her. “You’re just as bad as them.”

Without so much as a backward glance, the female left the tent.

-x-

Anastasia staggered through the sinister forest landscape, the moon's sickly glow revealing twisted trees that clawed at her with skeletal branches, scraping her already raw skin as she plunged further and further into the dark woods. The air hung heavy with an ominous stillness, and her labored gasps for air were the only sound that reverberated through the unsettling silence.

As she sprinted, the trees contorted into grotesque shapes, their twisted branches slashing at her. They tore through the fabric of her already threadbare clothes, leaving her arms and legs marked with angry welts, as if it conspired to return her to her captors.

There was something lurking here - chasing her through the mountain forest, she could feel it closing in behind her. Its monstrous form materialized in the shifting shadows overhead – somehow it was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Branches lashed at her, leaving raw welts and scratches on her skin. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the sickening laughter of her pursuers. The sound echoed through the forest, resonating off the trees until Anastasia couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from. The air thickened with fog, obscuring her vision, and strengthening the suffocating grip that this god-forsaken forest had on her. It clung to her skin, dampening her clothes, and amplifying the sensation of being trapped.

As Anastasia continued running for her life, her pursuer closed in with relentless determination. Its monstrous form, a nightmarish silhouette with wings spread wide, materialized from the shadows overhead. With each agonizing step she took, the creature's presence loomed over her, casting a suffocating shadow that she just couldn’t escape from.

The twisted trees continued to claw at her, but her desperate escape couldn't outrun the inevitable. The demon seized her in its death grip. Powerful talons closed around her, and she felt the cold, unyielding touch burning her skin.

The demon's wings, black as the abyss, wrapped around her in some twisted embrace. Anastasia could feel the leathery texture against her skin, making it crawl with disgust and fear. Panic seized her as the creature's relentless hold tightened, and the air around her seemed to thicken. She could see the clouds of her breath against the obsidian leather of its’ wings.

Worries gnawed at her as the demon's bat-like wings wrapped around her even tighter, it’s vice like grip on her only getting tighter and tighter. She could not pretend to know what the winged demon wanted, but she was certain of one thing: it was never letting her go. 

I will never let you go.    

-x-

Anastasia's eyes shot open with a start, her breaths quick and shallow. The forest, the winged demon, and the suffocating grip of the black wings vanished like smoke in the air. In their place, the harsh reality around her settled around her once more.

The dimly lit tent surrounded her, its fabric still tinged red with the blood and gore of her previous interrogations. The metallic taste of fear lingered in her mouth and the air hung heavily around her – much like it had every morning in her recent memory.

At least there had been a routine to her captivity. Dragged from the dimly lit tent that served as her prison, she faced a merciless cycle of torment as she was interrogated for answers that she did not have. Without fail, she begged and pleaded for them to have pity on her – to let her go. But her tormentors, either ignorant or indifferent to her innocence, only found new ways to subject her to horror.

Once the daily ordeal ended, she was carelessly cast back into the tent and left alone with her nightmares. In the shadows of her subconscious, winged demons materialized, chasing her so that she never knew a moment of peace. Even that voice in the back of her mind taunted her.

You’re weak, the voice chided as she finally let the tears fall after a particularly brutal interrogation, I thought you would be stronger.

“I’m sorry,” She choked through the tears, embarrassed that she had disappointed it. Hearing voices in her head – she knew she must be going mad. Especially with how often it berated her, calling her weak. But the voice – velvety soft and male – was the only familiar thing to her.

And she wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.

I know, pet.

Anastasia’s shoulders released tension that she did not know she was holding as the voice called her 'pet’. She knew she was going mad – driven to it by her confinement. But she felt immense relief that the voice wasn’t angry with her. That she was still it’s pet.

"Can you help me?" She asked the darkness around her, despite knowing that it would be of no use. Night after night, she asked the same question. And night after night, the voice offered only cryptic responses.

Only when you come and find me.

She looked helplessly down at the chains that bound her wrists together, “That’s never going to happen.”

It will, pet. the voice reassured, and Anastasia, in her desperate loneliness, found an odd comfort in its words.  

It was that fleeting comfort that gave her the courage to ask, “What can I call you?

There was a brief pause, and for an instant, Anastasia worried that she had somehow offended the voice – her only friend in this hell hole.

Call me … Cian.

“Cian,” She repeated, letting the name roll off her tongue. The name resonated through her mind, and for a moment, the mysterious voice felt a little less distant, a little more tangible. She repeated the name one more time, but as it rolled off of her tongue, she could sense that it felt wrong, “That’s not your real name, is it?”

Most certainly not. A small, breathy chuckle echoed in her mind. But it will be work for now. Come and find me, and I will tell you. Come and find me, and I will give you whatever you desire.

Anastasia latched on to that promise. If she could escape - find the source of that voice – then she could find her way home.

Away from these sadistic demons.

Along with the seemingly endless torture, the winged monsters that were keeping her seemed to take pleasure in starving her as well. Food – oftentimes spoiled and inedible - was brought in sporadically by females who kept their eyes averted, refusing to acknowledge the torment that Anastasia was forced to endure. Water was brought in only slightly more often. The dark-haired male seemed to really enjoy offering up a tin of water, and watch as Anastasia practically salivated over it, before jerking it back just out of reach before she could grab it.

It was a little game he liked to play.

Anastasia was on to him, though, after the first time he tried something of the sort. She could sense that the male wanted to break her. And while she couldn’t stop her natural reaction to the daily torture that she was subject to, she wouldn’t give him this as well.

The dim light of the tent flickered as the dark-haired male entered, holding a tray of gray looking porridge and a jug of water. There was nothing appetizing about the meal at all – there never was – but her mouth watered anyways. Her stomach audibly groaned at the sight of the tray. The male must have heard it because a serpentine smile crossed his lips. He placed the tray just beyond her reach, the sight of the food teasing her and causing her stomach to cramp. A cruel smirk played on his lips as he observed her futile attempts to stretch towards it, the chains rattling with each strained movement.

Closing the distance, the dark-haired male approached her with his hand outstretched. Unable to back away, Anastasia could only flinch as the pads of his fingers grazed her cheek, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he cupped her face. For a fleeting moment, the gesture seemed almost caring, almost intimate.

Then, with a sudden, savage motion, he struck her across the face.

The impact reverberated through her skull, and the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. Although she couldn’t see it, she could feel her lip tear in two. Stunned, she blinked away the stars dancing in her vision. When her vision returned to her, she could see the cold male staring at her with nothing but disgust in his eyes.

Illyrian scum, Cian sneered, he is beneath you, pet. You will make him pay for that, one day.

Whether it was Cian’s words or just pent-up frustration, Anastasia spat at her captor.

The dark-haired male wiped away the spittle on his shirt with a cold expression, his eyebrow raised at her foolish challenge. A sudden rage twisted his features, and with a swift motion, he shoved her violently to the ground. The impact jarred her already battered body, the pain radiating through her like fire.

Before she could react, the male unleashed a torrent of kicks down upon her. The tent seemed to close in on her as she crumpled beneath the relentless assault, the world around her blurring into a chaotic whirlwind of pain and darkness.

Chapter Text

Days melded into one another, their passing marked by the dimming and brightening of the light just beyond the tent. Anastasia found that she could pass the time by monitoring the subtle changes within her own body.

Anastasia couldn't ignore the peculiarity of her healing process. As her fingers delicately traced the contour of her ribcage – which, by all rights should have still been battered beyond repair - she marveled at the transformation. The deep purples that should have been there had given way to pale yellows and fading greens far too quickly.

Analyzing the subtle hues beneath her fingertips, she couldn't help but question the inexplicable pace of recovery. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of medical school debt – and years of training – told her that this wasn’t possible. How could it be that half-starved and alone, she was healing better than if she had access to all of Tufts Medical Center’s technology and medicine?

You’ve changed, pet.

“That much is obvious,” She murmured, looking at her palms. The shredded skin and deep cuts from her first night in this hellhole had disappeared entirely, leaving absolutely no scarring behind. “But how did it happen?”

I’ve made yo-

The rustling of the tent flap and entrance of the dark-haired male shattered Anastasia's thoughts, leaving Cian’s answer to her question unsaid. The dark-haired male stalked up to her, grabbing her arm with such ferocity that she was sure it had been ripped from its socket. Pain radiated through her shoulder, and she winced at the intensity of his force. Ignoring her cry of pain, the dark-haired male removed her shackles from their usual stake in the ground and began to drag her towards the now opened tent flap. As they stepped outside the tent, the war camp unfolded before her.

Something was different.

There was an energy in the air – something that she couldn’t quite place. Winged males were walking from place to place with stoic purpose. She could hear the clanging of weapons being readied and the distant shouts of orders that she did not understand. Anastasia didn’t know what was happening – but the knot in her stomach told her that she wouldn’t like it.

“What’s going on?” she asked, hoping that at least that Cian would provide some answers – some comfort. But she got no response, neither from the strange voice in her head nor the male beside her.

Led through the camp, her vision blurred by the rapid pace by which she was dragged, she glimpsed warriors in various states of readiness. The females continued as usual, as if their lives were unaffected by this new development. The dark-haired male's relentless grip guided her through the war camp, and she couldn't help that the knot that had formed in her stomach only grew.

As they approached what she had come to recognize as the leader's tent, Anastasia's gaze flitted between a small band of winged warriors that had assembled in military-like formation outside of it. There were only about seven or so of them, including the dark-haired male at her side. Despite her overwhelming sense of dread, she couldn’t help but be curious as to what was going on.

No sooner had she arrived in front of the formation of winged males, the leader emerged. His eyes flicked to the warriors to his right, assessing each of them with scrutiny. After several long moments, he gave only a curt nod of approval before turning to Anastasia. He looked at his captive – the subject of all his recent torment – and spoke.

Anastasia could not understand any of it.

Every fiber of her being wanted to come back with a sassy retort that she had not miraculously begun speaking his language overnight. But the more logical side of her – the side that had some semblance of survival instincts – won out. She had learned all too well what happened when she talked back to them.

She bit her tongue, but it did not stop the male from taking another menacing step towards her. He hissed something at her, gesturing to her pointedly as he did so.

Even though she couldn’t understand him, there was no mistaking that it was a warning.

He barked something at the dark-haired male, who still held a vice-like grip on her throbbing shoulder. The male at her side nodded, securing Anastasia’s restraints even tighter, further restricting her freedom of movement. She watched wide eyed as another male brought forth a set of leg irons. She did her best to swallow her terror; they had never used those on her before.

Anastasia tried to move, squirming from his grip as he attached the irons to her, but the dark-haired male held her firm. Once her ankles were secured in the medieval contraption, he chained the irons cuffs around her wrists to the one at her legs. She was bound more than she ever had been before.

There was no masking the look of absolute horror on her face. What were they doing with her?

The leader spoke again, this time to the assembled band of warriors in front of him. The small group of males listened intently as their leader barked orders. After a few short moments, he must have dismissed them because without another word, the males’ wings unfurled from their backs and propelled them into the air. 

Anastasia looked on with a mixture of fascination and horror as they took off in perfect formation. After spending God-knows how long in this place, she had never actually seen their wings in action. Despite the terror that gripped her, there lingered a fleeting sense of awe at the sight. There was something majestic about it, as much as it was terrifying. Her mouth hung open, her gaze so fixed on the males who had taken off into the morning air that she didn’t even notice that hands coming up behind her.

The dark-haired male, his own wings unfurling just like the others, seized her once more. Sweeping her up in a bridal-style pose, he brought her close to his chest. She couldn’t wriggle free even if she wanted to. Between his iron grip and the chains that bound her, she was all but locked in place. No matter how much she resisted, there was no escape.

Now she knew what the leg-irons were for.

Without so much as a warning, the dark-haired male propelled them both into the open air. The sudden rush of wind against her face and the disorienting lift from the ground left her breathless. Panic constricted her chest as the war camp below became nothing more than an indistinct blur.

She clung to her captor with a desperate intensity, her fingers digging into the fabric of his clothing.

The sensation of flight sent shivers of terror through her: the ground seemed both too close and impossibly far away. The fact that she couldn’t understand him only fueled her anxiety, and the realization that she was at his mercy only heightened her fear. What if he decided to drop her? She wouldn’t put it past him – he certainly hated her enough.

Every jolt and tilt of their ascent intensified the fear that clenched at her insides.

The male's wings sliced through the air with a powerful grace, carrying them even higher. Anastasia's breaths came in ragged gasps, her eyes wide with the surreal terror of being airborne against her will.

They soared through the expansive sky, the passage of time measured by the beat of the dark-haired male's wings. She didn’t know how long she had been in the air, just that time seemed to pass. The sun moved in the sky with them, as morning turned to midday. The unending expanse of clouds above and the distant, sprawling landscape below blurred below her. Anastasia's initial terror began to morph into a sickening discomfort as the relentless flight stretched on.

Nausea coiled in her stomach; she fought to keep the rising queasiness at bay as she murmured, “I think I’m going to be sick,”

The dark-haired male remained stoic, if he could sense her distress, he did not show it.

As they neared the destination, Anastasia could just make out the imposing silhouette of a new war camp, perched near the summit of a forested mountain. Just like the one that held her captive, this camp also exuded an aura of harshness and coldness.

As they descended towards the camp, the air grew colder, carrying the biting chill of the mountain winds. Anastasia, shivering and disoriented, cast a wary glance at the camp below. It was larger than the one she had been in these last weeks, but just as spartan and rugged.

You will find no comfort here, Cian’s voice murmured inside her mind. Anastasia couldn’t help but relax as she heard the alluring sound of his voice from the recess of her mind. At least he was still there with her.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she felt a jolt of disorientation, her legs unsteady after the unnerving flight. As she steadied herself, she found herself surrounded by a group of stern-faced warriors – some familiar to her, some not, their eyes betraying little emotion as they regarded her carefully.

Among them stood the leader of her own – she shuddered at the phrase, since when had she thought of it as hers? – camp, his gaze fixed on Anastasia with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. Standing beside him was a formidable presence, tall, stocky, broad-shouldered male that seemed older than the rest. He was winged, like the others that surrounded him. But the others – even her own tormentors – treated him with a deference which could only mean he was the one in charge.

This male, adorned in battle-worn leathers, regarded Anastasia with a scrutinizing gaze. His eyes darted towards the dark-haired male, who was now fumbling to remove the leg irons that kept her immobile. After only a few short moments, his vice-like grip was once again on her. A single nod and a subtle tilt of this new male’s head indicated that they were to follow as he turned around.

Anastasia swallowed, wondering just what was in store for her now.

-x-

She was led to one of the more permanent structures at the center of the war camp. Anastasia tried to keep her face straight, doing her best to mask the feeling of dread that bubbled just below her features. If this new male was anything like the ones she had spent the last few weeks with, then he would take pleasure in her discomfort. As they entered the cabin – if one could even call it that - the air seemed to thicken.

The structure’s interior was just as harsh and spartan as the exterior. A table not unlike the one she had seen before, etched with maps and strategic markings, dominated the room. The flickering light of a single lantern cast an eerie glow on the faces of the two males who stood at the center of the room.

The general, his face all hard lines and shadows, gestured for her to join at the center of the room.

Tentatively, Anastasia stepped towards her captors, remembering all too well what would happen to her if she decided not to do what was instructed. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest, she was sure that the two males could hear it.

She could feel the weight of the general’s gaze on her, and she made her way to the center of the room. His eyes trailed up and down her body, as if he was sizing her up. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, wishing that she knew what exactly the Illyrians wanted from her. After a few moments, he seemed to have found what he wanted, because his gaze met hers once more before he spoke. His voice, a series of unfamiliar sounds, cut through the strained silence.

Anastasia strained to comprehend, her eyes darting between the general and the male who had brought her here. The tension in the air thickened with every moment, the words flying past her.

“Just like I told him,” Anastasia gestured to the more familiar of the two males, “I don’t know what you are saying.”

The general's expression remained unreadable, his gaze dissecting Anastasia's every movement.

She took a deep breath, attempting to convey her innocence. Her voice was a lot calmer than she felt, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

The general's responses were lost on her, indecipherable as frustration etched his features. He pointed emphatically to the map, gesturing with urgency. He pointed at the same small island that she had been questioned about before – the same one she was asked about almost every single day of her captivity. Something in her chest deflated, as she prepared herself for the start of yet another vicious cycle. The dark-haired male and the other leader, sharing the general's impatience, clenched his fists.

Anastasia could sense their growing irritation, and she knew what came after that. She looked at the map once more, and shrugged helplessly as she gestured towards it, “I don’t even know where this is.”

The general's frustration erupted in a forceful slam against the table, his eyes blazing with anger. The dark-haired male, sensing the escalation, reacted with a sudden burst of violence. Without warning, he lunged forward, his clenched fist striking Anastasia with brutal force.

The impact sent shockwaves through her body. Pain flared across her face, and a metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Anastasia staggered backward, the room spinning as she struggled to maintain her balance. The general’s lips pursed as she tried to regain her balance, but he made no move to stop the assault.

The dark-haired male glared at Anastasia as if she were a threat. Without a word, he unleashed another blow, this one even more forceful than the last. The violence intensified; each strike accompanied by a sickening thud that echoed through the room.

As the assault continued, Anastasia's vision blurred, floaters dancing in the periphery. The pain surged through her, leaving her disoriented and defenseless.

The general raised a hand, signaling for the darkhaired male to stop. He spoke to the two other males in the room, his voice taking on an almost mocking tone, gesturing to the spot on the map by the river before rolling his eyes. She wasn’t sure what was happening, but she was grateful that the blows had stopped.

The general turned to Anastasia, regarding her with the same steely gaze as before. He turned and with a wave of his hand, she was dismissed.

-x-

Anastasia found herself once again bound, left alone in a bare lean-to along the edges of this strange new war camp. The rough, unforgiving bindings chafed at her wrists, and she tried to rub under the metal cuffs to ease some of the raw pain. The muted sounds of the war camp filtered through the makeshift shelter, life going on as if she hadn’t just been brutally interrogated.

The floaters in her vision persisted, long after they should have disappeared. Concern welled up inside of her as she contemplated the possibility of a concussion. It was very likely, given what she had endured. In fact, she was surprised that she had not yet suffered one in the time she had been held captive.

Anastasia observed the war camp from the confines of her lean-to, realizing that she remained largely overlooked. There were not many people in this part of camp; there weren’t even guards stationed outside of the lean-to. Looking through the cracks in the decaying wood, there was nothing but forest behind her.  She was relegated to the very edge of the camp, as if she was being hidden.

Out of sight, out of mind.  

The High Lord’s lackeys are here, Cian said, answering a question that she hadn’t even asked, The Illyrians want to keep you hidden.

“Why?” She croaked. The tent felt like a pressure cooker, and Anastasia's throat was parched, pleading for relief that seemed just out of reach. Cian's cryptic explanations hovered in the air, adding to her confusion. High Lord? Illyrians? The words didn’t make any sense to her.

They don’t like the High Lord, the voice clarified, They’re right not to.

“I don’t understand, why not?” The question lingered in the still ar.

But the voice seemed to fade in the background as the pounding in her head intensified.

As she tried to shift into a more comfortable position, the discomfort in her head only deepened. Anxiety crept in as she tried to blink away the persistent floating threads that speckled her vision, hoping it was nothing too serious. No, she was in no shape to deal with a concussion right now. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyelids, desperately willing the small threads to be gone when she opened her eyes.

A sudden, violent pop pierced the air, reverberating within the confines of the lean-to.

Anastasia looked up with a start, her vision becoming clear as adrenaline coursed through her veins. There, on the dirt-streaked ground, lay the shattered remnants of a single link in her chains. Her wrists were still bound to one another, but she was no longer tethered to the ground.

Anastasia stared at her liberated wrists in astonishment.

Run, the voice in her head ordered, with something like glee in its tone.

Anastasia rose cautiously, muscles pulsating with adrenaline. Her eyes darted around the war camp, searching for any sign that her captors had heard something or were running over to restrain her once again. To her disbelief, the rest of the camp seemed oblivious to what had just happened in the lean to. The Illyrians remained engrossed in their own routines.

Not one to squander an opportunity, Anastasia slipped behind the lean-to, her movements swift and deliberate. With the rest of the camp preoccupied, she ventured towards the tree line of the forest.

Come to me. The voice echoed in her mind, a haunting whisper that urged her forward. The command lingered in the air as Anastasia slipped into the cover of the trees.

And then, she ran.

Chapter Text

Anastasia plunged into the dense forest, her legs protesting with each strained step. The uneven ground beneath her feet seemed determined to thwart her escape, slowing her pace to what felt like a devastating crawl. No matter how fast she was able to push herself, she knew that she couldn't outrun creatures with these winged monsters – the Illyrians. Her only advantage was the head start she had, and she had to make the most of the time she had before they inevitably came after her.

Come to me. Cian’s voice repeated over and over in her head like a mantra. Unsure of her destination, she followed an instinctual pull, trusting the voice that had become her sole companion in the midst of her captivity. His promise to help her find her way home echoed in her thoughts, providing a flicker of hope.

She could only hope she was going in the right direction.

Anxiety fueled her movements, pushing her to press harder against the physical limitations of her exhausted body.  Something in the back of her mind – Cian? Or her own survival instinct - urged her to push harder, go faster, even as her body screamed its resistance. The distant echoes of the war camp gradually faded to the background until she could no longer hear them, replaced by the sounds of her own erratic breathing and the rustling of leaves under her feet.

The biting cold gnawed at Anastasia's exposed skin as she tore through the forest. Each gasp of frigid air sent a searing chill into lungs, just like that first morning run through the nature preserve. Despite the weakened state of her body, her legs propelled her forward in unusually longer strides, as if her limbs had grown in length since that first run.

She had known something was different about her body for a while now but hadn’t been able to test it’s limits.

It felt odd, and she stumbled briefly as her body adjusted to the newfound proportions. But she kept moving forward, the urgency of her escape more pressing than anything else at the moment - time was not on her side. 

She could hear voices behind her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. They had discovered her escape.

The distant echoes of her pursuers reverberated through the forest; they were gaining on her. Panic tightened its grip on Anastasia as she sprinted through the uneven terrain, her breaths heavy and visible in the frigid mountain air. The biting cold clawed at her chest, but her adrenaline only spurred her forward. Above the treetops, a shadow danced ominously, like a vulture circling its prey.

She would be surrounded soon enough.

Aware that her time was running out, Anastasia's concentration wavered, and in her anxious attempt to monitor her pursuers, she lost her footing. Her body lurched forward, stumbling over protruding roots and branches, the forest floor rising to meet her in a sudden collision.

A violent crash echoed through the forest as Anastasia tumbled over the gnarled branches, her hands instinctively reaching out to break the fall. The impact reverberated through her, amplifying the pain in her already broken body. Panic seized her, but she fought against the disorientation, scrambling on all fours to regain her footing before the Illyrians caught up with her.

Run, the voice in her mind commanded.

With a surge of desperate strength, Anastasia pushed herself up from the forest floor, gritting her teeth against the stinging pain in her palms and knees. Resuming her frantic sprint, she willed her legs to carry her forward, determined to at least go down fighting.

As she ran, a chilling realization crept over Anastasia – they were closing in. The sounds of their pursuit grew louder, and she could feel their presence just inches behind her. Panic clawed at her as the distance between them evaporated, and the ominous shadow above the tree line continued to circle her.

As those who were chasing her closed the gap, Anastasia closed her eyes and braced herself for the inevitable.

A hand grabbed her forearm mid-stride and yanked, causing Anastasia to lurch backwards and cry out in pain. The dark-haired male who had been her tormentor sneered at her as she came face to face with him. Panic surged within her, the instinct to scream clawing its way to the surface. However, before the sound could escape her lips, two hard thuds reverberated through the forest, causing both Anastasia and her captor to still.

Anastasia sensed the shift in the male’s demeanor. Confusion – and something else she couldn’t quote place - etched across his face as he released his grip on her, his attention drawn towards something behind her. The forest seemed to hold its breath, and in the deafening silence that followed, Anastasia strained to discern what had spooked the male. But the male’s wide eyes remained fixed on something behind her.

The dark-haired male’s grip on her forearm loosened, and Anastasia shook herself free of him. She turned, ready to use the momentary distraction to her advantage.

But what she saw had her stopped dead in her tracks.

Two imposing figures had stood behind her, where once there was no one, their massive wings casting an imposing shadow on the forest floor. The air around them crackled with an overwhelming sense of power, and their presence was enough to stop her pursuer in his tracks.

The first male was massive, towering over both Anastasia and her captor. There was no doubt in her mind that he could crush her without so much as a second thought – a stronger, deadlier version of the males who had tortured her. Mammoth, membranous wings extended from his back, casting a shadow that reached where she stood. Parts of his armor seemed to glow red, becoming more and more intense as he glowered at the dark-haired male behind her. What looked like a long sword was strapped down the column of his spine.

Beside him stood the second male, tall and elegantly sculpted, with dark hair and golden-brown skin. The jewels on his dark armor seemed to glow as well, only his was a brilliantly deep shade of blue. In any other life, she would have thought the male beautiful. But with the large bat-like wings and dark features reminded her too much of her captors, she trembled when looking at him. He was surrounded by shadows - as if the light itself was afraid of him. She didn’t even need to speak to the male to get a sense of just how deadly he was.

Anastasia swallowed a lump that had risen in her throat – the light wasn’t the only thing that was afraid of him.

As the first male said something to the dark-haired figure behind Anastasia, she sensed a sudden rigidity from her captor. Her captor spat back a response, and even though she couldn’t understand what was being said, there was no mistaking the venom in his voice. 

The large, terrifying male continued to speak to the dark-haired male at her back, his voice taking on a commanding tone that seemed to put an end to all discussion.

But the hazel-eyed second male shifted his focus onto Anastasia, cold eyes raking over her battered body as if assessing if she were a threat. She knew she looked pathetic, her bare form black and blue from her weeks in captivity. She should have been used to the scrutiny by now – she had certainly endured enough of it - but there was something about his stare that made her shift uncomfortably under his assessment.

The vulnerability of her current state, compounded by weeks of mistreatment, made her feel small.

The hard stare morphed into something like pity as he took in the extent of her injuries.

His gaze swept over her swollen face before locking eyes with her. Hazel eyes widened with a flash of shock, causing him to stagger backward for a heartbeat. The shadows that seemed to surround him stretched forward, reaching out towards Anastasia of their own accord.

Heart hammering, she took a step back and put as much distance between them as she could. His lips moved in a string of sounds she did not recognize. Yet, the urgency in his voice and the intensity of his gaze unsettled her and Anastasia felt a chill course down her spine.

The first male shifted his attention to his partner, a flicker of concern crossing his features. He said something to the second male, forcing him to momentarily tear his gaze away from Anastasia. Seizing the temporary distraction, she bolted once again, her footsteps echoing through the forest. Behind her, the dark-haired male surged forward after her, refusing to let his captive go free.

Run to me.

Cian’s voice called to her – her lifeline, guiding her in a direction away from the three males. The voice kept repeating those words, and Anastasia could sense that it was only becoming more urgent. She propelled herself forward through the uneven terrain of the forest. The tangled undergrowth of the forest clawed at her, but the alternative – being captured by any of those Illyrian predators – was unthinkable.

From somewhere behind her, Anastasia could hear the voice of the male with shadows calling out – to her, to his partner, she didn’t quite know.

Nor did she care.

Her weakened legs carried her with as much force as she could muster. It wasn’t long before Anastasia could feel a hand wrap around her arm. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but the grip was too firm to fight off. She spun around, ready to face her new captor.

Before she could even cry out in protest, the first male – the large one – caught her in his arms and crushed her tight against his chest. Large black wings wrapped around her, shielding her from anything else happening on the forest floor. She couldn’t see anything save for the leathers and the strange red glow across his chest and the skin of those terrifying wings.  

Anastasis tried to fight, and though his hold was firm, it carried an unexpected gentleness compared to the brutality she previously had encountered. Somewhere beyond the hold of the male, she could hear the muffled sounds of the other two males fighting. And amidst the chaos, the unmistakable crack of bones snapping reached her ears.

Anastasia braced herself. 

This was it.

She was next.

Anastasia's world became a chaotic blur as the male, his massive wings beating against the night air, lifted her from the ground and into the air. Her screams echoed through the forest as the ground disappeared beneath them. 

-x-

Anastasia's heart pounded within her chest as powerful wings sliced through the air, dragging her and the hulking male through the sky. The sun was disappearing over the mountainside, casting the sky in brilliant pinks and purples. But she couldn’t focus on the beauty of it all - panic surged through her, and she squirmed desperately against his unyielding grip. It didn’t matter how high up in the air they were – she was desperate to get away from him.

The prospect of falling seemed much more preferable than enduring even a moment more of torture from these deranged winged creatures.

But the Illyrian did not even seem bothered by her attempts at escape. His vice-like hold on her only became firmer, and he seemed to clutch her more tightly to his broad chest as the terrifying flight continued. The biting cold wind whipped around them, tousling her hair and stinging her cheeks.

"Just let me go, damn it!" Anastasia desperately cried out, her voice barely carrying over the roar of the wind. The winged male responded gently, saying something that she could not understand. But his grip on her remained firm.

Her stomach churned, and the world seemed to spin, as the winged male began to slow down. Peering below, she caught sight of a large gray mountain. Anastasia braced herself, already visualizing the war camp that would be just below the tree line.

“Please,” She couldn’t help but beg, tears threatening to fall as she tried to wriggle free once more, “Don’t take me there.”

How much more of this could she endure?

The male whispered something gently, his voice low in her ear. Despite everything, his voice was gentle, soothing.

She shifted her gaze forward, looking in the direction that the male was headed. A massive, opulent palace emerged on the mountainside – no, it was built into the mountain itself. In any other circumstances, the sight would have been breathtaking, but as they neared it Anastasia’s heart raced with apprehension. What kind of horrors awaited her within those walls?

As they neared, one of the palace’s many stone balconies etched into the mountainside loomed closer.  With a deft landing, the winged male gently deposited Anastasia onto the uneven surface of the stone. The moment her feet met the solid ground, she frantically attempted to scramble backward, her shaky limbs protesting the effort. Any remnants of strength abandoned her, and she crumpled onto the cold stone. Uncontrollable shivers coursed through her. Physical exhaustion, combined with the pervasive fear, left her gasping for breath and a thin sheen of cold sweat cloaked her clammy skin.

Anastasia's stomach rebelled from the chaotic flight, and she retched, the contents of her roiling stomach spilling onto the ground and onto the boots of male who had taken her. When her stomach stopped turning over, she looked over to the large male. His eyes – was that concern in them? – were fixed on her rather than the ruined leather boots on his feet.

Momentarily, Anastasia wondered if she should apologize.

But her gaze flickered beyond the large male, to what lay beyond him. Anastasia, disoriented and weakened, surveyed her surroundings with wide eyes. This was like no place she had ever seen before, and the contrast to the harsh war camps was jarring. The balcony was adorned with golden lanterns that cast a warm, ethereal glow on the intricate stone architecture.

It was beautiful, yes.

But it was a prison.

She took in the surroundings, looking for any possible way to escape. Running into the house seemed like a bad idea – she did not know what awaited her there. Her gaze flickered to the edge of the balcony. The mountain sprawled beneath her, and for a fleeting moment, the idea of leaping off the edge seemed like her only way to freedom. But the sheer terror of the fall kept her firmly rooted in place.

Plus, she was certain that the winged male would retrieve her immediately rather than let her fall.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?" Anastasia's voice wavered with a mix of fear and frustration. She took a shaky step towards the balcony, using the railing there for support.

A flicker of understanding crossed the male's face, and he slowly raised his hands, palms facing outward - an attempt to convey that he meant no harm. But how could she trust him?

All she could see when she looked at the hulking winged male was the faces of those who had captured – tortured – her.

Do not trust the Lord of Bastards, the voice inside her head ordered, Or any of the rest of them. Her shoulders subconsciously relaxed at the sound of Cian’s voice – he had been unusually silent during her recapture and flight. But hearing his voice in the strange new environment brought her a sense of comfort, despite his warning.

“Where am I?” she asked shakily.

The Illyrian said something to her slowly – as is speaking slower would help her to understand him better. But she didn’t even pay attention as Cian’s voice filled her head, In a place of nightmares.

Anastasia’s breath hitched as she contemplated just what that could possibly mean.

A few moments passed in chilling silence before the air itself seemed to ripple and Anastasia startled as she braced herself for whatever was about to come. But before she could grasp the source of the sensation, a figure materialized out of thin air.

A sudden apparition, a brown-haired female, manifested on the balcony with an almost supernatural grace. Her sudden presence – and unmistakable air of authority - sent shivers down Anastasia's spine as she surveyed the situation with curiosity. The air rippled once more and, moments later, two other females stood beside her.

The first, a stunning golden-haired female bore an expression more inscrutable but no less intimidating. The last female, with short ching length-hair, radiated an otherworldliness that made Anastasia's skin prickle with fear. Her angular eyes regarded Anastasia with a scrutiny that bordered on unsettling.

Somewhere, in the back corner of her mind, she could feel Cian hiss at the sight of her.

The air rippled one last time, revealing a fourth apparition appearing out of thin air. It was a male, with cropped black hair and the most devastating violet eyes that she had ever seen, and an aura of overwhelming power emanating from him. His presence brought with it a sense of overwhelming power that even Anastasia, in her current terrorized state, could feel.

Anastasia's heart pounded as the male stepped forward, his presence seemingly eclipsing everything around him. A strange sensation crawled through her mind, and the voice in her head now seemed to retreat, as if burrowing away from the male's formidable presence.

Fear gripped Anastasia tighter as she could feel Cian all but disappear, her eyes darting between the females and the powerful male.

The male with violet eyes began to speak but before he could utter more than a few syllables, the air on the balcony shifted, and the resonant tone of his voice was drowned out by the sound of an all but abrupt landing. Although no one else seemed startled, Anastasia couldn’t help but jump at the sound. She turned, ready to see this new threat.

Anastasia's eyes widened as she recognized the winged silhouette. It was the male she had glimpsed in the forest - the one surrounded by the wispy shadows. She could feel her heart rate quicken, remembering the way that he had regarded her in the forest. She turned back to the male with violet eyes, who regarded the newcomer with a measured gaze.

But the shadowed male paid no mind to the male with the violet eyes. In fact, he didn’t seem to register any of the others on the balcony. Instead, his wings folded neatly behind his back, and he made a beeline toward Anastasia.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as the male closed the distance between them. The last time someone had looked at her like that – with fierce determination in their eyes – she had been brutalized and interrogated for information. Some primal fear gripped her, and a small, involuntary yelp escaped her lips.

The male stopped in his tracks at her reaction; he seemed to register Anastasia’s fear. Anastasia caught a glimpse of what seemed like hurt in his eyes. Despite the shadows that surrounded him, an almost wounded expression played on his features.

The others on the balcony exchanged worried glances.

The male’s eyes combed over her, as if fully taking in the injuries marring her body, the sports bra that was no doubt welded on to her form by this point, or the bones sticking out from days without food. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

He uttered something to her, his hand reaching out gently.

Anastasia took a step back, away from both winged males and closer to the edge of the balcony.

The one who had flown her to this strange place said something to the male with the shadows, gesturing to Anastasia. He spoke slowly, as if once again trying to get her to understand. But despite wishing that she could somehow understand – to know what they were saying about her, she was at a loss. She could see the shadowed male’s shoulders collapse as his companion continued to speak to the others.

Anastasia took another step closer to the edge of the mountainside.

The golden-brown haired female stepped forward, her presence acting as a buffer between Anastasia and the formidable, winged males. She put her hands up towards Anastasia before turning towards the males. She said something in hushed tones, but there was no mistaking the authority in her voice.

The male closest to Anastasia - the one with the shadows – replied, his voice a mixture of both pain and possessiveness that put Anastasia on edge.

Their conversation grew increasingly intense, and the only thing Anastasia understood were the animated gestures and impassioned expressions. It was clear that whatever they were discussing – the best way to kill her, perhaps? - opinions clashed, and the atmosphere crackled with unresolved tension. The one male with the shadows, particularly adamant, argued vehemently, challenging the female's position.

Seeing the heat of the argument, Anastasia retreated further away from the winged males.

The hulking male – the one who had carried her to this strange place – put his hand on the shoulder of his companion and said something to him softly. Whatever he had said caused his friend’s shoulder to sag, and his expression shifted from defiance to reluctant acceptance.

With resigned gestures, the winged males retreated, their powerful wings unfurling as they prepared to take flight. Anastasia, still trembling, watched as they lifted off the balcony, disappearing into the night sky.

The golden-brown-haired female turned her attention to Anastasia. She spoke soothingly as she approached, gently draping a shawl over Anastasia's bare shoulders. The unexpected touch made her jump, her nerves on high alert.

Where had the fabric even come from? It hadn’t been in her hands a few seconds ago…

Anastasia eyed the female cautiously, uncertainty etched on her face. She clutched the shawl around her, it was unexpectedly soft – something that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. But despite the comforting gesture, Anastasia couldn't shake the lingering fear, especially given Cian’s warning.

A place of nightmares.

They knew – associated with - Illyrians, making it hard for her to believe in the goodwill of these strangers, even if the female had just sent them away.

The golden-brown-haired female gestured for Anastasia to follow her inside the palace, but the idea of willingly walking into the unknown tightened her chest. Anxiety fueled her resistance, and she hesitated, pulling away and towards the stone edge of the balcony. The female said something to her, her voice calm and soothing, but Anastasia only shook her head.

The male with the violet eyes took a step forward, saying something to the female. He gestured at Anastasia, causing her to bristle. What were they saying about her? The female shot Anastasia a look filled with something - was it pity? – before she let out a sigh. She nodded at the male.

A peculiar scent wafted through the air, metallic and sweet. Anastasia's senses tingled, and a strange calmness washed over her. She blinked and the world around her grew hazier with each passing moment.

Her resistance melted away. The golden-brown-haired woman's guidance felt less threatening, more like a gentle invitation. Anastasia stumbled forward, her steps growing sluggish. The metallic tang enveloped her, its tendrils lulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

The first thing that Anastasia noticed as her senses returned to her, one by one, was the feeling of being surrounded by clouds. Soft, luxurious clouds.

No – not clouds. As she opened her eyes, she found herself settled among ivory down pillows and a cream-colored mattress. Pillows, blankets, and throws were nestled around her, surrounding her in softness and comfort.

She was in a bed.

It was a far cry from the cold, hard ground of the Illyrian war camps.

At the realization, she sat up with a start.

Awareness slowly seeped into her groggy mind, and she took in her surroundings. The room around her was nicer than anything she had ever seen – even in Boston. Its windows wide open to the elements beyond, allowing a gentle breeze to play with sheer amethyst curtains. No glass or shutters separated her from the outside world. The natural light spilled into the room, and she could breathe in the fresh, morning air.

Twin golden lamps positioned beside the bed, casting an unnecessary warm glow in the already bright room.

As Anastasia took in her surroundings, which seemed almost too good to be true, a lingering suspicion crept in.

Yes, this was certainly nicer than what she had faced in the mountains – but who were these people? Were they really any better than the Illyrians?

A place of nightmares.

Cian’s warning came back to her, haunting her as she tried to piece together what had happened.

Anastasia shifted on the plush bed, her senses slowly adjusting to the opulent surroundings. As she glanced down at herself, confusion, and unease crept in. The tattered remains of her sports bra and leggings were gone, replaced by a large cotton shirt that swallowed her frame and a fresh pair of woven leggings.

How had this happened? Just who exactly had changed her?

The last thing she remembered was being led away by the female on the balcony. Now, she found herself draped in comfort, but the abrupt change left her unsettled.

Do not trust them. Cian’s voice echoed through her mind, and Anastasia felt her body relax at the sound of his voice. After the balcony, she had not heard the strange voice in her head, and she had felt it burrow itself so deep in her head that she wondered if it had gone away for good.

“Who are they?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He collects people who are powerful. She didn’t need to ask to know that Cian meant the male with the violet eyes – the one who had caused him to hide.

“Well,” Anastasia grumbled, throwing the cloud-like down covers off her, “At least I’m not powerful then – he’ll want nothing to do with me.”

A fading chuckle was Cian’s only reply.

Anastasia eased herself out of the plush bed, her muscles protesting with every little movement. Soreness radiated through her body – the last day in a half saw her move more than she had in weeks. Gingerly, she tested her weight on unsteady legs, the pain refusing to go away the longer she remained moving.

Each footfall was measured, and she moved with deliberate caution. The room's silence seemed to amplify the creaks and groans of her aching body. Her bare feet made almost no sound against the stone floor as she padded her way across the rather large room, her senses on high alert.

The door loomed ahead – what lay beyond it, she did not know.

Anastasia reached for the ornate handle with trembling fingers. She couldn't shake the feeling that every quiet step was watched. That at any moment those people – her captors? – would be back and demand answers from her.

With a slow, cautious turn, Anastasia eased the door open, relieved to find it yielding easily to her touch. The muted click of the latch echoed through the silence as she pulled the heavy door ajar.

She wasn’t a prisoner, then.

She was uncertain of what exactly to make of that.

Anastasia hesitated at the threshold, the vast hallway stretching out before her.

Go. Find it – find me.

The hall, adorned with tapestries and gilded sconces, beckoned her - the tempting possibility of escape tugging at her. But she didn’t know what lay beyond the empty halls - if those people were coming back for her. To take advantage of this freedom now – when she knew nothing about where she was – seemed foolish.

Sighing, she took a step back and gingerly closed the door, hearing the latch click softly as she retreated into the room.

She could feel Cian’s disappointment radiating from somewhere inside her mind.

Anastasia stood on high alert, her newly sensitive ears picking up a distant murmur from somewhere beyond the closed door that sent an uneasy chill down her spine. Despite the faintness of the sound, an instinctive fear pulled her back into the room, her eyes scanning the luxurious surroundings for anything that could be repurposed into a weapon.

She wouldn’t be going down without a fight again.

In a swift motion, she snatched up a hefty vase from its spot on the nightstand beside the bed. Gripping the vase tightly, she positioned herself in the center of the room. She kept her gaze locked on the door, ready to face whatever threat might emerge from the other side.

A knock on the door jolted Anastasia from her thoughts, her tense stance easing slightly – her Illyrian captors never bothered to knock. But the vase remained clutched in her hands.

Clutching the vase, she eyed the doorway as it creaked open, revealing the blonde female from the balcony and an older companion - her age evident in the lines etched on her face, her dark skin contrasting elegantly with spindrift hair.

Anastasia's eyes darted between the two females.

The older female stepped closer, her eyes piercing through Anastasia with a knowing smile. She spoke, gesturing to the vase that Anastasia still gripped tightly – like a lifeline. Anastasia strained to parse their meaning from the tones, shaking her head as she held the vase just a little bit tighter. With a sigh, the blonde female took charge, her movements deliberate as she extended her hands.

She didn’t know what made her do it, but without resistance, Anastasia let go of the vase, passing it into the blonde’s careful grasp.

The blonde continued to speak in the unfamiliar language, her gestures accompanied by a nod towards the older woman on her left. Anastasia furrowed her brows, attempting to grasp the meaning but she could only shake her head.

The blonde gestured towards the older female once again, she spoke a few more words slowly this time. Her tone was gentle but tinged with a hint of frustration. Anastasia shook her head, her expression apologetic. She knew what happened when people here got frustrated with her – the bruises that still marred her body served as painful reminders of those lessons.

The blonde sighed and took a step closer. Instinctively, Anastasia retreated a step, desperate to maintain some of the distance between them.

The blonde pointed to herself and pronounced, "Mor," her voice clear and deliberate. Then, she turned towards the older female, pointing and saying, "Madja." She repeated this process, gesturing either at herself or the dark-haired female at her left.

Anastasia watched attentively, a flicker of understanding dawning as she realized that name Mor belonged to the blonde before her, and Madja to the older woman.

"Mor," Anastasia repeated, pointing to the blond. The female nodded appreciatively, and Anastasia continued as she pointed to the older female, “Madja.”

Mor offered a smile, but her expectant gaze lingered on Anastasia as if she were awaiting something else. An unspoken invitation hung in the air, and Anastasia knew that they wanted her to share her name. However, the memory of the harsh interrogations and torture she endured in the Illyrian war camp echoed in her mind.

They had wanted information from her as well – what if this was just another form of interrogation?

Do not give them anything, the voice in her mind commanded.

Mor, as if she could sense Anastasia's inner conflict, softened her gaze. She lowered her hand and exchanged a knowing look with Madja.

Anastasia, after a moment of contemplation, raised her hand and pointed to herself. "Anastasia," she said, her voice steady.

It was only a name, after all.

She could feel a hiss reverberating through her head.

Mor's eyes lit up with understanding and appreciation. She repeated Anastasia's name, pronouncing it with a respectful nod. Madja, too, offered a warm smile, acknowledging the gesture.

Mor pointed to Madja and slowly uttered a string of words in the unfamiliar language. Anastasia strained to comprehend based on gestures alone, her brow furrowing in confusion. However, the intention became clear when Madja began to approach Anastasia.

Anastasia, caught off guard, couldn't suppress a flinch. The memories of interrogation and captivity surged, and the instinct for self-preservation kicked in. She eyed Madja warily, a mixture of fear and uncertainty etched on her face.

Madja, despite her sympathy for Anastasia's hesitation, maintained a no-nonsense demeanor. With a reassuring smile, she gestured emphatically toward the bed, directing Anastasia to sit. The older woman's eyes conveyed understanding, but there was an unspoken expectation of cooperation.

Somehow, Anastasia got the sense that she shouldn’t challenge the older female.

As Anastasia settled onto the bed, her gaze flickered towards the table. A series of glass bottles containing unknown substances sat there -where had they come from? They hadn’t been there when she’d woken up.

She eyed the bottles, and a momentary sense of apprehension washed over her. What were they? Were these people going to experiment on her? She moved to get up; she would not let the two females do anything to her. But Madja approached Anastasia with a measured, purposeful stride putting a firm hand on her shoulder to keep her seated. The older female's hands moved with practiced efficiency, opening one of the vials.

The unfamiliar scent of herbs and medicinal compounds filled the air, and realization dawned on Anastasia.

Madja reached for Anastasia’s face, the site of some of her most visible injuries.

She batted the female’s hand away.

"I can do it," she insisted, her voice firm.

Madja shot Anastasia a pointed look, but continued her ministrations, shaking her head slightly in a gentle refusal. Anastasia sighed in frustration, turning her gaze to Mor, hoping that the stunning blonde would take pity on her. But Mor only smiled as she watched the older female continue to work.

Resigned, Anastasia allowed the older female's knobby hands to run over her injuries. Already the throbbing ache in her muscles seemed to fade. Anastasia couldn't help but be impressed by Madja’s skill, her hands moving with a practiced grace.

As Madja continued her work, Anastasia's gaze wandered to the bottles on the bedside table. Curiosity tugged at her, and she cautiously took one in her hand and opened it, taking a whiff. The scent that wafted out was unfamiliar, a rich blend of herbs that she couldn’t quite place.

It was a stark departure from the sterile smells of traditional medicines she was accustomed to.

Anastasia hesitated but then opened another bottle, each revealing a different aroma. Some of them had smelled familiar to her, as if the female had a holistic approach to medicine - something that she had written off in the early years of her medical training.

Whatever it was that the female was using in the salve, it was working.

Anastasia could feel the soothing effects, a comforting warmth spreading through her injuries. Still marveling at the effectiveness, she wished there was some way she could ask Madja about the salve, question what exactly was in it.

While Anastasia was lost in contemplation, she had not even noticed that Mor brought over a tray carrying a simple bowl of broth and a piece of bread. Anastasia regarded the meager meal with wariness. She’d been tormented with food before - the memories of her time in captivity made trusting even the most basic offerings a challenge.

Mor gestured for Anastasia to accept the food.

Do not trust them, pet.

Her eyes darted one more from the broth to the females in front of her. With a roll of her eyes, Madja all but forced the spoon into Anastasia's hands.

Anastasia, not wanting to argue with the resolute old woman, took a tentative sip of the broth. Even though it was basic, the warmth of it flooded her senses, a stark contrast to the meager rations she had been teased with in the Illyrian war camp.

As she tentatively savored the food, Mor observed with a satisfied smile, as if she were making sure that Anastasia was eating enough. After a few moments, she uttered something that Anastasia couldn't comprehend, and she could only respond by staring blankly back at the blonde.

With a final nod, Mor left the room, leaving Anastasia to her own thoughts.

-x-

Hours passed in the quiet room, with no more interruptions from Mor, Madja or anybody else. Everything around her felt eerily quiet, and Anastasia found herself succumbing to a sense of restlessness. She should have been used to being alone, given the days she spent in isolation at the war camp. But the lack of shackles on her wrist, and the comparative comfort of her current surroundings sparked in her a desire to see more.

As she noticed when she had first woken up, the room was very luxurious. Intricately patterned rugs adorned the floor, and the furniture, while modest, bore the mark of craftsmanship – she knew it was far more expensive than anything she’d seen back home. The air carried a faint scent of herbs, a lingering reminder of those strange healing salves.

Anastasia, driven by curiosity, began to explore the room. Her fingers traced the edges of the wall as she explored the rest of the elegant room. It had dawned that the people who had taken her were very wealthy. The thought intrigued Anastasia – what had made them take an interest in Anastasia? Could they really be after the same things that the Illyrian’s were after?

She shuddered at the thought.

She observed the details—the quality of the furniture, the richness of the fabrics—and speculated about the lives of those who owned them.

After a few momenta alone with her thoughts, Anastasia ventured into the adjoining chamber that she had yet to explore. As she stepped inside, she realized it was a bathing chamber, open air and seemingly carved into the mountain itself.

The bathtub, more akin to a pool, hung precariously off the mountain's edge. Its far edge seemed to vanish into thin air, offering an unobstructed view of the vast landscape below. The sheer audacity of such a design took her breath away. The adjacent wall was adorned with candles and the soft glow illuminated the space, making the room warm and inviting.

And very, very tempting.

Suddenly, she was very aware how long it had been since she had taken a bath – how long it had been since she was truly clean. Most of the mess and gore was gone – probably wiped away whenever she had been changed, but that didn’t erase the fact that she could still feel the grime as if it were still on her body.

After a moment of hesitation, Anastasia decided to immerse herself in the inviting water. Slipping the pants and shirt off her, she stepped into the bath. the soothing sensation of the warm water enveloping her tired body. As she reclined, suspended between the mountain and the vastness below, she couldn't help but marvel at the unexpected luxury surrounding her.

She never thought she’d get to experience this again.

Anastasia didn’t know how long she stayed soaking in the bath, but the water started to cool, and her skin began to prune. As Anastasia emerged from the warm embrace of the bath, her senses tingling with relaxation, she reached for the fluffy towel draped on the side of the pool and let the plush fabric envelop her.

It was then that her gaze landed on a mirror in the room the glass leaned up against the moonstone wall. Intrigued, Anastasia approached, the reflection revealing a version of herself that she almost did not recognize. The length of her face seemed subtly different, more angular than she remembered—although the lingering swelling still distorted the true contours of her face.

Her ears, usually unremarkable, now appeared pointed. She remembered, vaguely, feeling the new pointed tips during her first days in captivity. But to see them now – so unlike her – made a pit grow in her stomach.

The reflection in the mirror portrayed a version of Anastasia that wasn’t her – it couldn’t be.

It is. Cian’s voice was so loud in her mind at that moment, so certain.

She traced the contours of her face with her fingers, as touching her cheeks would reverse whatever had happened to change her.

“What happened to me?” She asked, tears forming just behind her eyes.

You’ve become what you were meant to be. Anastasia only shook her head, refusing to believe that for a moment. She was meant to be home, scrubbing into the operating room and living a perfectly normal human life.

Anastasia's reflection stared back at her from the mirror, the subtle changes – the elongated face, the pointed ears - in her features causing a surge of horror within her. She couldn't tear her gaze away; it was like looking at some kind of car wreck.

The unfamiliarity of her own image seemed to close in on her, and panic welled up within her. She could feel her heartbeat pick up the longer she stared at the face in the mirror.

In her distress, the edges of her vision blurred, and she began to see black thread-like floaters dancing across her sight. Panic intensified as the dark threads seemed to weave inward – towards the face staring back at her.

Wrapped in a fluffy towel, Anastasia stumbled backward, the room momentarily spinning.

She closed her eyes, attempting to steady herself, but the panic persisted. The floaters in her vision continued their unsettling dance, as if they refused to be ignored. Anastasia took a deep breath, trying to anchor herself in reality.

What was happening to her?

Anastasia, desperate to rid herself of whatever it was that clouded her vision, blinked rapidly, and shook her head.

A deafening crash erupted in the room.

The mirror shattered into a thousand shards, sending glass fragments flying in all directions. Instinctively, she braced herself, arms shooting upwards to shield her face from the incoming storm of glass.

The explosion of the mirror was followed by a sharp, searing pain as glass cut through her arms. A gasp escaped her lips as she felt the sting of the wounds.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she could feel a purr of approval.

Anastasia, now standing amidst the wreckage, surveyed the room with wide eyes. The mirror, shattered and fractured, lay in pieces on the floor. The injuries on her arms, though painful, paled in comparison to the sudden violence that had erupted.

The sharp echoes of footsteps reached Anastasia's ears, prompting her to look up through her bleeding hands. The male figure from the balcony – from the forest - rushed into the room, his fingers wrapped tightly on a large silver dagger. Shadows curled around him and his wings, making him look just as menacing as he did the night before.

Panic gripped Anastasia as she observed his intense expression, the lines of tension etched on his face.

Was this the moment where he killed her?

His gaze quickly shifted from the shattered remnants of the mirror to Anastasia. As their eyes met, an unexpected softening occurred in his expression. The stern lines smoothed out, replaced by a look of concern. She could feel Cian in her mind – it was as if he had his hackles raised at the male in front of her.

The male approached cautiously; his movements deliberate as he took in the scene in the bathing chamber. His eyes flickered between Anastasia's bleeding hands and the broken mirror on the floor.

Anastasia, still recovering from the shock of the mirror's explosion, braced herself for his reaction. As the male reached towards her, her panic surged, and instinct kicked in. In a frenzied motion, she grabbed a piece of broken glass from the floor beside her, holding it defensively between them. It was pathetic, really – he could probably take her out with little less than a second thought.

The male's expression shifted to something that Anastasia couldn’t quite place.

Recognizing the danger she perceived, he raised his hands in a placating gesture and took a step back. Anastasia watched him warily, keeping the broken glass raised between them.

With a resigned nod, the male slowly retreated through the door. Anastasia watched every step that he took – determined that if he were to double back, she would be ready for him.  

Soon after the winged male left, Mor entered the room, her gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene with concern. She took in the broken mirror, the scattered glass, and Anastasia, still holding the shard defensively. The blonde’s lips curled into a small, wry smile at what Anastasia could only assume was a pathetic sight.

Without so much as a word, the blonde waved her hands, and, like magic, the scattered glass shards disappeared from the floor.

How the hell had that happened?

Before she could fully grasp what had just happened, the spindly-haired Madja returned to the room. The older female, with no questions asked, grabbed Anastasia’s bloodied arms before she could so much as open her mouth to protest. She applied salves to Anastasia's fresh cuts, the familiar scent of healing herbs permeating the air.

There was something about Madja’s presence that calmed Anastasia down. She let the old female led her back to the embrace on the warm bed – whispering soothing words that she couldn’t understand and refused to dwell on what had just happened to her.

Chapter Text

Anastasia was bored.

Two days had passed since the incident with the shattered mirror, and Anastasia kept herself secluded in the bedroom. In fact, she hadn’t even thought about leaving it – not even really daring to venture out on the balcony. Despite the reservations she had about the strange group of people that had taken her away from the Illyrians, she found herself even more hesitant to see just what other horrors might be out there.

Her bedroom, as she had come to think of it, had become something of a sanctuary to her. Anastasia, dressed in cotton pants and a top that seemed to appear in the room whenever she felt she needed a change, sat near the edge of the bed, her eyes tracing the contours of the mountain peaks beyond.

Any evidence of the incident with the shattered mirror was long gone, swept away by whatever it is that Mor had done, leaving no trace of that strange explosion. Neither Mor nor Madja – not even the male bathed in shadows – made any comment to her about the shattered glass. Instead, Anastasia was left to think about it, wondering just what could have caused it.

As Anastasia sat near the open-air window, her gaze fixed on the distant mountain peaks, her mind drifted back to the unsettling episode with the shattered mirror. She had tried not to actively think about it over the past two days but there was no explanation for what had happened. One moment she was looking at her reflection in the mirror, her panic rising, and the next moment glass shards were scattered across the floor and her arms were bleeding.

How could that have happened?

There had to be some explanation.

A defect in the glass, a sudden change of room temperature.  

It most certainly could not be her. But she thought of those moments before the mirror burst, those moments when her panic was settling in. Did she have anything to do with it?

Yes, my pet. Cian’s voice in her head held a tone of certainty that sent a shiver down her spine.

Anastasia recoiled at his answer. She just didn’t see how it was possible.

You could do It again, the voice continued, and it was almost as if Anastasia could hear a hint of smile in that tone. I could teach you how to use it.

Anastasia's thoughts raced, her mouth going dry at the notion of doing something like that again. But the promise of an explanation – perhaps even being given a reason for her being here in the first place – was far too tempting.

Leave this place and find it, his voice became stronger, more demanding, now as it echoed through the corners of her mind. Help me, and we could be powerful.

Her eyes flicked to the door on the opposite side of the room, temptation tugging at her. The ornate wooden door was closed, but not locked.

She could easily turn the handle, slip quietly through the hallways to try and find–

But how long would it last? Madja and Mor always seemed to know when Anastasia needed something, either one of them appearing at just the right time. It was eerie, as if they could sense when something was wrong. How long until they sensed that she wasn’t in her room?

Would they even let her leave?

Do it, Cian’s voice compelled her. As the tempting allure of Cian's voice echoed in her mind, Anastasia found herself taking tentative steps toward the door. The seductive promises of power and freedom tugged at her, as if there was some strange force that was physically pulling her in that direction.

She took another step towards the door.

Yet, as Anastasia moved, another, quieter voice emerged from the depths of her own mind—a part of her that was undeniably hers. This internal voice - a whisper of reason and self-preservation - urged her to stay.

Why?

She had no idea.

Anastasia hesitated, her steps halting. The pull of Cian's voice urged her forward, promising knowledge and potential. The other, quieter voice pleaded for restraint.

As if waking from a trance, Anastasia hesitated, her gaze fixated on the door. The allure of what lay beyond – of what Cian promised - still whispered to her, but with a slow retreat, Anastasia stepped away from the door. She could feel the anger and frustration from Cian bubbling inside of her mind. While she hated the feeling of disappointing this enigmatic presence – of not getting the answers she wanted, a deeper part of her told her that it was more important that she stay.

If only she knew why.

The shattered mirror was probably just a coincidence anyway.

-x-

Each day brought with it the ritual of Madja's visit, something that Anastasia found herself looking forward to each afternoon. The older female would enter the room with a calm demeanor, her knobby hands carrying an assortment of vials and salves. It was, besides the occasional pop-in from Mor, the only social contact that she had.

While the visits from Mor, or the mere thought of the others, were enough to put her on edge, Anastasia felt herself at ease with the older female.

Which was how Anastasia, now well into her recovery, found herself scrutinized by the discerning eyes of the healer as she monitored her progress.

Madja's practiced hands moved over her, inspecting the remnants of Anastasia's injuries. The swollen face, a haunting reminder of her interrogation at the hands of the Illyrians, had receded to near normalcy. Even the once-bruised ribs, tender to the touch, were on the mend. Whether it was her own body's speedy healing – she still couldn’t quite explain how that was happening - or the mysterious salves applied by Madja, she couldn't quite decipher.

The remedies that Madja used intrigued Anastasia. It went beyond the conventional medicine that Anastasia was used to. But she couldn’t help but be fascinated by how well they seemed to work. She wished she could voice her curiosity, ask about the ingredients that worked their magic on her injuries. But every time that Anastasia tried to ask a question – to communicate despite the strange language barrier – Madja only stared blankly at her feeble gestures.

In a moment of bold curiosity, Anastasia's hand reached for one of the intriguing bottles that Madja had brought. The delicate sound of the cork being popped resonated in the room, and a woody fragrance wafted through the air.

Madja looked at Anastasia, rolling her eyes. The female had to be used to her curiosity now.

Without giving it too much though – her med school training going out the window at this point, Anatasia’s pinky finger dipped into the vial, capturing a small, glistening droplet. Madja’s discerning eyes widened momentarily as Anastasia brought her pinky finger to her lips, the taste of its contents unfolding on her tongue. The flavor, a mix of herbs and woods, danced across her palate, leaving an aftertaste of both bitterness and subtle sweetness.

Anastasia's eyes widened in surprise at the taste, and she looked over to Madja.

The healer had let out a gasp, her eyes rolling in reproach at Anastasia's audacity. But soon enough, a sigh escaped her lips, carrying with it a blend of exasperation and amusement. The corners of her mouth curved, not quite into a full smile…but it was enough.

Seizing the moment of understanding, Anastasia pointed at the array of salves with a curious lift of her eyebrows, hoping that the healer would be able to discern what she was asking.

 "Calendula," Madja began, pointing to a jar with a vibrant gold salve.

“Calendula,” Anastasia repeated, holding the golden bottle up to the light. She had watched earlier in the week as Madja applied the calendula to her face and arms, the injured areas instantly soothing as the salve touched her skin.

"Hardhay," she said, indicating another jar with a jade-hued balm. Gingerly, Anastasia picked up the balm and opened it. She brought it to her nose and inhaled, the vaguely spiced aroma hitting her nostrils fiercely.

It was then that Anastasia noticed the vial towards the back of the bunch, bathed in a soft azure glow. Madja smiled as Anastasia’s hand cautiously gravitated towards it. "Blue lotus and yarrow," she uttered, her voice taking on a melodic quality.

Anastasia couldn't help but smile at Madja as the healer indulged her curiosity. Yet, as the conversation – or feeble attempt at one - continued, Anastasia became aware of the healer's time, realizing that Madja likely had more pressing matters to attend to. Gratefully, she nodded, silently thanking Madja for settling some of her curiosity.

Madja responded with a knowing smile before giving a small nod. With a graceful exit, the healer left the room, leaving Anastasia staring at the vials that, now, were a little less strange than they were before.

-x-

The next day was remarkably quiet; the airy heavy with an unusual stillness. Madja had yet to make her daily appearance, leaving Anastasia with a growing sense of unease that she couldn't quite pinpoint.

Restlessness crept over her, her gaze flickering toward the closed door with a sense of anticipation. Madja’s absence, as much as she hated to admit it, left her feeling agitated and somewhat adrift. She paced the room, the seconds stretching into an uneasy length of time. Something was happening; Anastasia just could not tell what.

Even Cian remained uncharacteristically silent.

As a soft breeze wove through the open-aired room, Anastasia sensed a shift from wherever the enigmatic presence was her mind. A subtle undercurrent of panic emanated from Cian, and the atmosphere in her head seemed to ripple.

Simultaneously, a faint echo of footsteps echoed down the hall, their approach causing a momentary stillness in the room. Anastasia felt a peculiar sensation, almost as if Cian were hastily withdrawing from the forefront of her thoughts, his presence diminishing with a hurried retreat until it felt like it was no longer there.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and after a brief pause, Mor entered the room. The blonde female offered a small smile in greeting, and Anastasia found herself returning it, despite the strange feeling that she got in the pit of her stomach.

Something was most definitely up.

Mor turned back towards the open bedroom door and with a subtle gesture, invited Anastasia to follow her, not even bothering with trying to speak anymore. Anatasia blinked at Mor – did the blonde really want her to follow? What could she possibly want out there?  For a brief moment, she stood at the threshold of her room – what had become somewhat of a refuge – wondering just what waited for her beyond that door.

This would be the first time she ventured outside the relatively safe confines of her room since arriving at – well, whatever this was.

Mor gestured again, giving Anastasia a dazzling and reassuring smile.

She hesitated, waiting for Cian to give some words of encouragement – or a warning. But the voice was nowhere to be found.

Right, Anatasia told herself as she took that first step across that threshold, her heart beating fast, you can do this.

As Anastasia ventured into the hallway, the richness of the surroundings struck her with a sense of awe. The corridor, bathed in a soft glow as if carved from moonstone itself, was more lavish and elegant than anything she had ever encountered before. Elaborate tapestries adorned the walls, and as she walked her eyes drunk in their intricate designs. She had to wonder how much something like that could have cost.

Anastasia was right in her initial assessment of the place – these people weren't just rich; they were "decorate-the-hallways-with-masterpieces" rich.

But even as the two of them walked, Mor never leaving her side, Anastasia couldn't shake the lingering question of why she was here – of what they wanted from her.

Mor led Anastasia to an ornate door. With a gentle push, the door opened, unveiling a room steeped in sophistication. It appeared to be carved into the mountain itself, the moonstone seemingly glowing.

Closing the door behind her, Mor gestured for Anastasia to enter.

As she crossed into the study, she could see that carved into the rock were shelves that housed all different kinds of books. It took a lot of Anastasia’s restraint to not immediately begin thumbing through them. Rich fabrics seemed to be draped over ample seating. At the far end of the room sat a wooden desk, and behind it the violet-eyed male and the brown-haired female from that first night on the balcony, spoke in hushed tones.

Mor guided Anastasia to a chair in front of the desk. A sense of dread settled in the pit of her stomach – something that she had not felt since she had escaped the war camp, and Anastasia couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than a casual conversation.

Anastasia sank into the plush chair, a subtle wave of anxiety trickling in. The elegant surroundings, the hushed tones, and the serious expressions on their faces played on her nerves.

Was this another interrogation?

The violet-eyed man and the poised woman exchanged a long glance, as if they were having a silent conversation, and Anastasia couldn't help but wonder what secrets they were sharing. The air in the room grew denser, each second ticking by like the countdown to something Anastasia wasn't sure she was ready for.

The door to the study swung open again and in walked the two winged males. The other – with the shoulder length hair – gave Anastasia a small smile that sent her stomach turning. The one shrouded in shadows from the other day watched her carefully as they took positions on either side of the desk, as if flanking the couple, and a chill ran down Anastasia's spine.

Anastasia felt like she was going to be sick.

Panic gripped her as the memories of the brutal Illyrian beatings and interrogations came flooding back.

She couldn’t do this again.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she gripped the arm rests on the chair. She could feel the wood crumpling underneath her, crushing under the weight of her own strength. But she couldn’t even think about it as she looked up at the males – the edges of her vision blurring.

The female in the room, sharp-eyed and perceptive, caught the flicker of panic in Anastasia's eyes. She exchanged a few murmured words with the winged duo, saying something that Anastasia could only assume were orders of a sort. The two males obliged, moving away from the desk, but not before the one with the shadowy wisps around him shot her a look that Anastasia couldn’t quite decipher.

The two males had not left the room; Anastasia could feel their hulking presence behind her.

It brought back memories of the dark-haired male from the Illyrian war camp, the one who had wielded a mallet against her hand as she was questioned. The mere thought of his cruel actions sent a shiver down her spine and a phantom pain flared in her already healed hand.

Unthinkingly, she stretched out her fingers.

It was in the past, she told herself.

The violet-eyed male observed Anastasia's reaction with pursed lips, his gaze inevitably drawn to her hand as she flexed it nervously. The weight of his scrutiny only made her feel uneasy, and she couldn’t help but shift in her seat.

The female said something to Anastasia, the gentle tone of her voice lilting up in a question. Both she and the male at her side waited expectantly for a response. But Anastasia could only shrug her shoulders, “I don’t know what you want from me – I don’t understand.”

How many times would she have to do this?

With a casual wave of his hand, what looked to be a map suddenly appeared on the desk in front of him. Anastasia stared wide eyed, momentarily wondering how that had happened, before flicking to Mor for some kind of explanation.

The blonde female gave Anastasia a reassuring smile and gestured at the parchment on the desk.

Anastasia turned back towards the violet-eyed male and her gaze fell to the map before her breath caught in her throat. In that moment, she was no longer in the most beautiful palace she had ever seen, but in a small, frigid tent with shackles chafing the skin on her wrist as winged brutes demanded that she provide answers to questions she did not understand.

A dryness settled in her mouth, the bitter taste of realization that she had let her guard down. She had gotten too comfortable in the last few days – and had fallen right int their snare.

Cian had been right.

Somewhere beyond the ringing that had started in her ears, Anastasia heard an exchange between Mor and the other woman, their murmured conversation a distant hum in her overwhelmed mind.

The brown-haired female’s voice broke Anastasia's momentary reverie, jerking her back to the present. When Anastasia didn't offer any response, the woman sighed, exchanging a few words with the violet-eyed male who responded with a nod of understanding.

Without so much as another word, the male circumvented the desk, positioning himself almost directly in front of Anastasia.

Here we go again.

Anastasia instinctively braced herself for a blow, a verbal assault, something – anything – like what she had become accustomed to at the hands of the Illyrians. However, to her astonishment, the man's hand extended toward her with grace. A reflexive flinch ran through her, muscles tensing in anticipation of pain. Yet, instead of delivering a strike, his hand closed around hers in an unexpected gesture of comfort.

Caught off guard by the gentle touch, Anastasia's eyes widened in surprise.

She felt it like a talon, scraping ever so gently at the edge of her consciousness. A disconcerting sensation, unfamiliar and unsettling, crept through her mind, as if something – someone - was trying to get in. Somehow, an instinctual awareness told her that the violet-eyed man was the one behind it all.

Anastasia squirmed in her chair, an involuntary attempt to shake off whatever the hell this was. But her body rebelled against her will, locking into a reluctant freeze.

Anastasia's eyes widened in panic as the intrusive presence seeped into her mind. Helplessness settled in as she realized there was little that she could do to prevent the invasion, her own memories resurfacing like an involuntary reel.

It played out like something out of a movie. She saw herself diligently working in the hospital, the familiar hustle and bustle of Tufts Medical Center surrounding her. The scenes shifted abruptly to dinner with friends in Boston, laughter echoing in the background. Her almost daily yoga sessions.

Connor.

Her heart ached at each memory as it passed – would she ever see her home again?

But the presence in her mind did not let up. Memory after memory replayed in her mind, tugging at her heartstrings as she so clearly could picture home again. And yet, as it delved into more recent memories, it was like a steel wall had been thrown up, blocking off certain parts.

Anything following her run on that one fateful day – it was as if it were hidden behind some kind of impenetrable barrier.

And Anastasia knew – somehow – that the male before her could not see it.

A searing pain tore through Anastasia's head as the intrusive presence delved deeper into her mind. It felt like something was being rearranged within her brain, making changes that left her writhing in agony.

Her brown eyes found the violet ones of the male before her, “Please – make it stop.”

Wide-eyed and overwhelmed, she let out a scream, the raw expression of pain echoing through the room. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled sounds of concerned conversations reached her ears, but they seemed distant.

All she could focus on was the searing pain in her mind.

As swiftly as it had descended upon her, the intrusive presence began to retreat from her mind. Anastasia, left gasping for breath, felt the weight of the mental assault lift, the searing pain dissipating into only a dull ache. In its wake, she collapsed in the chair.

Mor rushed to her side, her arms wrapping around her in a feeble attempt at comfort.

After a few long moments, and with a shaky intake of breath, Anastasia gradually regained control of her senses. Once she gathered herself enough to form words, she looked up at the male before her.

"What the fuck was that?"

The male regarded Anastasia with wide-eyed surprise, his gaze briefly flitting to the brown-haired female beside him before returning to Anastasia. Then, with a sly smile playing on his lips, he said - in a language Anastasia could understand perfectly, "Well, that is very interesting.”

Chapter Text

Anastasia sat there – dumbfounded - her gaze locked onto the male with violet eyes. The room seemed to wrap around her as she struggled to calm her racing heart.

It took a few moments for the realization to sink in – the words he had spoken were not in that strange, guttural tone that she had grown used to hearing, but in perfect English. At least, that is what it had sounded like to her. Blinking in disbelief, she struggled to reconcile what had just occurred.  

How could that have happened?

It just wasn’t possible.

Somehow, instinctually, she knew that he had something to do with it – with that pain that tore through her consciousness as she could feel pieces of her mind being rearranged.

It was like magic.

A shaky breath escaped her lips as she managed to croak out, “Wh-what... did you do to me?”

But it wasn’t the male that spoke. The female at his side laid a claiming hand on his shoulder. Her touch seemed to ground him as she addressed Anastasia with a calm, delicate voice, “You’ve just been through a lot. Why don’t you go back and rest?”

“No, I don’t want to rest,” Anastasia declared, her head shaking in vehement protest as her dark hair swayed around her with the motion, “What the fuck just happened?”

Her newfound ability to actually speak with these people emboldened her, and she could feel her confidence return to her.

“There was a problem.” The male responded casually. His fingers, adorned with subtle shadows, flicked an invisible fleck of dust off the sleek surface of his black jacket, “And I solved it.”

Anastasia's eyes narrowed.

"How?" she pressed.

"Rhysand is a daemati," Mor revealed, her form shifting away from Anastasia's side, leaving a subtle ripple in the air.  

"A what?" Anastasia's brows furrowed; her confusion etched across her features.

"I can enter people’s minds," he explained, his gaze once again finding hers. There was an almost apologetic softness to his tone. "I can hear their thoughts, see their memories – influence them. We needed you to be able to understand us, and so I made it happen."

Anastasia's eyes widened at the fantastical explanation.

"You made it happen," she echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You just entered my head and willed me to speak another language?"

The male - Rhysand, a study in nonchalance, shrugged. "It's a bit more complicated than that," he admitted, a wry smile playing on his lips. "But, in essence, yes."

"This is absurd," Anastasia shook her head, her fingers pressing against her temples as if attempting to massage away the perplexity. "Who are you people? Really."

“I am High Lord of this court,” Rhysand explained, before gesturing to the female at his side, “And this is Feyre, my High Lady.”

They don’t like the High Lord. They’re right not to. The memory of Cian’s words from the Illyrian camp lingered in her mind, casting a shadow over the conversation. As she stared up at the male before her, she began to see why people might be wary of him, with the way that he exuded power. Even now, with her newfound confidence, she was still apprehensive about the male.

“High Lord,” She repeated, the words feeling strange on her tongue. “Where the hell am I?”

“Prythian,” He answered cooly, his violet gaze level with hers, “We’re in the Night Court – at the Moonstone Palace.”

Her temples throbbed with his words, a dull ache radiating through her head. Instinctively, she rubbed at the source of it before pleading, “I just want to go home.”

Anastasia, her emotions raw and head throbbing, felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she turned to meet Mor's sympathetic gaze.

"Where is home?" Mor asked, her touch a comforting anchor as Anastasia’s thoughts continued to race.

Anastasia struggled to speak, the weight of her emotions threatening to drown her words – she could feel the tears forming behind her eyes. Before she could articulate that ache in her heart, Rhysand's voice resonated in the room, all his early bravado now gone. "Somewhere very far away."

Her gaze locked onto his, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. "You saw it, didn’t you? In my head?"

He nodded, his violet eyes holding a mix of compassion and understanding. "A city of steel and glass and stone."

"Boston," she choked out, the name laden with longing. "Can you help me get home?" She couldn’t help the hope that surged in her chest at that moment.

Rhysand's expression shifted, a look of pity shadowing his features before he shook his head. “I don’t know how you ended up here – in a different realm.”

“I’m not supposed to be here. It’s not right,” She insisted, her gaze darting between both Feyre and Mor, “I’m not even myself.”

Mor raised her eyebrows, curiosity etching her features. "What do you mean?"

Instinctively, Anastasia's hand flicked to her ear, where the delicate pointed top now caught her touch. "I don't even think I'm human anymore."

A sharp inhale pierced the air, the sound emanating from somewhere in the office. "You were human?"

Were. The word hung in the air like a heavy shroud, a stark realization that slapped Anastasia in the face. She turned, finding the two winged males standing by the door to the office. She took in their imposing figures, the wings at their back tucked neatly behind them and instinctively flinched. In the chaos, she had forgotten that they were there.

The male who had posed the question stepped forward, shadows swirling around him as he repeated, "You were human?"

His eyes born into hers – the shadows around him dancing wildly. Anastasia's breath caught, and she retreated further into her chair. A primal fear crept over her, and she flicked her gaze to the floor as she heard the male take another deliberate step towards her.

"Azriel," Feyre cautioned the male before her, but her sympathetic gaze remained locked on Anastasia. Though the male named Azriel took in his High Lady’s warning tone, his intense gaze never wavered. Closing his hazel eyes, he nodded, acknowledging the unspoken boundaries, and took a measured step back.

The tension in the room eased slightly, but Anastasia remained acutely aware of the unease lingering beneath the surface.

Anastasia kept her gaze fixed on the beautiful stone floor, her eyes tracing the way the light reflected off the moonstone. Her fingers tightened their grip on the seat of the chair, a subconscious attempt to ground herself. Never lifting her gaze, she responded to the male’s question. “Of course, I was human... I mean, there was nothing else for me to be.” She lifted her hands once more to trace the delicate tip of her ear, “I don’t even know what I am now.”

“High Fae,” Feyre answered, closing the distance with a tentative step towards her. She extended a hand, fingers hovering in the air. Anastasia, still engrossed in her thoughts, didn't pull away as her hand wrapped around Anastasia’s. The High Lady continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “You were Made.”

“But not by the Cauldron,” Rhysand interjected, his stride taking him towards the open aired balcony. A contemplative air surrounded him. “I could see that much.”

“So, you don’t have any answers for her?” Mor's question lingered in the air.

The High Lord shook his head, running a hand through his black hair, “I couldn’t see much. Almost as soon as she appeared on the Steppes, it was like a wall bore down on her memories.”

Anastasia’s eyes widened, realization settling in. So, she hadn't imagined it – the inexplicable barrier shielding her memories and all but pushing the High Lord out of her head.

There was only one thing that could have done that.

“Do you think you could tell us what happened?” Feyre's voice was gentle, her hand delicately resting on Anastasia’s. The Lady withdrew, allowing Anastasia to gather her thoughts.

It was as if the rest of the room, hushed and expectant, held its collective breath as they waited for Anastasia.

Running her hands from her temples to smooth out her dark hair, she met Feyre's gaze, finding kindness in her eyes. And so, taking a deep breath, Anastasia nodded. With a shaky voice, she described the last moments of normalcy—her final shift at the hospital, the impromptu decision to go for a run, and the unsettling shift in her surroundings. How air itself seemed to change as she transformed, her limbs suddenly feeling longer and wrong with every further step into the forest.  

How she met a winged male in the woods.

Her voice now a trembling whisper, she recounted how he had taken her, how the Illyrians had cruelly tied her up with hardly any food or water and had interrogated in her a language that she couldn’t understand. And had beaten her when she did not - could not - respond.

The details spilled forth like a torrential downpour, and Anastasia found that once she had started speaking, she could not stop. Not even as the faces of those around her shifted to horror as she detailed the brutality and how she had felt like giving up.

She told them everything.

With one exception.

As she explained everything, Anastasia wondered whether she should mention Cian – how the strange voice had been her only source of company throughout the entire ordeal. How he had comforted her. How he had pushed her to escape when the time was right. She wasn’t sure about here, but where she was from, hearing voices was never a good thing.

Uncertain of the reception such information might receive in Prythian, she hesitated. These people appeared genuinely committed to aiding her, and she didn't want to jeopardize that. But another part of her, a much more selfish part, stirred within her—a desire to keep Cian solely to herself.

Her eyes swept across the assembly of individuals surrounding her, lingering on the terrifying figures of the two males with wings. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she voiced, "Even now, I still don’t know what they wanted with me."

“Kallon thought you were a spy from Hybern, although why he thought anyone from Hybern would have wanted to know about Ironcrest is beyond me,” The hulking male behind her, maintaining a cautious distance from Anastasia, stepped forward and, added, “He thought by bringing you to Windhaven, he’d get back into Devlon’s good graces.”

The memory of interrogations and captivity surged within Anastasia, sparking a visible bristle beneath her skin.

"It just so happened that the day you were at Windhaven," the High Lord interjected, punctuating the air with the rhythmic tap of his fingers on the rich wood of his desk, "Cassian and Azriel had dropped in unannounced to ensure the females were still training as scheduled. Otherwise, I don’t know if we would have found you."

Otherwise, she would have been caught again.

Brought back to that place - Windhaven.

And who knows what they would have done to her.

She forced herself to cast her eyes toward the two males, Cassian and Azriel, positioned just beyond her direct line of sight. She summoned a small nod in their direction, hoping that it was enough to convey her thanks. Despite the knowledge that they had helped her – rescued her, the trauma inflicted by the other Illyrians still held a vice-like grip on her psyche. She didn’t think that she’d be able to separate the two.

Silence lingered in the room before Rhysand broke it, offering a tentative solution, "You can stay here at the Moonstone Palace while we figure this out. We'll begin investigating everything we know about being Made, about other realms."

His sweeping gesture encompassed the towering stone bookcases that surrounded them, laden with hundreds of books. "All of this is at your disposal."

Anastasia's gratitude surfaced in a heartfelt, "Thank you." She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, the realization sinking in that she would probably be stuck in this place for a very long time.

Her mind was a whirlwind of information, her head spinning with the complexities of her situation – she was High Fae, a species that only existed in fairy tales. She was stuck somewhere that was so far removed from her home – did she even have a home to go back to?  And then there were all the things she didn’t share with them – the secrets that some instinct told her to keep.

Cian’s voice in her head.

The strange threads she would see sometimes.

The incident with the mirror.  

The scent of aged paper and the soft glow of moonstone-infused lamps did nothing to stop the sense of her entire reality being upended.

She looked around the room, her eyes eventually meeting Feyre's. It was as if the High Lady could sense the exhaustion and hopelessness settling within Anastasia. With a weary smile, Anastasia finally admitted defeat, her voice a mere whisper, "I think I'll take that rest now."

Feyre nodded empathetically, her steps leading Anastasia out of the study. The heavy door closed behind them, shutting out Rhysand, Mor, and the two Illyrians. As they walked through the opulent corridors of the Moonstone Palace's, Anastasia couldn't shake the feeling that her sense of self was slipping away.

-x-

Anastasia stirred from her midday rest, the conversation with Rhysand, Feyre, and the others still lingering in her mind like an unwelcome shadow. The weight of it all tugged at her thoughts, threatening to pull her into yet another spiral. She rubbed her temples, attempting to dispel the mental fog, but she just couldn’t shake the terror that came with this crazy new reality.

As she rose from the plush bed, the room in the Moonstone Palace greeted her with its muted luxury. The gentle rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the ancient furnishings. Tugging on simple leggings and a loose cotton tunic, Anastasia decided that she needed to shake off the oppressive thoughts that threatened to engulf her.

Her feet led her to the balcony, where the mountainous landscape unfolded before her eyes. The sun hovered just above the majestic peaks, casting a golden hue across the valleys. It was a breathtaking sight, a serene moment that felt too precious to be marred by her building anxiety.

Deciding to embrace the beauty around her, Anastasia centered herself on the balcony's cool stone floor. The rhythmic sound of her breath merged with the soft whispers of the wind, creating a soothing melody. She began to stretch, working her way through a series of poses that Elise had drilled into her head after years at the same yoga studio.

The stretches and poses became a silent dance, a way to ground herself amidst the uncertainty.

As she exhaled, she gracefully bent forward, fingers grazing the cool stone, a cascade of dark hair falling in a curtain around her face. Moving seamlessly into downward dog, she pressed her palms to the stone, elongating her spine and feeling the gentle pull in her hamstrings. She closed her eyes, as she inhaled deeply. It was the first instance of exercise that she had had in a long time, and her body relished the gentle pain as she pushed it deeper into the pose.

Opening her eyes, she gazed out over the balcony, the panoramic view of the mountains before her. The sun had begun to lower in the sky, casting its radiant glow over the peaks and valleys, painting the world in hues of gold and emerald. With a newfound sense of peace, Anastasia rose and turned her attention to the sky.

In the vast expanse above, two winged figures circled gracefully, their silhouettes etched against the sapphire canvas. The play of sunlight on their membranous wings created a mesmerizing dance of color. Being a safe distance away, she let herself watch them for a moment as they circled each other in the sky. She could have sworn they were looking at her – watching, but even with her new, improved fae eyesight, it was still impossible to tell.

Anastasia stood still, watching them until the gracefully disappeared into the horizon, leaving her alone with her thoughts once again.

-x-

The dining room was adorned with moonstone accents, the soft glow illuminating the elegant setting. Anastasia, dressed in a simple lavender gown provided by Mor, marveled at it all. She adjusted the delicate fabric of her dress, still feeling a bit like an imposter in such regal surroundings. It was the first time she had eaten outside of the bedroom, having only been provided broth up until now.

Mor, looking every bit the High Fae in a gown that shimmered with starlight, gestured for Anastasia to take a seat. The glass table at the center of the room was laden with more food than was possible for two people, and the air carried the enticing aroma of the carefully prepared meal. Anastasia could feel her stomach rumble as she looked to the trays of chicken and vegetables.

Mor poured a deep red wine into delicate crystal glasses, and the rich aroma filled the air. "Tonight, we celebrate," Mor declared, raising her glass. "I know it’s probably difficult being here – so far from home, but at least we can understand each other now."

Anastasia hesitated only a moment at the thought of home, and of speaking so casually with someone she was still so wary of, but followed suit, clinking her glass with Mor's. "I can at least drink to that.”

Mor seemed to sense Anastasia’s hesitation and did not demand that she make small talk. Instead, Mor shared tales of Prythian, describing the different courts and the vibrant cultures from each of them. The blonde female had even given Anastasia a little bit of a history lesson, briefly describing the most recent war and the tension between some of the courts. Anastasia, both enthralled and horrified by what she heard, could only wonder just what kind of world she had been brought in to.  

Between bites of decadent dishes that surpassed any expectation, Anastasia marveled at her first experience of solid food since her rescue. The flavors of even a simply cooked chicken exploded on her palate, as if her taste buds had changed with the rest of her. She savored every bite as if she had been deprived for a lifetime.

It certainly felt as though she had.

As the evening progressed, Anastasia's curiosity got the better of her when she finally asked, "Where did everyone else go?"

Mor's expression shifted briefly, a flicker of emotion crossing her features. "They’ve gone home. Rhys and Feyre don’t like to stay here – it’s well, it’s not to their taste. They only come on official business."

Anastasia nodded, sensing that there was more to the story than Mor was letting on, “Do you live here?”

“Cauldron, no.” Mor scoffed, taking a deep gulp of the wine, “I’m here with you, and I’ve got some business tomorrow in the city below.”

The mention of a "city below" intrigued her – she pictured towering skyscrapers and vibrant nightlife. Somehow, it didn’t fit into the picture of Prythian that she had her in head. "There is a city here? Can I see it?"

Mor's eyes darkened slightly, and she sighed. "The city below is not as welcoming as the Moonstone Palace. It's inhabited by Fae that make the Illyrians you encountered look gentle."

Anatasia took a sip of the wine at her side, only nodding as she took in Mor’s warning – a vivid reminder that this place she was in was not safe. She could still feel the remnants of the blows that had landed on her at the hands of the Illyrians – she’d rather not have to experience anything like that again. She set down the glass of wine, pushing the remnants of her dinner around on her plate.

It is dangerous, pet. Cian’s voice – one that she had not heard all day – echoed in her ears. Find me – help me. And I will protect you.

Chapter Text

Anastasia lounged on one of the many sofas in the library of the Moonstone Palace, her fingers idly tracing the delicate patterns on the armrest. The mid-afternoon bathed the room in a warm golden glow, casting intricate shadows that danced across the walls.

She’d been alone for most of the morning.

Mor had been called away to deal with something in the city below the mountain. Anastasia had not been tempted to ask to tag along - not after the warning that the blonde had given to her on her first night there. But with Mor's unexpected departure, the palace seemed to be too quiet. In the last few days, she’d gotten used to the company of the bubbly blonde. And now, without her company, Anatasia could feel restlessness starting to creep over her.

"Ask the palace for anything you need," read the note Mor had left for her after explaining the reasons for her departure. Anastasia furrowed her brow, unsure of the extent of this mysterious command. She glanced around the lavish room, half-expecting the walls to answer for her.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she considered the absurdity of the situation. "Anything I need, huh?" she mused aloud, testing the waters.

Curiosity tugging at her, Anastasia decided to put the claim to the test. "How about a cup of jasmine tea?" she asked, half-expecting her words to dissolve into the silence. Yet, moments later, a tray materialized a nearby table, adorned with delicate porcelain and a steaming cup.

A bemused smile played on her lips as she sipped the tea, contemplating the enchantments that surrounded her. Mor had explained it all to her one evening, but she did not think she could ever get used to the idea of magic.

And she was hoping that she wouldn’t have to.

She would go home soon.

Turning her attention from the tea, she focused on the old tome that was on her lap. The air was heavy with the rich, musty scent of aged parchment. With a furrowed brow, she meticulously pored over the dusty volume, her fingertips tracing the faded ink. She’d taken up the High Lord’s offer to use his library, to search for a way home. Days of doing nothing else but reading had yielded nothing except more confusion.

Her eyes burned and strained as she poured over the musty old books, trying to make sense of the ancient writing in front of her.  

There are conduits between worlds, and their import lies in their function as gates that connect the different realms. Whosoever possesses the skill to craft these gates gains the ability to traverse between the realms. Neither human nor Fae have unraveled the secret to create keys to unlock these gates for the knowledge and power to create them lies beyond those from this realm.

Anastasia's gaze lingered on the cryptic passage, attempting to make heads or tails of it. Not only did the text sound like it was written by some kind of medieval monk, but none of it made sense to her. All of the talk about conduits and gates between realms only left her more confused than she had been before.

Did this even pertain to her? It wasn’t like she had gone through a gate, and she sure as hell didn’t create any sort of portal between the realms.

But someone must have.

Someone neither human nor Fae.

As the realization dawned, a sense of dejection settled upon her. The prospect that the keys to these gates might be beyond her reach – beyond even the reach of the High Lord and Lady - weighed heavily on her.

Would she ever be able to get home?

Find me. Cian’s voice echoed in her head, for what seemed like the millionth time, help me and I will get you home.

Anastasia sighed, tired of the constant vague promises that the mysterious voice seemed to always make. She looked around the room, making sure that there was nothing and no one that could overhear her before hissing, “What do you mean by that?”

I need something. I need you to get it for me. Bring it to me, and I will send you home.

The command echoed in Anastasia's mind, the words lingering as she waited for further clarification that she knew would not come. Frustration welled within her - another cryptic answer left her sighing, temples rubbed in a futile attempt to soothe her growing headache.

"What do you need?" she asked the empty room, her voice a blend of weariness and determination.

Be careful of the Daemati, was Cian’s only reply. They are not to be trusted around your mind.

She thought of Rhysand – how he had entered her mind, rearranging things so that she could understand them. She had been unsure of it at first, wary of both the magic and the intrusion on her mind. But, after the conversation she had with him, and the High Lady had done wonders to ease her fears.

But she had also made sure she kept Cian hidden from them.

“They’ve done nothing but help me,” Anastasia countered, looking around the library that Rhysand had allowed her to use for as long as she needed. She just didn’t know if she could reconcile the High Lord that Cian was warning her about, and the one that she had met.

Only to their own ends. Cian's voice echoed once more; the Night Court collects powerful females.

He’d said something similar to that once before, but Anastasia scoffed, “It’s a good thing I am not powerful, then.”

The only answer was a chuckle that reverberated through her mind.

A frustration simmered within Anastasia as she thought about what Cian had said to her. The weight of it all bore down on her, and with a sigh of frustration, she slammed the book shut on her lap before casting it off to the side.

She stood up, wondering if there was something else here that would be able to take her mind off the uncertainty. She wandered through the bookcases, the scent of aged parchment surrounding her. She wandered for a long time, taking in the titles and the subjects – so much of which was entirely foreign to her.

Eventually, she found herself in a section on ancient medicine, a subject at least somewhat familiar and grounding. Retrieving a book that seemed to call out to her, she settled into a secluded alcove as she cracked open the spine.

As she delved into the pages of Fae medicine, reading about different herbs and their healing properties, the frustration that had coursed through her veins began to ebb away, and she could feel herself begin to relax.

-x-

In the days following, Anastasia had created a routine that provided a semblance of normalcy for herself at the Moonstone Palace. She began her morning with yoga. Elise wasn’t there to run a class for her, and Anastasia was doing most of the sequences from memory. But it was something that grounded her – something that reminded her of home. As the morning turned to early afternoon, she would head over to the library, locking herself in with a cup of tea to pour over the old books, searching for anything that might help her get home.

Yet, on her fifth day of this routine, an unexpected sense of restlessness tugged at her. She had enough of the dejection at not finding anything else useful in the library, at the sense of self-satisfaction at her lack of progress coming from Cian that she could not shake.

She needed a break.

With the vastness of the palace stretching before her, she wandered through its chambers and corridors. Anastasia strolled down a hallway adorned with captivating paintings, each a masterpiece in its own right. The walls came alive with landscapes that captured the essence of different seasons. Turquoise waters sparkled under the summer sun, while another showed vibrant spring flowers danced in the breeze. A winter scene, serene and snow kissed.

As she gazed upon these evocative landscapes, a fleeting thought crossed her mind—each painting was a reflection of the other courts that Mor had told her about. The paintings were so magnificent that for a moment, she was tempted to ask to visit them, to see their beauty in person.

Yet, in the next breath, Anastasia chastised herself. The only place that she would be going to was home - Boston. The name of her city became a mantra in her head as she continued to look around at all the different pieces on the wall.

In Boston, she had never truly appreciated art. She’d been too busy with school, and later work, to go to any of the museums that the city had to offer. But now, she was blown away by the different pieces before her. Her new fae senses seemed to unlock a heightened appreciation for the nuances of each brush stroke, every hue and texture becoming something more as it jumped off the canvas at her.

Perhaps it was the one good thing about this unwanted transformation.

You are so much more than you were before. Cian whispered into her mind, the weight of his words hanging in the air. A chill ran up Anastasia’s spine as the voice continued, and this is only the beginning.

Anastasia shuddered, gnawing on her lower lip as she struggled to hold back her response to Cian. The voice in her head seemed to relish in her transformation as if he were proud of it. Despite the odd comfort he sometimes brought to her, she refused to even entertain the idea that her new fae body was a good thing.  

Instead of responding, she shifted her attention back to the works of art. At the far end of the hall, Anastasia found herself drawn to a display of intricate pottery and sculptures. Intrigued, she cautiously approached the pieces, appreciating the fine details and craftsmanship.

It reminded her of art from the Renaissance.

As she continued to admire the sculptures, her recent transformation had temporarily slipped her mind. For the briefest of moments, she was normal again, looking like her old self and without the longer limbs and pointy ears. She was just Anastasia again.

Until her outstretched arm accidentally knocked over a clay pot displayed on the ground.

The abrupt shatter of the clay filled the air. Anastasia froze, a mix of surprise and embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

"Shit, shit," she cursed, her eyes fixated on the shattered clay scattered on the ground. What she could only assume was a priceless piece of art lay in many little pieces on the ground. How was she going to explain this?

Focus. Cian’s voice came to her like a command, and she stilled, staring at the broken shards. As she centered her attention on the mess, she noticed the faint, glistening threads hovering above the broken pieces. They were smaller than the one she had seen before – tiny, like the fragments of clay they hovered just above.

Envision the threads intertwining, Cian ordered – his voice laden with satisfaction, make them weave together.

Tentatively, Anastasia extended her hand towards the threads. She hesitated for a moment before embracing Cian’s guidance, imagining them weaving together. And then, staring with her mouth slightly open as they actually wove together.

That’s it. She could almost hear the serpentine smile in Cian’s voice as he encouraged her.

As Anastasia continued willing the threads together, she felt the air around her - magic - responding to her touch. The shards of clay began to reassemble, each piece finding its place and adhering to each other until the pot was as good as new.

Well done, Anastasia. Cian's voice resonated with approval.

“What was that?” The question came out as a whisper as Anastasia stared in awe at the repaired pot. Her mind raced, attempting to find a logical explanation for what had just occurred. But there was nothing else – short of a hallucination – that could rationalize that.

No, she had wielded magic.

And somehow, now, she could no longer deny it.

The shattered mirror, the broken chains at the Illyrian camp—all of it was her.

You are so much more than you were before. Cian echoed his earlier words to her.

She was about to say something – demand even more of an explanation from him, but the echo of approaching footsteps kept her silent. Turning swiftly, her eyes widened as they locked onto a winged male surrounded by delicate wisps of shadows.

Azriel.

Mor had briefly discussed the other members of the High Lord’s inner circle with her, only able to mention the Illyrians in passing before noticing just how interested Anastasia became in the vegetables on her plate. She knew his name from the other night, and that he possessed these shadows, but that was all the explanation that she could listen to before she had to try and block out the vision of bat-like wings looming over her.

Her mouth went dry at the sight of such similar wings, tucked neatly behind the male before her now.

“Are you alright?” Azriel asked, his voice slicing through the awkward silence between them. Anastasia observed him with careful eyes, noting the subtle shifts in his body language as he took a step closer. He tucked his wings tightly into his back, minimizing them so they didn’t take up as much space in the rather large hallway. He maintained a healthy distance, something that Anastasia was grateful for. “I heard a crash – it sounded like something broke.”

In response, Anastasia's hand instinctively brushed through her hair, a nervous habit she hadn't been aware of until that moment.

"I'm fine," she replied stiffly, her gaze unwavering as he shifted her weight from one foot to the other.  She wasn't prepared to share what had just happened with anyone – let alone him, "I just tripped."

The lie hung in the air, and the look that etched across the male’s face said that he did not quite believe her. Anastasia's fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve as she braced herself for further questioning.

At her words, the shadows that shrouded him began to circle around him, some of them coiling around his ear as though they were whispering to him. Others extended toward Anastasia, sinuous tendrils snaking across the room, reaching out to her.

Anastasia instinctively took a step back, creating a little more space between her and the shadows – and Azriel.

"They won't hurt you," Azriel reassured her, his voice tight with something that Anastasia couldn’t place. "They're just curious."

Anastasia didn’t know how she felt about that – shadows weren’t meant to be curious; they weren’t meant to be anything at all. But she watched the male before her – watching him like a cornered animal – she realized she had offended him.

"Well," he offered, his face betraying no emotion save for the subtle flick of a muscle in his jaw, "if there is nothing the matter, then I will leave you to it. I'm sorry for disturbing you."

A small part of Anastasia – the manner that her mother had all but drilled into her as a child – urged her to act, insisting that she should say something. That she should offer a smile, or a friendly piece of small talk to clear the air between them. Something to get him to stay.

But as he turned away from her, the light from the afternoon sun catching those terrifying wings, she was paralyzed. The words that should have formed in her throat seemed to dissolve, and her hands remained locked at her sides.

She could not bring herself to do it.  

Chapter Text

Anastasia reclined on the chaise at the foot of her bed as Madja meticulously examined her injuries. She couldn't help but bombard the healer with questions. "How exactly do these herbal remedies work to heal people?"

Boredom became the default state for Anastasia, as she spent her days combing over books in the library. Although she had her routine, the days seemed to blend together with only herself for company. She did not dare to deviate from that routine or wander around the palace again lest stumble upon any more shadowy Illyrians. But she had to admit, spending her days alone in the Moonstone Palace library – save for that one unwanted run in with Azriel – was beginning to grate at her.

 But when Mor had appeared one night, with Madja in tow, Anastasia felt herself relax a bit.

"Herbs have their own magic, you could say.” Madja met Anastasia's gaze with a soft chuckle. “They interact with the body, promoting balance and aiding in the healing process."

"And do all healers use the same herbs, or is it a personal choice?" Anastasia leaned forward, her curiosity rising.

Anatasia had not seen the healer since Rhysand had gotten into her head, helping her to communicate. But seeing her now, she had jumped on the chance to ask the older female all of the questions she had thought of while puttering through the books on fae healing.

Madja, who had moved begun to press a hand to Anastasia’s ribs, had a glint in her eye, "There are common herbs, but each healer may have their preferences based on experience and or on what their magic can do."

"How does magic work to heal people?" she asked. She thought about the way she had connected those threads the other day, watching as the clay mended itself. Could it be anything like that?

Could she use her magic to heal people?

You could do all manner of things with your magic, pet. Cian hummed appreciatively, as he frequently did when she thought about her strange abilities. Let me show you.

As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she banished it, refusing to entertain the idea. Whatever she had done – she wasn’t meant to be able to do it. She shouldn’t have magic at all.

“You know, I think I liked it better when you rarely spoke,” Madja met Anastasia's gaze with a gentle smile, humoring her patient, "It's different for everyone – those from the Dawn Court will have the best ability to heal. But in essence, we tap into life force – whichever way our magic allows and balance it to mend injuries."

Anastasia remained silent, contemplating Madja’s explanation as the healer continued to examine her.

“What had you interested in healing anyway?” Madja asked.

Anastasia shifted a little under the older female’s knobby hands. “I was a surgeon back in – back home. But this… well, it’s unlike any sort of medicine that I’ve practiced.”

The healer’s eyed widened a fraction, before the female remembered herself and nodded. Mor had made Madja aware of Anastasia’s predicament, arguing that the healer had to be made aware, given how Anastasia had now suddenly been given the ability to speak with the rest of them.

“You know,” Madja said after a couple of minutes, “You’re healing up quite well, my dear. Maybe one more check in a few days’ time, and I believe you'll be on your way to a full recovery."

Anastasia couldn't shake the twinge of disappointment that ran through her. Madja was one of the only people here that she trusted, and the prospect of losing that left her on edge.

Anastasia gave the healer a forced smile, "That's great to hear. I appreciate all your help, Madja."

-x-

Mor was gone more and more.

The bubbly blonde female would make an appearance every few days, checking on Anastasia and making sure everything was alright at the Moonstone Palace before disappearing off to God knows where. Even when she was here for longer than a few minutes, she could tell that the female would rather be anywhere else. Anastasia tried not to let it get to her, but save for the one awkward encounter with Azriel, she had not seen anyone else in weeks.

The only one she had for company, really, was Cian.

The Morrigan is gone. His voice echoed through her head one afternoon, Now is your chance. Hurry, find it.

“Find what?” Anastasia asked the empty room, looking up from the history book she had been pouring over. But Cian’s commands remained cryptic, refusing to answer even the most basic of her questions.

The opportunity is fleeting. Seize it. Hurry, Anastasia.

Anastasia sighed, turning back to the book. She wasn’t going to listen to the command of some disembodied voice if he wasn’t going to at least be specific in his commands. She could feel a flurry of anger rise up at being ignored, but Anastasia remained in her place, eyes glazing over some ancient page on portals.

To conjure the keys, one must wield an ancient power – to master death.. High Lords, driven by insatiable ambition, have tried, and perished, for their power alone will not suffice. Their creation demands a reverence for forces far older than the realms themselves.

Frustration etched lines on her face as she tried to make sense of the text in front of her and Anastasia sighed, rubbing her temples. Dejected, she slammed the old book shut and cast her gaze at the mountains just beyond the edge of the balcony.

It was in this position that Mor found Anastasia. The High Fae entered the room with a keen awareness, her gaze falling upon the dejected figure lost in contemplation.

Mor, concern evident in her eyes, approached Anastasia with a gentle touch on her shoulder. "What's the matter?"

Anastasia, looking up with wearied eyes, gestured to the book at her side. She sighed, giving the blonde female a look of exasperation, “It’s hopeless, isn’t it?”

Mor's sympathetic gaze lingered on Anastasia, recognizing the struggle etched on her face. After a few silent moments, Mor, with a gentle tone, asked, "Anastasia, would you like to get out of the palace for a while? Clear your mind?"

Get out of there? Anastasia nodded eagerly. Even Cian, a subtle presence in her thoughts, seemed to echo a pleased sentiment. She stood up quickly, the book falling from her lap onto the stone floor with a soft thud, with every intent to get herself ready.

Mor, however, laid a cautious hand on Anastasia’s shoulder, "Before we go, Anastasia, you need to promise me, that whatever you see outside, you'll keep it a secret. Can you do that?"

Anastasia, the weight of her frustration momentarily lifted, responded with a wry smile. "Who am I going to tell?"

-x-

Anastasia realized – very quickly – that she hated winnowing. She hadn’t known what to expect when Mor had explained the process and then warned her to brace herself. But whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t that.

She hated it more than flying, even.

Once her feet were back on the blessedly solid ground, Anastasia shuddered, attempting to shake off the lingering unease. It took a moment for her to register the abrupt change of location – they were no longer at the Moonstone Palace. When she finally got her bearings, her mouth hung open.

“Welcome to Velaris.” Mor’s voice was laden with affection.

It was a city.

It was a city, but like no other she had ever seen before. The buildings, a blend of white marble and warm sandstone, towered above them. Anastasia stared wide-eyed, taking in everything from the winding banks of a sapphire river to the townhomes that seemed vaguely familiar yet distinctly otherworldly.

"It's beautiful," Anastasia whispered, her eyes darting around to take in all of the different sights. The marketplace, the enchanting lights, and the vibrant colors – when Mor said that they were going out, she hadn’t expected this.

Even Cian seemed to take note. She could feel his interested pique from the corners of her mind, watching through Anastasia and taking in all of the sights and sounds of Velars.

Mor beamed, a reflection of happiness evident in her eyes.  

Mor, with a mischievous glint in her eye, led Anastasia to a market within the city - the Palace of Bone and Salt, she called it. As soon as they neared it, Anastasia’s senses were overloaded by the most wonderful of smells. The air was infused with the aromatic mixture of exotic spices and freshly baked goods.

“You’re going to have to ty this,” Mor declared with a grin, guiding Anastasia toward a charming bakery nestled at the corner of a cobblestone street, “They make the best apple tarts I’ve ever tasted.”

The blonde female all but pushed Anastasia inside, the scent of freshly baked bread and pastries enveloping them. Anastasia's senses were immediately captivated by a display of intricately crafted desserts. “These look almost too beautiful to eat.” Anastasia remarked, her eyes tracing the delicate designs on the pastries.

“Ah – that might be true,” A voice chimed in from behind her, causing Anastasia to jump. A fae male, in a flour-dusted apron, chucked warmly, “But if you don’t eat them, I will be offended.”

Without another word, the male took one of the pastries out of the display and handed it to Anastasia. She thanked the baker before bringing it to her mouth.

Oh, that was good.

Mor engaged in a lively conversation with the baker, their exchange filled with familiarity and some shared laughter It was obvious that the blonde was a regular customer. As they trailed off into the background, Anastasia found herself drawn to a small glass window at the front of the shop.

Outside, children were darting between market stalls and playing games, their laughter echoing through the air. A couple strolled hand in hand along the river, deep in conversation with one another.

A pang of homesickness gripped Anastasia's chest.

The familiarity of the bakery, the lively chatter, and the glimpses of a city teeming with life only served to make her miss home. Velaris, with all its wonders, couldn't fully replace the comfort of the familiar streets of Boston.

Mor, sensing Anastasia's readiness to leave the bakery, approached her with a warm smile. "Ready to explore some more?"

Anastasia nodded, and Mor led her back out onto the bustling street. It was crowded, with laughter, footsteps, and distant conversations echoing against the stone facades of the buildings. Merchants displayed their wares, and the air was tinged with the tantalizing scents of exotic cuisine wafting from nearby eateries. It was all so peaceful. She never would have been able to tell that the city had seen the devastation of war, if Mor hadn’t told her about it.

Velaris. Cian echoed in her mind, breaking her reverie. A secret concealed for centuries, and yet, here they are, laid bare.

Anastasia, caught between the enchantment of Velaris and Cian’s disquieting whispers in her mind, couldn't resist questioning Mor. "How does it feel so peaceful here despite everything that’s happened here?"

Mor's gaze darkened momentarily, before returning to its usual bubbly look. "Not without a lot of effort. For most of its existence, Velaris was protected by powerful wards and Rhys saw to it that the only people who knew about it were its residents."

Was?

“Was?” Anastasia echoed Cian’s question; her own curiosity piqued.

“The city is still protected,” Mor answered with a shrug, although her tone suggested she wasn’t altogether happy with the development. “But since the war, other courts are now aware of its existence. It’s still heavily protected by Rhys, and not anyone can get it but…”

Mor trailed off, and the blonde female’s silence spoke louder than words. She could sense Cian in the back of her mind, desperate to know more. But the pair arrived at their destination, a quaint shop with a storefront crafted from dark-colored wood, and Anastasia knew that the conversation was over.

The air around the establishment carried a feeling of antiquity, as if the shop had been around for centuries. Anastasia, as they stepped inside, was immediately greeted by the rich, now familiar scent of herbs that tickled her senses.

The interior was a tapestry of colors and textures, with shelves laden with vials, jars, and bundles of dried herbs. Anastasia's gaze roamed over the various herbs on display, letting her fingers trace the delicate glass on the old wooden shelves.

Mor, with a certain reverence in her tone, informed Anastasia, "This apothecary is the oldest in Velaris, and it's the only one that Madja trusts implicitly. If you need something specific, you'll likely find it here."

Anastasia's fingers trailed over the worn spines of ancient books, wondering just how much knowledge each of them held within their confines. As she explored, the subtle fragrance of dried herbs wafted around her, blending with the musty scent of aged paper.

The apothecary's shelves revealed a trove of treasures – jars filled with dried petals, roots neatly bundled in twine, and vials of vibrant elixirs that shimmered in the dim light. Anastasia's gaze lingered on each container, her mind trying to absorb everything that she saw. The labels, some faded with age, bore names of herbs and remedies she recognized from those books, while others she had never heard of before.

She found it all fascinating.

"I've noticed you spending quite a bit of time with those old healing books," she remarked, her expression a playful mixture of curiosity and mild bemusement. A subtle wrinkle of her nose hinted that, maybe, the blonde didn’t find ancient healing practices the most interesting topic.

Anastasia immersed herself in all the treasures that adorned the apothecary's shelves. Her fingertips danced delicately over the cool surfaces of glass bottles. With a gentle touch, she lifted each bottle to the light, admiring the play of colors within and marveling at the artistry of nature captured in every potion.

When she was done, she carefully placed each bottle back in its rightful spot. Despite the fascination that gripped her, Anastasia was acutely aware of her own reality. She had no coin to barter, no offering to make in exchange for these treasures.

She had nothing in this strange new world.

Anastasia was so absorbed in her explanation of the apothecary that she did not even realize that Mor observed her with a watchful eye as she delicately examined each bottle and potion. The subtle interplay of emotions on Anastasia's face did not go unnoticed, and Mor recognized her silent longing.

As Anastasia, having soaked in the enchanting atmosphere of the apothecary, finally turned away, her eyes caught Mor at the counter, carefully selecting and purchasing some of the very items Anastasia had been eyeing.

“What are you doing?” Anastasia asked, walking up to the blonde female.

“Don’t think we haven’t noticed you growing a little listless,” Mor's gaze met Anastasia's, holding a depth that went beyond mere observation. The apothecary, engrossed in carefully wrapping a stone mortar and pestle on the counter, turned from the two of them, as if allowing the pair some privacy.

Anastasia, caught between gratitude and the instinct to resist such generosity, opened her mouth to speak. Before words could escape, Mor's perfectly manicured hand found its place on Anastasia's arm in gentle reassurance.

“I know you’re trying to find a way back to your home," Mor spoke softly amid the rustle of parchment, "But regardless of how long you stay here, you deserve to be able to make a life for yourself.”

Mor gave her a tender smile as the shopkeeper continued to wrap up the delicate glass vials, before handing the box over to Mor. Anastasia felt the corners of her mouth lift, and she could not seem to think why Cian thought these people were so bad.

The shopkeeper continued her meticulous work, wrapping delicate glass vials with care before placing the completed box into Mor's hands. Anastasia felt a subtle warmth blossom within her, and her lips tugged upward in a tender smile.

Mor’s act of kindness touched her, and for the life of her, Anastasia could not understand why Cian regarded these people with suspicion.

-x-

She was running again.

Each step was an agonizing endeavor as her body protested the movement with bolts of searing pain shooting up her leg with every single step. The steep declining path seemed to stretch endlessly before her, the mountain unyielding – an unforgiving descent that demanded strength she wasn't sure that she possessed.

Find it.

The terrain beneath her boots was unforgiving - rocky and uneven, adding an extra layer of torment to her already exhausted body. The biting chill of the mountain air stung her lungs with each breath, and her heart thudded in her chest as if it was rebelling against her.

Bring it to me.

Anastasia raced through the dense forest, the night wrapping her in its darkness so that she was nothing more than a dash of shadows. Moonlight filtered through the tangled branches overhead, casting an eerie glow on the twisted trunks and the carpet of fallen leaves beneath her pounding footsteps. The chill in the air was palpable, her breath visible with every ghostly exhale.

The air held the sharp tang of pine and damp earth, something hauntingly familiar to her...

She recognized these woods…

The moon hung like a lantern in the ink-black sky, casting a haunting glow over the treetops. There were no signs of life, as if even the forest creatures were afraid to venture this far down the mountainside. She couldn’t blame them. The silence of the forest was broken only by the rhythmic thud of her footfalls on the forest floor.

And the sound, like a mantra in her head.

Find it. Bring it to me.

She had no one after her – no immediate pursuers. There was no one, nothing that she was running from.

Only running towards.

But there was still a sense of urgency fueled Anastasia's sprint.

Anything to get that incessant chorus in her mind to stop.

The moonlit path ahead seemed to stretch endlessly, a serpentine trail through the heart of the rocks. Her heart hammered in her chest, heightening her senses as she ran, feeling the pulse of the forest beneath her feet.

It’s in the tomb of black stone.

Down the mountain, Anastasia hurtled with a mysterious force guiding her descent. The terrain shifted beneath her, the descent turning into a relentless plunge as some unseen voice urged her onward.

Down. Find it.

The urgency in her mind fueled her steps, propelling her forward with an almost otherworldly momentum.

As she descended, the moonlit greenery gave way to a stark landscape of rocky terrain, all signs of life disappearing. The ground beneath her became uneven, a chaotic mix of jagged rocks and uneven surfaces. The air grew thinner, echoing with the haunting silence of the mountain.

Driven by some inexplicable compulsion, Anastasia pressed on, her eyes scanning the desolate landscape for something she couldn't exactly define. The voice in her mind persisted – commanding her to find a tomb of black stone. Despite her apprehension, her feet seemed to move of their own accord.

The voice in her head continued to whisper, guiding her through the twists and turns of the moonlit landscape. It was then, amidst the rocky expanse, that she stumbled upon an opening in the rocks—a jagged crevice barely large enough for her to crawl through.

The edges of the opening loomed like dark sentinels, and Anastasia hesitated, a shiver running down her spine as the inexplicable tang of iron tinged the air. She knew that feeling - had sensed it before… The atmosphere became charged with an unsettling energy, and her instincts urged caution.

It is so close. The familiar voice urged; its serpentine tone laced with honey. Go, and bring it to me.

Anastasia cautiously peered into the crevice; its depths obscured by shadows. The metallic tang in the air grew more and more intense as she drew in closer.

"I don't want to go in," Anastasia’s words cut through the eerie silence, almost pleading with the voice. A primal caution gripped her – warning her not go take another step forward – and it was heightened by the unsettling aura that this place seemed to give off.

The resistance within her swelled, a conscious effort to defy the unseen force that sought to guide her forward. She fought, her muscles straining as she was compelled to move forward. Despite her reluctance, it felt as if an invisible thread tugged at her, forcing her towards the darkened crevice and whatever it was that lay beyond.

"No," Anastasia protested softly, her resistance barely audible even to her own ears. As if the darkness had swallowed it all up. She clamored for purchase on the rocks, trying to find anything that she could grab on to. She actively fought against the compulsion, taking deliberate steps backward. Yet, it was as if an invisible hand guided her, overpowering her attempts to resist.

It was no use, and the dark opening drew closer and closer.

Anastasia's breaths came in ragged gasps as she snapped awake, her body jolting upright in the large four-poster bed.

She was safe.

She was in her room at the Moonstone Palace, surrounded by the lush cream-colored linens that enveloped her in comfort. Cold sweat clung to her skin, and her heart raced in the aftermath of the vivid nightmare that had gripped her.

Echoes of a voice - urging her to find the black stone tomb - reverberated in her mind, lingering like haunting whispers.

Anastasia took a moment to steady her breathing, the unsettling chill of the mountain air replaced by the familiar comfort of the warm palace. The vividness of the nightmare began to fade, but the memory of that strange crevice and whatever was beyond it lingered, casting a shadow over her thoughts. She glanced around the room, attempting to reassure herself that she really was safe.

For the rest of the night, she could not close her eyes. Instead, she ran through the events of her nightmare – trying to make sense of it.

A shudder ran through her, she hadn't had a nightmare the Illyrian mountains in a while.

Chapter Text

She wasn’t getting anywhere.

Anastasia sat on the plush couches of the library, surrounded by ancient books and dusty volumes. The morning light streamed through the towering windows, casting a warm glow on the worn pages before her. Despite the serene atmosphere of the Moonstone Palace's library, frustration knitted her brows into a furrowed expression.

It had been almost a month of pouring over musty books, her eyes straining to make sense of the cryptic words and faded in.

And apart from a few ambiguous hints that Anastasia didn’t really understand, she wasn’t any closer to getting home.

“This is useless.” she muttered, rubbing at her temples. She was exhausted; the fatigue from her sleepless night clung to her, shadows underlining her eyes.

Useless, indeed. Cian’s mocking tone slithered into her thoughts, a sinister agreement amplifying her frustration. You know what you need to do to get out of here.

Visions of a darkened cave on the Illyrian mountainside flashed in her mind.

Anastasia’s fear and frustration boiled beneath the surface, and with a glance towards the ancient book still clutched in her hands, she couldn't help but ask, "Is what you want really down there, in that cave?"

There was a hum of affirmation and then – and you, pet.

Cian’s presence in her mind faded into the background as Mor entered, breaking up the tense atmosphere that had been building in the library. Cian’s cryptic messages were becoming more and more unsettling, and coupled with the dream…

Anastasia's eyes flickered towards the blonde, momentarily considering telling the person she had come to trust about the strange voice in her head.

The weight of the secret pressed on her, but something held her back.

"Hey," Mor greeted, a warm smile playing on her lips. "How's the research going?"

"Slow progress, but I'm determined," Anastasia mustered a small smile in response, unwilling to admit that she was just about ready to give up.

As Mor spoke, Anastasia's attention shifted, and her eyes widened with pleasant surprise as Madja followed in behind Mor. A genuine light entered her gaze, and she greeted the healer with a warm enthusiasm. "Madja! It's good to see you. How have you been?"

Madja's eyes softened with a mix of fondness and concern as she approached Anastasia. "I've been well, my dear," she replied with a gentle smile. "And it seems you've been holding up too. Let me have a look at you."

Anastasia nodded, appreciating Madja's care as the healer checked her injuries – she had done it so often that Anastasia was used to it by this point. After a thorough examination, Madja's smile widened. "You're healing up nicely. I think you've reached a point where I won't need to make the journey up from Velaris to check on you. You seem to be managing quite well on your own."

Mor's eyes lit up with excitement as Madja delivered the news, "That's fantastic."

Anastasia managed a grateful smile, but beneath the surface, her heart sank, "Thank you, Madja.”

As Madja continued her examination, making small talk about various topics, Anastasia's thoughts drifted. Her afternoons researching in the library weren’t getting her any closer to home, and each day with no results was leaving her feeling more and more dejected.

The prospect of losing the regular visits from Madja only added to the sense of aimlessness settling over her.

Anastasia's mind raced, contemplating the need for some kind of purpose while she was here. The idea of locking herself away no longer held the appeal it once did, and the impending absence of Madja's comforting presence only intensified the urge for a new direction.

The little things she had learned in her research made it seem like no matter what, she would be in Prythian for a while.

From somewhere in her mind, she could hear Cian hum in approval.

She cast a thoughtful glance at Madja, who continued with her examination. A decision formed in Anastasia's mind – she wasn't quite ready to let go of the healer's guidance, not just yet.

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, nerves fluttering like butterflies in her stomach. Summoning up courage, she took a deep breath and finally voiced the question that had been swirling in her mind. "Madja, I was wondering... would you consider taking me on as an apprentice? I want to learn more about healing and medicine here in Prythian."

That hum in the corner of her mind turned into a growl.

Madja's normally neutral expression shifted to one of apprehension. "Anastasia, you don't have any healing magic, no inherent abilities. What could you possibly learn?"

"I might not have magical abilities, but back in my world, I was a surgeon,” Anastasia bit her lip – refusing to consider the incident with the mirror. Her nerves intensified, but she forged ahead. “I went through years of medical school, and I've treated countless patients. I understand anatomy, medicines, and surgical techniques. Maybe I could bring something different to the table."

You are wasting your time.

Madja's skepticism lingered, evident in her furrowed brows. "Prythian is different, child. It operates on magic."

Anastasia’s shoulders collapsed at the dismissal. She tried to keep a neutral expression, not wanting the healer to see her disappointment. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Mor observing the exchange carefully. The blonde, with a thoughtful expression, interjected, "Madja, you're always so busy. Having an extra pair of hands could be beneficial. Plus, Anastasia's unique background might bring a fresh perspective. I think it's worth a shot."

When Madja’s gaze flicked from Mor, Anastasia could have sworn that the blonde winked.

Madja's gaze lingered on Anastasia for a moment, uncertainty etched on her features, as a delicate silence filled the room. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Madja sighed, her expression softening.

"Anastasia, this is highly irregular, and I can't promise anything. But if you're truly willing to learn - we can give it a try," Madja conceded, her words carrying a mix of caution and openness.

Anastasia’s shoulders lifted, “Thank you, Madja. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

The healer’s eyes shone as her weathered cheeks lifted into a smile, “Just make sure you find some way to get to Velaris each day – I’m done coming to this Cauldron-forsaken place.”

-x-

Anastasia was out of her element.

She stared at herself in the magically repaired mirror, taking in her new appearance. The gown, a luxurious shade of midnight blue silk, hugged her figure with an effortless grace. The flowing material cascaded down in elegant folds, accentuating the curves that had started to come back after she had been rescued from the Illyrian war camp.

She looked stunning.

But it wasn’t her.

Mor had insisted that she be allowed to take are of Anastasia’s wardrobe that night. After all, the bubbly blonde maintained, it was a family dinner and a celebration.

When Anastasia had asked just what exactly they were celebrating, Mor had giggled, “You, of course. It’s not every day that Madja takes on an apprentice.”

Anastasia had rolled her eyes, and after a little more cajoling had gotten Mor to admit that Rhysand and his circle had business in the city below the mountain earlier in the day and had already planned on staying the night at the Moonstone Palace. But now, Mor added with a smirk, they had an excuse to dress up.

Which was how, hours later, Anastasia had found herself in perhaps the fanciest dress she had ever worn.

Playing dress up with the High Lord and his dogs – his little pet, Cian hissed, his disgust radiating through every corner of Anastasia’s mind. There are much better things you could be doing.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Anastasia murmured as she studied herself in the mirror, “If you aren’t going to be helpful, then just go away.”

Immediately, Anastasia was ready for a rebuke, and insult, something that showed his displeasure. But the voice in her mind just chuckled, and she could feel him recess from her thoughts.

Leaving Anastasia alone, with just her reflection for company.

Her long, dark hair framed her face in loose waves that added to the overall elegance of the midnight blue dress. Strands of hair fell gracefully over her shoulders, adding a touch of sophistication to her look. Peaking delicately out from behind her hair were the new sharp angles of her ears.

Anastasia looked away from her reflection.

She didn’t know how long she sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to look back in the mirror. But after what could have been minutes – maybe hours – there was soft knock on the bedroom door.

A blonde head of hair poked itself in, “Are you ready? Everyone’s downstairs.”

Anastasia swallowed, standing up from the bed. She smoothed the wrinkles from her dress as Mor pushed the door open. The blonde looked absolutely devastating. She wore a dress of deep crimson fabric that clung to her every curve, with a daring neckline that plunged to reveal a tantalizing glimpse past her chest.

“As ready as I will ever be,” Anastasia muttered, following the blonde female out of the bedroom and down the hall.

As Anastasia and Mor entered the formal dining room, the grandeur of the setting took her breath away. She’d been in the room many times before, having dinner alone or with Mor. But tonight, the small table had expanded to fit a long, polished table set with fine silverware and crystal glasses.

And to fit many people.

Rhysand and Feyre occupied prominent seats at the table, speaking to one another in hushed, loving tones. Anastasia observed them briefly before her gaze drifted to others present.

Anastasia's gaze hesitated as it landed on Cassian and Azriel, sitting on the far end of the table with another female in between them. Both of them, with their imposing figures, seemed to cast a dark shadow over the room. No one else seemed to notice, or mind though. Anastasia tried to swallow down the nervousness she felt. Even now, after weeks in the Moonstone Palace. She couldn't shake the haunting memories of her time spent as an Illyrian captive.

A palpable unease settled in the pit of her stomach.

Azriel, with shadows swirling all around him, held an enigmatic air that sent a chill down Anastasia's spine. She averted her eyes, trying to focus on the elegant surroundings rather than the unsettling presence of the Illyrian warriors. The intricacies of the room – the fine tapestries, the delicate chandeliers – became her sole focus as she tried to steady herself.

Someone – a female voice she didn’t recognize – said something that Anastasia didn’t quite catch.

Cassian's laughter, deep and resonant, echoed in the background. It was a stark contrast to the wariness that clung to Anastasia. She shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of their eyes on her, dissecting her every move.

Slowly, Anastasia took a seat next to Mor.

“You’ve met Amren,” Rhysand said across the table, gesturing to a small female across from where Anastasia sat, “Although I can’t say that either of you have been properly introduced. She’s my second.”

The silver-eyed female caught Anastasia's attention, sending a shiver down her spine. There was an unsettling quality to those eyes that looked back at her now with an intensity that burned right through her. That first night she had been brought here, Cian had hissed at the sight of the female.

Anastasia couldn’t say that she blamed him.

Trying to shake off the discomfort, Anastasia turned her focus to two other females that she had not met before. One sat between Cassian and Azriel, her attention turned towards the former as she spoke to him in hushed tones. The other sat quietly towards the edge of the table, fidgeting with the napkin in front of her.

“And these,” Feyre introduced, “are my sisters – Nesta and Elain.” Anastasia eyed the pair again. They shared the same brown hair and facial features, creating an uncanny resemblance to their sister.

“Can we eat?” Cassian asked, pulling Anastasia from her thoughts, “Trying to keep from throttling Keir every time her opened his mouth made me work up an appetite.”

The High Lord gave a half-hearted chuckle, but after that the empty dishes at the table were replaced by the most opulent displays of food that Anastasia had ever seen. Roasted meats glistened with savory juices, surrounded by an array of vibrant vegetables that seemed to burst with color. Exotic spices and herbs filled the air, teasing Anastasia's newly heightened senses. Succulent fruits, perfectly ripe, adorned the edges of the table.

Anastasia watched with a mixture of fascination and horror as Cassian – the large and formidable Illyrian – shoveled heaps of food onto his plate, like some adolescent boy. But as the others began to do the same – albeit in a more civilized manner – Anastasia followed suit, spearing a few pieces of roasted pork onto her plate.

As everyone began to indulge, the sounds of silverware hitting the place replaced the idle chatter. They spoke about things that Anastasia didn’t quite understand, referencing people and places that she had never heard of before. Anastasia stayed quiet, content to listen and fade into the background.

But as she moved the bits of meat and vegetables around her plate, she could feel Amren's penetrating silver eyes fixed on her. The intensity of that gaze cut through the ambient chatter, and in a moment of quiet, Amren's voice, cold and direct, sliced through the air.

"You were Made."

It wasn’t a question.

Anastasia hesitated, a fork halfway to her mouth, the taste of the sumptuous meal momentarily forgotten. She met Amren's gaze, searching for any hint of what lay behind that statement. She’d heard that phrase before – had been too out of sorts to really think about what that meant.

The conversation that had filled the room came to an abrupt halt. Feyre's sisters exchanged curious glances, and Rhysand's expression remained inscrutable. Cassian’s eyes flicked to Nesta at his side, but Azriel had a careful gaze locked on Anastasia, his shadows swirling around him.

It was as if they were all waiting for her to respond.

"I'm human, if that's what you mean," Anastasia retorted, her voice carrying a curt edge as she put her fork down. At the end of the table, Elain emitted a small noise of surprise, her eyes widening in reaction to Anastasia's defiant affirmation.

Feyre's gaze flickered briefly to Rhysand, who remained composed, his features revealing nothing. Amren's silver eyes seemed to bore into Anastasia, assessing her response.

“Not anymore, girl.”

Anastasia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but heat rose in her cheeks as she continued, "I've been researching ways to get home, to get back where I belong." Her eyes flicked over to Rhysand, who nodded in understanding. He’d all but gifted her his library.

Azriel, not far away, was gripping his fork tightly, the metal nearly bending under the pressure.

Amren remained unyielding. "You will not find anything. What's Made cannot be Unmade."

Her words hung in the air, a resolute statement casting a shadow over Anastasia's hopes. There was something so final about her tone that made her lungs deflate. But she kept her head high, refusing to shy away from the silver eyed female, not even when, at the corner of the table, Elain's fork clattered on the plate as she brought her hand to her mouth, drawing almost everyone’s attention to her.

Only Amren’s silver eyes remain locked on hers, “The question is, girl, how were you Made?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Anastasia replied through gritted teeth.

“I was Made when I was gifted powers from each of the High Lords,” Feyre explained, her words cutting through the tension in the air, “My sisters – they – they were Made after being forced into the Cauldron. But no one knows how you were Made.”

Anastasia’s eyes flicked from Nesta to Elain, the latter of whom refused to look up from her plate, “You were forced into this, too?”

Mor hadn’t shared it when she spent those nights at dinner talking about her family, but, Anastasia supposed, it wasn’t her story to share.

Nesta's gaze met Anastasia's, a spark of recognition and understanding passing between them. “Neither of us asked for this. We were given no choice,” Nesta replied, her voice edged with only the slightest hint of bitterness. Although she eyed Nesta’s hand, gripped gently by Cassian’s – perhaps there was a part of her that had healed.

Anastasia felt a kinship with the two in that moment. Nesta seemed to feel Anastasia’s eyes on her and offered a small nod. Understanding, she supposed.

Elain, for her part, did not say anything.

“Madja has agreed to take on Anastasia as her apprentice.” Mor interjected, bringing a recently refilled glass of red wine up to her lips.

Feyre’s lips curved into a smile, “That’s wonderful news.”

Anastasia found herself grateful for the diversion, even if it meant she was still the center of attention. It was a lot easier to talk about healing and medicine than it was to talk about her origins.

“It’s an excellent opportunity, Anastasia.” The High Lord added, his violet eyes regarding her carefully, “Madja is the best healer in Velaris, and you’ll be learning from the best.”

Nesta's piercing gaze locked onto Anastasia, and after a moment of silence, she remarked with a sharp edge to her words, "Madja must be feeling generous. Let's hope you don't bungle everything up too much."

Anastasia blinked at the words, as the rest of the table seemed to fall into a hushed silence, awaiting her response. It felt like a test.

Feyre opened her mouth to interject, no doubt about to reprimand her sister. But before the High Lady could say anything else, Anastasia met Nesta's challenging gaze with a smirk, firing back, "I'll try my best, but it's hard to match your level of perfection, isn't it?"

A tense moment passed, but then Elain - who had been quiet throughout the exchange - giggled nervously, attempting to lighten the mood. The tension at the table eased, and the conversation drifted towards more neutral territory, and Anastasia felt a subtle undercurrent of approval from Nesta—acknowledging that she wasn't easily rattled.

The female offered her an approving smirk.

“So, how do you plan on getting to Velaris?” Nesta asked, resting her chin atop her interlaced fingers.

Anastasia swallowed, her eyes flicking to the blonde at her right, “I suppose, I just thought Mor would winnow me.” She hated winnowing – the thought of it alone was enough to make her sick. But it was the only way that she could think of to get to Velaris from the Moonstone Palace.

Mor put her wine glass down, “I-“

“That’s absurd,” Feyre interrupted, waving a tattooed hand in the air at the idea, “If you’re going to be in Velaris every day, you might as well stay in the city.” Feyre looked to the High Lord, and the two of them locked eyes – as if having a silent conversation.

Anastasia’s eyes widened, she hadn’t even considered that a possibility, “I couldn’t- I wouldn’t want to impose.”

 “You can stay at the House of Wind,” Cassian interrupted, his smirk aimed at Nesta, the corner of his mouth quirking up as if in response to a private joke. He continued, the words rolling off his tongue in a way that conveyed both invitation and a touch of amusement. "We've got plenty of space. It’s just Nes, and I – and Az."

Anastasia fumbled with her silverware, the offer catching her off guard. The idea of staying in Velaris, with all its beauty and strangeness, was both enticing and intimidating. But living with the Illyrians? She regarded Azriel and Cassian with a dubious look.

Cassian's smirk widened as he caught her skeptical expression. “Don't worry, we're not as scary as we look.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nesta interjected, rolling her eyes. Her tone held a sharp edge, but she gave Anastasia a smirk, “He’s right though – it makes sense.”

Azriel merely observed with his shadowed eyes, revealing nothing.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know, if you stay at the House of Wind, there's no winnowing in or out. The only way you'll be moving is by flying."

Anastasia looked at Cassian, and the implications of his words sank in. A smirk played on his lips, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The idea of being restricted to flying in and out brought a mix of excitement and trepidation.

“No winnowing, just flying,” Cassian emphasized, his tone holding a challenge.

Mor chimed in, “It's not as bad as it sounds. The view from the House of Wind is breathtaking. You'll get used to it.”

She took a deep breath, her decision forming. “Alright, I'll stay at the House of Wind.”

Chapter Text

Anastasia couldn’t sleep.

She tossed and turned in her bed, the room still bathed in the soft glow of moonlight seeping through the window – the sun had not yet risen. Shadows danced across the walls, casting eerie shapes that seemed to shift and morph with every passing moment. She’d lain awake, staring at the night sky through the curtains for the better part of an hour now, willing her mind to rest.

It was nervous excitement, she reassured herself. It was, after all, her first day working as an apprentice under Madja. It made sense that she had woken up this early.

First day jitters.

Stop lying to yourself, Cian chuckled, the reverberation of his voice the only thing disturbing the stillness of the night.

Anastasia swallowed, unsure if she wanted to think about the real reason, she could not fall asleep.

You fear you’d return to that place – would that be so bad? the voice continued, and Anastasia couldn’t help as memories of her strange dream – of the darkened Illyrian mountains – rose to the surface. In all her life, she’d never been one to kept awake by nightmares or a fear of the dark, but the truth was that she had not had a full night’s rest since that eerie dream of the Illyrian mountains she had had the other night.

She’d lain in this strange new room, staring at the ceiling, fearful of what she would see if she closed her eyes. She had stayed that way for hours, until exhaustion had finally claimed her, and forced her to into a few hours of restless sleep.

Until she had woken up again.

The unfamiliarity of her surroundings only served to amplify her unease, every creak of the House sending a shiver down her spine. Any noise that reached her sensitive Fae ears banished any semblance of rest and immediately set her on high alert, fearful that one of the Illyrians on the other side of the House had finally come to finish her off.

Maybe agreeing to stay in the House of Wind had been a mistake.

Anastasia was uneasy with the thought of the Illyrians sharing the same roof as her. The knowledge that Cassian and Azriel were just rooms away sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn't shake off the feeling of apprehension as it coiled in her stomach.

She shouldn’t fear them.

Cassian had been nice enough at that dinner the other night, and she even brought herself to smile at one of his jokes at Rhysand’s expense.

And Azriel…

She had been alone with him once before, back at the Moonstone Palace. He’d come in to check on her – worried about her safety after her crash into that stupid vase. But fear had gripped her so tightly then that she hadn't dared to engage him in conversation.

Still, she remembered his polite demeanor, the subtle kindness in his eyes…

But here, in the House of Wind, surrounded by unfamiliar territory and the imposing aura of two hulking Illyrian warriors, her senses were on high alert. It was her first night in the House of Wind, and despite its luxuries – every single noise only served to put her on edge. The mere thought of Azriel's presence nearby sent a shiver down her spine.

She couldn't help but wonder if she had made a mistake in agreeing to stay here.

But she couldn’t turn back now. The morning marked the beginning of her apprenticeship under Madja - an opportunity she had all but begged for. Mor had been right – she was nothing but listless at the Moonstone Palace, finding nothing but dead ends in a dusty old library. She needed something else to do with her time.

Anastasia sighed - there was no chance of her falling back to sleep again.

She slipped out of bed, the cool touch of the polished wood floor beneath her bare feet sending a shiver up her spine. She glanced at the window, where the darkness of the early morning still enveloped the world outside. With a silent sigh, she tiptoed across the room, careful not to make a sound that might disturb the peace of the sleeping house.

She tugged on a light sweater over what she had worn to bed and slipped on a pair of soft brown shoes before slowly opening the door to her bedroom.

Nesta had shown her the way to the kitchen earlier in the evening – as a part of a larger tour of the House of Wind, her sharp eyes watching Anastasia's every move with a calculating gaze. Now, as Anastasia made her way through the silent corridors, she couldn't help but wonder what the female would think of her wandering the halls at such an early hour.

As she reached the kitchens, Anastasia hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the doorknob. She listened intently for any sign of movement, but all she heard was the soft murmur of the wind outside – the House was almost too silent. With a determined nod, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat when she saw Cassian and Azriel sitting at the butcher's block countertop, their plates piled high with hearty breakfast foods. Thick slices of bread slathered with butter, chunks of cheese, and slices of cured meat adorned their plates, alongside bowls of steaming porridge and mugs of hot tea.

The room was dimly lit, and small fluttering lights cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Or maybe that was just Azriel.

Anastasia realized that he must have sensed her approaching, as his hazel eyes were locked on Anastasia. Azriel's shadows, always a mysterious and fluid extension of him, seemed to swirl around him more intensely as he regarded her.

"...I don’t know what’s going on up there, but I told Rhys I’d do a fly by today." Cassian murmured, his eyes locked on Azriel.

Anastasia hesitated, unsure whether to interrupt their conversation or quietly slip away and find food elsewhere. Instinctually, she took a step backward, away from the two Illyrians. However, before she could make any other movements, Cassian's voice faded, and his gaze shifted towards the door, locking onto her.

Anastasia's unease lingered, a constant companion in their presence, but she knew she had to maintain some semblance of politeness, especially now that she was living under the same roof as them.

As she took a step in to the dimly lit kitchen, the door shutting softly behind her, Cassian's breezy tone cut through the tension.

"Another early riser," he joked, a playful glint in his eyes. "Now if only Feyre and Nes could take some notes."

Anastasia offered a tight-lipped smile, a feeble attempt to conceal her discomfort. The camaraderie between Cassian and Azriel was palpable, their easy banter a stark contrast to her own wariness. The Illyrians definitely seemed to pick up on it as they exchanged glances.

Cassian recovered first, his grin widening as he gestured to the spread of food. "Hungry? We've got plenty to share."

Azriel nodded in agreement, his expression inscrutable as usual. "Please, join us," he added, his voice calm and inviting.

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, feeling the intensity of their Fae presence and the swirling shadows around Azriel. She weighed her options before tentatively stepping further into the room. Her nerves jangled as she stumbled over her words, “I was just... uh, looking for some tea - or coffee - or something."

No sooner had the words escaped her lips than a steaming cup of tea, accompanied by a delicate saucer, appeared before her. Just like it had done at the Moonstone Palace.

Azriel's hazel eyes met hers, his expression unreadable yet somehow comforting. "You can always just ask the House for whatever you need," he offered softly, his voice carrying a gentle reassurance.

“It’s usually pretty compliant,” Cassian chimed in with a grin, “Though it does have a mind of its own sometimes." His tone was light, attempting to ease the tension that hung in the air.

Anastasia offered a tentative smile, though her nerves still prickled beneath her skin as she thought about how she had listened to the door a few minutes ago – she hadn’t heard anything. Had the House been playing some sort of trick on her to get her in the room?

"Thank you," Anastasia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned to leave. Her hands tightened on the door handle, the cool metal offering a small sense of grounding amidst the whirlwind of emotions inside her.

Behind her, she sensed movement, the faint scrape of wood against the stone floor. Azriel was on his feet when she turned, his presence imposing yet oddly reassuring.

"Do you need someone to show you back to your room?" he offered, his voice soft and tinged with concern.

"I - no," Anastasia replied, the rejection hanging heavy in the air between them. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze meeting Azriel's briefly before she turned away.

As she made her way out of the kitchen, she heard Cassian's hearty laughter from behind the closed door. "Oh, look at that, the spymaster's got a soft spot.”

-x-

As the morning sun cast its warm glow over Velaris, Anastasia found herself standing on the balcony once again, the events of earlier that morning still fresh in her mind. Cassian and Azriel had been nothing but polite to her, and she forced herself to shake off the last remnants of unease from that awkward encounter. She took in the bustling city below, even from as high up as she was, with her sharpened eyesight, she saw that the streets already alive with activity as merchants set up their stalls and residents went about their daily routines.

It was as if the city itself had awoken from its slumber, ready to embrace the new day with open arms.

The wind whipped through her hair, tousling the strands as if urging her to embrace the day ahead. After all, she was starting with Madja today.

But despite the vibrant energy that surrounded her, Anastasia couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that had settled over her like a heavy fog. She leaned against the balcony railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon as she tried to push aside her doubts and fears.

She would have to fly down.

It was either that, she had been warned, or walking the ten thousand steps down – and then back up.

She hated flying. Her only experience with it – on the night she had been taken from the Illyrian mountains – had left her shaking and sick. Her second experience, although she had known what to expect this time around – had not been much better.

On her first night in the House of Wind, it was Rhysand who had brought her from the Moonstone Palace.

The memory of that moment still sent shivers down her spine as she recalled the sight of the High Lord's wings unfurling majestically from his back, the pure magic and power radiating from him left her speechless. But, a new fear had crept into her mind.

In the few times she had seen him, Rhysand had not had wings.

"Can all Illyrians do that?" she had asked tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper. The thought of anyone who looked High Fae being able to summon wings from out of nowhere filled her with dread.

It would be terrifying if just anyone off the street was secretly sporting wings and a chilling penchant for violence. The thought threatened to overwhelm her.

With a knowing smile, Rhysand had assured her that such abilities were unique to him alone, a rare gift bestowed upon him by his half High Fae heritage.

But the High Lord’s reassurances had done little to quell her anxiety.

"Ready for the flight down?" A voice from behind her interrupted her thoughts. Anastasia turned to see Cassian approaching, clad in the fighting leathers she’d seen him in before. The morning sunlight glinted off the polished red jewels on the leathers, emphasizing the strength in his broad shoulders and the easy grace in his movements.

"Just don't worry if you feel a sudden urge to plummet. I'll catch you... maybe," Cassian quipped, flashing her a mischievous grin.

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat at the jest, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. She still harbored a hint of apprehension about being flown down by an Illyrian, but she knew it was her only option. The thought of hurtling through the sky sent a shiver down her spine, but she appreciated Cassian's attempt to lighten the mood.

She thought of his attempts at jokes earlier in the morning.

"Very funny," she replied with a forced smile, trying to push aside the sudden surge of anxiety. “If you promise not to drop me, then I promise not to throw up on you again.”

Cassian winced, a brief flicker of remorse crossing his features, no doubt recalling the night he had pulled her – terrified and malnourished - from the Illyrian mountains. "Don't worry," he reassured her, his expression softening. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Despite her lingering apprehension, Anastasia couldn't help but feel a flicker of trust in Cassian's words. With a deep breath to steady her nerves, she nodded in agreement.

"Okay then," she said, summoning a brave smile. "Let's give this flying thing a try.”

The winged male slowly approached her, and despite some of her instincts, Anastasia found herself not pulling backward. Gingerly, Cassian scooped hera up into his arms, she braced herself for the inevitable rush of wind and vertigo that would accompany their flight. But to her surprise, it wasn't as bad as she had originally feared.

Cassian's movements were deliberate, almost gentle, as if he were handling something fragile. His powerful wings beat rhythmically against the air, propelling them forward with a smoothness that belied their size and strength. Anastasia found herself relaxing slightly in his grasp, trusting in his skill and experience.

As they soared through the sky, Anastasia stole glances at the breathtaking panorama unfolding beneath them. Velaris spread out underneath them like a tapestry, its spires and towers reaching towards the sky. The morning sunlight painted the landscape in soft hues of gold and pink, casting long shadows across the rolling hills and winding river below.

Cassian's reassuring presence beside her helped to dispel the last remnants of her anxiety, and she couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of Velarisfrom this vantage point.

Before she knew it, Cassian was gently setting her down on the cobblestone streets in front of what she could only assume to be Madja's residence. Anastasia's feet touched the ground with a soft thud, and she turned to thank Cassian for the safe journey.

"Thank you," she said, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. "That wasn't nearly as terrifying as I thought it would be."

Anastasia noticed a flicker of something in his eyes, a brief hesitation that hinted at unspoken words. For a moment, it seemed as though he were about to say something, his lips parting as if to form a response.

But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed. Cassian's expression softened into a warm smile, and he gave her a nod before spreading his wings and taking off once more.

-x-

“Get in here, child.” Madja called, her voice urgent.

Anastasia looked at what she had been doing, stocking and sorting dried herbs, making sure – as Madja had instructed – to always keep the oldest stock in the front. She’d recognized several of them from the time she’d spent exploring the apothecary with Mor. The scent of dried lavender mingled with the earthy notes of sage, while the vibrant hues of rose petals contrasted with the deep green of crushed mint leaves.

But at the sound of Madja’s voice, Anastasia immediately dropped what she was doing and hurried into the room where the healer was working. The urgency in her voice sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension as she entered.

Her gaze fell upon a young male sitting on the counter, his features twisted in agony as he cradled his left arm. His shirt was torn and stained with blood, but what really drew her attention was the arm that he was gingerly holding. It protruded forward, and the early signs of swelling had already begun.

Beside him, a dark-haired female was holding him up.

“He was working on one of the docks along the Sidra. One of the ropes on the boats got loose, and he went to grab it – we just heard a pop-“ The female’s words became a blur as Anastasia's mind kicked into overdrive. She had seen this countless times back in Boston, had performed the procedure herself under the guidance of her mentors. Muscle memory took over as she assessed the situation, her hands moving with practiced precision as she prepared to assist Madja.

“It’s a dislocated shoulder,” Anastasia explained as she approached the injured male, her eyes locking onto his in a silent reassurance. She could see the fear and pain etched in his features; she didn’t know if the male understood what she was saying, but she had seen this so many times before.

Anastasia's hand reached out tentatively, her fingers grazing the fabric of his torn shirt before gently probing the area around his injured shoulder. The male winced in pain, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips as he instinctively recoiled from her touch.

Anastasia took a deep breath, her voice firm as she addressed the injured male, "I'm going to pop your shoulder back into place on the count of three. Ready? One... two..."

Before she could even finish counting, Anastasia swiftly applied pressure to the dislocated joint, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the male as his shoulder was forced back into its socket. The sudden burst of agony seemed to reverberate through the air, causing a ripple of unease to wash over those present. As the male's cry of pain subsided into a ragged gasp, the female beside him hissed angrily at Anastasia, her eyes flashing with a mixture of fear and resentment.

Anastasia's brow furrowed in confusion as she observed the female's reaction, her mind racing to understand why her attempt to help had been met with such hostility.

Turning to Madja for guidance, Anastasia felt a surge of guilt wash over her. She had overstepped her bounds as an apprentice, taking charge at a moment when she should have deferred to her mentor's expertise – even if it was something as simple as popping a joint back in.

To her surprise, Madja's expression was not one of reproach.

Once the injured male's arm was securely wrapped in a sling and he had been provided with a vial of poppylief to ease his pain, Madja turned her attention back to Anastasia. Her gaze was steady, her tone measured as she spoke.

"You did well," Madja remarked, her tone measured yet approving. "Your instincts were sound, and I do believe that young female may one day forgive you for manhandling her mate."

“Mate?” Anastasia asked, her brow wrinkling.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she could feel Cian hiss at the word.

Madja nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yes, it explains her protective reaction."

“Oh,” Anastasia said, turning back to clean the grinder that she had just used for the poppylief, “That’s interesting…”

Without another word, she turned back to her work. It was probably just another one of the weird Fae intricacies that she just wouldn’t understand.

Chapter Text

"Oh, that one is... cute," remarked Nesta, her voice cutting through the quiet of the House of Wind's library. Anastasia had immediately found the library following her first day with Madja, intent on using her free time to continue searching for any answers on how to get back to Boston. But the moment Cassian had dropped her off and she had all but timidly scurried away, the exhaustion had set in.

The only energy that she had was for, well, this.

Nesta made her way over to the green armchair that Anastasia was currently curled up in. She stood beside Anastasia, her sharp gaze fixed on the romance novel that Anastasia had been absently thumbing through. "If you want something with a little more... well, just let the House know. It had a lot of good recommendations."

Anastasia jumped slightly at the sound of Nesta's voice, hastily tucking the romance novel away as a red flush rose in her cheeks. She braced herself for the impending teasing – she hadn’t known Nesta all that long, but she understood the female well enough now to recognize that Nesta's sharp wit and keen intuition left little room for evasion.

Nesta regarded Anastasia with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, her lips quirking into a knowing smile. "How was your first day with Madja?" she inquired, her tone carrying a note of genuine interest.

Thank God for the change of subject.

"It was... intense," she offered tentatively, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Madja had said that Anastasia had done well, and even though the most she had done was reset a dislocated shoulder, she could tell that the commendation meant something. Madja didn’t seem like the type to dole out unearned praise.

Nesta raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement at Anastasia's response. "Intense, you say?" she mused. "I can only imagine."

Anastasia shifted uncomfortably under Nesta's scrutiny, acutely aware of the weight of her gaze. But soon enough, Anastasia found herself telling the female all about her first day, from the menial tasks that the healer had her doing to the High Fae couple that had come in.

“I just hadn’t realized,” Anastasia said, sitting back in the armchair, “just how intense the Fae are – it’s kind of scary.”

Nesta's lips quirked into a wry smile, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes as she regarded Anastasia with a newfound appreciation. "They can be," she agreed cryptically, her voice tinged with a note of knowing understanding.

Anastasia cocked her head, studying Nesta's expression.

"But you'll get used to it," Nesta assured her, her tone surprisingly gentle. "In time, you'll learn to navigate this world just as you did your own."

"I hope I don't have to get used to it," she admitted quietly, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns on the arm of the chair. "I still want to find my way home."

Something shifted in Nesta, and she regarded Anastasia with a cool detachment, her gaze filled with a sense of pragmatic realism. "Wanting and getting are two different things," she replied matter-of-factly. "You'll have to adjust to your circumstances, whether you like it or not."

Anastasia's shoulders slumped slightly at Nesta's blunt assessment, a heavy sigh escaping her lips as the harsh reality of her situation settled over her like a suffocating blanket. "I know," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't give up hope, not yet."

Nesta offered no words of comfort, only a silent nod of acknowledgment as she watched Anastasia wrestle with her inner turmoil. "Hope can be a dangerous thing," she remarked coolly, her tone tinged with a hint of warning. "It's best to temper it with a healthy dose of reality."

"Did you find any smutty novels, Nesta?" A voice boomed, the playfulness easily detectable, “I told you… if you needed entertainment like that, all you had to do was ask.”

Cassian’s wings rustled with a powerful sweep as he entered, his larger-than-life presence dominating the room. His hair, tied back with a leather strap, framed a face etched with both rugged charm and a mischievous grin. Nesta rolled her eyes at the comment and greeted the male with a chaste peck on the cheek.

Anastasia, on the other hand, flinched at the loud entrance, her fingers tightening around the arm of the chair as she sunk into it, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Though Cassian had been courteous when flying her to Madja's earlier that morning, the sudden appearance of an Illyrian was enough to transport her right back to the war camp.

Pathetic, perhaps I made a mistake with you.

Cassian's attention turned toward Anastasia, his playful demeanor shifting as he noticed her uneasy posture. "What's got you hiding, sweetheart?" he teased, the mischievous glint in his eyes giving way to a hint of genuine concern.

Nesta shot him a pointed look, as if warning him to tread carefully. "Leave her be, Cassian," she chided, her tone holding a rare note of protective sternness.

Cassian raised his hands in mock surrender, but a sly smile lingered on his lips. "Fine, fine. I'll behave," he declared, his gaze lingering on Anastasia for a moment longer before turning back to Nesta. "Maybe."

Cassian leaned against a bookshelf; his wings tucked in so tightly that Anastasia could barely see them. She fought the wince as she eyed him carefully – that couldn’t have been comfortable. 

"So, Nesta, any exciting developments in training the priestesses while I’ve been gone?" he inquired, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. If he was uncomfortable, he didn’t let on.

Nesta sighed, feigning exasperation. "The most exciting development in my day was not having to deal with you until now," she quipped, her tone cutting but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

Cassian chuckled, undeterred. "You wound me, Nes," he replied dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. His gaze shifted to Anastasia, who was still withdrawn in the chair. "And what about you, Anastasia? Anything thrilling happening in your world?"

Anastasia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes briefly meeting Cassian's before quickly dropping to the floor. "No, not really," she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

She had talked to him this morning – why was it so difficult now?

Coward, Cian’s voice mocked her.

Cassian, seemingly unfazed by her reserved response, persisted with his playful banter. "Come on, it’s been a whole day – surely you’ve discovered some cure for the pox by this point," he teased, a genuine warmth in his eyes.

Nesta shot Cassian a warning look, silently urging him to tread carefully – even Anastasia could see that.

The warrior then turned his attention away from Nesta and back to Anastasia, his tone softer but no less probing. "How are you adjusting, Anastasia?"

Anastasia hesitated, her gaze flickering between Nesta and Cassian, before replying cautiously, "I'm... adjusting.”

Cassian flashed a charming grin at Anastasia, undeterred by her reserved demeanor. "So, Anastasia, tell me about your home. What's it like there?" he asked.

Anastasia paused at the question. How could she even begin to describe her world – Boston – to someone who lived in a place like Velaris? She’d tried with Mor when she had been sequestered at the Moonstone Palace and failed miserably when explaining concepts as simple as cars. But the memories of her hometown came flooding her mind with bittersweet nostalgia. "Boston is... different," she began slowly, unable to disguise the homesickness in her voice. "It's busy, with people rushing everywhere, but there's also a sense of... history."

Cassian nodded; his expression attentive as he listened to her words.

Anastasia's gaze drifted away, lost in the distant memories of her former life. Even though Cassian hadn’t asked her, more words came to her, unbidden. "I miss... the familiar sights and sounds," she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "And the people... my friends, my family."

"I'm sure they miss you too," he offered softly.

Anastasia nodded her head briefly in thanks, not fully trusting herself to use her words when it came to the winged warrior. She looked down at her book, her eyes scanning the page – but her mind was not making sense of any of the words on it. She didn’t care, as she kept her gaze locked on the printed words in front of her.

Anything, though, to get out of this conversation.

The soft leather groaned as Cassian leaned back in a chair – one, Anastasia noticed, that had been built to accommodate the large wings at his back. The playful glint in his eyes returned as he turned to Nesta. "So, Nes, what trouble are you planning to get into tonight?" he asked with a knowing smirk.

Nesta arched an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "None that you need to worry about, Cassian," she replied, her tone teasing yet affectionate.

Cassian chuckled, reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from Nesta's face, "Oh, come on, Nesta, you know I thrive on adventure." There was an affectionate teasing tone to his words – one that Anastasia would not have imagined coming from an Illyrian weeks ago.

Nesta swatted his hand away with a playful roll of her eyes. "Yes, and I'm usually the one who has to clean up the mess afterwards," she retorted, though there was a fondness in her tone that belied her words.

As Cassian and Nesta continued speaking to each other in hushed tones, Anastasia tried - and failed miserably – to read the book in front of her. After a few minutes, Anastasia realized she was smiling at their banter. When Cassian and Nesta finally bid her farewell, promising to catch up with her at dinner, Anastasia sank back into the plush armchair, a sense of relief settling over her.

The conversation hadn’t been that bad, but there was no mistaking the way that her muscles relaxed when Cassian had left the room.

Turning to put her book down, Anastasia noticed that another book had mysteriously appeared on the small table beside her. She eyed the book - it had a more risqué cover. She raised an eyebrow, a curious and amused expression crossing her face.

-x-

"The band's movements don't make any sense - there is no logical explanation," Anastasia could hear Cassian’s booming voice echo through the hall as she approached the dining room, “Have you heard anything on your end?”

Anastasia drew closer – enough to hear a softer, but no less intimidating, voice reply, “Nothing. It’s unusual for whole camps of that size to move without so much as a whisper.”

Anastasia hesitated at the threshold of the dining room, her heart picking up as she recognized the voices. Any ease she had built earlier in the afternoon had completely dissipated by the time she started getting ready for dinner. She had even asked the House for a tray of food, content to eat alone in her bedroom. But despite asking for a dinner tray three separate times, nothing appeared.

By the fourth time, the locked door to her room had opened of its own accord.

She knew she’d have to spend more time with Cassian and Azriel – living in the same house as them. But there had to be a limit, right?

She knew she should announce her presence, but the words caught in her throat as she found Azriel’s hazel eyes already locked on her, as if he had sensed her approaching. Azriel regarded her carefully, his expression unreadable as he took in her presence. She felt exposed under the weight of his gaze and shifted from one foot to the other.

Cassian glanced up as Anastasia entered the room, his expression softening into a warm smile. "Ah, Anastasia, glad you could join us," he greeted, the warmth in his voice matching what she had heard from him earlier in the day.

Anastasia forced herself to return Cassian's smile, though her nerves still prickled with unease. She quickly made her way to the only empty seat at the rather small table, the one beside Azriel, acutely aware of the shadows that seemed to coil and shift around him.

Dinner appeared on the table beforehand – proof that the House could summon food, it just chose not to give her a tray in her room - and the savory aroma of the roast and rich, flavorful gravy filled the air. The others at the table engaged in lively conversation, Cassian’s laugh echoing throughout the room. Anastasia, however, found herself picking at her plate, her appetite stifled by a combination of nerves and the shadows that seemed to inch closer to her from Azriel's side.

She stole glances at the dark-haired male at her side, trying to figure out just why the shadows moved towards her that way. It had happened before, at the Moonstone Palace. He’d insisted then that they weren’t going to hurt her. But it only made her discomfort around the Illyrian that much more palpable.

Cassian, ever observant, noticed Anastasia's hesitance and reached out to nudge her gently. "You okay, Anastasia? The roast is amazing," he remarked with a grin, attempting to lighten the mood.

Anastasia managed a weak smile, her eyes flickering briefly to Azriel before returning to her plate. "Yeah, it's delicious. Just not that hungry tonight," she replied, her voice quiet and laced with a hint of unease.

Azriel kept his gaze fixed on his own plate, shadows now obediently staying in their place.

"Well, Anastasia," Cassian continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I have to say, today's flight went a lot smoother than the last time. My boots are eternally grateful."

Would she be allowed to endure this dinner in silence?

Nesta swatted the winged male on the arm and rolled her eyes.

Anastasia felt a blush creep up her cheeks as she remembered how she had wretched the first night she had been at the Night Court, disoriented and a bit motion sick from the long flight from the Illyrian mountains. "Uh, yeah, much better," she replied sheepishly, avoiding eye contact with him. "No... um, accidents this time."

Cassian chuckled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Good to hear," he said with a wink, gesturing to the boots at his feet "I was beginning to think I'd need to invest in a new pair after last time."

"Sorry about that," she muttered apologetically, feeling a pang of embarrassment at the memory.

Nesta, ever the no-nonsense presence at the table, chimed in with a sardonic remark. "Well, at least now we know flying agrees with you," she remarked dryly, a hint of amusement in her tone.

Azriel, who had been quiet until now, offered Anastasia a reassuring smile. "Flying can be... disorienting, especially for those new to it," he commented softly.

Anastasia's gaze lifted to meet Azriel's, and she was momentarily stunned by the striking beauty of his hazel eyes. The shadows danced around him, swirling, and shifting in different directions, yet none of them ventured too close to her. She blinked, turning away from him to shuffle the half-eaten food on her plate.  

"Um, thank you," Anastasia replied awkwardly, her voice slightly stilted as she struggled to find the right words. "Flying... it was... better today."

Azriel's lips twitched into a small smile at her response, a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. "I'm glad to hear that," he said softly, his voice gentle and reassuring.

Anastasia felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach at the intensity of his gaze, her unease still lingering. She quickly averted her eyes, focusing on her plate as she tried not to focus on him.

The rest of the conversation ebbed and flowed, with Nesta interjecting every time Cassian began to prod Anastasia with questions, taking much of the heat off her. Anastasia was grateful for the female, and she continued to listen to the conversation while pushing the food around on her plate.

When dinner was over, and the group began to disperse, a sarcastic comment echoed in Anastasia's mind, cutting through the warmth of the dining room like a cold wind.

Well, that was a delightful display of awkwardness. Cian's voice sneered, his words dripping with disdain.

-x-

Anastasia stood in the back chamber of Madja's, surrounded by the soothing scent of herbs and the gentle hum of energy that filled the air. Her fingers deftly sorted through a collection of small vials – each a different color and containing some kind of different healing concoction.

She had no idea what some of them were.

Madja has tasked her with organizing the vials according to their ingredients – ingredients that she only had a cursory knowledge of. Willow bark. Calendula flower. Echinacea root. It was tedious but as she carefully arranged the vials on the shelves, she tried to commit them all to memory.

Despite the monotony of the task, Anastasia found a sense of peace in the quiet rhythm of her work. The only noise that filled the air was the soft quiet clinking of glass against glass. It was especially nice after dinner the other night. It was like she was under the microscope, between Cassian’s incessant questions and Azriel’s constant peering over his shoulder at her.

It was nice to not have to feel that scrutiny.

Anastasia continued her work, carefully rearranging the vials, making sure that the ones with the oldest bottling date were in the front. After a while of working in peace, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she sensed something - a presence? - behind her.

Somewhere in her mind, Cian hissed.

She turned to find Amren standing in the doorway, her silver eyes piercing and inscrutable.

"Anastasia," Madja's voice, coming from behind Amren, interrupted her thoughts, drawing her attention away from the ancient being. "We have a visitor. Amren has come to inquire about some new herbs I've acquired."

Anastasia nodded, masking her unease as she continued her work.

As Amren approached, Anastasia couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension – their last conversation had been more of a confrontation. She knew little about the ancient being – Mor had only said that she was powerful and it was best not to anger her.

And now, it seemed, Amren's gaze was fixed squarely on her.

"It’s not often that Madja takes on an apprentice.” Amren said, her voice disconcertingly smooth "I must admit, I'm curious to see you in action, girl."

Anastasia felt a shiver run down her spine at the intensity of Amren's gaze.

With a forced smile, Anastasia nodded before turning back to her work. Amren circled the healing chamber, her silver eyes never leaving Anastasia. Anastasia continued her work, trying to appear unaffected, but the weight of Amren's scrutiny was undeniable.

"Tell me, girl," Amren's voice sliced through the silence, "do you possess any inherent healing abilities? A touch of magic, perhaps?"

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat at the question. There had been those few mysterious incidents that had occurred in her presence. She remembered the broken vase that had miraculously repaired itself in her mind's eye, how Cian had told her how to bring the threads together.

How the chains that had held her prisoner had snapped as if they were nothing.

But she quickly pushed the memories aside, unwilling to give them too much thought – let alone acknowledge them out loud. She couldn't risk revealing the truth, not when she barely knew these people.

"Um, no," Anastasia replied, her voice faltering slightly. "I'm afraid I’m not like you all – I don’t have magic like that.”

Amren's gaze bore into her, skeptical and calculating.

But then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed, and Amren's expression softened into one of polite indifference. "Very well," she said simply, though the doubt still lingered in her gaze.

Chapter Text

Anastasia stepped out of Madja's, the day's work behind her, and breathed in the crisp, evening air of Velaris. She’d been at it for about a week now, and each day she was leaving Madja’s bone tired. She couldn’t wait to get back to her room – maybe even nap before dinner. She spotted Cassian waiting for her, wings tucked in tightly, and leaning casually against a nearby post with a lopsided grin on his face.

Even still, the Illyrian’s presence was towering and imposing, and she couldn't help but feel a flutter of anxiety in her chest.

"Hey," Cassian greeted her with a warm smile, his voice gentle as he fell into step beside her. "Before we head back for the day, do you mind if we make a quick stop? I’ve got to pick up something I ordered for Nes. I meant to go earlier, but I only just got back to Velaris myself.”

Anastasia nodded, her gaze flickering nervously to the ground as they began to walk through the crowded streets of Velaris. She struggled to find the right words; she’d gotten used to speaking to the Illyrian back at the House, but Nesta was always there to act as a buffer.

At the end of each day, when he came to retrieve her, the conversation was always stilted.

"So, how was your day at Madja's?" Cassian asked, breaking the awkward silence between them. Stilted or not, the male was persistent.

Anastasia swallowed hard; her throat suddenly dry. "It was... fine," she replied hesitantly, "Just... the usual."

“Better the usual,” Cassian offered with a soft chuckle, his eyes warm, “Than any sort of chaos.”

Anastasia managed a weak smile, grateful for his attempt at small talk. She found herself relaxing slightly in his presence, his easygoing nature helping to ease her nerves.

“How about you?” she asked tentatively, finally mustering the courage to reciprocate in conversation. It was only polite, after all. “How was your day?”

Cassian raised his brows in surprise, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. It was the first time she had ever asked about his day, or even shown interest in his life outside of their brief interactions at the House of Wind.

Cassian's expression shifted, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "Interesting, to say the least," he replied cryptically, his gaze drifting to the bustling streets of Velaris as they walked. The stalls and shops along the streets started to shift, becoming much more colorful as they approached the Palace of Thread and Jewels.

Anastasia's curiosity piqued at his vague response – something else that had never quite happened before.

"Interesting?" she prompted, unable to resist the urge to inquire further. "What happened?"

"Just... some unexpected developments in the mountains," he replied vaguely, and Anastasia could tell that he was choosing his words carefully.

Despite it, Anastasia bristled at the mention of the mountains – she had overheard enough conversations to know what it referred to. He’d been spending a lot of time in the Illyrian mountains at the different war camps, flying back and forth between them and Velaris. She didn’t know why – she didn’t think she even  wanted to know what was going on. 

Cassian offered her a sad smile.

Anastasia didn’t want to think about the Illyrian mountains, or their inhabitants. It was bad enough that her dreams were still plagued by them. Instead, she willed herself to focus on the present. She enjoyed walking through Velaris. The air was alive with the hum of activity, even as the sun was beginning to set.

Suddenly, a loud commotion erupted from the nearby street. Anastasia's head snapped up, her heart racing as she spotted a cart careening out of control, hurtling straight toward her. Somewhere, inside her mind, a voice was yelling at her to move out of the way. But panic surged through her veins, freezing her in place as she watched in horror.

In an instant, he positioned himself in front of her, his wings played out protectively. The muscles in his powerful frame flexed.  The air crackled with the raw strength emanating from him as he took on the force of the impending collision.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat, her body instinctively flinching away from the sudden movement.

The impact came with a deafening crash, the cart slamming into Cassian's imposing figure. The resounding crack echoed through the street, but it was the cart that bore the brunt of the collision. Splintering wood and twisted metal filled the air as the vehicle crumpled under the might of Cassian's unyielding form.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Anastasia was transported back to the horrors of the Illyrian war camps: the memory of being surrounded by menacing figures, of being at the mercy of brutal hands.

As the dust settled and the chaos subsided, Cassian turned to look at Anastasia, his wings folding back against his powerful frame. His eyes, usually filled with warmth and reassurance, now held a glimmer of pity as he surveyed her trembling form.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She felt exposed, vulnerable, under the weight of his scrutiny.

"They really did a number on you, didn't they?" Cassian's voice was soft, tinged with a mixture of sympathy and regret. The words hung heavy in the air.

Anastasia swallowed hard, her throat tight, so she only nodded wordlessly.

"Those bastards," Cassian muttered under his breath, his voice thick with anger and frustration. But then, as if sensing her distress, Cassian reached out a hand, his touch gentle against her trembling shoulder.

Anastasia's eyes widened slightly at Cassian, her mind racing with newfound understanding. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, revealing a side of him she had never let herself see before.

"You're not like them," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

"Rhys, Az, and I - we were never really welcome there," Cassian let out a scoff, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he shook his head. "When I was younger, before I met my brothers, it bothered me… but now I'm grateful for it."

"But why do you say you were never really welcome there?" she pressed, her curiosity getting the better of her. "What happened?"

"It's a long story," he sighed. "But let's just say that the Illyrian camps were never a kind place for bastards."

Anastasia pictured the camp she was held in – the deference they showed to the males of high rank. It made sense that they would judge someone based on the circumstances of their birth. She sighed, brushing some of the dust off of her, as she tried to lighten the mood, “Well, I can see why you wouldn’t be too fond of them then. Guess we have that in common.”

"Azriel hates the Illyrians, too," Cassian admitted, surprise flickering in his eyes as if he hadn't intended to share this piece of information. But as he continued, his voice took on a somber note. "Much more so than Rhys or me. And he has a good reason to."

Anastasia's brow furrowed in confusion; her curiosity piqued as she thought of the beautiful, yet terrifying, male. "Why?" she asked softly.

Cassian's expression softened, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "It's his story to share, not mine," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of regret. "But if you want to know, you should ask him."

Unsure of what to say to that, Anastasia nodded. Despite Cassian’s admission, she didn’t know if she was ready to do that just yet. They continued along, walking through the streets towards the Palace of Threads and Jewels.

"Thank you," she murmured, her gratitude evident in her voice. "For everything."

-x-

Anastasia stepped out of Madja's workshop, her tired muscles protesting with every movement. Exhaustion crashed into her like a wave as soon as she stepped out into the fresh air. The fading light of the evening cast the streets of Velaris in a soft glow and she could already feel her eyelids growing heavy at the comforting sight.

It wouldn’t have been the first time she had fallen asleep before immediately getting off work.

The fading light of the evening bathed the streets of Velaris in a soft, golden glow that cast long shadows that on the cobblestones. The gentle hum of activity from the bustling city echoed faintly in the distance, but aside from the presence of a few fae on the opposite side of the street, the walkway outside Madja's workshop was blessedly quiet.

Too quiet, in fact.

She looked around at the surrounding walkway outside of Madja’s – Cassian was usually waiting for her by now, his imposing figure a familiar sight by the faelight lamppost on the corner. But as her eyes landed on the warrior’s usual spot, he was nowhere to be seen. 

The two of them had established a sort of routine in the few weeks since that night he had saved her from the rogue street cart. Although they hadn’t had any had any deep conversations since that night, she’d politely joke with him on their daily flights to and from the House of Wind. She was starting to consider him, well, a friend.

It had actually been kind of nice.

And he had never once been late.

Anastasia's mind raced with worry, her thoughts spiraling into a whirlwind of worst-case scenarios. Cassian was a seasoned warrior - a general, Mor had told her, but even he was not immune to danger. What if he had encountered trouble doing, well, whatever it was that a general does? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Before the full weight of her anxiety could fully register with her, a black shadow darkened the ground beneath her feet, interrupting her panicked thoughts. The familiar sound of boots striking the cobblestone streets brought a surge of relief, and she felt her tense muscles begin to relax.

"Cassian, you had me so worr-" Anastasia started, her words trailing off as she turned to face the source of the shadow. But instead of the expected sight of Cassian's rugged features and playful grin, her eyes met the dark silhouette of Azriel, his figure outlined against the soft hues of the setting sun.

The shadows that normally clung to him seemed darker against the golden hued sky.

The sight of him waiting for her sent a ripple of unease through her. Azriel had always been a quiet presence in her life since she arrived in Velaris - she’d hardly spoken to him back at the House except for the occasional polite word at meals.

There was something about him – a mixture of unease and something else that she couldn’t quite name – that unsettled her.

A hiss reverberated in the back of her mind. Instinctually, Anastasia tried to ignore Cian.

"Hey," Azriel greeted her, his voice calm and steady. "Finished for the day?"

Anastasia nodded, forcing herself to meet his gaze even as her nerves danced like wildfire in her chest. "Yeah, just finished up with Madja," she replied, her voice betraying the hint of uncertainty.

Azriel's eyes, usually inscrutable, softened with a glimmer of concern as he took in her troubled expression. "Is everything alright?" he asked, and Anastasia could hear the genuine worry in his voice.

Anastasia hesitated, but couldn’t help it as the question tumbled out of her, “Where is Cassian?

Azriel's gaze flickered briefly, almost imperceptibly, before he replied, "Rhys had to send him to Windhaven to debrief Devlon – there had been some unrest in some of the more remote camps."

She couldn’t help the flinch at the mention of the war camps, but instead of dwelling on the memories of her own experiences there, she focused instead on the male in front of her. She remembered what Cassian had said about Azriel’s hatred of the Illyrians, how he wasn’t so different from her in that sense.

Anastasia sensed a hint of tension in Azriel's response, and her heart sank as she realized her question might have inadvertently caused offense. "I didn't mean—" she started to apologize, but Azriel's impassive expression stopped her in her tracks.

"It's fine," he interjected quietly, his voice barely audible over the gentle rustle of the wind. "Let’s go home."

Anastasia remained rooted in her spot, her mind swirling with a mixture of guilt and concern. The quiet intensity of Azriel's gaze held her in place. "I didn’t mean – I just thought something bad might have happened. I was worried.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Azriel’s face before immediately morphing into his usual stoic demeanor. His hazel eyes bore into hers, searching for something she couldn't quite name. “You were worried?” he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of curiosity.

Anastasia shifted under the weight of his gaze, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She’d hardly spoken to the male before, and this was not the kind of conversation she wanted to be having.

 “I mean, yeah," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know that – well, whatever it is you both do isn’t exactly the safest."

Azriel's brows rose ever so slightly, and the corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. Anastasia didn’t know Azriel well enough, but she knew that this was a rare display of emotion from the usually reserved Illyrian, and Anastasia couldn't help but feel a flicker of unexpected warmth blossom in her chest at the sight.

"Come on," he said, his voice soft yet reassuring. The hint of a smile lingered on his lips as he extended a scarred hand toward her. "Let's go home."

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between his outstretched hand and his gentle expression. Despite her lingering unease, she found herself reaching out, her fingers intertwining with his.

As Azriel's wings extended from his back, their leathery texture catching the fading light of the evening and turning a deep shade of red, Anastasia couldn't help but tense.

For a moment, she was back in the freezing cold mountains, alone and afraid.

However, as he enveloped her in his arms and they lifted off the ground, she was taken aback by the unexpected warmth that emanated from him.

Suddenly, it wasn’t so frightening.

The wind rushed past them as they soared into the darkening sky, the last remnants of daylight giving way to the twinkling stars above. Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she gazed up at the night sky, the brilliance of the stars casting a mesmerizing glow over Velaris.

A faint fluttering stirred in her chest as they glided through the night sky, a sensation she couldn't quite place.

Though she had seen the night sky countless times before, she had not taken the time to appreciate just how beautiful the city of Velaris was under the light of the stars.

So beautiful.

"Yes it is," Azriel chuckled softly, the sound resonating deep within his chest as he held her close. The warmth of his breath brushed against her skin and heat rose to Anastasia’s cheeks as she realized she had spoken aloud, a small gasp escaping her lips in surprise.

She glanced up at Azriel, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, but his expression was one of gentle amusement rather than judgment. His hazel eyes sparkled with warmth as he met her gaze, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"I usually don't handle flying this well," Anastasia confessed, her voice barely audible over the rush of wind around them. She gripped Azriel's arm tightly, her knuckles turning white with the strain as they soared higher into the night. “Just ask Cassian.”

She probably didn’t have to remind him of his friend’s vomit coated boots.

Azriel glanced down at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the stars above. "You're doing great," he assured her, his voice calm and reassuring. "Just breathe and try to relax."

Anastasia nodded, trying to steady her racing heartbeat as she focused on the steady rhythm of Azriel's wings beating against the night air. It was inexplicably comforting, and with each gentle flap, she felt herself growing more and more at ease.

Perhaps flying wasn’t so bad after all.

As they descended towards the House of Wind, Anastasia couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment in her gut – she had just begun to enjoy the sensation of flight. The wind whipped around them, tousling her hair, and sending a shiver down her spine. Azriel seemed to notice - his arms drew her in even closer.

Azriel's wings beat rhythmically against the night air, their powerful strokes carrying them effortlessly through the sky. Anastasia stole glances at him, his silhouette outlined against the backdrop of the stars.  

The descent seemed all too quick, the momentary rush of adrenaline fading into the cool embrace of reality. As they neared the top of the stairs at the House of Wind, he gently set her down, his hands resting on the small of her back as she regained her footing on the stone steps.

"Thank you," Anastasia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel turned to face her, his hazel eyes piercing through the dimly lit balcony. The shadows seemed to dance around him, "Anytime," he replied, his voice soft.

With a subtle shift, Azriel withdrew his hand from her back. The sudden absence of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, leaving her feeling inexplicably bereft.

As he turned towards the grand doors of the House of Wind, Anastasia found herself instinctively trailing behind him, her steps matching the rhythm of his as they crossed the threshold. The ancient wood creaked beneath their weight, echoing through the foyer.

At the threshold, Azriel paused, casting a sidelong glance at Anastasia, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the faelights above. Despite the intensity of his gaze, there was a gentleness in his expression.

"I hope to see you at dinner," he murmured, the words carrying a quiet sincerity that resonated with Anastasia. "Everyone is going to be there. Cassian should be back by then."

Anastasia nodded, her lips curving into a hesitant smile as she returned his gaze. "Thank you," she replied softly, the words tinged with genuine gratitude and a hint of anticipation.

With a final nod, Azriel turned away, his form melting into the shadows as he disappeared down the dimly lit corridor. Anastasia stood alone in the grand foyer of the House of Wind, the soft glow of faelights casting intricate patterns of light and shadow across the marble floors.

A familiar voice echoed in the recesses of her mind.

The silent shadow with a soft spot for other people’s toys. Cian's voice murmured in her thoughts; his tone laced with an edge that sent a shudder through her. Don't forget who you belong to, pet.

-x-

"Hey there, worrywart," Cassian greeted with a teasing grin as Anastasia entered the bustling dining hall of the House of Wind. Without missing a beat, he sidled up to her and enveloped her in a warm side hug, his muscular arm wrapping around her shoulders.

Anastasia blinked in surprise at the unexpected display of affection, momentarily taken aback by the closeness between them. She’d never voluntarily gotten close to any of the Night Court – especially the Illyrians - unless absolutely necessary. But to her own surprise, she found herself leaning into the embrace rather than pulling away.

"I heard you were concerned about me," Cassian continued with a playful twinkle in his hazel eyes, his tone light and teasing.

Anastasia's cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the reminder of her earlier conversation with Azriel, her gaze darting nervously around the room as she tried to gauge the reactions of those nearby. Nesta observed the exchange with an amused glint in her eyes, while Feyre offered a supportive smile from across the table.

Caught off guard by Cassian's teasing, Anastasia shot a playful yet accusing look at Azriel, who offered her a small chuckle in return.

A flicker of warmth spread through Anastasia.

"Don't worry about it," Cassian reassured her with a warm smile, his easygoing demeanor putting her at ease. "I'm back in one piece, aren't I?"

Anastasia managed a faint smile in return, grateful for his lightheartedness in the face of her own awkwardness. With a silent nod of gratitude, she turned her attention back to the lively atmosphere of the dinner table, her thoughts drifting amidst the cheerful chatter and laughter that filled the air.

As they settled into their seats and began to help themselves to the hearty fare laid out before them, Anastasia's stomach growled in anticipation. She had worked up an appetite after such a long day of work. She looked around, wondering if any of the other’s keen fae hearing had picked up on it, but no one seemed to notice.

She eagerly piled her plate with an assortment of dishes, savoring the tantalizing aromas that wafted up from the food.

Mor, sitting across from her, arched a curious brow and directed her attention towards Anastasia. "So, how's it going with Madja?" she inquired, her tone tinged with genuine interest.

Anastasia's eyes lit up at the mention of her mentor, her enthusiasm bubbling over as she launched into a fervent recounting of her experiences. "Oh, it's been incredible!" she exclaimed, her words tumbling out in a rush of excitement. "Madja is such a wealth of knowledge, and every day I learn something new. She's been teaching me about different herbs and remedies, and she’d even tried to teach me a bit about the magic she uses in her healing. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get that down."

A chorus of smiles greeted her response with the exception of Amren, who only lifted an eyebrow. However, Anastasia couldn't help but notice Elain's at the far end of the dinner table, restlessly tugging and pulling on a cloth napkin. A pang of empathy stirred in Anastasia's chest as she observed Elain's unease.

"Have you had any luck in the library, Anastasia?" Rhysand inquired, his tone gentle yet probing. "I know how determined you are to find a way back home. I’ve been assured by Clotho that you are welcome there any time."

Anastasia's smile faltered slightly at the mention of the library. Rhysand had mentioned it when he first brought her to the House of Wind, believing that it may hold more answers than the books she’d found at the Moonstone Palace. She’d been so busy the last few days, and came home too tired to even think about hunting through tomes of books only to be disappointed once more.

"Not yet," she admitted with a rueful smile, her tone tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I've been meaning to spend more time there, but..."

She really didn’t know how she could try and justify her inaction.

Rhysand offered her an encouraging smile, his violet eyes warm with empathy. "Don't worry, Anastasia," he reassured her, his voice gentle yet reassuring. "The library is at your disposal whenever you need it. I'm sure Cassian or Azriel won't mind bringing you there whenever you are ready."

As the conversation flowed around the dinner table, Cassian turned to Anastasia with a curious glint in his eyes, his tone casual yet inviting.

"Hey, Anastasia," he began, his voice carrying a hint of enthusiasm. "Have you ever thought about training? I offer sessions to some of the priestesses, and you're more than welcome to come and check it out."

Anastasia's fork paused midway to her mouth as she considered Cassian's offer, her brow furrowing slightly in thought. Across the table, she noticed Elain's restless movements—a subtle shifting in her seat, the gentle tapping of her fingers against the polished wood. She looked down at the plate in front of more as she considered his offer. She had become less awkward around Cassian and Azriel, their interactions evolving from frigid silence to at the very least polite exchanges.

But the idea of witnessing the Illyrians in combat stirred a familiar unease within her.

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between Cassian and the others seated around the table. Memories of the brutality she had endured at the hands of the Illyrians during her time in the war camp flashed through her mind.

The thought of being thrust back into that environment filled her with a sense of dread she couldn't shake.

"I... um," Anastasia began, her voice soft and hesitant as she spoke up. "I appreciate the offer, Cassian. But... I've always seen myself more as a healer than a fighter. I studied medicine back home, and... I'm not sure if I have it in me to... to hurt people."

“It’s more defensive than any-“ Nesta’s interjection was cut short by a gasp.

The room fell silent as all eyes flew to the far end of the table.

Elain's voice cut through the air, her words trembling. "I see... threads," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Anastasia’s eyes widened a fraction, and she watched as Elain's complexion paled, her hands shaking as if in the grip of some unseen force. With each word, her voice grew fainter.

"Threads snapping, breaking his binds," Elain continued, her words resonating with a haunting quality that sent a shiver down Anastasia's spine. The atmosphere in the room grew tense, a palpable sense of unease settling over the dining room table. Anastasia tore her gaze from Elain to look around at everyone else at the table, only to see them all sharing knowing glances.

Whatever this was – it had happened before.

The scrape of chairs against the floor echoed through the room as Nesta leaped from her seat, her movements swift. Without hesitation, she crossed the distance to where Elain sat, her eyes wide with concern. In one fluid motion, Nesta wrapped her arms around her sister, pulling her close in a protective embrace.

Elain remained unresponsive; her gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance. Her hands trembled slightly, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as if she were struggling to find her voice.

Azriel approached quietly, calm amid all of the turmoil. Nesta eyed him warily as he closed in on the sisters. Anastasia watched as the two exchanged a wordless conversation, feeling like a voyeur. But whatever was in the knowing look that passed between them, Nesta nodded as her protective grip on her sister loosened. With a steady hand, Azriel scooped Elain up into his arms, his movements gentle yet decisive. Without a word, he began to carry her from the room, his gaze meeting Nesta's in a silent exchange of understanding.

Together, they disappeared from view, leaving the rest of the table to grapple with the unsettling events that had unfolded before them.

The room fell into an eerie silence as one by one; the dinner guests rose from their seats and began to depart – the atmosphere shifting from relaxed to business-like in the span of seconds. Feyre and Rhysand exchanged looks, having a silent conversation between only the two of them. Rhys looked at Anastasia, offering his apologies as he and his High Lady swiftly exited the room – no doubt to talk about what happened, away from her.

They don’t trust you, Cian’s voice echoed in her mind as soon as the High Lord left the room.

Cassian's departure was marked by the deep thud of his boots against the polished floor, his expression unreadable as he followed Rhysand and Feyre out of the room.

As he passed by, Amren turned to glance at Anastasia, her gaze piercing and inscrutable.

Left alone at the table, Anastasia felt a wave of confusion wash over her.

What the hell had just happened?

Chapter Text

Anastasia's hands moved mechanically as she ground the feveroot into a fine powder, the rhythmic back and forth motion a comforting distraction from the thoughts racing in her mind. She’d stay up all night thinking about what had happened at dinner, her mind replaying just how everyone had reacted to Elain’s strange behavior.

Their reactions had seemed practiced, as if they had seen this kind of behavior before. 

She glanced up briefly as Cassian dropped her off at Madja's that morning, his expression unreadable as he bid her farewell. He had been the first person she had seen since dinner that night, but when she asked him if about it, he had been rather tight-lipped. The only thing he mentioned was something about his impending return to Windhaven, which only added to Anastasia's sense of disquiet.

She’d asked him what was going on that required him to travel back and forth, but the Illyrian had only shrugged off her concern, assuring her it was just typical Illyrian infighting.

She wasn’t quite sure that she believed him.

They don’t trust you, pet. Cian’s voice was so cold that it sent a shiver down her spine as he repeated what he had said the night before.

With a determined frown, she focused her attention back on her task, the familiar routine of her work stability amidst the racing of her thoughts that threatened to consume her. Madja had run out earlier in the morning, mumbling about meeting with the apothecary to negotiate a better price for her ingredients, and trusting Anastasia alone. She was content to work in the quiet, the soothing aroma of the feveroot filling the air, its earthy scent mingling with the faint hint of herbs and potions that permeated Madja's workshop.

The more she threw herself into her work, the more her racing mind seemed to still.

Anastasia's thoughts drifted to Rhysand's reminder about searching the library for any clues about a way home. It was something that she had been meaning to do, but the prospect of searching through all of the stacks had seemed too daunting. Plus, she was coming back from Madja’s so tired that all she wanted to do was curl up with the ever-increasing pile of smutty books that the House was leaving her.

Still, she knew she couldn't afford to delay any longer.

Her thoughts of home ebbed away as she fell into her routine at the House of Wind. She’d get up, work with Madja until her bones ached, and fall asleep before she could even think about heading down to the library.

Too tired to chase your dreams, pet? Cian's voice echoed in her mind, dripping with a mockery and resentment that she had never heard from him before. Or perhaps you've grown comfortable in your little cage here.

Where the hell had that animosity come from?

I’m growing tired of waiting.

Anastasia's shoulders tensed at Cian's words, a surge of defiance rising within her. "This isn't my home, Cian. I don't belong here," she retorted, her voice laced with determination. She worked the pestle harder into the feveroot, the herbs crunching under the force.

Cian's laughter echoed in her mind, a chilling sound that sent a shiver down her spine. Oh, but you do belong here, my pet. You belong to me.

Anastasia's gripped the wooden work station tightly as her stomach dropped out from underneath her. What did that mean? The words hung in the air like a sinister cloud, casting a shadow over her thoughts and stirring a primal fear deep within her.

You belong to me. Cian's voice echoed once more, his words feeling. like a dagger plunging into her heart. And my patience is growing thin.

Her grip on the cold stone pestle tightening until her knuckles turned white. She felt as though the ground had vanished beneath her feet, leaving her suspended in a void. What did Cian's words mean?

For far too long, the voice in her head had been cryptic. She’d ignored it for as long as she had been in Prythian, never wanting to truly confront why the strange voice had latched on to her – why it wouldn’t seem to leave her alone.

"What did you do to me?" she hissed, her voice barely a whisper but filled with a fierce intensity. Months of pent-up fear and frustration were finally threatening to boil to the surface. Her hand trembled, and dread coiled in the pit of her stomach, mingling with the anger and confusion that consumed her, “You brought me here – didn’t you? You did this to me?”

Why ask questions to which you already know the answers?

She thought about the way the chains had snapped in the Illyrian war camp, or the way that Cian himself had told her how to bring together the broken pieces of the vase.

"How?" Her voice was sharp, her gaze narrowing with suspicion.

Cian's laughter echoed in her mind, chilling, and unsettling.

You already know, my dear Anastasia, he replied, his tone dripping with sinister satisfaction. What matters is that you are here, and here you shall remain.

The stone pestle that she had been holding clattered to the floor.

Anastasia's jaw clenched with frustration, her teeth grinding together as she fought against the suffocating weight of his words.  “You're lying," she retorted, her voice trembling with defiance. "You can't control me. I won't let you."

Oh, but I can, my pet. Cian countered, his words a sinister whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. The air seemed to thicken with tension as his influence tightened its grip on her. Anastasia's breath caught in her throat, and she could almost feel the weight of an invisible force bearing down on her.

And when I do, you have no choice but to obey.

"No- no… I - I will tell them," she declared, her voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade. The defiance in her tone held a flicker of hope, "Rhysand will help me."

She had to have faith that the High Lord would help her.

Tell them? he scoffed; his tone laced with venomous amusement. They do not trust you as it is. Have they told you about what was happening? About the Seer’s vision last night?

His taunting caused her head to spin with both confusion and anxiety.

Seer?

Did he mean Elain?

They left you alone there, as they took care of one of their own. You are no more than a stranger to them. Cian's words pierced through the otherwise quiet room, his voice a haunting echo in the depths of her mind. Anastasia's heart sank at the reminder of her isolation. How Azriel had swooped up to take care of Elain without so much as a second glance. How the room had cleared out without so much as a word to her, leaving her sitting alone, wondering what the hell just happened.

The sense of belonging that she had built slipped further away.

 “They will still-”

The voice cut her off before she could even finish her thoughts. And now you think the High Lord will come to your aid? No, my pet. He will see you as a threat.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head in a futile attempt to dispel the suffocating darkness that threatened to overwhelm her. But no matter how hard she tried, Cian's presence lingered, his words echoing relentlessly in the recesses of her mind.

He will lock you away in the darkness of his court, Cian continued, his voice a chilling whisper that sent a shiver down her spine, and his shadowsinger will pry answers from you like extracting venom from a snake.

Her mind flashed to Azriel – the shadows that clung to him like a second skin, the icy glint in his hazel eyes that hinted at the deadly power lurking beneath the surface. Despite the tentative sense of ease that she had developed around him, Anastasia could never forget her initial fear of the Illyrians.

Of what she knew that he was capable of.

As her fears began to rise, Anastasia fought to shake them off. Despite not knowing him that well, Azriel would never do anything to her; she had to believe that. She was about to tell Cian exactly that when-

“Somebody, please!” An urgent cry shattered the uneasy silence, jolting Anastasia from her swirling thoughts. Cian’s voice faded into the deepest corners of her mind, leaving only a smug chuckle echoing in her head. With a quickened pulse, she turned toward the front of the building where the voice had originated.

The urgency in the cry spurred her into action, her instincts as a surgeon kicking in.

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat as she entered the front room and saw the scene before her. A male was holding a child in his arms, his face contorted in anguish as he struggled to support the weight of the wooden beam impaling the child's body. The child whimpered in pain, her tiny fingers clutching onto the fabric of her father's shirt.

The female's eyes widened in desperation as she pleaded for help, her voice trembling with fear and anguish. Anastasia's mind raced as she assessed the situation, her training kicking in as she focused on the immediate task at hand.

The female’s – Anastasia could only assume she was the child’s mother - voice quivered as she explained, “She was playing, climbing a tree just outside our home. And then she fell... onto the fence."

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she gestured towards the impaled child, her voice breaking with anguish. "Please, you have to help her. She's in so much pain."

Anastasia's mind snapped into focus as her training as a surgeon kicked in, all thoughts of her earlier distress banished from her mind.

A child needed her help.

She quickly assessed the situation, her gaze flicking between the impaled child and the anxious parents.

"First, we need to stabilize her," Anastasia said with calm authority, her voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. She moved swiftly, directing the father to hold the child steady while she examined the wound.

Her heart raced as she took in the severity of the injury. The wooden post had pierced the child's abdomen, and any hasty movement would only exacerbate the bleeding. She cursed under her breath, removing the impaled object was going to be near impossible without the tools she was used to in the operating room. Drawing upon her knowledge, Anastasia made a quick decision.

"We need to keep pressure on the wound to minimize bleeding," she instructed, her hands deftly applying some of the fresh cut bandages to the site of the injury. "We can't remove the object here. It's acting as a makeshift plug, preventing her from bleeding out."

The parents nodded anxiously, their eyes filled with desperation and gratitude.

Anastasia's heart sank as she instructed the father to carefully carry the injured child to the back room. There was more space for Anastasia to work on the girl back there. She knew that their options were limited, and the prospects for the young girl were grim. Even with the advanced healing abilities of the Fae, healing from the internal injuries caused by such an impalement would be next to impossible.

Not without modern medicine.

As the father hurried away with his daughter cradled in his arms, Anastasia's mind raced with the grim reality of the situation. If she were back in Boston, she would have access to state-of-the-art medical equipment and a team of skilled professionals to aid in the delicate surgery required to save the girl's life. But here, in Velaris, she was faced with the harsh limitations of their rudimentary resources and the unpredictable nature of Fae magic.

And Madja – the only one she knew with healing magic – was nowhere to be found.

But, despite every ounce of her medical knowledge working against her, she had to try. With a determined set to her jaw, she resolved to do everything in her power to give the young girl a fighting chance at survival.

Anastasia's voice was gentle yet firm as she directed the parents to wait in the other room, but they hesitated, their worry palpable.

"But what are you going to do?" the father asked, his tone tinged with concern. "Shouldn't we be with her?"

Anastasia offered them a reassuring smile, despite the gravity of the situation. "I understand your concern," she replied, her voice calm. She’d had her fair share of dealing with concerned loved ones. "But I need space to work effectively. Trust me, I'll do everything I can to help your daughter."

The mother's eyes filled with tears as she whispered, "Please, you have to save her."

Anastasia's heart clenched at the mother's plea.

"I promise I'll do my best," she said softly. "But for now, please wait in the other room. I'll keep you updated on her condition."

Reluctantly, the parents nodded, their expressions filled with a mix of hope and fear. As they led their daughter towards the back room, Anastasia took a moment to gather her thoughts.

Anastasia's hands trembled as she reached across the work bench for the metal knife she used for cutting herbs, placing it carefully over the fire. She knew it wasn't the sterile environment she would have in a hospital back in Boston, but it was the best she could manage given the circumstances. As the metal blade heated up, she poured some of the grain alcohol over her hands, using it as makeshift disinfectant.

It wasn't exactly scrubbing in, but it would have to do.

With a deep breath to steady her nerves, Anastasia approached the young child, her mind focused on the task ahead. She knew there was no other option – she had to remove the wooden post if there was any hope of saving the girl's life.

Gritting her teeth against the impending pain, Anastasia placed one hand firmly on the wooden post while using the other to brace the child's body. With a swift and decisive motion, she pulled the post free, her heart clenching at the child's cry of pain.

Anastasia's hands moved quickly, her training kicking in as she assessed the wound and worked to stem the torrent of blood now pouring from the open wound. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't get a clear visual of the injury. She needed proper lighting, retractors to hold back the tissue, and suction to clear away the blood – tools she was certain did not exist in Prythian.

Precious minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity as Anastasia struggled to locate the source of the bleeding. She needed to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding, but without a clear view of the injury, she was fumbling in the dark. The last thing she wanted to do was risk improperly closing the wound without stopping the bleeding – it could cause a whole host of other problems.

Frantic and panicked, the weight of the situation pressed down on her, making it hard for her to breathe.

As her hands moved over the child's small body, a trickle of blood began to seep from the girl's mouth. Anastasia's heart sank, and a profound sense of failure gripped her. Her skills as a surgeon – as a healer – were nothing. She was nothing without modern technology to help her.  In that moment, the weight of her own inadequacy pressed down on her, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was about to lose a life she desperately wanted to save.

This was it – she was losing the battle, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

With trembling hands and a heavy heart, Anastasia continued to work, her mind racing with a flurry of desperate thoughts. What she wouldn’t give for suction right now – even clearing out the wound a little bit would give this girl so much more of a fighting chance… As Anastasia's desperation reached its peak, her gaze fell upon a faint thread of light near the girl's body.

How had she not noticed that before?

The thread itself was thin and fraying, as if it would snap at any moment. It shimmered weakly, its glow dimming as the seconds ticked by. Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the thread.

She had seen this before.

As Anastasia stared at the fraying thread of light, her mind flashed back to the incident with the broken pot and the threads she had inexplicably woven back together.

Her magic.

The memory sparked a realization – these threads – she could tear them apart and cause things to shatter, like the mirror or her chains. But she could also weave – and bring things back together.

Perhaps she could apply that to the delicate thread of the girl's fading light.

Anastasia focused on the fragile threads of light surrounding the wounded child. She tried to recall what Cian had instructed her to do that day – the voice in her head was noticeably absent now. But she had to try anyway. With a tentative breath, she began to weave, attempting to knit together the frayed edges and strengthen the fragile lifeline. She focused on nothing but the threads in front of her, forcing them back together, determined to repair the damage.

And hopefully save the child’s life.

Anastasia felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead, trickling down the side of her face as she worked tirelessly to bind the frayed edges of the thread together. She could feel the exertion taking its toll on her, draining her energy. Her hands shook as she moved them along with the threads, mimicking their motions as they inched closer to one another with painstaking slowness.

But she wouldn’t give up.

She wove the strands of light together, her breaths both shallow and rapid as she fought against the weight of exhaustion creeping through her veins.

Slowly, the wounds in the girl’s abdomen began to heal.

It was as if she could feel the tears in the girl's skin stitching back together under her touch, the frayed edges melding seamlessly to form a bond once more.

A sense of profound relief washed over Anastasia as she realized it was working.

With each passing moment, the threads of light worked their magic, knitting the torn flesh back into place with an almost ethereal grace. Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she watched the miraculous transformation unfold before her.  

And as the last of the injuries faded into nothingness, Anastasia felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her.

Anastasia's heart swelled with relief as she heard the gasp followed by the sweet sound of the young girl's voice calling out, "Mama!"

Anastasia turned to see the parents rushing into the room at the sound of their daughter’s voice, their faces contorted with a mix of worry and hope.

Tears welled up in the mother's eyes as she rushed to embrace her daughter. The father stood beside them, his gaze shifting between his healed daughter and Anastasia, as if he couldn’t believe what she had done for them. Anastasia wasn’t quite sure she could believe it either.

Tears welled up in the mother's eyes as she gathered her daughter into her arms, holding her close as if afraid to let her go. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you for saving her."

Anastasia didn’t know what to say and could only offer a small smile in response to the weeping female. Her head was still spinning from what had just happened. Her muscles quivered beneath her as she attempted to rise from her crouched position, her knees threatening to give out beneath her weight. It was as if the adrenaline that had fueled her through it all had now deserted her, leaving her feeling drained and weak.

As she struggled to steady herself, Madja burst into the room, her eyes widening in astonishment at the scene before her. Her eyes flicked from Anastasia to the fae family. The child, though still pale, now bore a hint of color in her cheeks.

Anastasia sighed in relief at the sight of the healer.

"What happened?" she exclaimed, rushing to Anastasia's side, and offering her a steadying hand. The older female’s eyes flashed from astonishment to concern as she assessed Anastasia, her eyes raking over her as she took in her exhausted form.

Anastasia managed a weak smile, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she leaned heavily on Madja for support. "It's... it's nothing," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just... need a moment."

Madja's brows furrowed with concern as she helped Anastasia to her feet, guiding her to a nearby chair and gently lowering her into it. "You don't look well," she observed, her tone laced with worry. "What happened here?"

Anastasia shook her head, unsure if she could – or should – explain it to Madja.

The girl's father stepped forward, his voice thick with emotion as he addressed Madja. "She healed her," he repeated, his words carrying the weight of disbelief and awe. "I don't know how, but she healed our daughter."

-x-

“I’ve sent word to the High Lord,” Madja came in the back room, thrusting a steaming cup of peppermint tea into Anastasia’s trembling hand. After having checked over the child once more – and finding no trace of injury whatsoever – Madja had shooed the family out so that she could focus on Anastasia.

Anastasia took a shaky sip of the peppermint tea, warmth spreading through her. Normally, she would protest the coddling treatment, insisting that Madja didn't have to fuss over her. But in that moment, exhaustion weighed heavily on her, dulling her usual stubbornness.

"You really don't need to send me away," Anastasia insisted weakly, though her words lacked their usual fire. "Just give me a little while longer – I'll be fine."

She sounded like one of her patients – insisting they didn’t need to stay overnight after a particularly grueling surgery.

Madja regarded her with a mixture of sympathy and determination, her gaze unwavering. She must have had patients like that as well, if the look in her eye was any indication. "You need rest, child," she insisted gently. "You've done enough for today."

Anastasia was quiet for a moment, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. Despite her exhaustion, questions bubbled up inside her, “How does healing magic work, Madja?”

The older female huffed, “Haven’t I told you before? By the cauldron, you’ve just used it, child.”

She thought about the threads – how she had seen them when she healed the girl, but also when she mended the pot.

When she shattered the mirror.

And cut her chains in Windhaven.

Some instinctual part of her screamed that it wasn’t healing magic she had used – she just didn’t know what it was.

It was not twenty minutes later that the door to Madja's creaked open and Anastasia's tired eyes widened as Azriel stepped into the room, his usual unreadable expression replaced by visible concern.

The sudden commotion made her flinch, the memory of Cian's threats about Azriel echoing in her mind. His shadowsinger will pry answers from you like extracting venom from a snake. For a moment, she couldn't shake the unease that gripped her, but she pushed it aside, reminding herself that Cian was wrong about Azriel.

He just had to be.

Azriel's keen gaze scanned the room, taking in the scene before settling on Anastasia.

His eyes locked onto hers, and she sensed a mix of relief and worry in his expression. The tension in the room was palpable as Azriel moved closer, tucking his wings in tightly as he navigated through space. Madja, who had been watching the interaction with a discerning eye, met Azriel halfway.

Madja offered a succinct explanation – relaying the story as Anastasia had told it to her, including Anastasia's attempt at healing. As the healer spoke, Azriel's gaze shifted to Anastasia, and she felt a subtle warmth in her cheeks.

“-if it is alright, I would have one of you fetch me later, so that I can check on her.”

Azriel nodded, but he was already making his way towards her – his shadows reaching out. Azriel's approach was measured, his steps deliberate as he crossed the room to where Anastasia sat, his expression unreadable. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.

Anastasia nodded, forcing a weak smile, "I'm fine," she replied, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. He regarded her closely, no doubt noticing that she could barely keep her eyes open, because the next thing she knew he was moving towards her.

Azriel's strong arms enveloped Anastasia, effortlessly scooping her up from where she sat before she could even think to protest. "Let's get you home," he murmured, the closeness of his voice sending a shiver down her spine.

He must have mistaken her movements for a chill because his shadows wrapped around her like a protective cloak. Cradled against his chest, she felt a fleeting sense of security.

As he carried her out of Madja's workshop, the world around Anastasia blurred into a haze of muted colors and distant sounds. The air outside was cool, and late afternoon sun cast gentle shadows on the cobblestone streets. Azriel's wings stretched out with an ethereal grace.

Resting her cheek against Azriel's chest, she could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, a soothing lullaby that pulled at her tired senses. She hadn’t even noticed when Azriel had gently launched them into the air, gliding through the sky over the still bustling streets of Velaris.

Chapter Text

Anastasia blinked her eyes open, the soft morning light filtering through the windows of her room in the House of Wind. How had she gotten here? The last thing that she could recall had been sitting at Madja’s, cup of peppermint tea in hand, as Azriel had arrived to bring her back. Had she really fallen asleep on them? Her cheeks colored as the thought.

For a moment, she lay still, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin and the gentle breeze wafting through the open window. It was nice – relaxing. A stark contrast to the chaos and exhaustion she had felt – when was it exactly?

When was it exactly that she used her powers to help that young girl at Madja’s? She’d been so drained then and couldn’t recall how she had gotten home.

Pushing herself up slowly, Anastasia sat on the edge of her bed, taking in the peacefulness of her surroundings. The tranquility of the moment relaxed her, quelling all the questions that were rising in her. She didn’t want to let it go, but the sun was already bright in the sky, which meant that she had already slept in far too much. With a soft sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, relishing the sensation of solid ground beneath her feet. Her head felt clearer now, the lingering effects of deep, dreamless sleep fading into the background.

Padding across the room in her bare feet, Anastasia made her way to the window, drawn by the sight of the sprawling cityscape stretching out below. It was mid-morning, and even from her vantage point high up in the House of Wind, she could see that the streets were already bustling with activity, the sounds of the city drifting up to her on the breeze.

Leaning against the windowsill, Anastasia took a deep breath, letting the crisp morning air fill her lungs.

“Oh good,” A voice cut through the silence, breaking Anastasia’s reverie, “you had us all worried.”

Anastasia turned at the sound, startled to find Mor at the threshold, relief flooding her eyes. The blonde crossed the room to stand beside Anastasia.

Anastasia furrowed her brow in confusion. "Worried? What do you mean?"

"You've been unconscious for almost two whole days, Ana," she explained gently, her lips quirking into a sympathetic smile. "It's not uncommon to be drained after using too much magic, but to be out for that long... well, it's a little concerning."

"I had no idea..." Anastasia murmured, running a hand through her hair. Two days? She couldn't believe she had been out for so long. The memory of the post driven through the young girls’ abdomen, and using her strange magic came rushing back to her, along with the exhaustion that had followed.

"Azriel's been going crazy with worry, you know. I don’t think he’s used to people passing out on him.” Mor's lips quirked into a teasing smile.

She tried to ignore the heat that rushed to her cheeks, embarrassed that she had just passed out like that, “I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

Mor waved her perfectly manicured hand as she added, “It’s alright. Once Madja realized tha – well, she made him sit by your side for a while, and I think after the first few hours it finally convinced him that you weren’t about to die on us.”

“Ma-Madja was here?” She didn’t really want to think about anyone sitting at her bedside, so she focused on Madja instead.

“Oh, yes. She practically demanded it.” Mor chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Besides Feyre, I think she’s the only one who can order Rhys around. But she insisted on it.”

“I really didn’t – I just hope she wasn’t put out,” Anastasia grumbled; she hated it when people fussed over her.

Mor seemed to know what Anastasia was getting at, and offered a shrug, “She's not one to take chances – especially when she says you're one of the best healers she’s had."

Her cheeks turned even pinker with the compliment, a mixture of embarrassment and pride swirling within her. Despite her medical background, she had worked hard to impress Madja – to show her that it hadn’t been a mistake to take her on as an apprentice.

"And she hasn't seen healing powers like that, ever," Mor continued, her eyebrows lifting. "She thinks you must have some power from the Dawn Court in you."

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat at Mor's words – and Madja’s assessment of her; she knew – instinctually - that her magic, whatever it was, was not healing magic. But the thought of revealing the truth, of admitting the extent of her abilities, filled her with a sense of unease. It wasn’t natural.

She wasn’t even supposed to be here… she was never meant to have magic in the first place.

"Yeah, well..." Anastasia’s voice faltered as she struggled to find the right words. Her gaze drifted to the window, where sunlight danced across the rippling surface of the nearby Sidra, casting patterns of golden light upon the worn cobblestones of the street below. "It's a mystery to me too."

Mor’s expression softened, and she reached out, her hand coming to rest on Anastasia's arm, "Well, whatever it is, it's impressive," she said gently, "And you have all of us here to help you figure it out."

Anastasia offered Mor a grateful smile, the corners of her lips lifting. But, even still, the weight of everything threatened to overwhelm her.

Careful, pet, an all too familiar voice hissed in the far corner of her mind. Your secrets won't stay hidden forever.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat at the sound of Cian's voice, a shiver running down her spine. She tried to hide the palpable bristle she felt at his words, the instinctive urge to push him away and make sure that Mor was none the wiser about the strange voice in her head.

Mor looked Anastasia up and down, her keen gaze searching for any signs of lingering weakness or discomfort. "Are you feeling alright?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Anastasia nodded; her smile strained but genuine as she met Mor's gaze. "Yeah, I'm feeling much better, thanks to all that you guys have done for me."

Mor returned the smile, her eyes softening with warmth as she squeezed Anastasia’s arm, “I’m glad to hear it. You should rest a little bit more. Get some of your strength back. If you need anything, Nesta and Amren are around here somewhere. Amren insisted on having Nesta practice using what’s left of her power.”

Without any room for argument- or questions, Mor left the room.

Anastasia lay in bed for a while longer, trying to heed Mor's advice and allow herself more time to rest. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw that little girl on death’s doorstep, the fading light of that little torn thread. How she had – almost on instinct – pulled on it, weaving it back together so that the little girl might live.

She tried to push the thoughts of it aside – she was never meant to have magic.

You were, pet. Cian’s voice teased, his amusement at the chaos in her mind was palpable. You just need to know how to use it.

Anastasia thought about the times she had pulled on the threads or had woven them together – she hadn’t been able to control it, it had only happened in times of stress.

Come find me, I can show you how to use it. The desire, the desperation, was evident in Cian’s voice. Help me, and together we can control the threads of Prythian’s fate.

She wanted to ignore the voice in her head – to shut out the sinister scheming. But despite her best efforts to focus on resting, Anastasia couldn’t help but think that Cian had a point. She didn’t want this power – she didn’t think it was meant for her – but she did need to know how to use it.

How to control it.

-x-

Anastasia stepped into the unused study, the soft morning light filtering in through the tall windows, painting the room in a warm, golden hue. The gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers from the gardens below. She crossed the room and settled herself at the grand oak desk positioned beneath the window. Sunbeams played across the polished surface, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow.

She ran her fingers along the smooth wood, trying to calm herself despite the butterflies in her stomach.

"Focus," she murmured to herself, her voice barely louder than a whisper. She had come to the secluded study – a part of the House she’d never seen anybody in – for a reason. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her senses, trying to recreate the strange threads of magic that she had seen the other day. For anything that she could use to try and practice on.

But the harder she tried to concentrate, the more that the strange threads seemed to slip through her fingers.

Concentrate, my pet. Cian’s whisper in her mind made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Frustration gnawed at her, mingling with a sense of unease. She’d summoned the magic accidentally a number of times before – why was it so difficult to do now? She furrowed her brow, focusing on the sensation of magic, but it was like trying to catch hold of smoke.

A small, mocking chuckle reverberated through her mind.

With a frustrated sigh, Anastasia leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples as she tried to make sense of it all. It was as if the threads responded to some invisible force, appearing, and disappearing at whim.

They are creatures of chaos. Just like us.

Anastasia took a deep breath, feeling the tension slowly release from her muscles as she rolled her neck and stretched her limbs. As she let go of the tension, allowing herself to relax, her senses sharpened. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted it – a small, shimmering thread, barely visible to the naked eye.

Excitement coursed through her veins as she reached out with her mind, her fingertips tingling with anticipation. With a steady hand, she tentatively grasped one of the threads, feeling its delicate strands weave through her consciousness like strands of silk.

From somewhere inside of her mind, there was a hum of approval.

Anastasia closed her eyes, focusing all her concentration on the thread, willing it to respond to her touch. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she felt a connection form, a faint tug of energy as she pulled on the thread.

To her amazement, the thread responded to her touch, shimmering, and vibrating with a subtle energy that resonated through the room.

With newfound confidence, she began to experiment, weaving the thread through the air. The once-still thread now moved at her command, forming intricate patterns and shapes. Anastasia could feel a light breeze kiss her cheek, and a sense of accomplishment surged through her as she realized it wasn't the result of the weather but her own magic – whatever she had done with the thread.

Suddenly, a crackling sound filled the air, and the atmosphere around Anatasia felt wrong – too raw. A book flew from the shelf, collapsing onto the floor on the opposite side of the study. It wasn’t long before more followed, tumbling to the ground with such force that it felt like the ground was shaking.

No, the ground actually was shaking - the furniture seemed to vibrate with unseen power.

Anastasia's eyes widened in alarm. It was as if the threads she had woven took on a life of their own. Bile rose in her throat as she tried desperately to rein in the unleashed power. She let go of the thread, hoping that by releasing it everything would just stop.

But it only continued.

Such raw power, untamed and volatile.

She pulled again, gentler this time, but more books only seemed to cascade off the bookshelf. Each time she tried to fix it - with each tug on the threads - the energy intensified. The furniture began to shake violently.

So much potential for destruction.

Sweat beaded on her forehead as she struggled to find a solution, but the threads resisted her every command.

Anastasia's hand trembled as she grasped the thread and she pulled on it with all her might - willing the chaos to just stop.

The room fell silent, the violent tremors and crackling energy dissipating into nothingness. Anastasia's heart pounded in her ears as she examined her calm surroundings, her chest heaving. Relief flooded through her, as she surveyed the room – at least nothing was damaged. She closed her eyes briefly, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath and steady her nerves.

Her muscles trembled with the strain of her using her magic, and her mind reeled from the intensity of it all. She sank to the floor, her back against the wall, trying to steady her breathing and calm her racing heart.

How the hell had that happened?

Bravo, my pet. Cian purred, his tone dripping with sinister satisfaction. Such chaos, such potential. Imagine what we could achieve together.

“No,” Anastasia’s voice was a whisper, putting her head in her hands. She hated this – she wasn’t meant to have this magic; she couldn’t even control it. How had she managed to save the girl? With the lack of control Anastasia had over this magic, she could have killed her.  She didn’t want it, and the prospect of it terrified her. Her mind was reeling, and she was so caught up in her own thoughts, she didn’t even notice a pair of silver eyes observed her from the doorway, their gaze intense and unreadable.

-x-

At least the library was quiet.

Anastasia sat on one of the lush green chairs in the far corner of the library, absentmindedly strumming her fingers on the armrest.  The room was still – almost too still – but it was just what she needed. The last of the afternoon light was filtering through the window, illuminating flecks of dust as they danced around the air. She watched them for a moment, content with the distraction from her thoughts.

She needed quiet.

As she continued to watch the dust dance in the light, she noticed a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Curious, Anastasia glanced around, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of activity. To her surprise, a book appeared on the small circular table next to her.

Curiously, she picked it up, examining the spine. Essentials of Fae Restorative Arts. She distractedly flipped through the musty pages, her eyes skimming terms on healing and ancient remedies. A gift from the House? Despite its well-intentioned gesture, it wasn’t enough to wretch her thoughts away from what happened earlier in the day.

With a sigh, she put the book back on the table.

In a flurry of movement, another book appeared on the table beside her, on top of the book on healing. This one was adorned with a gold-leafed cover. Her eyes fell on the title, Starfall Serenade, and she couldn’t help as they rolled at the romance book. The House had picked up on her interest in the smutty books.

Anastasia couldn’t help but chuckle at the House’s attempt to cheer her up. It was both endearing and slightly absurd that a sentient house seemed to pick up on her mood. Granted, it wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened to her since winding up in Prythian.

She reached for the romance novel and flipped open to the first page. Maybe diving into a book was just what she needed.

But even the allure of a fictional romance wasn’t enough to fully lift her mood, and soon Anastasia found herself lost once more in the depths of her own thoughts.

A delicate porcelain figurine appeared on the nearby table.

Anastasia only looked at it dubiously.

Then, a collection of intricately carved wooden puzzles.

Anastasia sighed.

Then, a set of colorful crystals that caught the light in a dazzling display.

“You don’t need to do any of this,” Anastasia’s voice pierced the empty room. She still couldn’t believe that she was talking to a house, “I just want to be alone.”

And then, with a soft crackle of flames, the fireplace across the room burst into life, casting a warm and inviting glow that bathed the library in a soft, golden light. Well, that… that she could deal with.

Minutes – or hours, Anastasia wasn’t sure how long she’d been there – later, her ears pricked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, the rhythmic tapping of heels echoing softly in the quiet library. She looked up from the romance book she had been pretending to read, her gaze meeting Mor's as she entered the room. Mor looked stunning, as always, wearing a form-fitting red dress that just demanded attention.

Mor had an energy that seemed to dance around her as she made her way towards Anastasia, a bright smile on her lips. Anastasia had been at the Night Court long enough to know that look – Mor had a plan.  

But as Mor drew closer, her smile faltered, replaced by a furrow of concern upon seeing Anastasia. The bubbly demeanor melted away, replaced by a look of genuine worry. Anastasia could sense Mor's concern even before she spoke.

"Anastasia, what's wrong?" Mor's voice was gentle but laced with genuine worry as she closed the distance between them. It was like the blonde could sense that something was up almost immediately.

"Oh, it's nothing, just a rough day," she replied, forcing a weak smile. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but she wasn’t about to tell Mor what had happened – not when she wasn’t sure how they would all react to her power – or to Cian.

Mor didn't seem convinced, her brows furrowing slightly as she studied Anastasia's face, her eyes searching for any sign of the truth hidden beneath the surface.

Before she could say anything else, Mor spoke again, her voice filled with the same bubbliness that she entered the room with. She was the same female on a mission. "I'm not leaving you alone like this," she declared, her eyes meeting Anastasia's, “I think I know just what you need – and I am not taking no for an answer."

Anastasia arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "What?"

"We're going out," Mor declared triumphantly, her enthusiasm contagious as she took Anastasia's hand in hers. "To Rita's."

Chapter Text

Rita’s, as it turned out, was a bar.

No – a bar was not quite the correct word to describe the establishment - but it was the closest thing that Anastasia’s twenty-first century mind could think of as she took it all in. Lanterns hung from the awning above, casting a warm, inviting glow that spilled out onto the cobblestone sidewalk below. The air was alive with the hum of conversation and there were strains of music drifting from within. All it needed was a bouncer and a line of underage hopefuls out the door and it would really feel like home.

Mor had been right – her mood was already lighter.

She didn’t even think places like this existed in Prythian.

The cool night air kissed her skin as she trailed behind Mor and the others. Once word had got out that Mor had convinced – well, practically forced - Anastasia to go to Rita’s, it had seemed that most of the House’s inhabitants had decided to go as well. Amren, already at the House because of her afternoon with Nesta, had been the first to decide she would also go.

The others, much to Mor’s delight, agreed readily after that.

“I will definitely not be missing this,” Cassian had laughed as Mor had emerged triumphantly from Anastasia’s room after a needlessly long argument as to what Anastasia would wear.  Mor had insisted that they dress up for the occasion, and Anastasia found herself adorned in one of Mor's own ensembles—a flowing dress that was probably way too fancy for Anastasia.

The dress, a deep shade of sapphire blue, hugged Anastasia's figure in all the right places, the fabric cascading down to her ankles gracefully. Delicate lace adorned the neckline, plunging daringly low and leaving Anastasia feeling more exposed than she was truly comfortable with.

She hadn’t exactly missed Azriel’s eyes on her, shadows swirling animatedly around him, as she emerged from her room that evening – no doubt scandalized by the amount of skin she was showing. The weight of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of self-consciousness and something she couldn't quite put into words. The faintest hint of a blush graced her cheeks as she caught his gaze… before she forced herself to turn away.

What was wrong with her?

She’d ignored the feeling, the bubbling self–consciousness, the whole way down from the House of Wind, electing to let Cassian fly her down. By the time the rest of them had caught up, her gaze was already fixed in wonder at the outside of Rita’s – all her embarrassment forgotten.

When Anastasia stepped into Rita’s, she hadn’t known what to expect - but it most certainly was not this. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spices and spirits, and there was laughter and conversation, punctuated by music. The low murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses filled the air.

It was both so familiar and wholly different at the same time, and Anastasia truly felt at a loss for words.

Mor guided them to a booth in the corner – clearly she was a regular here – but Anastasia couldn’t tear her eyes away from the center of the room. Fae of all shapes and sizes danced and swayed to the music, their movements fluid and hypnotic. The dance floor pulsed with an energy that she had never seen before. Anastasia's eyes remained glued to the swirling mass of dancers before her; she was so engrossed in the scene that she didn't notice Cassian's approach until he spoke.

"Like what you see?" he remarked, a playful glint in his eyes as he slid easily into the booth beside her. They all must have been regulars, as the backing of the booth seemed fitted to accommodate the Illyrian’s large wings.  

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks, caught off guard by Cassian's observation.  Before she could respond, Mor appeared at her side, weaving effortlessly through the crowd to place a tin cup in Anastasia's hand.

"Here," Mor said, her voice barely audible over the lively din of laughter and music. A mischievous smile played on her lips as she leaned in close. "Drink up.”

“You’re going to need it,” Cassian peered over to inspect the contents of her drink before giving her a teasing smile, “With Mor, you can always count on it being a long night.”

Anastasia took a grateful sip, the scent of the drink hitting her nose with a heady intensity. The liquid seared down her throat like liquid fire, and she cringed involuntarily at the strength of it. She could hold her own back in Boston, but this was much stronger than anything she had ever had back home. From somewhere behind her, she could hear Cassian's booming laughter, his amusement echoing through Rita’s.

Her eyes widened in surprise at the intensity of the drink, a rush of warmth spreading through her veins with every sip. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this was probably a bad idea. She hadn’t had more than a few sips of wine in months. But the stress of everything – of Cian, of her magic, of her strange dreams - seemed to press down on her shoulders all at once.

Mor had said that tonight was about getting her mind off things, after all.

With a resigned shrug, she lifted the cup to her lips again and downed the rest of the drink. She was prepared for the burn this time, and tried her best to mask her reaction. The alcohol burned away the edges of her anxiety, leaving her feeling a little lighter - a little freer.

Cassian's whoop cut through the din of laughter and music. Anastasia grinned in response, a sense of exhilaration coursing through her veins as she triumphantly set down her empty cup on the table before them. Even Azriel's lips twitched in a rare display of amusement at the spectacle.

“Impressive, girl,” Amren raised her eyebrows as she looked at the empty cup, but the look on her face was anything but impressed.

Before Anastasia could fully process what was happening, Mor seized her arm, her grip firm but gentle. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she pulled her friend toward the center of the dance floor, her laughter blending seamlessly with the music that filled the air.

"Come on, Ana," she urged, her voice barely audible over the sound of the music. "Let's show them how it's done!"

Anastasia shook her head, a laugh escaping her lips. Back home, she wouldn’t have thought twice about going out and dancing, but she couldn’t help the flutter of nervousness at the prospect of dancing in front of everyone here. "I'm going to need a few more of these before I even think about dancing," she admitted, gesturing to the empty cup with a sheepish grin.

Cassian – in a moment of being a decidedly bad influence – pointed her in the direction of where she could get another one.

Music and lively chatter enveloped Anastasia as she made her way toward the bar. She leaned against the rough wooden counter and caught the attention of the barkeep. She ordered another drink, eager to chase away any lingering traces of anxiety that clung to her thoughts. Thankfully, the barkeep was quick with her drink handing if off to her with a charming smile.

As she turned back with the drink in hand, her heart skipped a beat when she nearly collided with Amren, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Her silver eyes bore into her with an accusatory intensity, and Anastasia bristled under them. Amren had been the one who had been scrutinizing her since she first arrived in Velaris.

“Uh, hi there," Anastasia stammered, trying to sound nonchalant despite the nerves that fluttered in her stomach.

Amren's silver eyes bore into her, and she cut straight to the point, her voice eerily soft over the music, "That healing incident with the young girl at Madja's. How did you do it? You claimed you had no magic."

Panic flashed across Anastasia's face, and she stammered, "I... I didn't realize I could do it. It just happened."

Amren's gaze bore into her - there was a knowing glint in her eyes that made Anastasia's stomach churn with unease. It definitely wasn’t the alcohol. "Is that so?" Amren replied, her tone skeptical.

Lie, the voice in her head ordered her.

Anastasia swallowed hard, her mind scrambling for a convincing explanation.

Amren pressed on, her voice cutting through the noise of the bar. "And have there been any new developments?" Amren's silver eyes bore into her, searching for any sign of hesitation.

Anastasia's heart sank as she struggled to come up with a response. She thought back to that afternoon in the study, to the moments when she had attempted to control her newfound power – and failed miserably.

Lie. Cian’s command echoed once more.

"No, nothing new," Anastasia replied, her voice surprisingly steady. She forced herself to meet Amren's gaze, hoping to convey an air of confidence she didn't feel.

But Amren just raised an eyebrow, a look that said she wasn't entirely convinced. But to her relief, the ancient being didn't press the matter further. Without a word, Amren turned back towards the booth, leaving Anastasia to try and calm her racing heart.

As Amren disappeared, Anastasia's tense shoulders sagged in relief. She reached for the forgotten tin cup on the counter, the cool metal shocking her as it hit her palm. She lifted the cup to her lips, draining its contents in a single, determined pull. The fiery liquid burned a path down her throat, igniting a warmth that spread through her veins.

She turned back to the barkeep and with a swift motion, she signaled for another.

-x-

“Alright,” Mor announced as Anastasia made her way back to the group after another drink – refusing to look at Amren. She could feel her silver eyes tracing her every movement, but no one else seemed to react suspiciously around her. She must not have told anyone, and Anastasia’s relief was palpable.  Mor eyed Anastasia playfully, “You’ve had enough, it’s time to dance.

Anastasia's protest was lost amidst the laughter and chatter of the crowd as Mor dragged her onto the dance floor. Anastasia's movements were hesitant at first – she felt rather clumsy as the drinks worked their way through her system - but Mor's infectious energy soon had her swaying and spinning to the rhythm of the music. They moved in harmony, their laughter blending with the beat as they twirled and dipped with grace.

Well, Mor had grace. Anastasia nearly tripped over some poor nearby female’s feet.

But she laughed as she steadied herself, thinking that Mor had been right; Anastasia needed something like this.

Anastasia's gaze flicked back to the booth where their friends sat, and she couldn't help but notice Nesta and Amren engaged in what seemed like a heated discussion. Despite the intensity of their exchange, a faint smile played on Nesta's lips. Anastasia relaxed a little more, Amren didn’t seem to be sharing her suspicions about Anastasia. Perhaps, Anastasia had been misreading their entire conversation before. Cassian, meanwhile, was saying something to his brother, but Azriel's gaze seemed locked on the two females on the dance floor.

As Anastasia swayed to the rhythm of the music, her movements becoming more fluid with each passing beat – whatever had been in those drinks had most definitely gone straight to her head. Not that she was complaining - the worries and fears that had plagued her mind seemed to fade into the background with each passing minute. She just closed her eyes, letting herself get lost in the music.

“Care to join me for a dance?” A voice as smooth as velvet drifted towards her, pulling her from her reverie. Anastasia blinked in surprise, her gaze settling on the striking Fae male before her. His eyes, the color of a summer sky, sparkled as he extended his hand towards her.

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering towards Mor – for backup, for permission, for something. But the blonde was in her own world, swaying to the music was a female Anastasia had never seen before. She turned back to the male, the refusal already making its way up her throat.

But then, again – this was a night she was supposed to let loose.

With a boldness she didn't know she possessed, Anastasia placed her hand in his, allowing him to guide her onto the dance floor. His hand rested firmly against the small of her back, the weight of his touch feeling foreign – but strangely nice - against her skin.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had done something like this – dancing with a complete stranger at a bar. It had to have been sometime before… everything. Before she’d met Connor even. The thought sent a wave of shock through her as she realized that she had been here, in Prythian, for quite some time now.

The male seemed to sense her unease, and pulled Anastasia closer to him – and all thoughts about her life before Prythian were momentarily banished from her mind.

As they danced, the male leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "You move like a dream."

Anastasia couldn't help the flush of color that rose to her cheeks at the compliment.

Glancing over her dance partner's shoulder, Anastasia's caught a glimpse of Azriel standing at the edge of the dance floor. His expression remained characteristically inscrutable, but his shadows deepened and whirled around him. For a fleeting moment, she felt the weight of his gaze pierce and the strangest, slightest chug in her chest.

Swallowing the nervous flutter in her stomach, Anastasia tore her gaze away from Azriel, forcing herself to focus on the dance – and the male - before her.

As the music began to wind down, the charming fae drew Anastasia closer. Anastasia couldn't help but feel a flutter of nerves in her stomach as she glanced over the male's shoulder, her gaze locking with Azriel's at the edge of the dance floor.

"Would you care to join me for a drink?" the Fae murmured, his voice low and velvety, laced with an unmistakable invitation.

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat at the proposition. She looked over at the booth, where Cassian was booming with laughter at something that Nesta had said. Amren, lifting a cup of something that looked line wine to her lips, had her silver gaze locked on Anastasia. Anastasia shuddered, unsure if she wanted to return to that kind of scrutiny.

Besides, she was supposed to have fun - let loose. Wasn’t this kind of thing what people did to have fun? She’d certainly spent a lot of time doing the exact same thing back in Boston.  

But a sudden clarity pierced through the lingering haze caused by the drink.

She wasn’t in Boston.

What the hell was she doing?

Soon enough, when she finally found what she was looking for, she’d find a way home. Her being in Prythian was only temporary, and it didn’t make sense for her to be getting attached – at least, romantically – to anyone.

With a hesitant smile, Anastasia gently extricated herself from the male’s embrace, "I appreciate the offer, truly, but I... I think I should be going."

Mor reached out to Anastasia; her hand extended in a silent invitation as if she had been listening and expected Anastasia’s answer. Without hesitation, Anastasia accepted, allowing Mor to pull her into the center of the dance floor once more and leaving the rather charming male behind.

After a while, Anastasia had decided she had had enough. Already, she could feel the sweat clinging to her skin. She left Mor, content to dance on her own, and made her way back to the rest of their friends, where Amren was seated with a glass of deep red wine – at least, Anastasia was telling herself it was wine - in hand. The short female regarded Anastasia with a penetrating gaze, her silver eyes holding a hint of skepticism that made Anastasia shift in her seat.

But she remained quiet, and for that, Anastasia was grateful.

"Well, well, Anastasia,” Nesta leaned in with a teasing glint in her eyes. She handed Anastasia another tin cup, which she took gratefully. “Dancing quite intimately with a handsome male, aren't we?" she remarked, a playful smirk on her lips.

Anastasia felt a flush rise to her cheeks, caught off guard by Nesta's teasing comment. She shot Nesta a sidelong glance, offering a shy smile in response. "It was just a dance," she replied, attempting to deflect Nesta’s curiosity. She didn’t want to have to go into detail, nor did she want to explain why it had ended so suddenly.

Mor chuckled softly beside her, shooting Anastasia a knowing look before turning her attention back to Amren. Amren observed their exchange with a subtle smirk as she took another sip of her… wine.

Yes, it had to be wine.

Cassian, more than a few drinks in, raised his glass in a toast, the golden liquid sloshing slightly as he did so. "Well, here is to another unforgettable night!" he declared, his voice carrying a hint of mischief as he looked around the table.

Azriel, typically reserved, offered a small smile in agreement. "Here's to surviving another night at Rita’s," he added, his tone tinged with wry humor.

Anastasia joined in the laughter, her own glass clinking against Azriel's in a silent toast. "Surviving may be an overstatement," she remarked, a playful twinkle in her eye as she finished the drink in front of her.

Enjoy it while it lasts, pet – you will soon be with me.

The sound of Cian's voice echoing in Anastasia's mind sent a shiver down her spine, the sudden intrusion startling her out of the laid-back atmosphere of Rita's. She felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck as she struggled to regain her composure, her fingers tightening around the empty glass in front of her.

It hadn’t been the first time Cian had interrupted a good time, but the voice in her head was growing increasingly impatient – and sinister.

Azriel's keen gaze locked onto her, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed the subtle shift in her demeanor. Amren also caught the change and pursed her lips in a silent gesture of disapproval. Anastasia cursed inwardly at how perceptive everyone here seemed to be. She hated the feeling of being scrutinized, of having her every move dissected and analyzed.

"Are you okay, Anastasia?" Azriel leaned as he asked, his tone gentle.

Anastasia forced a tight-lipped smile, her throat constricting with the effort to keep her voice steady. "I just need some air," she replied, her words coming out in a rush as she pushed back her chair and rose unsteadily to her feet.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and made her way towards the nearest exit, the weight of Azriel's gaze following her every step. She could feel the cool night air washing over her as she stepped outside. She leaned against the wall, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Minutes passed, but her anxiety didn’t seem to ease up any.

The fae liquor that was working through her system didn’t seem to help any either.

Cian’s voice disappeared into the recesses of her mind, leaving nothing but confusion and fear in their wake. Why was this happening to her? Why – out of all the people – was she the one subjected to being pulled into a strange world with voices in her head?

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not even notice that anyone else was approaching until a soft black shadow wrapped delicate around her wrist, as if it were a gentle caress.

She looked up surprised to see Azriel approaching her. His gaze fell to the shadow at her wrist, and he shot her an apologetic look right as the shadow went floating back to its master. She was about to tell him that it was okay, that she didn’t mind the shadow, but the fog in her brain didn’t let her form the words in time and Azriel spoke first.

"Anastasia," he said softly, "Are you alright?"

Anastasia looked up at him, her heart skipping a beat at the concern etched into the lines of his face. He approached her slowly until he was standing right next to her, the fabric of his overcoat touching the sheet fabric of her sleeves. She felt a rush of warmth flood her cheeks as she met his gaze, and a shiver ran down her spine.

The drinks must have been really going to her head.

Azriel studied her for a moment, his hazel eyes searching hers like he was trying to make sense of her. She shifted under the scrutiny, wondering if Amren had said anything to him about their conversation. Anastasia felt a flutter of panic rise within her, the memory of Cian’s warning echoing in the recesses of her mind.

His shadowsinger will pry answers from you like extracting venom from a snake.

No, she told herself, trying to banish the manipulative warning from her mind. This was Azriel.

And he was here, checking up on her.

As Anastasia struggled to compose herself, the effects of the alcohol were making it increasingly difficult to maintain a calm mask. She mustered a wobbly smile, hoping to alleviate some of his concern. "I'm fine, really," she replied, surprised that her words seemed to blend. "Just... a bit overwhelmed by everything, I suppose.”

Azriel's expression softened at her words, but there was still a lingering tension in his features as he continued to study her. "Are you sure?" he pressed gently; his tone laced with genuine concern. "You seem... troubled."

Anastasia's head spun as she tried to focus on his words, her thoughts muddled by the haze of alcohol. "It's nothing," she insisted, her words slurring together slightly. "Just... a lot on my mind lately. I was apparently unconscious for two days, after all.”

She hoped her vague explanation would suffice, but the furrow in Azriel's brow deepened. Anastasia recalled what Mor had said about him sitting by her side until they were certain that she’d be alright. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, probing and searching for answers she wasn't willing to give.

"I'm here if you ever need to talk," Azriel offered quietly, "You don't have to face what is troubling you alone."

Anastasia's heart clenched at his words, even with the effects of the liquor muddling her senses. It’s not like she didn’t want to tell him – to tell any of them really – but she couldn't risk dragging him into whatever this was.

Not when she barely understood them herself.

Not when Cian was becoming more and more menacing by the day.

"Thank you, Azriel," she murmured as she looked down, scared that her hazy state would cause her to blurt out everything. If her experience in college taught her anything, it was that she had no filter once the alcohol it.  "I appreciate that."

She thought that Azriel would leave – would turn back into Rita’s to go join his friends. But he stayed next to her, so close that she could feel the heat radiating off him, as she leaned up against the wall. She calmed down in Azriel’s presence, the thoughts and worries about Cian’s voice seemed to dissipate in the quiet stillness. Any sobering effect that Cian’s warning had on her faded away, and the effects of the alcohol she had consumed earlier began to take hold once more, loosening the inhibitions.

With a lighthearted giggle, she reached out to gently touch Azriel's cheek, her fingers tracing the contours of his face.

"You have such pretty eyes," she blurted out, the words slipping past her lips before she could stop them.

As soon as the words slipped from her lips, Anastasia’s eyes widened in mortification. Heat rose to her cheeks as she registered Azriel's gentle smile. She quickly withdrew her hand, hoping to hide her embarrassment behind a veil of nonchalance.

"Sorry," she muttered, her voice tinged with a hint of self-deprecation. "I think I've had a bit too much to drink."

Anastasia couldn't help but steal a glance at Azriel, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. To her surprise, she found his hazel eyes regarding her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher.

But as quickly as the moment had come, it passed, and Azriel's expression softened into one of quiet understanding. He offered her a reassuring smile.

"Maybe we should get you home," he suggested, his voice low and soothing.

Before Anastasia could respond, Azriel gracefully scooped her up in his arms, his wings unfolding with a whispering sound that sent a rush of air around them. She couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise as they ascended into the night sky, the lights of Velaris shimmering below like a sea of stars.

Chapter Text

“I am never drinking again,” Anastasia groaned softly as she rested her head on the smooth butcher block surface of the kitchen counter in the House of Wind. Sitting up straight only made her dizzy, and she did not want to risk falling off the stool. Her head throbbed with the aftermath of one too many drinks – whatever fae liquor Mor had given her was strong - and she couldn't help but regret her how much she indulged the night before.

Her stomach whirled at the thought of how much she had.

"Never again," she muttered, her voice muffled by the cool surface beneath her. How many times back home had she made that same promise?

Anastasia's stomach churned uneasily as she surveyed the contents of the kitchen, searching desperately for something to quell the nausea. She hadn’t had a hangover like this since she had celebrated her match at Tufts Medical Center, having had too many green tea shots at her favorite bar.

With a weary sigh, she scanned the shelves and cabinets, her gaze lingering on various ingredients. The kitchen was well stocked, and she could probably make something. But nothing seemed appetizing enough to soothe her unsettled stomach.

"I think I would actually kill for a bacon, egg, and cheese right now," she muttered to herself, the words echoing softly in the empty kitchen.

Anastasia blinked in surprise as a plate of bacon, eggs, and a hard lump of cheese materialized before her on the counter – the House had been listening to her. With a heavy sigh, she regarded the plate before her, the aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly cooked eggs wafting up to greet her – and it made her stomach roll.

It wasn't exactly what she had been craving—a greasy, indulgent bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich from her favorite deli back in Boston—and she pushed the plate away, resting her head once more on the wooden countertop. She groaned once more, “That’s definitely not going to cure this hangover.”

Anastasia's eyebrows furrowed as a cup of suspicious-looking green juice materialized next to the plate before her – another strange gift from the House.

"I don't need this," she murmured aloud, hoping that maybe the House would just get rid of it for her. But to her frustration, the cup of green juice remained stubbornly in place, as if defying her attempts to dismiss it.

With a resigned sigh, Anastasia pushed herself upright from the counter and made her way to the rudimentary looking sink. She picked up the cup of green liquid with a sense of trepidation, eyeing it warily as she held it up to her nose.

A pungent aroma assaulted her senses - Anastasia's doubts only grew as her stomach rolled once more. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering back to the plate of food before her and sighed. She missed the comforts of home. She poured the green liquid down the sink, watching as it disappeared into the depths with a satisfying gurgle.

Anastasia's eyes widened in disbelief as she turned back to her spot at the counter, only to find another glass of the strange green liquid waiting for her, as if the House had a mind of its own and was insistently pushing her to drink it.

"Oh, for the love of—" With an exasperated sigh, she reached out and picked up the glass, eyeing it warily as if it might sprout legs and scurry away at any moment. She turned, ready to drop the contents down the drain once more. But before she could make a move, the sound of footsteps drew her attention, and she turned to see Azriel entering the kitchen - looking impeccably composed despite the events of the previous night.

"You'd do best to drink it," he said, his voice laced with amusement as he nodded towards the glass of green liquid. "Over 500 years, and it's the only thing that works."

Anastasia raised a skeptical eyebrow as she looked at the green drink, "Well, if it works so well, you drink it.”

"I didn't have nearly as much as you did," he admitted with a chuckle, the corners of his lips quirking up in a wry smile. His shadows danced around him with a lively energy.

She wished she could have that much energy after drinking a little too much on a night out.

She kind of resented him for it.

But the more that she thought about it – had he even had anything to drink at Rita’s last night? As she took in his immaculate appearance, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as Azriel chuckled softly.

With a resigned sigh, she finally relented, lifting the glass to her lips, and taking a tentative sip. The flavor that assaulted her tongue was unlike anything she had ever tasted before. It tasted like earth, the chalkiness of it coating her tongue – and was that garlic?

She wrinkled her nose in distaste, the unpleasant taste lingering on her palate as she fought the urge to grimace.

"Ugh, that's awful," she muttered, setting the cup down with a gentle clink. She pushed it away from her, unable to stomach another sip of it.

Azriel's raised eyebrows and challenging look hung in the air, as if he were daring Anastasia to try the revolting liquid again. Without giving it much thought, she reached for the glass once more and, with a determination that surprised even herself, downed the rest of the green liquid in one swift motion.

The taste was as repulsive as ever, and she had to suppress a gag as the bitterness clawed at her throat. A shudder ran through her, and she set the empty glass back on the counter with a resolute thud. Looking at Azriel, she gave him a wry smile, "There, happy now?"

The shadowsinger’s eyes widened only a fraction, and if he wasn’t always so well composed, Anastasia knew that his mouth would be hanging open - he was speechless.

Taking a deep breath, Anastasia seized the opportunity to address the night before.

"About last night," she began, her voice a touch hesitant as she ran her fingers through her hair, "I'm sorry for... well, everything. I swear, I usually don't get like that…. I just had a lot to drink… and I just needed some fresh air. Thank you so much for checking up on me, but please… just forget everything I said."

Azriel's smile didn't falter as she rambled on, but there was a discerning glint in his eyes. When she finished her blabbering, he just continued to look at her, as if he were choosing the right words to say. There was a subtle amusement in his gaze, as if he found her apology more endearing than necessary, and she couldn’t help but feel heat rush to her cheeks.

"It's forgotten," he replied smoothly, his tone reassuring, though the twinkle in his eyes hinted that he was most definitely not going to be forgetting it any time soon.

The flush in her cheeks only deepened.

He must have realized what his teasing was doing to her, because Azriel cleared his throat, blessedly changing the subject. "If you're feeling up to it today, I'll be the one to take you to Madja's," he offered.

Anastasia's brow furrowed at the unexpected change in plans, a flicker of confusion crossing her features. "Is Cassian gone again?"

Azriel shrugged casually, his movements once again smooth and controlled. "He's back at Windhaven, briefing Devlan," he replied, his tone nonchalant as if it were a routine occurrence. It was, Anastasia supposed, with how often he’d been flying back and forth lately.

A sense of unease, one that had a lot more to do than just the consequences of the previous night, settled in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was the cryptic remarks from Cian, but she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was more to Cassian's sudden departures than met the eye. She wondered, thinking back to Cian’s comments about their lack of trust in her, if they would even tell her if something was going on.

"What's going on? He goes away all the time now," she noted, hoping that Azriel wouldn’t see that she was testing the waters, trying to see what exactly they would – or wouldn’t – tell her.

Azriel's gaze lingered on her for a moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. But no doubt sensing her unease, he sighed softly before offering her an explanation. "He's the general of Rhys' armies—he's meant to oversee things," he began, his tone measured.

She knew that, of course. Her shoulders fell, the explanation falling short of satisfying Anastasia's curiosity. There was more to the story than what Azriel was letting on, she was certain of it. Perhaps Cian had been right, and they didn’t trust-

 "But..." he hesitated, as if deliberating how much to divulge. Anastasia couldn’t help it as her eyes widened slightly, shocked.

"War bands are going rogue—acting out," Azriel continued, his voice lowering slightly as if sharing a secret. "There's one that's been attacking the others, and we're trying to get to the bottom of why."

Anastasia's brow furrowed; she hated thinking about the Illyrians normally, recalling the barbarism that she was subjected to. She didn’t even want to about what ‘acting out’ could possibly mean.

"Attacking the others?" she echoed, her voice laced with concern. "Is it something new, or has this been happening for a while?"

"You're perfectly safe here in Velaris," Azriel placed a hand on hers, as he tried to reassure her. "Nothing will happen to you."

Anastasia offered him a tentative smile, wondering if she should point out that he hadn’t exactly answered her question. But – this was already more than anyone had told her already, and she didn’t want to push her luck. She shuddered as she thought of the suspicious looks that Amren had been giving her all last night.

The doubts still gnawed at the edges of her mind, but for now, she chose to accept his reassurance.

"If you're feeling recovered enough, Madja is expecting you," he said, eyeing the finished cup of mysterious green liquid. She followed his gaze, surprised to admit that during their conversations, all traces of her hangover disappeared.

She hated that the House had been right.

-x-

"Anastasia, blend up the healing salve.” Madja's voice cut through the air, commanding and authoritative. “Don’t ask me why – but I have a feeling that we have a very long day ahead."

Anastasia's hands immediately went to work, grinding the ingredients with practiced precision. She had anticipated, with it being her first day back and all, somewhat of an interrogation from the formidable healer. But to her surprise, Madja had been business as usual, no questions asked.

As Anastasia worked, her arm began to ache from the constant stirring, the scent of herbs and the salve churning her still-sensitive stomach. But she gritted her teeth and pushed through, appreciating Madja's attitude towards her return. There was no coddling here, no concessions made for her recent ordeal. Just the steady rhythm of their work, the clinking of glass vials and the rustle of dried herbs filling the air.

"Anastasia," Madja's voice broke through Anastasia's thoughts, pulling her attention back to their conversation. “I've noticed you've grown accustomed to the High Lord’s brothers. Making progress, I see."

Anastasia arched her brow at Madja. What had prompted her to ask such a question? But she was right, Anastasia had to admit. She’d stopped bristling every time Cassian or Azriel walked into the room. While she definitely didn’t want to see anymore Illyrians anytime soon, she had to admit that she’d grown quite fond of the pair.

But she only shrugged nonchalantly, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "They're not so bad," she mumbled, turning back to the salve before her, to avoid meeting Madja’s eyes.

"Ah, yes," Anastasia could hear the teasing smile in Madja’s tone. "Some more than others, perhaps?"

She stirred the salve harder, her arm burning, “What are you talking about?”

"Oh, nothing, dear.” She could hear Madja’s voice trail off, “Just idle thoughts of an old female. Pay them no mind."

Anastasia was content to do just that and focused once more on stirring the thickening paste in front of her.

“They are good males, you know.” The normally quiet Madja continued after a few minutes of silence. What was it and the healer’s idle thoughts today? “A little dense sometimes – they don’t always think things through – especially when they were younger. But they are good. Especially the spymaster.”

Anastasia's curiosity was piqued, and it was clear that the older female wasn’t going to let up anytime soon. So she turned her attention fully to Madja.

"During one of his training sessions with the general…" Madja trailed off, a hint of amusement coloring her voice. "Well, they decided it would be a good idea to test their agility in flight by attempting to leapfrog over each other."

Anastasia couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image of Azriel and Cassian doing something like that. But, given what she had seen of Cassian the last few weeks, it didn’t exactly surprise her.

"Needless to say, it didn't end well," Madja continued, a fond smile tugging at her lips. "Azriel ended up with a rather... delicate injury."

Anastasia didn’t have to ask to know exactly what Madja was hinting at. She suppressed the smirk that threatened to tug at her lips, knowing it probably wounded Azriel’s pride to go to Madja after something like that.

"And what did you do?" Anastasia asked, her curiosity piqued.

"I tended to his injuries, of course,” The older healer stated, with the wave of her hand, but then Madja's smile widened. But what impressed me most was that he returned to me after he had healed with a token of his appreciation."

Anastasia's eyebrows shot up, "He brought you a gift?"

Madja nodded, her eyes softening with fond memories. "Indeed. A rare flower, found only in the deepest reaches of the Illyrian mountains. It was beautiful – I have it pressed somewhere here."

Madja turned her back, no doubt trying to find the book with the pressed flower in it. Anastasia watched with keen interest as Madja rummaged through the cluttered shelves.

After a few minutes of looking, Madja grumbled that she had given up looking for the book and grumpily ordered Anastasia to continue to work. As the hours passed, Madja and Anastasia worked quietly side by side. After the first hour, Anastasia had moved on from blending salves to cutting up bandages. It was an easy task – albeit tedious. But she didn’t have to think too much about it as she used the sharp blade to cut through the fabric.

Their companionable silence seemed to shift, and Anastasia could sense a huge swath of power radiating from the front of Madja’s. Startled by the feeling, she looked up right as Rhysand winnowed into the room, the air crackling with the unmistakable energy of his presence. He looked every bit the High Lord that afternoon, his demeanor grave and solemn as he stepped into the chamber without any greeting.

Anastasia and Madja exchanged a quick glance, and Anastasia furrowed her brows. There was something wrong, that much was clear from the tension that hung off the High Lord like a heavy fog.

"There has been an attack at Windhaven.”

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat, her hands freezing mid-motion as Rhysand's words registered.

“Azriel… Cassian…” Her mouth went dry. 

Rhysand's expression softened at her concern, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features as he met her gaze. "They're both fine," he reassured her, his voice calm yet tinged with the gravity of the situation. "They're at Windhaven right now, overseeing the Illyrians."

A wave of relief washed over Anastasia at the news, her shoulders sagging slightly.

“It was unprovoked,” Rhysand's eyes flickered over to Anastasia as he began, his voice somber as he explained the grim details of the attack, "The rogue war band that originally found you in the woods—they launched the assault without warning."

Anastasia's jaw clenched at the mention of her past tormentors, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She tried to remain calm and poised as she listened, but she was certain that the High Lord could see right through her act.

"The attackers have retreated for now, but the damage they've inflicted is severe.” Rhysand eyed Anastasia carefully as he continued, his tone grave, “The healers at Windhaven are overwhelmed—it's more than they can handle on their own.”

Rhysand then looked at Madja, and Anastasia was sure that there was something unspoken that passed between the two of them, “We need all the help we can get over there."

Madja set her mouth in a hard line, her expression unreadable as she listened to the High Lord. Anastasia looked warily at Madja; she thought she knew the healer well enough by now – she wouldn’t turn away from anyone who needed her help.

Anastasia’s stomach turned as she thought about the prospect of returning to the camp.

As if reading her thoughts, Rhysand turned towards Anastasia once again, his gaze filled with a understanding look that Anastasia couldn’t quite put into words. "Given your history," he began, "I want you to know that you have the option not to go. No one will think less of you if you choose to stay here."

Conflicting thoughts and emotions raced through her mind, each one vying for dominance as she considered Rhysand's offer. The memories of being chained and abused cast a shadow over her desire to do something – to help. Her ribs twinged with a phantom pain as the memories of those weeks rushed to the surface.

Her heart raced in her chest - could she really go back there, to face the monsters who had tortured and abused her? The mere thought sent a shiver down her spine, a cold dread settling in the pit of her stomach.

Rhysand's understanding gaze only intensified that feeling of dread. She didn't have to say anything – he could read the uncertainty etched into her face, the hesitation in her every movement. Could he sense her heartbeat? She was sure that that alone would be a dead giveaway.

He had offered her an out. She could feel the temptation to retreat, to turn away from the fear and anxiety and curl up in the House of Wind….

But she was a surgeon. She had wanted to be a doctor since she was a child. And when she had her white coat ceremony, she had taken an oath – a solemn vow to heal, to alleviate suffering, to do no harm. Didn’t she have an obligation to help these people, even after all that they had done to her?

Could she turn her back on those in need, even if it meant going back there?

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she tried to give the High Lord an answer.

Madja’s voice cut through the silence before Anastasia could offer up her answer. “We will go, of course.” Her voice was steely; there was no room for discussion. The healer’s gaze flickered briefly to Anastasia before returning to Rhysand.

Anastasia's blinked as she registered Madja's decision, a mixture of both relief and apprehension flooding through her. She never had any doubt Madja would agree to help – the older female didn’t have the same hangups about the Illyrians that she did. But knowing that Madja made the decision for her… well, certainty washed over her as she readied herself.

Rhysand turned to Anastasia, his expression expectant as he sought confirmation. For a moment, she hesitated, her mind still wrestling with doubts and fears. But in the end, she gave him a singular nod.

They would go to Windhaven.

Anastasia and Madja wasted no time, swiftly gathering their supplies and packing them into bags. Every bandage, salve, and potion they deemed necessary was carefully stowed away, placed in a rucksack that mut have been magic for how much they were able to carry.

Once everything was ready, they made their way to Rhysand, the High Lord's presence unmistakable even from a distance. Anastasia couldn't help but feel a shiver run down her spine as she drew nearer to him, his power radiating off him in palpable waves. She had spent little time in his presence, but every encounter left her feeling both awed and unsettled.

Rhys took hold of both Anastasia's and Madja's arms, and in a rush of sensation that felt like being tucked into a pocket realm and threaded through the eye of a needle, they winnowed. Anastasia's stomach churned uncomfortably, a sensation she always loathed about the winnowing process. If it wasn't the nerves or the remnants of her hangover threatening to make her sick, it would certainly be this.

As they materialized in the war camp, Anastasia was greeted by nothing but chaos and carnage. Tattered tents flapped in the wind, their canvas sides shredded by what must have been blades and arrows. The ground was littered with discarded weapons, broken pieces of armor, and splatters of dried blood that stained the earth crimson. Smoke billowed from smoldering fires, casting a haze over Windhaven and filling the air with a choking stench.

Amidst the wreckage, injured soldiers groaned in pain, their wounds tended to by harried Illyrian healers moving swiftly from one casualty to the next.

Anastasia’s mouth fell in shock as she took in the scene before her. This was not the Windhaven that she had been held captive in. Oh, it certainly looked familiar. But gone was the confidence and arrogance of the Illyrian males who had sneered at her. What was left was pure devastation. Her stomach tightened at the sight of it all, the once-frightening surroundings now transformed into something horrific.

Anastasia couldn't help but feel a jolt of surprise as she surveyed the war camp. It was starkly different from the last time she had been in such surroundings, held captive by the same people who were now the victims of this brutal assault. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her – a sense of vindication at seeing her former captors suffer, mingled with a profound sadness at the sight of the devastation before her.

"Well, it was nice of the High Lord to finally show up," A voice, heavy with disdain, cut through the tense air, and shattered Anastasia's thoughts.

Anastasia turned to see the Lord of Windhaven – how could she ever forget him? - sneering, his tone dripping with contempt as his eyes fixated on Rhysand.

Anastasia's muscles tensed instinctively at the sound of the Lord's voice, her gaze looking onto him with a mixture of fear and dread. She had had minimal contact with the male – being held at Windhaven for only a day before her rescue - but she couldn’t help it as the lingering echo of the fear and uncertainty that had gripped her during their last meeting sent a shiver up her spine.

Rhysand's response was measured, his eyes raking over the Lord with nothing but disdain. Gone was the concern that he had shown in Madja’s, replaced by the terrifying mask of the High Lord.  "I've been getting the best healers Velaris has to offer," he retorted, his words carrying a subtle edge of authority, “It appears that your own need all the help that they can get, Devlon.”

The Lord of Windhaven, Devlon, turned to the two females, his gaze narrowing as they landed on Anastasia. It took all her willpower to stand tall and not shrink under his scrutiny.

“What you’ve brought me,” Devlon sneered, his eyes never leaving Anastasia, “is a witch.”

Devlon's accusation sent a chill down Anastasia's spine. But the Lord of Windhaven continued leering at her, his voice dripping with vitriol as he spoke.

"Those chains were imbued with magic – they were gifted to us by the High Lord - nothing should have been able to break them," he accused, his gaze narrowing on Anastasia with thinly veiled suspicion.

Rhysand's brows lifted in surprise as Devlon's accusation hung in the air. His gaze flickered briefly to Anastasia, a barely perceptible glimmer of shock dancing in his eyes before it was swiftly replaced by an unreadable stare. His eyes held a mixture of curiosity and suspicion as they locked onto her, silently demanding answers that she was not sure she could provide.

Anastasia only looked down at her boots, refusing to meet the High Lord’s gaze.

"Come with me, child," Madja intervened with characteristic bluntness, her tone brooking no argument as she gestured for Anastasia to follow her. It was as if she had sensed Anastasia’s discomfort. "We have work to do."

The High Lord offered no protest, only watched with a skeptical curiosity, as Anastasia followed Madja into one of the tents.

Chapter Text

"I need some help over here, we've got two more incoming!" Anastasia barked at the surrounding healers, her voice cutting through the chaos of the healing tent. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and sweat, mingling with the acrid tang of burning flesh from the nearby battle remnants. She was knee-deep in wounded Illyrians, her hands and mind working swiftly as she assessed injuries and directed the other healers in their tasks. She didn’t know how she came to direct the other healers, but when she and Madja arrived, most of the healers were scrambling as they tried to help every wounded warrior brought in.

Anastasia’s instincts from her time in the emergency room kicked in, and she went into overdrive as she organized the reluctant healers into something that resembled a triage. Now, Madja was somewhere in one of the other makeshift healing tents that had been set up, probably doing the same thing that she was.

A young female named Elara – who looked like she couldn’t be more than fifteen years old - appeared at Anastasia's side in an instant. She’d been one of the few to listen to the commands that Anastasia had been barking for the better part of the afternoon, rather than scoff in disgust.

"What do we have?" Elara clipped, already moving to assist.

Anastasia's gaze flitted over the two patients being carried in on makeshift stretchers, her heart sinking at the sight of their injuries. One was a young Illyrian warrior, his armor bloodied and torn, his face contorted in pain as he clutched at a deep gash across his abdomen. The other was an older soldier, his features drawn with agony as he cradled a badly burned arm.

Anastasia quickly briefed the young healer on the condition of the incoming patients, her mind racing as she calculated the severity of their injuries. The wounded were flooding in faster than they could handle, and even though the battle was over… it was just too much.

"Prepare bandages and salves for burns and lacerations," Anastasia instructed, her voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. "We need to stabilize them before we can move on to the next wave."

Elara nodded; her movements efficient as she began gathering supplies. Anastasia watched for only a moment as the young healer began to clean the wounds on the newest patients, moving on when she was certain that the healer had it under control. But she sighed as she turned back, realizing that even more of the wounded were being brought in.

It was never ending.

Anastasia's voice rang out above the chaos of the triage area, commanding and authoritative as she directed the Illyrian healers. "I need you to prioritize the critical cases over there," she instructed, pointing to a cluster of older females. "And you, start preparing more bandages. We're going to need them."

As she moved among the healers, organizing and delegating tasks, Anastasia couldn't help but notice the subtle glances and murmurs exchanged between some of the females. The word "witch" drifted to her ears, uttered in hushed tones that sent a pang of discomfort through her chest.

It had been like this for the better part of the morning.

Pushing down the sting of those accusations, Anastasia focused on the task at hand, steeling herself against the rising tide of resentment. She wasn’t here to play nice.

"We need to move faster," she called out, her voice firm and authoritative as she rallied the healers. A few of them hesitated, casting doubtful looks in her direction, but Anastasia refused to let their skepticism deter her. They could distrust her all they wanted, but Anastasia was damn good at her job. "I know what I'm doing," she insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Trust me, and we'll save as many lives as we can."

A pair of non-wounded warriors entered the makeshift triage area, their bodies smeared with blood and grime from the battle, Anastasia felt a shiver of unease ripple through her. Memories of her time in captivity flashed before her eyes, the cruel faces of her captors etched in her mind. She knew all too well the brutality that some Illyrians were capable of, and the sight of them covered in the fore of battle triggered a visceral reaction.

Bristling at their presence, Anastasia fought to push down her rising fear. War was brutal, she reminded herself, and this time their savagery was not directed at her. With a deep breath, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

She found herself in front of a wounded Illyrian, her hands laden with healing salves and bandages. There was no mistaking the wary glint in his eyes as he approached. His gaze followed her every movement with suspicion, his lips drawn into a tight line. Anastasia knelt beside him, trying to offer a reassuring smile as she began to assess his injuries.

But as her hands neared his wounds, the Illyrian recoiled, his muscles tensing beneath her touch. "Stay away from me, witch," he spat, his voice laced with venom.

"I'm here to help you," she brow furrowed at the now familiar accusation, but her tone remained firm. She’d had her fair share of hostile patients living in Boston as well.

"I won't let you put your cursed hands on me," he growled, unconvinced as his eyes narrowed distrustfully.

Anastasia felt her patience wearing thin as the argument continued. She didn’t have time for these kinds of arguments – not when there were so many who needed her help. With a resigned sigh, she rose to her feet. "Fine," she conceded, her voice tinged with exasperation. "If you won't let me help you, then I'll find someone who will."

Turning on her heel, Anastasia left the wounded male. Almost immediately, as if they had been expecting it, one of the older female healers rushed to take Anastasia’s placed. The healer gave Anastasia a look of revulsion as she passed by, but Anastasia didn’t have the energy to care anymore.

There were so many others that needed – and would accept - her help.

The rustle of the tent flap drew her attention away from the chaos in the makeshift triage center. Anastasia's heart raced as she steeled herself for another influx of wounded, her hands instinctively reaching for bandages that she had taken to keeping tucked in the waist band of her leggings. But instead of the sight of a new patient being brought in on a makeshift gurney, her eyes fell upon a familiar figure framed by the entrance.

A head of tousled dark hair, strands swathed in shadows, caught her gaze first. Before she even realized it, her gaze swept over every inch of Azriel, searching desperately for any sign of injury.

Time seemed to slow as she took in the scratches marring his skin and the dark stains of blood that adorned his fighting leathers. Her heart lurched at the sight, but she pushed down the inexplicable surge of fear bubbled up from the pit of her stomach.

Without any sort of conscious thought, Anastasia found herself taking a tentative step towards him. Her eyes never left his form as she tried to absorb every little detail. Relief flooded through her as she realized that, aside from those few scratches, he appeared to be perfectly fine.

She finally allowed herself to meet his hazel eyes. There was an imperceptible flicker of emotion there - something that sent a shiver down her spine, but she quickly brushed the thought aside as he moved forward to meet her.

"You’re okay," She exhaled her relief, surprised at just how palpable it was. She could see the tension in his muscles, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply, as if trying to keep himself calm. For a moment, Anastasia wondered: was he just as relieved to see her unharmed as she was to see him?

Or was she just imagining things?

But his eyes softened at her words, the intensity in them momentarily giving way to a gentler warmth. "And you’re okay, too," he murmured; it wasn’t a question, really, but confirmation that his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

Anastasia nodded in response, giving him a small weary smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. She could feel the weight of the day bearing down on her already, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. But she refused to let it show. Despite the ungrateful murmurs of the Illyrians around her, she was determined to see this through to the end.

"And Cassian?" she inquired, not bothering to hide the concern in her voice. If Azriel was here, then Cassian must be nearby as well.

"He’s fine," Azriel reassured her, his tone surprisingly calm and steady despite the still heavy rise and fall of his chest. "He’s debriefing with Rhys and Devlon."

Anastasia’s stomach churned involuntarily at the mention of Devlon’s name, a flicker of discomfort flashing across her features. But she quickly forced herself to push aside her unease, focusing instead on the relief that flooded through her at the knowledge that the male standing before her was here – unharmed.

Why was she so relieved? The question bubbled up in her mind.

But before she could even give it a second thought, a sudden commotion erupted from the head of the tent, drawing Anastasia’s attention. A wounded male, his shredded wings trailing limply on the ground behind him, was being carried in by a group of his comrades. Blood streamed from a deep gash on his forehead, his body limp and unresponsive as they laid him gently on an open wooden table.

Anastasia's heart skipped a beat as she took in the severity of the Illyrian’s injuries, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she braced herself.

Without hesitation, Anastasia took a step away from Azriel and sprang into action. For a split second, it was like she was back in the emergency room, her years of medical training kicking in. "I need planks of wood, now!" she barked, her voice cutting through the din of the tent. Ignoring the bewildered stares of the Illyrian healers around her, she pushed through the crowded tent, her focus solely on the unconscious male. She barely registered Azriel’s presence as he trailed behind her.

From somewhere behind her, she heard a whispered question, laden with suspicion. "Why does she need the wood? Is she planning to burn him next?" Anastasia bristled at the implication, but she had been hearing the accusation of witchcraft for most of the day. But she paid it no mind, her focus unwavering as she awaited the arrival of the necessary supplies. But the urgency in her voice – and the murderous looks Azriel was no doubt giving behind her – left no room for questioning. With swift movements, they scrambled to fetch the supplies.

As Anastasia reached the wounded male, her gaze narrowed in on the severity of his injuries, her heart sinking at the sight of the blood pooling beneath him, staining the ground crimson.

A pair of wooden planks were swiftly brought to her, the rough texture of the wood grazing her fingertips as Anastasia wasted no time in seizing them. With a determined grip, she positioned herself beside the wounded male.

"I need help," Anastasia ordered, her voice firm as she addressed the female healer standing nearby. "We need to secure his head and neck now."

The healer remained rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on Anastasia and the wooden planks clutched in her hands. Sensing the hesitation, Anastasia turned her attention to Azriel, who had moved to her side, ready to assist without a moment's hesitation.

Together, they positioned the planks on either side of the patient’s head, their movements surprisingly synchronized and efficient. Anastasia took the lead, narrating exactly what Azriel had to do for each step. With deft movements, they secured the pieces of wood with a sturdy piece of cloth, ensuring the injured warrior's head and neck were immobilized.

As they worked, Anastasia saw Elara hovering nearby, watching Anastasia’s movements with fascination. Finally, someone who would listen to her. "Go find Madja," she instructed urgently. "Tell her we have a critical head injury – we will probably need her magic."

Elara responded without hesitation; her movements swift as she hurried off to fetch Madja from the other healing tent. Anastasia turned her attention back to the patient, her gaze focused and intent as she gently lifted his closed eyelids. With a practiced touch, she checked for any signs of responsiveness, her heart sinking as she noted that his pupils were dilated – unnaturally large – and there was no movement at all.

As she continued her examination, Anastasia's fingers moved with deliberate care, tracing along the base of the male’s skull. She maneuvered cautiously, mindful of the need to keep his head secured in place. Dark, bruised patches marred the skin behind his ears. Anastasia's heart clenched at the sight; her worst fears were confirmed – a brain bleed.

A sense of helplessness washed over her as she realized the severity – and the limitations of her situation.  What could she do without the resources of modern medicine?

Her distress only deepened as she noticed something else: a sheen on the male’s ear, a clear fluid leaking from the cavity there. It was a telltale sign of a near-fatal condition, and Anastasia's breath caught in her throat. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. There was nothing, really, that she could do at this point.

Azriel, who hadn’t left her side, seemed to have sensed her distress and placed his scarred hand gently on her shoulder. Unconsciously, she leaned into the touch before turning to meet his hazel eyes. She hadn’t known what to expect when she looked up at him. But there was no judgment, no pity in his eyes—just a silent understanding that, surprisingly, anchored her.

"Anastasia, we do not need to wait for Madja." Azriel's voice cut through the heavy silence, his tone gentle but firm.  "You have healing magic too. You can help him."

Anastasia's heart constricted at his words, as she shook her head. No. She didn’t have healing powers, that much she knew. She’d been able to help someone once but that had just been sheer luck. Her mind flicked back to the other day in the study, as she had tried to figure out how her powers worked. She couldn’t control it – she could hurt instead of help. She was lucky that she hadn’t killed the young girl at Madja’s.

She swallowed hard, her gaze flickering away from Azriel's. "I... I don't know if I can," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel's gaze softened as he regarded her quietly, and she had to look away.

Where the hell was Madja?

"Madja!" Anastasia's voice rang out, urgent and tinged with desperation. She knew the healer was in the next tent over, likely overwhelmed with her own influx of wounded patients. But this was beyond Anastasia's expertise, even with her years of med school, she didn’t think that she could treat this. It was Madja who possessed healing magic. She was the one who had the ability to mend wounds that surpassed the limits of medical training.

After what felt like hours – when it had only been mere minutes – Madja finally appeared at Anastasia’s side. Azriel, ever watchful, moved to make room for the aged healer but stayed close by. Anastasia tore her eyes from the bloodied patient in front of her to offer Azriel a weary smile, grateful that he remained at her side. Turning back to Madja, relief flooded her at the sight of the healer.

She launched into an explanation, her words spilling out in a rush as she gestured to the dark bruising under the warrior's ears and the clear fluid oozing from his wound. But Madja's expression remained inscrutable, her eyes fixed on Anastasia with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. It was as if her words weren’t registering with the healer.

Anastasia's shoulders slumped in defeat. "The only thing that can help him is magic—your magic," she implored, her voice tinged with desperation as she looked pleadingly at Madja.

Madja’s hands trembled slightly as she hovered them over the wounded male, her brows knit together in concentration. She was muttering something under her breath, her voice a low urgent hum as she channeled her healing magic. Anastasia watched with bated breath for something to happen – for the blood to dry up and the wounds to stitch themselves back up together, like they had for the little girl.  

The air crackled with magic as it emanated from Madja, filling the air with a distinct tang that Anastasia still hadn’t gotten quite used to.

But, despite the palpable presence of magic in the air, nothing happened.

Anastasia’s heart sank as she watched Madja’s attempts to heal the male. But it was clear from the older healer’s furrowed brow and frustrated expression that her efforts were in vain.

A surge of helplessness washed over Anastasia as she realized the severity of the warrior’s condition.

He was going to die.

Anastasia felt a surge of anguish as she looked upon the wounded male before her; he was an Illyrian, it was true. And there was no love lost between her and his people. But the thought of his life slipping away while there was nothing that she could do made her stomach roil. His life hanging by the thinnest of threads, that much was clear. It was… how had she not seen it before? For hovering just above him, barely visible to the naked eye, was a delicate thread of light. It shimmered faintly, its glow dim and flickering, as if on the verge of extinguishing altogether.

The thread was faded and frayed, hanging on by a mere single strand itself. Anastasia's heart clenched at the sight, the realization hitting her like a physical blow.

Her gaze flickered to Azriel, for the briefest of moments wondering if he could see it too. But his expression remained unreadable, and he gave no indication that he saw anything strange.

She turned back to the dying male.

Could she do it?

Anastasia's mind raced. Could she summon her magic again? It had been a fluke, a stroke of luck, the last time she had saved a life. She had stumbled upon it by accident, with no knowledge of how to control it or replicate it. When she had tried on her own, she accidentally trashed the study. If she tried again, she could end up doing even more damage to the male in front of her.

But he was already dying – she didn’t need a frayed thread to tell her that much.

What did any of them have to lose?

She glanced around at the people surrounding her - Madja, Azriel, and a dozen other Illyrians in the room. There would be no hiding it now. If she attempted to use her magic again, word would undoubtedly spread to Rhysand, and she could only imagine what he would do with her. Cian’s warnings – threats, really – echoed in the back of her mind.

He will see you as a threat.

But in the end, she knew she had no choice. The male lay limply before her, his life hanging in the balance, and if there was even a chance that she could save him, she had to take it. She moved past Madja, so that she was right at the male’s head; her gaze never left the fraying thread above him.

No, you foolish girl! As Anastasia focused her attention on the male, Cian's voice crept into her mind, his words laced with anger and malice. I will make you regret this.

Anastasia winced at the intensity of his rage, his words cutting through her thoughts like a knife. She had never heard him so furious before, and the sheer force of his anger sent shivers down her spine. The intensity of it all was almost enough to break her concentration, to have her retreat to the back of the tent. But her feet remained firmly rooted in their place.

Ignoring Cian's protests, Anastasia focused solely on the rapidly dimming thread that hovered just above the male and tried to draw upon that well… of something … that she knew what inside of her. The voices of Madja, Azriel, and the rest of the war camp faded into the background as she focused solely on the task at hand.

With a deep breath, she began moving her arms above the male, weaving the invisible threads of magic together with delicate precision. It was a painstaking process, and she took her time as she carefully brought each thread together one by one.

It was harder this time, much harder than when she had saved the little girl at Madja's. The male was closer to death, the injuries that he sustained were much more severe. She could feel her arms tremble with exhaustion as she held them above the male. But Anastasia refused to give up, a bead of sweat pooling on her forehead as she poured every ounce of her strength into this.

As she continued to delicately weave the threads of magic together, she could feel Cian's fury intensifying. There was nothing in her mind but the persistent screams and threats. She knew, from some sense of awareness deep down, that Madja was saying something to her and Azriel, his gaze usually inscrutable, was growing more and more concerned. But all of it was secondary to the threads in front of her.

She could feel a wetness coming from her nose.

She chose to ignore the familiar tang of blood that appeared along with it and to ignore the overwhelming pressure that threatened to crush her. Her focus remained solely on the threads in front of her; she didn’t even risk breaking her concentration to glance over at the male that she was helping.

She didn’t even need to.

With each passing moment, she could feel the warrior's life force responding to her magic, as if it were a fading flame rekindled by a gentle breath. Without even looking at him, she could feel the tension in his muscles begin to ease, his labored breaths gradually steadying into a rhythm.

Anastasia's hands trembled with fatigue as she continued to manipulate the threads. Beads of sweat formed on her brow, mingling with the blood that stained her skin, but she ignored the discomfort.

The wounded warrior's eyelids fluttered, a faint glimmer of consciousness returning to his gaze as Anastasia continued to work over him. With each passing second, the threads of life grew stronger, their strands glowing with renewed vigor.

And then the male’s eyes opened fully, his gaze alight with shock and gratitude. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, and Anastasia felt a surge of relief flood through her. Her eyes flickered downward, her breath catching in her throat. Where once there had been a fatal wound, now there was only smooth, unblemished skin. The only indicator that there had been any injury at all was the dried blood on the male’s skull that no longer traced back to a source wound.

Relief washed over her in a tidal wave, her shoulders sagging with the weight of exhaustion. She had done it – against all odds, she had tapped into this volatile magic inside of her and saved a life. The sense of accomplishment mingled with a bone-deep weariness, and Anastasia felt the strength drain from her limbs.

With trembling hands, she reached out to steady herself, her fingers gripping the edge of the makeshift operating table where the male lay. The adrenaline that had fueled her efforts began to ebb away, leaving behind a fatigue that seemed to seep into her very bones.

Just like it had before, the effort had drained her.

Anastasia's senses slowly returned to her as she felt Azriel's presence beside her, his concerned voice cutting through the haze of exhaustion that clouded her mind.

"Anastasia, are you alright?" His tone was laced with worry as he hovered over her, his hands reaching out instinctively to offer support.

She managed a weak nod, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion as she struggled to focus on his concerned face. "I'm... fine," she murmured.

"Of all the stupid things to do – putting yourself in danger like that!" Madja's sharp voice pierced the air, drawing Anastasia's attention to the older healer who stood nearby, her expression a mixture of relief and anger. "You could have killed yourself – using that much power!"

Anastasia winced at the scolding, and she turned to apologize to Madja. But her exhaustion was overwhelming, and she could do little more than slump further into the chair, her body feeling as though it were made of lead.

In the background, the murmurs of the Illyrians filled the air, and she could hear their whispers and accusations of witchcraft once more. But Anastasia was too drained to pay them any mind, her entire being consumed by the bone-deep weariness that weighed her down like an anchor.

Anastasia struggled to focus as Azriel and Madja bombarded her with questions. Their voices sounded distant and muffled, as though they were speaking to her from underwater. She tried to summon the strength to respond, to explain what had happened, but her mind felt foggy and disconnected. Her words came out in fragmented whispers, trailing off into incomprehensible murmurs.

Azriel's hand tightened around hers, his expression etched with worry. "Anastasia, can you hear me?"

Madja's brow furrowed with concern, her sharp gaze scanning Anastasia's weary face for any sign of coherence. "What did you do just now?" she asked, her voice tinged with urgency.

But Anastasia could only shake her head weakly, the effort of forming coherent thoughts too much for her drained body to bear.

But before Anastasia could respond, a commotion at the head of the tent drew everyone's attention. Anastasia's eyes widened as she saw Rhysand stride into the tent, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

The atmosphere in the tent shifted, tension crackling in the air like electricity. Rhysand's presence loomed over them; his expression unreadable as he approached Anastasia.

"What happened here?"

Chapter Text

"What happened here?"

Rhysand's voice cut through the murmurs of the Illyrians, the High Lord commanding attention as he strode into the tent. His eyes swept over the triage tent, taking in the exhausted healers and the wounded warriors scattered throughout before they landed once more on Anastasia.

Anastasia's throat felt dry as she tried to form a response, but the words seemed to elude her. She was too tired… she couldn’t think… She could feel Rhysand's intense gaze boring into her, waiting for an explanation that she couldn't seem to provide. He might have been asking what happened, but it seemed like the High Lord suspected that it had something to do with Anastasia.

"I could feel the shift in power from across the camp," Rhysand continued, his tone measured yet tinged with concern. His eyes bore into Anastasia, searching for answers that she couldn't provide.

Behind Rhysand, Devlon pushed his way forward, his expression contorted with anger and accusation. "This is her doing, isn't it?" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the tent. "I knew it from the moment she had been brought to me!"

Anastasia recoiled at the venom in Devlon's words, the weight of his accusations bearing down on her. She wanted to protest, to defend herself against his accusations, but the words caught in her throat, leaving her feeling defenseless.

Rhysand ignored Devlon's accusations, his expression remaining unreadable as he waved off the heated words with a dismissive gesture. Instead, his attention shifted to Azriel, and the two exchanged a meaningful glance that dragged on for a little too long. Anastasia, even in her exhausted state, couldn't help but wonder if the High Lord was using those Daemati powers she had heard so much about.

After a few moments, Rhysand turned his gaze back to Anastasia, his eyes now clouded with suspicion. What had happened between him and Azriel? What had the shadowsinger told him? She felt a shiver run down her spine as she met his intense stare, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's clear that the magic you've used here isn't comparable to that of the Dawn Court or any other type of healing magic," Rhysand stated, his voice betraying a hint of suspicion. Madja, standing nearby, huffed in agreement. Anastasia turned to look at the healer, bracing herself for that same skepticism. But Madja’s face did not mirror Rhysand’s, and only looked concerned.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Azriel.

Anastasia swallowed hard, feeling the weight of their scrutiny bearing down on her. She struggled to find the right words to explain herself, but her exhaustion and the lingering effects of her magic left her feeling helpless and unable to defend herself against their suspicions.

Rhysand's suspicion only seemed to deepen at her silence, and he exchanged another glance with Azriel, their unspoken communication adding to the tension in the air. Finally, Rhysand sighed, his voice tinged with frustration.

"Anastasia, we need to understand what you've done here," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "This kind of magic... well, I’ve never seen anything like it before. We need to know if it poses any threat."

Anastasia's mind raced as she tried to come up with an explanation. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, her throat constricted with emotion.

Devlon, who had been standing by silently, couldn't contain his frustration any longer. "This is madness!" he exclaimed, his voice booming in the tense silence of the tent. "That female is dangerous. Let my men kill her and be done with it."

Rhysand's expression hardened at Devlon's words, but before he could respond, Azriel stepped in front of Anastasia, and there was a ferocity to his voice that she had never heard before, “You will do no such thing.”

The High Lord’s gaze flicked from Azriel to Anastasia, his lips pursing into a thin line. "Devlon, that's enough," he said, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the disgruntled war lord. "Anastasia may have saved a life today. We owe her the benefit of the doubt."

Devlon bristled at Rhysand’s words, but he fell silent, his gaze shifting between the High Lord and the shadowsinger with a mixture of both suspicion and resentment.

Rhysand sighed, running a hand through his dark hair as he regarded Anastasia once more, this time with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. His eyes lingered on her for another moment before he turned to Azriel with a commanding gaze. "Take her back to the House of Wind," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument. "Madja can handle the rest of the wounded. We'll discuss all of this later."

Azriel's expression flickered with regret as he glanced at Anastasia, but he nodded in acquiescence at the High Lord’s directives. With a silent sigh, he moved to follow Rhysand’s orders, already preparing to lift her into his arms and fly her back to Velaris.

However, before Azriel could take a single step towards her, Madja intervened, stepping forward with purpose in her movements. She shot both Azriel and Rhysand a pointed look, her gaze unwavering as she positioned herself between Azriel and Anastasia.

"She must rest before you take her anywhere," Madja declared firmly, her voice carrying as much authority as Rhysand’s had only moments earlier. She turned to Anastasia, her expression softened with concern. "You've exerted yourself enough for one day, child. You need time to recover."

"I appreciate your concern, Madja," Rhysand began, his lips pressed into a thin line as he regarded the older healer with a steely gaze. He was not a male who was used to being challenged. "But Anastasia can rest just as well at the House of Wind. There's no need for her to remain here."

But Madja was unfazed by Rhysand’s stern demeanor. “As a healer, Anastasia is under my care," she stated resolutely, "She will rest, and you can speak to her after."

Anastasia watched in astonishment as Madja stood her ground against the High Lord, refusing to back. She hadn't thought it possible for anyone to defy Rhysand when he looked so determined, but if anyone would be able to do it – it would be Madja.

Rhysand's expression softened slightly, though begrudgingly, as he realized the futility of arguing further with the ancient healer. With a resigned sigh, he reluctantly acquiesced to her demands. "Fine," he conceded, his tone gruff with irritation. He turned and looked towards Anastasia, "But you are to stay in this tent."

Anastasia, at a complete loss for words, only nodded dumbly at his command.

 Madja, on the other hand, held her chin high, "I'll see to it personally."

With the matter settled, Madja turned her attention back to Anastasia, ushering her gently towards a nearby cot. "Come, child," she said softly, her voice filled with maternal concern. "Let's get you some rest."

-x-

Anastasia's exhaustion weighed heavily on her as she lay alone in the dimly lit tent at Windhaven. Despite the hours that had passed since she had healed the male, she was far too ramped up to actually close her eyes and sleep. Her mind was too fraught with worry and anxiety. All she could do to keep her mind occupied was stare at the fabric above her head, counting the stiches in canvas tent, as she tried to calm herself down.

If it hadn’t happened by now, though, she doubted that it would.

Her mind was still reeling, and her nerves were stretched taut, every instinct screaming at her to remain vigilant.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was met with the image of Azriel's surprised expression, his hazel eyes filled with both concern and uncertainty. Or the suspicion that was so clearly marked on Rhysand’s face as he walked into the tent.

They don’t trust you.

Cian's warning from days ago now echoed in her mind. She had replayed the conversation from earlier over and over in her mind, hoping that she’d be able to prove him wrong. But his observations seemed more ominous than ever, his warning of the High Lord viewing her as a threat ringing true in the wake of recent events.

Alone in the tent, Anastasia's anxiety continued to gnaw at her.

She wished Madja was still there; the absence of the older healer's reassuring presence left Anastasia feeling vulnerable and exposed. But Madja had other, more critical, patients to attend to and had insisted that Anastasia would just be fine on her own. The other healers in the tent avoided Anastasia’s cot like the plague; some of them watched her with a mixture of curiosity and fear, the others with looks of pure disdain. A part of her wanted to join Madja in tending to the wounded, to lose herself in the comforting routine of healing, but Rhysand's warning to stay put echoed in her mind, and she wasn’t going to do anything else that would jeopardize his already fragile opinion of her.

He will lock you away in the darkness of his court.

As she sat alone in the tent with only the echoes of Cian’s threats for company, anxiety gnawed at her insides, leaving her restless and on edge.

The sound of footsteps drew her attention, and she looked up to see Azriel approaching. His presence offered a sliver of comfort amidst the chaos, but Anastasia couldn't shake the unease that clung to her. His shadowsinger will pry answers from you like extracting venom from a snake.

Did Rhysand send him?

No – she chided herself for what felt like the hundredth time. This was Azriel – he was her friend.

He seemed to register her unease because he paused a few steps away from her. Anastasia knew that the distance would mean nothing if he truly wanted to hurt her, but she appreciated the gesture.

"How are you feeling?" Azriel's voice was soft, laced with genuine concern. Anastasia shrugged in response, her gaze flickering away from his probing eyes. Anastasia felt the tug of something in her chest, but she pushed it aside, telling herself that her anxiety over the situation was threatening to overwhelm her.

Azriel studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Anastasia could sense his desire to broach the subject of what had happened earlier, but he remained silent.

Anastasia sat up on the cot, curling her knees close to her chest, creating a small space beside her for another person to sit down. She watched Azriel closely, noting the flicker of tension in his jaw, and her heart sank. Had what she done earlier really changed so much between them? She buried her head in her hands, hoping that he wouldn’t be able to read her disappointment.

The cot groaned softly beneath her, and she looked up to find Azriel settling beside her.

They stayed like that for a few moments, in companionable silence.

She stole a glance at Azriel, taking in the lines of his profile, the shadows dancing across his features. She couldn’t understand how she could be both comforted by his company and terrified of it at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, Anastasia finally voiced the worry that had been gnawing at her since she had been left alone with her own thoughts.

"When we get back to Velaris…” She trailed off as she tried to find the words to voice her apprehension, “Are you going to lock me away in the dungeon or whatever it is your guys have here?" She tried to infuse her words with a lightness, but even as she tried to joke, she knew that the fear in her eyes betrayed her true feelings.

Azriel blinked at her question, "What makes you say that?"

Anastasia hesitated. Mentioning Cian now would be like throwing gasoline on a fire – something she wanted to avoid entirely. "They call me a witch here," she shrugged, "That can't be a good thing."

Azriel's expression softened as he reached out to grasp her hand, in a touch that was gentle, yet firm. It was enough to send a shiver down Anastasia's spine, and she couldn't help but notice the warmth of his hand enveloping hers. She felt a sense of comfort wash over her, a feeling she hadn't experienced in a long time.

 "Anastasia, no one was going to lock you away. You're not a threat to anyone."

As his words sank in, Anastasia let her gaze linger on his face for just a moment longer than necessary. There was a sincerity in his eyes that spoke volumes, and she wondered just how she had ever been frightened by him.

"You know," Anastasia began, her gaze drifting to the ground before tentatively meeting Azriel's, "This... thing... that I can do? I don't understand it... but I don't want to use it to hurt people.”

“You didn’t hurt anyone, Anastasia. You saved that male’s life today.” His thumb grazed the top of her knuckles.

She nodded, deliberately ignoring the electric current that was making its way up her hand. She didn’t know why, but she had to get this out before Rhysand interrogated her tomorrow, had to make sure he knew that she wasn’t a bad person, “All my life... I've just wanted to be a surgeon - to help people."

She looked up at him, her eyes meeting hazel ones that were filled with a mixture of curiosity and… something else. She felt a hint of color rise in her cheeks as Azriel raised his brows for her to continue.

Anastasia sighed softly, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "My mom is a nurse," she explained, ignoring the pang in her chest when she thought about her mother. She could feel Azriel’s hand, still wrapped around hers, tighten in a gentle squeeze. “She is probably one of the most kind-hearted people I know… Before she retired, she worked in the OR… um, the operating room. She’d come home every day with stories about people who beat the odds and the doctors and nurses who helped them to do it. I just… I just always knew that it was something I wanted to do.”

Azriel’s lips turned upward, “That’s a very noble thing.”

"That…" A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “And I probably watched too much Grey's Anatomy in high school."

"Grey's Anatomy?" Azriel asked, his brows furrowing in confusion. the words sounding strangely foreign coming from him.

"It's... uh... a television show," Anastasia tried to suppress a laugh; the words sounded strangely foreign coming from him. She shook her head, "Never mind, it's not important."

The corners of Azriel’s lips lifted upwards even more, “But it inspired you to become a surgeon?"

"Partially, I guess.” She shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “It took about one day of clinicals to realize that real life wasn’t about sexy doctors and dramatic love triangles," she chuckled softly, her eyes meeting his with a hint of amusement. "But the desire to make a difference stuck with me, even if the glamorous portrayal didn't."

"You do make a difference, Anastasia.” Azriel's voice barely above a whisper as he spoke, “You've saved lives… and I… we’re better for you being here."

Anastasia felt her cheeks warm at his words, her breath catching in her throat. It was as if, all at once, all of the anxiety that she held in her since that afternoon had dissipated, only to be replaced by something else – something that she couldn’t put into words. But she felt it, whatever it was, tugging at her, as if pulling her in closer. Azriel’s gaze held hers as he leaned in, closing the distance between them. She parted her lips, as if to speak -

Azriel's shadows began to writhe around him, twisting – and were they whispering to him? - as if they held a life of their own. Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she watched, her eyes widening with alarm.

She could see the tension in Azriel's frame as he pulled back, his movements quick and abrupt. His eyes darted around the tent, scanning for any potential threat.

"Stay here," he commanded, his voice firm and authoritative. It sent a shiver down Anastasia's spine, and she could feel the question bubbling up in her throat.

But before Anastasia could even formulate a response, she watched as the blue jewels adorning Azriel's armor began to glow faintly, casting an eerie light in the dimness of the tent. The shadows seemed to respond to his heightened state, swirling around him with increased urgency.

“Whatever you do – do not leave this tent,” With a final, meaningful look in her direction, Azriel turned on his heel and swiftly exited the tent, leaving Anastasia to wonder just what the hell was happening in the rest of Windhaven.

It didn’t take her that long to figure it out.

Anastasia's heart raced as the sounds of chaos erupted outside the confines of the tent. The muffled shouts and clangs of steel mingled with the frantic cries of the women nearby, sending a jolt of fear coursing through her veins.

Another attack? Her heart sank – the Illyrians had barely recovered from the first one.

With trembling hands, she scanned the interior of the tent, searching desperately for something, anything, that she could use to defend herself, and the rest of the wounded in the tent. Her gaze landed on a dagger, discarded earlier from one of the wounded soldiers. She wasted no time in snatching it up, her fingers closing around the hilt with a white-knuckled grip.

But as she held the weapon in her hands, a sense of overwhelming dread washed over her – she was in way over her head. She had never used something like this before; she’d barely known how to use the pepper spray that she carried in her purse back in Boston. The weight of the blade felt foreign and unfamiliar, and she knew deep down that she was ill-prepared to face whatever the hell was out there.

Anastasia's gaze swept over the group of healers huddled together in the dimly lit tent. In her conversation with Azriel, she had almost forgotten that they were there. But now as she looked at them - their faces were etched with varying degrees of fear and uncertainty. She probably had a similar expression as well. She recognized familiar faces among them—females and wounded males who had sneered and accused her of being a witch only hours ago.

Anastasia took a deep breath, her voice trembling slightly as she attempted to reassure the other healers huddled within the tent. "It'll be okay," she murmured, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue. "We just need to stay calm and stay together."

But even as she spoke, she knew the hollowness of her own words - there was little comfort to be found in false reassurances.

As the chaos raged outside, Anastasia found herself drawn to the entrance of the tent, her ears straining to catch any shred of information amidst the screams and clashes of metal. She gripped the hilt of the dagger tightly, her knuckles turning white with the effort to steady her trembling hands.

She hated not knowing what was happening out there.

Anastasia's heart hammered in her chest as she braced herself to peer outside. She wasn’t going to leave the tent, so she technically wasn’t disobeying any of Azriel’s orders. Gripping the dagger tightly in her trembling hand, she swallowed hard, steeling herself for whatever grim scene awaited beyond the relative safety of the tent.

With a quick, determined motion, she pulled back the rough fabric of the tent flap, allowing a sliver of dim, fading light to spill in. Outside, the scene was utter chaos: a blur of motion and violence, illuminated by the fading light of dusk. Illyrians clashed with one another in a frenzy of swords and wings.

Blood stained the ground beneath their feet, mingling with the dust kicked up by their frantic movements.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she struggled to make sense of it all. Was this the rogue war band striking again?

Her gaze darted anxiously across the battlefield, searching desperately for any familiar faces amid the chaos.  The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the anguished cries of the wounded drowning out all other sound.

Where were Azriel, Cassian, and the others?

As Anastasia's gaze swept through the chaotic battlefield, it locked onto a pair of dark, menacing eyes that seemed to pierce her. Dread washed over her in a cold wave as she recognized the figure before her—a tall, imposing Illyrian with a cruel sneer etched onto his face.

Kallon.

The name – one she had heard only once - echoed in her mind, conjuring memories of her captivity in Ironcrest. With just one look, she was back there once again, bound and shackled with no way out. She could feel the blood draining from her face as she stood frozen in place, her heart hammering against her ribs with a sickening rhythm.

Their eyes met across the camp, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The chaos of battle faded into the background as Kallon's gaze bore into hers with a chilling intensity, and a cruel smirk played on his lips. It was as if she were staring into the eyes of a predator, his intent clear and menacing.

In the brief moment that their eyes met, Anastasia noticed something unsettling about Kallon's gaze—a glassy, distant look that seemed to hint at a mind consumed by something darker, something otherworldly. It sent a chill down her spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck as a sense of foreboding washed over her.

Anastasia's mind raced with a jumble of emotions—fear, anger, and a deep-seated sense of unease at the sight of her former captor. Her hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger as the male took a step towards her.

And then another.

With a surge of panic, Anastasia scrambled backward, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached desperately for the flap, yanking it closed in a desperate attempt to shield herself and the other healers from the looming threat outside. But all of her efforts were useless.

In a swift, brutal motion, Kallon advanced toward the tent and drew his knife. With a single, merciless slash of his knife, he tore through the canvas as if it were nothing but paper, the fabric ripping apart with a sickening sound that echoed in the air.

The torn canvas fluttered to the ground, leaving Anastasia exposed and vulnerable before her assailant. She backed away further, her heart hammering in her chest as she searched desperately for a means of escape. But with Kallon closing in on her, she knew that time was running out, and her options were rapidly dwindling.

Anastasia's hands trembled as she gripped the dagger tightly, her fingers white-knuckled around the hilt. With each step Kallon took closer, her heart pounded louder in her ears, the thud of her pulse drowning out the chaos of the camp around them.

Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, Anastasia lunged forward, the dagger poised to strike. But before she could make contact, Kallon deftly sidestepped her attack. With a mocking smirk, he effortlessly knocked the weapon from her grasp, sending it skittering across the floor of the tent.

The metallic clang of the dagger hitting the ground echoed in the tense silence that followed, the sound ringing in Anastasia's ears like a death knell. She stood frozen in place, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared at Kallon, his amused smirk sending a chill down her spine.

"Pathetic," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt as he looked down at her with disdain.

Anastasia's heart pounded in her chest as she attempted to sidestep Kallon, her mind screaming at her to flee. But before she could make a move, his vice-like grip closed around her, his arms encircling her torso. Panic surged through her veins. No, she couldn’t be captured like this again.

Frantically, she thrashed against his hold, her limbs flailing in a desperate bid for freedom. Her cries echoed in the confined space of the tent, each one a futile plea for help. But the Illyrian healers made no move to help her; they were all scrambling to get away themselves. Kallon's grip remained unyielding, his strength overpowering her feeble attempts to break free.

"Let go of me!" Anastasia's voice cracked with fear, her words choked with emotion as she struggled against his restraint. But Kallon's only response was a chilling chuckle, his grip tightening around her with each passing moment.

"Come now, pet," he hissed, his voice dripping with malice. "Your master has need of you."

Chapter Text

"Come now, pet. Your master has need of you."

Anastasia's heart plummeted, her breath catching in her throat. The taunting words echoed in her mind, each syllable sending a shiver down her spine. Master? Pet? There was only one person who called her that… She recoiled instinctively as Kallon's iron grip closed around her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh like talons.

She struggled against him with all her might, kicking and thrashing, but it was as if she were fighting against a mountain. The Illyrian was just too big. Kallon hoisted her effortlessly off her feet, his strength overpowering her own. Panic surged through her veins, a frantic urgency urging her to break free before it was too late.

As Kallon hoisted her up, Anastasia's frantic gaze swept across the faces of the Illyrian healers in the tent, "Please," she gasped, her voice trembling. "Do something!"

But the healers merely stared back at her, their eyes darting nervously between Anastasia and Kallon, but not a single one stepped forward to intervene. As if they knew that she was the one who he was after – that the rest of them would be left alone.

Anastasia's heart sank as her plea fell on deaf ears.

As Kallon dragged her out of the healing tent, she cast desperate glances around the camp, hoping that there would be something that she could use to her advantage to escape. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, mixed with the acrid scent of smoke and burning wood. Torches flickered in the fading light, casting long, ominous shadows that danced across the ground.

Everywhere she looked, there was movement – figures darting between tents, flashes of steel glinting in the dim light, and the distant sounds of battle cries and clashes of weapons.

It was pure chaos.

Anastasia's heart raced as she struggled against Kallon's grip, her eyes frantically scanning the chaos for any sign of familiar faces. She caught only brief glimpses of Illyrian warriors locked in fierce combat; their wings spread. But the movements were too quick, the shadows too fleeting, and she couldn't make out anyone or anything.

Bodies littered the ground as Kallon dragged her through the chaos, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the darkening sky. Anastasia's gaze swept over them, her heart clenching with every lifeless form she encountered. But relief flooded her every time she failed to recognize the features of Cassian or Azriel among the dead.

Azriel…

He’d told her to remain in the healer’s tent, to wait for his return. And yet, here she was, being forcibly dragged into the heart of battle against his explicit orders.

She tried to scream for help, hoping that maybe, somehow, he’d hear her. But her voice had been drowned out by the clash of steel and the sounds of battle. Panic threatened to consume her as she realized the gravity of her situation. She couldn't let herself be captured again, couldn't bear the thought of returning to the horrors of captivity.

As Kallon dragged Anastasia through the dense undergrowth, the jagged branches of the forest clawed at her skin, leaving angry welts in their wake. She winced as his grip tightened, the pressure of his fingers digging into her flesh like a vise, sending sharp bolts of pain shooting through her arm. Gritting her teeth against the discomfort, she struggled against his hold with all the strength she could muster.

The landscape blurred as they moved, the sights and sounds of Windhaven fading into the darkness of the surrounding forest. They passed by a familiar structure that sent a shiver down Anastasia's spine—a lean-to on the outskirts of the camp. The same one that she had been chained in the first time she had been brought to Windhaven.

And she knew that, beyond that, there was nothing but dense, empty forest.

With every step, Anastasia's panic only grew. Once she was out of the confines of the war camp, there would be nothing but unfamiliar wilderness. And from there… who know what he would do to her? She twisted and turned in his grip, her muscles straining against the iron hold he maintained over her.

"What do you want from me?" she demanded; her voice laced with defiance as she continued to fight against him. The question hung in the air, unanswered, as Kallon dragged her further into the depths of the forest.

"He's tired of waiting for his pet," Kallon sneered. As she struggled in his grip, she could see that his eyes remained clouded, unfocused as he responded to Anastasia's question with chilling nonchalance.

Anastasia's heart lurched in her chest at his words, a sickening realization dawning upon her like a dark shadow. She hadn’t been imagining it earlier. Cian. The name echoed in her mind like a curse, sending a shiver down her spine. He was behind this, somehow, pulling the strings from the shadows.

But why?

All of the whispers in her ear – all of the taunts. But she never imagined that the strange, sinister, disembodied voice in her mind would be able to orchestrate something like this. What else was he capable of? Anastasia's struggles intensified, her body thrashing against Kallon's iron grip with newfound determination. The world around her seemed to blur as she fought, her vision clouded by a haze of fear and adrenaline.

But Kallon was too strong; Anastasia knew that she would never be able to fight him off.

Her mind raced, searching desperately for anything that she would be able to use to get the upper hand over her captor. Where were those threads when she needed them? She tried to focus on the environment around her, the dense forest enveloping them in an eerie silence, hoping that her focus might help her to see those elusive threads.

But as she strained to find the familiar threads… there was nothing. No shimmering strands of power… no dull half frayed thread. It was as if whatever magic she possessed had been utterly drained by saving the Illyrian.

Anastasia cursed under her breath.

She could feel Kallon's grip tightening around her, his fingers digging into her skin with an almost bone-crushing force.

She had to do something.

Summoning every ounce of strength she possessed, Anastasia twisted her body forcefully, her muscles straining against the hold Kallon maintained over her. With a surge of desperation, she managed to slip one arm free… and then another… until her body was tumbling to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs.

Scrambling on the forest floor, Anastasia's eyes darted around frantically, searching for anything she could use as a weapon. It was then that she spotted it—a felled tree branch lying nearby, its jagged edges gleaming in the dim light.

Ignoring the pain coursing through her body, Anastasia lunged for the branch, her fingers closing around it. With a swift pivot, she turned to face Kallon, her heart pounding in her chest as he approached with predatory intent.

With a primal roar, Anastasia swung the branch with all her might, aiming for Kallon's head in a desperate bid for freedom.

But her captor was too quick. He evaded the blow with a lightning-fast sidestep, his movements fluid, and his lips curled into a cruel smile as he closed the distance between them once more. His hand clasped around her arm harshly, and he pulled her towards him once against.

It was like she had never even managed to escap.e.

Within an instant, they were moving again. As they pressed on deeper into the woods, the foliage grew denser, the tangled undergrowth hindering their progress. Anastasia stumbled over gnarled roots and fallen branches, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought to keep up with Kallon's relentless pace.

Her eyes caught sight of a towering mountain peak in the distance, its silhouette stark against the fading light of dusk. Its jagged cliffs seemed to pierce the sky, casting long, ominous shadows that stretched across the forest floor. She shuddered involuntarily; the terrain was beginning to look too familiar.

She knew this place.

She had dreamed about it.

Anastasia struggled against Kallon's relentless grip, her muscles burning with the effort as she fought to break free from his grasp. Panic surged through her veins as her mind began racing with questions and fears.

"Where are you taking me?" Anastasia demanded, her voice quivering as she struggled against Kallon's grip.

Kallon's eyes remained glassy; his gaze fixed on some distant point as he spoke in a monotone voice. "He needs you, girl. Needs you to fetch something for him."

Anastasia's heart plummeted at the mention of Cian, the mere thought of his name sending a chill down her spine. All her fears – all of the taunts and threads – from the last few weeks were now confirmed. The memories of her captivity flooded back with renewed intensity, filling her with a sense of dread.

"What does he need from me?" She was unable to mask the trembling in her voice.

But Kallon offered no further explanation, his grip on her tightening as he continued to drag her deeper into the heart of the forest. The oppressive darkness seemed to close in around them, swallowing them whole as they ventured further into the Illyrian mountains.

She knew what awaited them at the foot of the mountain.

She could see it perfectly in her mind’s eyes: a dark cavern with rocks sticking out like teeth waiting to devour her. She’d been terrified of it in her nightmares.

She was terrified of it now.

Every instinct within her fueled her struggle against Kallon's grip. She knew she couldn't let him take her to that cavern, whatever it may mean for her. Cian had wanted it, demanded it of her, in her nightmares. What would happen now, when she was very much awake? With sheer determination, she squirmed and writhed, desperately trying to break free from his grasp.

In a desperate bid for freedom, Anastasia managed to reach for a dagger strapped to Kallon's side. With trembling hands, she unsheathed the blade and lunged towards him, aiming for any vulnerable spot she could find. But before she could strike, Kallon's iron grip closed around her wrist with an unnatural force, crushing bone and muscle with a sickening crunch.

Anastasia cried out in agony as the dagger slipped from her grasp, her hand now numb and useless in Kallon's vice-like hold. She could feel the pain pulsing through her entire body.

She had to do something.

Vibrations rippled through the night air, momentarily breaking Anastasia’s thoughts. Merely seconds later, a resounding thud reverberated through the forest and the ground beneath her trembled.

For a fleeting moment, her heart leaped in her chest, startled by the sudden intrusion into the chaos surrounding her. Her instincts screamed for her to react, but all she could do was search dumbfounded through the fading light of the forest for the source of the sound.

As Kallon twisted her around, his vice-like grip unrelenting, Anastasia's gaze flickered to the right and her eyes widened. There – on the forest floor – were two imposing figures, their winged forms illuminated by the soft glow of the dusk filtering through the trees.

Rhysand.

Azriel.

Relief washed over her at the sight of it. For the first time since she had spotted Kallon from the healer’s tent, she allowed herself to breathe. Kallon went rigid behind her.

And now she had her chance.

Anastasia, with a swift and desperate movement, twisted her body to wrench herself out of Kallon's grasp. But before she could fully escape his hold, the male seemed to come to his senses. At that first movement, he reacted with lightning speed, swiftly turning her around. Before she could fully register what had happened, he pressed the dagger against her throat. The sharp blade bit into her skin - one wrong move and it would slice into her.

Anastasia's breath hitched in her throat as she felt the cold metal against her skin, her pulse quickening. She remained still, too scared to move, but she kept her eyes on the two males across from her. She looked at Azriel, her eyes pleading for help, but Kallon's actions left him momentarily frozen -- as if he feared that a step closer would push Kallon to make good on his threat.

There was a tense silence that hung in the air, none of them moving for what felt like too long. Rhysand had his eyes fixed on the male behind her, not even blinking. Anastasia stood between them, her heart pounding in her chest.

Rhysand's unwavering gaze bore into Kallon. His violet eyes, normally filled with compassion and a glint of mischief, now held something in them that sent a shiver down Anastasia's spine.

"Trying to get into my mind, High Lord?" Kallon finally spoke, and Anastasia could hear the cruel smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips as he addressed the High Lord, “Won’t work.”

The sound of arrogance in his voice sent a shudder through her, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

Rhysand's response was cool and calculated, his tone laced with a hint of confident amusement. "No, it seems someone has already been there."

"He won’t give her up," he retorted cryptically, his words sending a shiver down Anastasia's spine.

"Who?" As Azriel's voice sliced through the air, Anastasia flinched at the raw fury that seethed beneath his words. His tone was sharp, laced with accusation and barely contained anger. Gone was the male who had come to check on her just a few hours ago - in his place was this avenging angel of death. She’d only seen him like this once before – the night he had saved her from captivity in these very woods.

Her heart raced at the thought.

“Yes,” The High Lord echoed, but his eyes fell to Anastasia, “Who?”

His eyes held a silent question, a demand for answers that lingered in the air.

Kallon chuckled, giving Anastasia the chills once more, but he offered no further explanation. Instead, his grip on the dagger at her throat only tightened, and his gaze locked on Rhysand as if daring the High Lord to challenge him.

Azriel's jaw clenched, his gaze darkening as Anastasia winced under the pressure of the dagger pressed against her throat.

There had to be something that she could do. Despite the bite of the cool metal on her skin, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to center herself the way that she had the day before in the House of Wind. She forced herself to focus, trying to sense the magic that she had used only a few times before. With a steadying breath, she closed her eyes, the rhythmic beat of her heart the only sound echoing in her ears.

When she opened her eyes again, she spotted it.

A faint shimmer in the air—a thread of energy, barely visible but unmistakable.

She didn’t know what it would do, but she had nothing to lose. Using that magic within her, Anastasia reached for the thread. She could feel something crackle beneath her, like static electricity.  Summoning every ounce of strength within her exhausted body, she used her magic and pulled on the thread with all her might.

For a fleeting moment, nothing had happened. Her shoulders sank but then, with a surge of primal energy, the thread responded to Anastasia's command, unraveling like a coiled spring unleashed.

It was unlike anything she had experienced before this when it came to her magic. The force was overwhelming, a tidal wave of magic crashing over her with unstoppable momentum. For a fleeting moment, Anastasia felt weightless, suspended in a swirl of energy as it roared through her.

Then, with a deafening roar, the magic erupted outward in a burst of blinding light and thunderous sound. Shockwaves rippled through the air, sending waves of force rippling outward like water on a pond. The ground beneath Anastasia trembled, the very earth quaking beneath her feet.

The force was immense, tossing both her and Kallon like rag dolls through the air. Anastasia felt the wind rush past her, her body twisting and tumbling before crashing heavily onto the forest floor with a bone-jarring impact. The impact sent shockwaves of pain radiating through her body, every nerve ending ablaze with searing agony.

Kallon was thrown in a different direction, the force of her magic sending his body careening through the air before slamming into a nearby tree with a sickening thud.  The ancient trunk groaned in protest as the force of the impact reverberated through it, sending a shower of leaves cascading down like confetti.

Despite her own disorientation, Anastasia cringed. She could hear an intake of breath from somewhere behind her, but she didn’t look back.

For a moment, Kallon hung there limply, his body swaying precariously from the branch as if in suspended animation. But then, with a shuddering gasp, he slumped to the ground below, his limbs splayed out awkwardly in the dirt.

Anastasia's head throbbed with the aftermath of her magic, the world spinning around her as she tried to regain her bearings. Her ears were ringing from the force with which her magic threw her. She struggled to push herself upright, her muscles protesting with every movement as her breath came in ragged gasps.

But her eyes locked on to the lifeless body of her captor. The sight sent a chill down her spine, a cold dread settling in the pit of her stomach.

Anastasia watched in horror as the reality of what had just happened washed over her. The forest around her was silent now, the only sound the ragged rhythm of her own breathing.

No.

She couldn't have done that. The mere thought sent a surge of nausea washing over her, and she bowed over, emptying the contents of her stomach on the forest floor. Somewhere behind her, there was the rustling of leaves on the forest floor, and a scarred hand gently caressed her shoulder.

She shrugged it off as a chuckle reverberated through her mind.  

Yes, pet. There was no mistaking the satisfaction in Cian’s voice, Look at what you are capable of.

Anastasia shook her head, a desperate plea for the voice to be silenced, but it persisted, taunting her with its cruel certainty.

“No,” she said again – this time out loud – as she shook her head. She tried to blink back the tears that welled in her eyes, but they spilled over unbidden, tracing silent paths down her cheeks as she stared at the dead body across from her. She was a healer… a surgeon… she wasn’t meant to kill people.

Those pathetic Illyrians may have failed, Cian sneered in her head, but this is much better. They will see you for what you are, pet.

“No.” She repeated, a little louder now. She pressed the muddied palms of her hands to her temples, as if she’d be able to squeeze the voice out of her mind, “No. No. No.”

Azriel knelt beside Anastasia, his concern etched deeply in the furrow of his brow.

"Anastasia, are you alright?" His voice was soft, laced with genuine worry.

But Anastasia barely registered any of it. She couldn't tear her gaze away from Kallon's lifeless form. And that voice – that insidious voice in her head that was mocking her. Laughing at her. She felt frozen, trapped in a nightmare of her own making.

Look at what you've become, pet. A monster.  The words were like a knife in her gut, twisting with each new taunt. She could try to ignore it… but everything that Cian was saying about her was true. She was a monster.

But what a magnificent one you are. Cian’s words were tinged with pride, a twisted celebration of what she had just done. Imagine the power we could wield together.

Rhysand's voice cut through the haze, commanding and decisive. "Azriel, take her back to the House of Wind."

It was only then that Anastasia registered the warmth of Azriel's arms wrapping around her, lifting her from the forest floor. She felt herself being carried away, the world blurring into a distant haze as she succumbed to the numbing embrace of shock.

-x-

Azriel's footsteps echoed on the marble steps of the House of Wind as he carried Anastasia in his arms – he hadn’t bothered to try and set her down after landing at the House. She didn’t even know if she would have been able to walk herself. Her body felt limp against the warm heat of his chest, her mind still reeling from everything that had just happened at Windhaven.

You've made quite the mess, haven't you, my dear? Cian’s voice slithered through her consciousness, I could help you clean it up.

Nesta's voice greeted them as they entered, but Anastasia hardly registered her presence.

Setting her down gently in an armchair in the study, Azriel stepped back, concern etched into the lines of his face. The room was bathed in the warm glow of a fireplace, its flames dancing and crackling with life the moment that they entered.

She shivered anyway.

A tray with a steaming cup of tea appeared on the table beside her – an offer from the House. But Anastasia made no move to reach for it, her hands trembling at her sides.

The soft rustle of fabric drew Anastasia's attention. She glanced up to see scarred hands unfolding a warm blanket before draping it around her shoulders. She opened her mouth to utter a word of thanks, but her voice caught in her throat, emerging as nothing more than a pathetic croak.

There was a heavy silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Anastasia knew that Azriel and Nesta were watching her, she could feel the heat of their stares boring into her. God, what must they think of her? She had just killed someone – the mere thought of it was enough to make her stomach wretch. Anastasia’s hand flew to her mouth as she sucked in a breath.

She couldn’t start crying again.  

Oh, don't look so glum, pet.

Azriel's voice finally cut through the quiet, "Anastasia..."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his for any sign of reassurance or understanding. But before he could say anything more, the study door swung open.

Rhysand and Feyre entered the room, their presence commanding everyone’s attention. The High Lord’s face was its mask of authority – an unusual expression to be directed at anybody at the House. Anastasia swallowed, trying to keep her face calm as he regarded her. Behind them, followed Amren and Mor, their measured gazes locked on to Anastasia. Each of them wore expressions of guarded concern, but Anastasia could sense the unspoken questions that flickered in Mor’s eyes.

Anastasia felt a shiver run down her spine as she met their gaze – what would they do to her? She had just killed someone… with her magic.

They knew about it now – there would be no more hiding it or pretending that, despite her circumstances, she was remotely normal.

And beneath it all, she could still feel the lingering presence of Cian in her mind. It was as if even he cowered in the face of the High Lord's power.

As the High Lord and Lady crossed the room, Rhysand's piercing gaze bore down on Anastasia, his eyes ablaze with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. She could feel the weight of his power pressing in on her from all sides, leaving her feeling small and insignificant in comparison.

Her eyes flickered to Azriel, seeking some kind of reassurance, but the shadowsinger’s gaze was locked on Rhysand.

"Anastasia," the High Lord began, his voice low and commanding, "we need to know what happened out there."

Anastasia swallowed hard; her throat dried as she struggled to find her voice. "I-I'm not sure," she stammered, her gaze flickering nervously between Rhysand and the others gathered in the room.

"We know there's something you're not telling us," Rhysand pressed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Anastasia's heart pounded in her chest as she hesitated, gnawing at her bottom lip until she tasted the familiar tang of blood. Azriel and Rhysand... they had seen what she could do. There was no use in hiding it now.

"Okay..." she finally managed to croak out, her voice hoarse with fear and uncertainty. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come.

“Out with it, girl.”

And so she told them.

She recounted her encounter with the Illyrian in the forest, the words spilling out of her in a torrent of emotion. She described the strange voice that had whispered in her mind, the overwhelming sense of dread that had gripped her from the moment she had arrived. She recounted the horror of being held captive to them once more, only this time she didn’t leave anything out.

Anastasia blinked, taking a moment to collect herself, as she recalled the vivid details of her ordeal.

"It was like... like being trapped in a nightmare," her voice trembled as she stared at her grime covered hands, "I could hear his voice in my head, whispering to me the whole time."

“Who?” Feyre asked, but Anastasia shook her head.

She paused, inhaling deeply, before continuing, "And when I was in captivity, he was the only contact I had...it was like I needed him.” There was a cough from somewhere in the room, but Anastasia didn’t – couldn’t – look up from her palms. “I thought I was going insane at first, but he kept appearing… like he was always there."

Anastasia's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she spoke. "But he also... he helped me. Guided me after I broke those chains. It's like he knew things, things I couldn't possibly have known on my own."

Rhysand's expression darkened at her words, his jaw tightening with anger. "Devlon was right - I imbued those chains myself. Nothing should have been able to break them."

“I didn’t know any of that,” Anastasia shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "But… somehow, I did it.”

“How?” The question, in a tone much softer than Rhysand, came from the High Lady.

Anastasia took a deep breath, steeling herself to continue. How could she even begin to explain it? "It's like... there are these threads, shimmering in the air," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "Sometimes I see them… I don’t know why… it doesn’t happen all the time. But when they are there, I can pull them."

“And you used them to break those chains?” Azriel asked, and for the first time since everyone else arrived, Anastasia met his gaze. She hadn’t known what to expect when she looked at him, after confessing all of this. Anger, maybe. Perhaps horror at what she had done. But etched on his features was an expression of amazement – certainly something that she hadn’t anticipated.

Anastasia could only nod.

Rhysand's hand clenched into a fist at his side, his eyes flickering with a mixture of disbelief and concern. Azriel's expression remained unreadable, though there was a glimmer of something akin to understanding in his eyes.

“And to save that little girl,” Mor added, “That was what happened that day – you used this magic?”

Anastasia swallowed the lump in her throat before nodding, “I got lucky, really… I can’t always control it. You saw tonight… I used it and I killed a man. Oh, god.” Anastasia buried her head in her hands so that no one could see the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. A hand, gentle yet masculine, fell to her shoulder. Instinctively, Anastasia leaned into that comforting warmth.

Across from her, Feyre's brows furrowed in thought, her lips pressed into a thin line. Meanwhile, Amren's gaze was sharp, assessing, as if she were dissecting every word Anastasia uttered.

“The male she helped tonight was close to death,” Azriel half-whispered, “I saw it myself – the light was leaving his eyes.”

Anastasia lifted her head up, blinking back those tears as she met Azriel’s gaze. It was easier to just speak to him, to tell him about it all. “It was like the thread that surrounded him was fading and frayed… I just put it back together”

"Thread Weaver," Amren's voice cut through the heavy silence like a knife, her tone low and somber. She half-whispered the words, her eyes narrowing in thought.

Rhysand's brows furrowed in confusion, his eyes flicking to Amren. "Thread Weaver? I've never heard of such a thing." His tone held a hint of skepticism, but there was an undeniable spark of curiosity in his gaze.

Feyre's expression mirrored Rhysand's confusion as she shook her head.

Amren's silver gaze flickered between them before landing once again on Anastasia. There was a weightiness to her stare, as if she were measuring the young woman against some invisible standard.  

"The last Thread Weaver lived over a millennia ago.” She explained, “Their power was... legendary."

Rhysand's curiosity piqued at her words, his features becoming more contemplative. "What exactly does a Thread Weaver do?" His gaze fell to Anastasia once more, as if contemplating what exactly she was capable of.

"They have the ability to manipulate the threads of fate itself," Amren paused, her expression grave. "To weave the very fabric of reality, altering it they see fit. It makes Thread Weavers dangerous… and highly coveted.”

Anastasia swallowed hard at Amren’s words and risked a glance at Rhysand. He was regarding her with a look of something – was it interest? – in his eyes. The Night Court collects powerful females. Cian’s old warning echoed in her head.

“What do you mean coveted?” She asked softly.

“Some High Lords would use your powers for themselves.” Rhysand explained, his voice low and measured as his gaze momentarily flickered towards Feyre, “The lengths that some of them would go to for that kind of power-”

Rhysand's words cast a pall of unease over the room. Anastasia felt a shiver run down her spine as the realization of what that meant settled upon her shoulders.

She would never be safe.

Azriel's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, his tone firm and resolute. "We will make sure that doesn’t happen," he stated, his gaze unwavering as he directed his words at Rhysand, as if it weren’t even a question that they would.

Rhysand met Azriel's stare with a steely resolve of his own, his expression unyielding. "Of course," he replied, "But we need to be prepared."

“Prepared?” Anastasia felt a surge of panic rising within her as the reality of this absurd situation began to sink in. She opened her mouth to protest, to voice her doubts and fears, but the words caught in her throat.

Rhysand's gaze bore into hers "You need to start training," he declared, his voice leaving no room for negotiation, “As soon as Cassian returns, you will begin training daily.”

“But-“

The High Lord raised up a hand, silencing her question, before continuing, “And you will work with Amren until you are able to control this power. You were right – you’ve gotten lucky in the past. It’s now time you learn how to use it.”

Rhysand's command hung heavy in the air. She felt her heart sink at his words, a cold knot of dread forming in the pit of her stomach. "But I'm not a fighter," she objected, her voice trembling. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her – their expectations clear on their face.  "I just want to go home. If I'm home – back where I belong - I won't need to use this power."

Azriel shifted beside her at her words, but he steadied himself and looked at her; the hand on her shoulder tightened. "If people find out about this – about you," he interjected, his voice low but firm, "they will want to use you for themselves. There will be threats on your life. More nights like tonight."

Anastasia's protests died on her lips as she absorbed his words, a sense of resignation settling over her. She glanced up at Azriel, her gaze searching his for any sign of reassurance. The corners of his lips lifted slightly, and Anastasia felt something settle within her. With a resigned sigh, she finally nodded her agreement, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're right – I'll do it."

Chapter Text

Anastasia's eyes fluttered open, greeted by the dim light filtering through the windows of her room at the House of Wind. Her eyes were heavy from the lack of sleep; since her return from the Illyrian mountains, she had done nothing but toss and turn through the night. Even with the exhaustion from using her magic so intensely, sleep eluded her.

She pushed herself up from the bed, the cool air of the room sending a shiver down her spine.

She had agreed to meet Cassian for training as early as possible. It was good, she told herself. She’d get it over with early in the day and be done with it. Swallowing her nerves, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, her bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor.

As she padded across the room, Anastasia couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension that had gripped her upon waking. She hesitated by the window, drawn to the stillness of the pre-dawn sky stretching out before her. The darkness seemed to stretch endlessly over the still sleeping city of Velaris, and she couldn’t help but envy their peace as she looked out over it.

Anastasia forced herself to take a deep breath.

Turning away from the window, she moved to her wardrobe, selecting a long cotton tunic the color of pale lavender. She pulled it over her head, feeling the soft fabric settle against her skin. Next, she slipped into a pair of fitted leggings. She looked down at herself, fighting the urge to frown. It was something like she might wear to the gym back in Boston – so incredibly normal, when everything else about this was not.

Gathering her hair into a loose ponytail, Anastasia reached for a ribbon on the dresser. With deft fingers, she tied her hair back, securing it in place with the ribbon.

When she was satisfied with her appearance, Anastasia stepped out into the corridor, her movements hesitant as she ventured beyond the confines of her room for the first time in days. The crisp morning air greeted her, sending a shiver down her spine that cut through the last remnants of sleep.

As she made her way down the hall, her footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors, the anxiety once again threatened to bubble up from inside of her. It had been two days since everything had happened, and Anastasia had spent the last few days trying to make sense of it all.

Thread weaver. The title felt like a curse – especially with the curious way that Rhysand had regarded her after finding out exactly what she could do. And Azriel’s insistence that she be protected – and learn how to protect herself… well, she never wanted any of this.

She wasn’t supposed to be like this.

There had been tentative knocks at her door for the last two days – the voices of Azriel, then Mor, calling out to her concern when she refused to answer. After explaining everything when she returned from Illyria, she had retreated into her room, claiming that she had needed to rest. She hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone – to strategize or find any more answers. All she had wanted to do was shut out the world and wallow in her own misery.

Now, as she ventured out into the corridor, the weight of her shame hung heavy around her. She kept her eyes trained on the floor, fearful that there would be someone in the halls even at this hour.

Anastasia approached the training grounds with hesitant steps, her eyes sweeping over the open air that she had been all but ordered to spend her time in. The sun was beginning to rise over the mountains in the distance, casting long shadows across the ground and illuminating the array of fighting rings scattered throughout the space. It was intense, and a knot formed in her stomach as she thought about having to fight in one of those rings.

As she neared the center of the training grounds, Anastasia's gaze fell upon Cassian, who stood waiting for her with a confident stance. She couldn’t help the pang of relief she felt as she made her way to him – she hadn’t seen him since the attack on Windhaven. She’d known that he was alright, spending the last few days reinforcing the defenses of the war camp, but it still felt good to confirm that her friend was well.

"Morning," Cassian greeted her with a warm smile, his voice carrying easily across the training grounds.

"Morning," Anastasia replied flatly, as she shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, don’t you sound thrilled to be here?" He chuckled, "Or are we just not a morning person?"

Anastasia lifted her shoulders in a shrug. She was certain that Rhysand or Azriel had filled Cassian in on the reason why she was being forced to train. A part of her was grateful for it – she didn’t want to be forced to recount even one more time what had happened to her. Nevertheless, she still waited for him to make a comment about it.

But Cassian didn’t say anything. Instead, his keen gaze flickered over her outfit, frowning slightly. Anastasia frowned in confusion, glancing down at her attire with a furrowed brow, "Is there something wrong?"

"I should probably be able to get you some leathers by tomorrow." He shrugged.

"These won't hold up?" she questioned as she gestured to the leggings, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Just how intense was this going to get?

Cassian chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement. "Not quite," he replied, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "But don't worry, we'll start slow. You'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say," Anastasia muttered under her breath.

Cassian's smile widened, and he stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Trust me," he said, his tone gentle yet firm. "I've trained plenty of beginners before. You'll be surprised at what you're capable of."

She was beginning to learn just what she was capable of – that was the problem. But she didn’t say any of that to Cassian as she followed him to the center of one of the training rings.

"Before we can train you in defense, you need to build up your muscle strength," Cassian began, gesturing to his own arms as he flexed them. "Strength and endurance are the foundation of any good fighter."

Cassian led Anastasia through a thorough warm-up routine. They began with gentle stretches, and Anastasia was instantly reminded of the yoga sessions that she would do before work. She extended her arms skyward, relishing the stretch that rippled through her muscles, then flowed gracefully into a forward fold, feeling the familiar pull of her hamstrings as she reached for her toes.

"Nice and easy," Cassian encouraged, his voice a steady anchor amidst the quiet intensity of the training grounds. "Let your breath guide your movements."

As they progressed, Cassian introduced more dynamic movements, guiding Anastasia through a series of squats, lunges, and push-ups. She found herself loosening up, joking with Cassian as he guided her through the movements. This wasn’t how she pictured training at all, and she had to admit that she was grateful to have Cassian as her teacher.

Anastasia focused on her breath, syncing her inhales and exhales with the rhythm of her movements. With each breath, she felt herself sinking deeper into the flow of the exercises. She hadn’t expected it to feel this normal.

Cassian's keen eye didn't miss a beat as he observed Anastasia's form, offering gentle corrections and words of encouragement along the way. "Keep that core engaged," he reminded her, "And remember to maintain your alignment."

Cassian stepped back, his keen eyes assessing Anastasia's form as she completed the warm-up routine. With a nod of approval, he turned back towards a display of practice weapons before selecting two wooden swords. Arms outstretched, he offered one to her.

"Alright, let's start with some basic defensive maneuvers," Cassian instructed, his voice steady and authoritative. Gesturing for Anastasia to take a defensive stance, he continued, "Keep your feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent."

Anastasia mirrored his stance, her muscles tensing in anticipation. She knew that they would eventually move on to something more involved than basic exercises, but she couldn’t help the knot that formed in the pit of her stomach.

"Now, I want you to use this to block any incoming attacks," Cassian continued, demonstrating a simple block with his own practice sword. "I won’t be coming at you, or anything. I just want you to practice the movement of it right now. Remember, the key is to stay grounded and maintain your balance."

Anastasia nodded, her focus sharpening as she absorbed Cassian's instructions. She raised her arms, positioning them in front of her to mimic the Illyrian’s stance. The wooden sword was heavier than expected in her hands, and she struggled a bit to maintain her posture.

Cassian observed her stance, his lips quirking in a faint smile of approval. "Good, now let's try it a few times. Start slow and focus on the technique. Do it enough, and when it comes time to use it, muscle memory will just take over."

"Wax on, wax off," she remarked with a grin, deliberately ignoring his use of the word when.

Cassian's brow furrowed momentarily in confusion, "What?"

"Never mind, just an old joke," she replied, her laughter echoing softly in the morning air.

As Anastasia followed Cassian's instructions, she found herself fully immersed in the training. With each block, she focused on the rhythm of her breathing, anchoring herself in the present moment. Cassian watched closely, his eyes sharp and attentive as he monitored her progress.

At first, Anastasia's blocks were tentative, her movements hesitant as she adjusted to the unfamiliar techniques. But as she gained confidence, her blocks became more assertive, her muscles responding with increased agility.

Cassian nodded approvingly, his expression reflecting a sense of pride as he observed Anastasia's improvement. "That's it," he encouraged, his voice steady and reassuring. "You're getting the hang of it."

As the sun began to rise higher in the sky, casting a warm glow over the training grounds, Anastasia's movements grew more fluid and instinctive. With each block, she felt a growing sense of confidence and empowerment, her mind clear and focused on the task at hand.

Cassian nodded in approval, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched Anastasia's progress. "Well done," he remarked, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You're a natural."

It was only when he finally had her stop that she noticed the burning in her muscles from the movement.

In the distance, she noticed a group of females making their way towards the training area, their confident strides echoing across the open space. Nesta had said that Cassian and Azriel had begun to train some of the priestesses, before making the offer for her to train along side them. Her heart began to race at the sight, a wave of anxiety washing over her. One of her conditions that she had demanded from Rhysand was that she would do this alone, lest she accidentally hurt someone with her volatile magic.

And then, of course, was her shame.

Did anyone else know what she had done? Would they be able to see it etched on her face?

Sensing her unease, Cassian glanced in the direction of the approaching females, then turned back to Anastasia with a sympathetic look. "You don't have to stay," he said gently, his voice tinged with understanding. "I'll take care of things here. You've done enough for today."

Anastasia's shoulders relaxed slightly at his words, a surge of gratitude flooding through her. She nodded in silent appreciation, unable to find the words to express her thanks.

Before she could slip away, Cassian grasped her wrist and stepped closer. "Anastasia," he began, his voice low so the others wouldn't hear as they approached, "you saved a male's life the other day – an Illyrian. And I know what that means for you. No matter what else happened, or how you might feel right now, you're a good person."

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat, her eyes misting over as she absorbed his words. For a moment, she struggled to find her voice. Blinking back tears, she managed a shaky smile, "Thank you."

Cassian's expression softened further. Without another word, she turned away, her steps carrying her back towards the House.

-x-

"Anastasia, dear, could you fetch me a jar of ground henbane?"

With a nod, Anastasia carefully made her way through the cluttered shelves in Madja’s back room, her fingers deftly skimming over the jars and vials of various herbs and potions. She reached for the jar of henbane before turning back to the front room.

The room was dimly lit, shelves lined with an array of dried herbs and botanical specimens. Madja stood at a cluttered workbench, meticulously measuring out ingredients for her latest concoction.

"Here you go," Anastasia said, placing the jar on the table before her mentor.

"Thank you, my dear," Madja replied, offering a warm smile before returning her focus to her task.

Anastasia lingered for a moment, watching Madja blend the ingredients together with a sense of admiration. She had been worried, after taking a few days off for rest, that Madja might view her differently after witnessing her magic. And she had no doubt that someone from the House had been down here to explain just why there was to be a sudden shift to Anastasia’s schedule. But, if that was the case, the healer never let on.

She had greeted Anastasia warmly upon her arrival, as if nothing had ever happened. And, for that, Anastasia was grateful - there was a comforting familiarity in the routine of their interactions.

Anastasia returned to the dusty shelves of the back room, sorting through a collection of dried herbs with practiced efficiency. The faint scent of lavender and sage filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the wooden shelves that lined the room.

"Anastasia, could you please organize these jars of dried chamomile?" Madja's voice called from across the room.

"Of course, Madja," Anastasia replied, flashing a small smile as she approached the designated area. Madja had been giving Anastasia light work to complete all day, and she was relegated mostly to the back room. It wasn’t as though anyone had come in looking for assistance, but Anastasia couldn’t help but be relieved that she wouldn’t have to face the public today.  

As she began arranging the jars, Anastasia couldn't help but feel a sense of restlessness gnawing at the edges of her mind. Despite her best efforts to focus on the task at hand, her thoughts kept drifting back to Kallon’s blank, empty eyes, replaying those harrowing moments in Windhaven over and over again.

"Are you feeling alright, child?" Madja's voice interrupted, concern etched in the lines of her face as she approached Anastasia. She hadn’t even heard the female come into the back room.

Anastasia forced a smile, masking the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. "I'm fine, Madja, really," she reassured, though her voice lacked conviction.

Madja regarded her with a knowing gaze, her expression softening with understanding. "You've been through a lot, my dear. It's okay to take a moment to rest," she said gently, placing a comforting hand on Anastasia's shoulder.

Anastasia hesitated, grappling with the conflicting emotions swirling within her. Part of her yearned to heed Madja's advice, but how could she rest? If Azriel or Amren were to be believed, she needed every moment to build up her magic. And in all honesty… she needed the distraction.

With a resigned sigh, Anastasia straightened her posture, steeling herself for the tasks ahead. "I'll be fine, Madja," she insisted, mustering a semblance of resolve as she resumed her work.

Madja nodded, her gaze lingering on Anastasia for a moment longer before returning to her own tasks. "Very well, my dear. Just remember, I'm here if you need anything."

As the hours passed, Anastasia threw herself into her work with renewed determination, the rhythmic motions of organizing jars and labeling potions offering a temporary distraction from everything that was racing through her mind.

The soft sound of the door opening and closing echoed through the cozy confines of Madja's. Anastasia glanced up from her task of organizing shelves, curiosity piqued as she peered through the back room curtain to see Azriel's tall, shadowy form entering the shop.

"Hey, Az," Anastasia greeted, offering a warm smile as she set aside the jar of dried lavender she had been sorting. "What brings you here?"

"I came to take you home," he said quietly, his voice tinged with a hint of warmth.

"Thank you," she replied, she hadn’t realized how quickly the hours had passed. But that meant that she’d be heading into her next round of training – this time with Amren. She bristled at the thought. "I was just finishing up here."

Azriel returned her smile with a nod, his usually impassive features softened by a hint of warmth. In his hands, he held a small package wrapped in brown paper, tied with a simple twine bow.

"I brought you something," Azriel said quietly, stepping forward to place the package on the counter before her.

Warmth bloomed in her chest as she met his gaze. "Oh, you didn't have to," she murmured, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. She certainly hadn’t done anything warranting of a gift.

"I know it’s been a hard couple of days," he replied, his voice low and earnest, "I just thought that you could use something to cheer you up."

With careful fingers, Anastasia untied the bow and peeled back the layers of brown paper, revealing a small leather-bound book nestled within. She gasped softly in delight, fingers tracing the delicate embossed pattern on the cover.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, her heart skipping a beat as she looked up at Azriel.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, a silent gesture of acceptance. "I'm glad you like it," he said simply.

Anastasia's fingers lingered on the smooth surface of the book, a rush of warmth flooding her senses at the thoughtfulness of his gesture. Suddenly, she felt a curious sensation, a gentle pull in her chest, just below her rib. It was an odd feeling, but pleasant, like the whisper of a distant melody that stirred something deep within her.

"What's it for?" she asked, curiosity tinging her voice, though her mind was momentarily distracted by the strange sensation.

Azriel hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on her face before he spoke. "It's a journal," he explained, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "I thought... you might find it helpful to write down your thoughts, especially with everything that's been happening."

"Thank you, Az," she whispered, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"We should get going," Azriel said softly, his voice carrying a gentle warmth that stirred something within her.

Anastasia blinked for a moment, breaking out of the reverie she had been feeling as she realized just where she was heading too next. "Of course. I’m suddenly a very busy woman."

She called out her goodbyes to Madja, and Anastasia turned to leave, the weight of the journal cradled in her hands an odd comfort. As they stepped out into the warm afternoon air, she felt a sense of calm settle over her as she curled in closer to Azriel before taking off into the sky.

-x-

"So, tell me, girl, what do you know about these threads?" Amren's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence of the study like a blade, "Where do they come from?"

Anastasia shifted uneasily in her seat, her fingers tracing the edge of the wooden desk. as she struggled to find the right words. This was the longest time she had spent alone with Amren, and her unease was growing by the minute. "I'm not sure," she admitted, her voice wavering slightly. "They just appear some of the time."

Amren looked unimpressed.

"I tried to find them that day... in the forest... and they weren't there immediately."

Amren's silver eyes narrowed as she studied Anastasia, her expression inscrutable. "Nonsense, girl," she declared, her tone bordering on impatience. "If these are truly threads of fate that you are seeing, then they will be everywhere. If you cannot see them, girl, then the problem is you."

"What else is new?" Anastasia mumbled under her breath.

Amren didn't even both to acknowledge Anastasia's sarcasm, "Now, close your eyes and focus. Reach out with your mind and search for those threads."

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, uncertainty gnawing at her insides. The last time she had interacted with the threads, she had ended someone's life. What if she hurt someone again? But with a steadying breath, she obeyed Amren's command, letting her eyelids flutter shut as she tried to focus on the threads.

For several long moments, Anastasia struggled in vain, her mind grasping at empty air as she sought out the threads. Frustration began to well up within her, threatening to overwhelm her resolve.

Just as Anastasia was on the verge of giving up, Amren's voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. "Breathe, girl," she murmured, her tone firm. "You're of no use to us if you pass out."

Anastasia grunted in frustration as she forced herself to breathe.

"Clear your mind. The threads are there, waiting for you to see them."

Anastasia took another deep breath – in through her nose and out through her mouth. Just like all those times that Elise led them through Shavasana. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the chair, feeling the tension seep out of her muscles.

"Relax," Amren commanded, her voice firm and unwavering. "Instead of going out and searching for the threads, let them come to you."

Anastasia followed Amren's instructions, allowing herself to become fully present in the moment. With each breath, she felt herself sinking deeper into a state of profound stillness.

And then, like a bolt of lightning cutting through the darkness, Anastasia felt it - the faintest flicker of sensation, a thread of light on the far side of the room. With a sense of wonder and awe, she reached out a hand towards the thread. She didn't actually dare to try and pull on it – not when she had no idea if it might wreak havoc on the both of them.

Opening her eyes, Anastasia met Amren's silver gaze with a newfound sense of clarity. "I can feel them," she breathed, her voice filled with reverence. "The threads... I can sense them."

"Excellent, girl." Amren's next instruction cut through the silence of the study. "Now, banish the threads," she commanded, her voice as unwavering as stone.

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, uncertainty creeping into her mind. She had never tried to banish them before; she hadn't even known that such a thing was possible. But she knew better than to try and argue with Amren. With a determined breath, she focused on the threads she had just begun to sense. With a mental push, she willed them away, dispersing them into the air.

As the threads vanished from her perception, Anastasia felt a strange pang of emptiness, as if a part of her had been taken away. But she pushed the feeling aside, and looked to Amren, "They're gone."

"Again," Amren ordered, her tone relentless. "Conjure them."

"What?" Anastasia asked, incredulously, "But you just had me banish them. Do you know how much it took for me to see them the first time?"

Amren looked at her, a light flickering behind her silver eyes, "I don't think you need to be reminded, girl, that your magic is volatile – dangerous, even. Before you begin to use it in earnest, you need to be able to control it."

Anastasia opened her mouth to protest, but quickly shut it. Amren was right. It was mentally exhausting, trying to find the threads, but if she were going to use her magic then she needed to be able to see the threads when she needed them, not just when they appeared on their own. Anastasia closed her eyes once more, emptying her mind like she had before. She reached out with her mind, seeking the threads that she had banished moments ago.

Slowly, tentatively, they began to reappear, shimmering into existence like ethereal strands of light. With each passing moment, the threads grew stronger, more defined, until they danced in the air before her.

Opening her eyes, Anastasia met Amren's gaze with a sense of accomplishment. "I did it," she breathed, her voice tinged with awe.

"Good," Amren pursed her lips together, "Now, banish them again."

Chapter Text

"You've got to imagine it as a wall around your mind," Feyre reiterated, her voice firm and unwavering. "It must be impenetrable."

Anastasia sat cross-legged on the floor of the study; her eyes fixed on Feyre as she listened intently to her instructions. It was another day of training, this time with the High Lady herself. She'd spent most of the evening with Amren, working on conjuring threads. But just when she had thought she was done for the night, Feyre had appeared, talking about the importance of mental shields. Anastasia was exhausted, and a dull ache was begging to throb at her temples.

But the weight of Feyre's words hung heavy in the air. She knew that the High Lady was right – it was another element of magic she needed to know how to do.

And she wouldn't mind being able to shut out the gnawing voice in her head.

Anastasia nodded, before closing her eyes. She envisioned a barrier forming around her thoughts, modern and sleek like polished steel. With each breath, she concentrated on reinforcing the wall, channeling all her focus into creating a defense. She imagined it as a seamless structure, impenetrable and resilient. She could almost feel the cool, smooth surface beneath her fingertips as she fortified it, layer by layer.

But then, as she concentrated, she felt a subtle pressure at the edges of her consciousness, like a claw scraping against the surface of her mind. It was jarring, as if something were trying to pry its way in.

Anastasia's brow furrowed in concentration as she resisted the intrusion, but despite her efforts, she felt the claw-like presence persist, tapping insistently against the mental barrier. And in that moment, she could feel Feyre there, sifting through her thoughts as if she were flipping through the pages of a book.

Her eyes snapped open, her heart racing with frustration and dismay. "It's useless," she grumbled, frustration lacing her words.

Feyre placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, her expression sympathetic. "It's difficult at first – trust me, I know. But you've got to do this," she urged, her voice steady. "If there is this voice in your mind, building up this wall might be one of the only things you can do to protect yourself... and everybody else."

Anastasia's thoughts drifted to everyone who had shown her kindness since her arrival in Prythian. Mor, taking care of her in those early days, when she couldn't even really communicate with any of them. Madja, who took Anastasia under her wing, giving her a sense of purpose. Cassian, with his unwavering support and Azriel…  she inhaled, sharply– they all deserved to be protected.

With a deep breath, she closed her eyes once more, summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed. Despite the lingering sensation of the claw-like intrusion, she visualized the barrier anew, this time with renewed focus and resolve. It wasn't just about defending herself anymore; it was about shielding those she cared about from that insidious voice inside her mind.

As she concentrated, the barrier began to solidify, shimmering with an almost ethereal glow. It was as if she could feel its strength manifesting in the steel-like structure.

Anastasia braced herself as she felt Feyre's presence pressing against the barrier she had constructed. The claw-like sensation returned, digging into the edges of her mind with an unsettling persistence. But this time, something was different. Despite the initial assault, the barrier held firm, resisting Feyre's intrusion with a newfound strength.

Surprise flickered across Feyre's features, mingled with a hint of admiration. "Impressive," she murmured, her voice tinged with genuine surprise. "You're making progress, Anastasia."

Relief flooded through Anastasia at Feyre's words, mingling with a sense of accomplishment.

"Keep practicing," Feyre encouraged, her tone gentle yet firm. "You've got to make sure you can keep it up at all times."

"All the time?" Anastasia asked incredulously; with the amount of effort it took to just build the shield up, and the blooming headache that was forming in her temples because of it, she doubted that she would be able to keep it up for more than a few minutes.

"It's like a muscle," Feyre explained, "You've got to continuously work at it to make it stronger."

Anastasia nodded at the High Lady; it made sense. But she was already exhausted, as she continued to work with Amren on her magic.

Feyre seemed to notice that, and gave her a sympathetic look, "But it looks like you have had enough for today."

"Thank you," she murmured, offering Feyre a grateful smile in return.

After bidding Feyre goodbye, Anastasia made her way to the dining room of the House of Wind, the enticing aroma of roasted chicken and seasoned potatoes guiding her. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation as she entered the room, where Cassian, Nesta, and Azriel were already seated at the table.

Cassian greeted her with a warm smile as he gestured for her to take a seat. "Anastasia - just in time!" he announced, a mischievous glint in his eye.

She couldn't help but return his smile as she settled into the seat next to Azriel.

The table was adorned with an array of delicious dishes, from the succulent roasted chicken to the perfectly seasoned potatoes and crisp asparagus. Anastasia's mouth watered at the sight, and she wasted no time in helping herself to a generous portion of food. She'd hadn't realized that she'd worked up an appetite after spending so much time practicing her shields.

Cassian, ever the generous host, piled her plate with an extra serving of chicken, insisting that she needed to fuel up after a long day of training, "If you're going to have any hope of carrying a sword, you're going to have to eat up."

There was more on her plate than she could possibly eat at this point, but she smiled appreciatively at the gesture. She picked up the knife and began cutting into the chicken on her plate. She sat quietly, eating her dinner when Nesta's voice, laced with a teasing edge, cut through the air. "Must you attack your food like a starving wolf, Cassian? Show some restraint, for once."

Cassian shot her a wicked grin, his eyes dancing with mischief. "But where's the fun in that, sweetheart? I like to savor my meals, every delicious bite."

There was something in Cassian's tone that made Anastasia wrinkle her nose. She was eating, for God's sake.

Nesta rolled her eyes, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "You mean inhale them, don't you? Honestly, it's a miracle you haven't choked yet."

The featherlight touch of cool air on her arm caught her off guard and Anastasia's attention snapped away from the lively banter between Cassian and Nesta. She looked to her arm to see a dark shadow dancing along her skin, commanding her attention.

Startled, she turned to find Azriel's dark gaze fixed upon her, a small smile playing on the corner of his lips. With a subtle gesture, he inclined his head towards the door, as if to say, "Let's get out of here before they really become insufferable."

She nodded in agreement, her lips curving into a hesitant smile in response to his. She rose from her seat, her hand instinctively reaching out to his. And as their fingers intertwined, a rush of warmth flooded through her.  

They slipped away from the dining room, and Anastasia found herself walking side by side with Azriel. Their fingers were still intertwined. Anastasia knew she should probably let him go; there was no way that Azriel had intended for their hands to remain linked for as long as they did. But she wasn't ready to give up his steady warmth quite yet.

As they stepped onto one of the many balconies, the cool night air enveloped them. The moon cast a soft glow over Velaris, illuminating the rooftops of the city below them.

"I swear," Anastasia began, her voice teasing, "Cassian and Nesta never tire of their bickering."

As Anastasia spoke, she leaned slightly against the balcony railing, the smooth stone cool against her back. She gazed out at Velaris, the lights twinkling like stars against the darkness.

At Anastasia's teasing remark, Azriel's chuckle rumbled softly in the quiet night air. He shifted his weight, turning slightly to face her, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "It seems to be their favorite pastime."

"They do have a unique way of expressing their love for one another," Azriel remarked, a playful glint in his dark eyes.

Anastasia couldn't help but smile, feeling a warmth spreading through her. She leaned against the ornate marble railing of the balcony, the cool surface providing a sharp contrast to the warmth of Azriel's presence beside her. Her hand was still in his. The night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of the night blooming jasmine from the gardens below.

"It's like watching Mom and Dad argue," she quipped, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Azriel's lips quirked up in amusement, his gaze softening as he glanced at her. He leaned against the railing beside her.

"You know," she began, her tone growing thoughtful, "I can't remember the last time I spoke to my parents." A pang of longing flickered in her chest, accompanied by a surge of homesickness that she had long suppressed. "It's been… well, I don't even know. I've lost track of the days that I've been here."

Azriel's expression softened further, his hazel eyes glinting in the starlight. "It's understandable," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet corridor. "You've made a life for yourself here."

"Sometimes," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, "Days go by before I think about Boston again…." She trailed off, her gaze lingering on him. Her cheeks flushed as she waited for his reaction to her confession. It had been something she realized earlier, and the guilt was weighing on her. She didn't know why she just admitted it to him… but it somehow felt right to confess to Azriel of all people.

"I feel guilty sometimes," she continued, her voice tinged with remorse. "For not thinking about home as much as I should. It's like... I've left behind a part of myself, and I'm not sure if I'll ever find it again."

"It's understandable," Azriel's gaze softened with empathy as he listened to her words, his thumb gently brushing against the back of her hand. She felt a shiver run down her spine at the contact, warmth spreading from his touch, "The things you've been through – you’ve come out of them a new, stronger person."

"But what if I never find my way back?"

Azriel's gaze softened, a flicker of emotion dancing in the depths of his eyes as he met her gaze. His thumb continued to trace soothing circles on the back of her hand.

"Then you will never be alone, Anastasia," he murmured, and there was something about the way he said her name that had heat rushing to her skin, "No matter what happens, you'll always have a home with us."

-x-

For once, Anastasia had arrived at training early.

She looked out at the empty training grounds, the predawn light casting long shadows across the space. The crisp morning air filled her lungs as she stepped onto the familiar grounds, the scent of dew-covered grass waking up her sleep-dulled senses.

She hadn't been able to sleep the night before – much like most of her nights since returning from Windhaven. But as she lay in her bed, watching the shadows dance along her wall, she thought she might as well make the most of it.

She found a patch of grass near the back corner of the training ring, unfolding the small blanket she'd carried with her from her bedroom. It wasn't a mat, but it would do for now.

And maybe… just maybe, this would relax her.

With a deep breath, Anastasia closed her eyes and began to move, her body flowing seamlessly from one pose to the next. She stretched her arms overhead, reaching for the sky as if trying to grasp the waking sun. Then, she folded forward, her fingertips grazing the ground as she melted into a forward bend, surrendering to the pull of gravity.

As she flowed through her practice, Anastasia felt the tension in her muscles gradually dissolve. She hadn't done this in a while – she missed the sense of calm that it brought her.

Lost in her movements, Anastasia didn't notice Cassian's approach until he was standing just a few feet away, his imposing figure silhouetted against the rising sun.

Startled, Anastasia paused mid-pose, her heart pounding in her chest as she turned to face him. "Oh, uh, good morning, Cassian," she replied, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"What are you doing?" The massive Illyrian asked by way of greeting, cocking his head to the side.

If her cheeks could have turned even redder in that moment, they would have.

Anastasia blinked, momentarily taken aback by his question.

"Oh, uh, it's called yoga," she explained, her voice hesitant as she struggled to find the right words. "It's, well, it's something that I used to do back home... A way to exercise before I went to work most afternoons."

Cassian's confusion only seemed to deepen at her explanation. "Exercise, huh?" he repeated, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "Looks more like you're trying to twist yourself into a pretzel."

Anastasia rolled her eyes playfully. "It's supposed to help with flexibility, balance, and relaxation – at least, according to my instructor back home. It usually just helps to calm me down, though."

Cassian's smirk softened into a thoughtful expression as he considered her words. "Flexibility, huh?" he mused, his gaze drifting back to Anastasia. "That could be useful in your defense training. Being able to move freely and swiftly gives you an edge."

"It probably could," Anastasia looked at Cassian skeptically. Where could he be going with this?

Cassian's lips curled into a grin as he stepped closer to her. "Well then, show me some of these moves," he said, gesturing for her to continue.

A flush appeared on Anastasia's cheeks as she hesitantly stepped back onto her makeshift mat, aware that someone would be watching and critiquing her movements. She demonstrated each pose with precision, explaining the mechanics behind some of them as she continued with the sequence.

Cassian watched closely, his eyes tracking her every movement with keen interest. As Anastasia guided him through the poses, he followed along with surprising agility. Although, as Anastasia thought about it, it probably shouldn’t have surprised her too much. He was a trained warrior after all.

As Anastasia finished guiding Cassian through the yoga sequence, she couldn't help but notice the threads of magic weaving around them, brighter and more vibrant as she concentrated on her movements. She brushed it off, focusing instead on Cassian's form and ensuring he followed the poses correctly. She relished those moments when she was able to correct him on his form, for once.

Just as Anastasia was contemplating that she finally had something that she was better at than the lumbering Illyrian, Cassian caught sight of Anastasia's slightly wobbly warrior pose. "Careful there, Anastasia," he joked, a playful glint in his eyes. "Didn't you say that this was supposed to make you more graceful? Not less?"

Anastasia shot him a mock glare, her lips curling into a playful smile. "Oh, hush," she retorted. "I'd like to see you do better."

Before Cassian could respond, Azriel's voice cut through the air, his presence announced by the soft rustle of his wings. "What's going on here?" he asked, his tone curious but tinged with amusement.

Anastasia turned to see Azriel standing a few feet away, his expression one of mild curiosity as he observed their interaction. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks, embarrassed to once again be caught doing yoga by a highly skilled warrior, but she couldn't deny the rush of warmth she felt at seeing her friend.

"Just showing Cassian some yoga," she explained, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach. "Trying to convince him it's not as easy as it looks."

After a momentary look of confusion at her explanation, Azriel's lips quirked up in a smirk as he stepped closer to them, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, I hate to break it to you, Cassian," he teased, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "but I think that Anastasia had you beat on this one."

Cassian chuckled at Azriel's jest, shooting Anastasia a playful wink before turning his attention back to Azriel. "You're just jealous because you can't touch your toes," he shot back, his tone light but teasing.

Anastasia laughed at the jabs between brothers, the sound ringing out in the quiet of the training ground. But as she glanced at Azriel, catching the soft smile playing at his lips, she felt a rush of something more than just amusement. And for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes.

But before she could dwell on the moment any longer, Cassian's laughter broke through the silence, pulling her back to the present.

-x-

"You've made a lot of progress, girl."

Anastasia couldn’t help the swell of pride at Amren's words – praise from the ancient female was few and far between. She'd been able to clear her mind, and the threads had become visible almost instantly. It was a far cry from where she was only a few short days ago; she was able to do it on command now, and it no longer exhausted her.

"But in order for you to have complete control over your power, you will need to be able to differentiate between them all." Amren continued, and Anastasia deflated a little at her words. Of course, it was never going to be simple praise from Amren. "Tell me, what do these threads look like?"

Anastasia focused on the threads of magic before her.

"Shimmering," Anastasia began, her voice hesitant as she struggled to find the right words. "Silver? Some are stronger than others… more vibrant."

"Be more specific, girl," Amren demanded before she could continue, her tone sharp and commanding. "Confusing threads could mean the difference between life and death."

Anastasia focused intently on the threads before her, trying to figure out what distinguished each one from the other. Now that she was able to conjure them whenever she wanted, she was taken aback by how many there were. Everywhere she looked there were tiny threads, attached to inanimate objects… and to people. It took her a few moments before she was able to speak up, "Some of them look... smooth, like silk."

"And others?"

"Rough. It looks coarse, almost like sandpaper…" she said slowly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "And there are some that almost look like smoke…"

They spent their afternoon that way, with Anastasia differentiating between the threads, tentatively reaching out to see what they might do. But as the day carried on, Anastasia's gaze was drawn to an unusual thread, unlike one that she had encountered before. It was darker than the others, a deep, midnight blue.

As she reached out tentatively towards it, Anastasia felt a shiver run down her spine, a primal instinct urging her to tread cautiously. But despite the warning bells ringing in her mind, she couldn't resist the urge to touch it.

Her fingers brushed against the thread, and she recoiled instinctively at the sensation it elicited. It was cold to the touch, colder than ice, sending a chill racing through her veins. But beneath the surface, she could feel something else – a coarseness, like rough-hewn stone worn smooth by the passage of time.

"What do you think you're doing?" Amren's tone was sharp, her eyes flashing with a warning glare.

And then, she realized - this wasn't just any thread – it was Amren's.

Anastasia recoiled slightly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice wavering. "I just... I noticed something different about your thread."

Amren's expression softened slightly, a hint of curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Is that so?" she replied, her tone guarded. "And what exactly did you notice?"

Anastasia hesitated, unsure of how to put her observations into words. "It's... it's hard to explain," she admitted, her voice trailing off.

Amren's gaze bore into her, as if searching for any hint of deception. "You would do well to focus on your own training, girl," she said, her tone firm but not unkind.

Yes, pet. An all too familiar voice, one that she hadn't heard in a while, taunted her. The ancient one is almost as dangerous as me.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as the voice echoed in her mind, sending a shiver down her spine. She had worked so hard to build up those mental shields – she reached out, only to realize that the walls of her mind had been let down. How could she let herself get so careless? Even now, she could hear the echo of his taunting laughter in her mind…

She slammed down her mental shields with all the strength she could muster, trying to block out the insidious voice... But the damage had been done, and she could feel the tendrils of doubt and fear creeping into her mind like creeping shadows.

Chapter Text

Anastasia needed a drink.

She needed something to numb the sense of unease that gnawed at her insides after Amren had dismissed her for the night. She should be at dinner - no doubt there was a place set at the table for her. But instead of turning down the corridor to the dining room, where she could already hear Cassian's barking laugh, she dipped into the secluded kitchen.

It was empty, and the only sound was the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth in the corner. Anastasia made a beeline for the wine cabinet, her fingers trembling as she reached for a bottle of red. She poured herself a generous glass, the rich aroma of the wine filling the air around her. She took a sip, expecting to find a little warmth and a little something to take the edge off her already fraying nerves.

But, as the wine glided down her throat with a little too much ease, it did nothing to quell the anxiety raging inside her.

With a frustrated sigh, Anastasia sank onto a wooden stool, her head resting heavily on the butcher block countertop. She closed her eyes, checking to make sure that her mental shields were still intact for what was perhaps the third time since she had heard Cian's taunting voice.

How could she have been so stupid?

She'd thought she'd been doing good – she thought she had been making progress with her magic. But how long had her shields been down? Feyre had explained the importance of mental shields – for protecting her own mind, but also for protecting everyone else. But she had been careless, letting herself think that she was safe.

Anastasia took another swig of wine, downing the entirety of the glass in one gulp. Without hesitation, she refilled it almost immediately, the crimson liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass.

As she sat there, lost in her own thoughts, a plate of soft cheese and cold meats appeared in front of her, seemingly out of nowhere. The magic of the House must have been looking out for her, fussing over her like a mother hen. She wasn't hungry, not really, but she took a few nibbles to appease the enchanted House. If she hadn't, Anastasia would assume that more and more plates would appear in front of her until she finally took a bite.

The wine flowed freely now; the bottle nearly empty as she continued to drown her anxiety.  She could feel the warmth from the wine flow through her now and with each sip, the world seemed to blur around her - the edges of her vision growing hazy and indistinct. Her unease was beginning to ebb away, but she routinely felt out for her mental shields, fearing that they might have slipped again due to her own carelessness.  

And then, just as she was starting to lose herself in the haziness of the wine, the sound of footsteps echoed through the kitchen, drawing her back to the present. She looked up groggily to see Azriel standing in the doorway, concern etched into the lines of his face.

"What are you doing here by yourself?" he asked, worry evident in his tone. "You didn’t want to come to dinner?"

Anastasia didn't immediately answer, instead letting out a weary sigh as she took another swig of wine. The alcohol had begun to take its toll, the room spinning lazily around her.

"Liquiddinner," she finally managed to reply, her words slurring slightly as she spoke. "I'm sorry I missed dinner."

Azriel's expression softened at her words. Without hesitation, he crossed the room and took a seat beside her. Oh – she could feel the warmth he radiated from his seat at the stool beside her. It took all her willpower not to lean into it.

"Besizes," She slurred, taking a piece of cheese from the plate that had been put in front of her and popped it into her mouth, "The House made sure I got something to eat."

In her slightly – well, maybe more than slightly - inebriated state, she turned to Azriel with a lopsided grin.

"Hey, you want some?" she offered, gesturing toward the assortment of food with a carefree wave of her hand. There had been so much that the House put in front of her, and it would be rude not to share.

Azriel's eyes widened in surprise, and he all but choked on his words before shaking his head quickly. "Uh, no, thank you," he replied, his voice strained as he fought to regain his usually stoic demeanor.

Anastasia shrugged nonchalantly and reached for another piece of cheese, popping it into her mouth with a contented sigh. But as she reached for her wine glass once more, Azriel's gaze followed the movement; he had seemingly overcome his earlier surprise, and the look on his face was now one of worry.

Azriel's concern deepened as he watched Anastasia, his brows furrowing with worry. "What's wrong?" he asked again, his voice gentle but insistent.

"Does something have to be wrong?" She asked, feigning ignorance. "Where I'm from, wine and cheese is a perfectly acceptable meal."

The look that Azriel shot her told Anastasia that he didn't buy it for one second.

Anastasia hesitated for a moment before setting the glass down in front of her. There was a part of her that wanted to keep it all to herself - avoid burdening Azriel. She'd been dealing with Cian on her own for months now, surely it wouldn't kill her to keep it to herself. But another part of her knew that secrets had only ever led to trouble in Prythian, and she couldn't bear the thought of keeping him in the dark.

"I heard him again," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She ignored the furrow of Azriel's brow at the mention of him as she continued, "In my mind. I thought it was getting better… I hadn't heard him in a while."

"You did?" Azriel's expression softened, a sympathetic look in his eyes as he reached out to gently squeeze her hand.

Anastasia nodded, her throat tightening with emotion. "I've been trying so hard to just block him out," she admitted, her voice trembling with frustration. "I thought I had my shield up. I just don't know how to do it all the time."

"No one expects you to do it all. You've been practicing your shields." he said softly, gently squeezing her hand. "You're doing the best you can, and you're getting better with your magic every day – I've seen it."

Anastasia felt a tightening in her chest at his words. She had spent so long feeling isolated and alone, bearing the weight of her magic, of Cian, in silence. It felt good to have someone in her corner.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "For everything."

"Your shields are up now," he continued, giving her hand another reassuring squeeze. "And I'll do everything in my power to protect you."

Anastasia felt a lump form in her throat at his words, overwhelmed by the events of the day – and the depth of his kindness and compassion. As her own gaze met his hazel eyes – God, they really were pretty, weren't they? -  she felt a familiar tug in her chest. There was a flutter of muscle in his jaw, and Anastasia felt her mouth go dry. Despite the haze of alcohol clouding her senses, she was acutely aware of the warmth of his hand in hers.

With each passing second, the space between them seemed to narrow. And as she leaned forward, closing the distance between them, she felt a surge of anticipation coursing through her veins. And in that moment, fueled by a potent mixture of emotion and alcohol, she learned forward, closing the distance between them. Hazel eyes widened a fraction just before her lips brushed against his in a clumsy attempt at a kiss.

But as quickly as the moment had come, it was over. Azriel pulled back gently, his hands coming up to cup her face. "Anastasia," he murmured, although there was something tight – something primal -  in his voice, "You're drunk."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. "I shouldn't have—"

But Azriel cut her off with a gentle shake of his head.  "It's not that," he began, his voice tinged with restraint. "But you've had quite a bit to drink tonight."

Anastasia's heart sank, and she couldn't help the humiliating burn on her cheeks as she forced a smile. "It's okay," she replied quickly, shaking her head as she pulled away from him. "You don't have to explain."

But deep down, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was just being kind to her - letting her down gently. How had she completely misread things? She could hear the way he had restrained himself from saying what he truly felt. He was too kind of a male to tell her how that he just wasn't interested. She wouldn't prolong this anymore – wouldn't force him to endure this awkwardness.

"I should probably get going," she mumbled, her words slurred with alcohol. She pushed herself off the stool, the sound of it scraping against the slate floor of the kitchen echoing in the silence. She couldn't bear to meet Azriel's gaze, just knowing that she had ruined things irreparably between them.

He reached out his arm as if to offer her support. "Let me walk you—"

But Anastasia shook her head vehemently, a stubborn streak rising within her despite the haze of alcohol clouding her mind. "No," she insisted, her voice more forceful than before. "I can manage."

Anastasia stumbled slightly as she made her way back to her room, her mind swirling with thoughts of the day's events. First the invasion of Cian into her mind, and now this awkward encounter with Azriel. Had she ruined her friendship with him so completely?

But as she walked, her gaze flickered to the side, catching sight of a small wisp of shadow trailing behind her. It hovered at the edge of her vision, silent and watchful, as if ensuring she made it back to her room safely. She rolled her eyes – she had told him that she would be fine.

Despite the reassurance of its presence, her smile was bittersweet as she closed the door to her room behind her, leaving the shadow out in the hall.

-x-

"Keep your grip firm," Cassian instructed, his voice gruff but encouraging. "And remember to breathe."

Anastasia gritted her teeth as she wielded the heavy wooden sword in her hands, sweat beading on her forehead. Cassian stood before her - his own practice sword raised in a defensive stance. But she nodded, focusing on her breathing as she braced herself for his next strike. With a swift movement, he lunged forward, aiming for her side. Instinctively, she raised the wooden sword to block, feeling the impact reverberate through her arms.

The wooden sword felt heavy in Anastasia's hands, each swing taking a large amount of effort that she just didn't possess at the moment. There was a dull ache in her head, a punishment for the amount of wine she had drank the previous night. But Cassian wouldn't let her take the morning off, insisting that an enemy wouldn't wait until she was feeling better. He was right, she knew – plus, she needed the distraction.

 As she sparred with Cassian, she focused intently on blocking his attacks, her muscles straining with the effort.

But despite her best efforts, Cassian managed to land a solid blow to her arm, causing her to wince in pain.

"Focus, Anastasia," Cassian's voice cut through the haze of discomfort, his tone firm but patient. "You need to be aware of your surroundings at all times."

Anastasia nodded, gritting her teeth against the pain as she forced herself to concentrate. Her arms trembled with exhaustion as she continued to parry Cassian's attack. Cassian was just too large and, despite her best efforts, she couldn't match his strength or speed.

Just as Cassian's wooden sword was about to land another blow, Anastasia's eyes caught sight of something peculiar—a small, transparent thread shimmering in the air. It was barely visible, but as she focused on the thread, she could see it clear as day.

Instinctively, she reached out and gave the thread a tug, her mind racing with the sudden realization of what she could do with it. With a surge of concentration, she wove the thread as quickly as she could, expanding it out until it was much larger in front of her.

Cassian brought the wooden sword down on her, but it met the invisible barrier with a resounding clang, sending shockwaves rippling through the air. Cassian's momentum was abruptly halted, his expression shifting to surprise as he stared at the empty air before him.

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the training ground as Cassian processed what had just happened. Then, a slow grin spread across his face, his eyes alight with pride.

"Well, well, well," he said, his voice dripping with innuendo. "Looks like you've been holding out on me."

She couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips.

"Let's see what else you can do with it," Cassian's gaze fixed behind to something behind her. "Try and extend that shield. Az, come here and stand next to Ana."

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she turned to realize that Azriel had been standing behind her, silently observing their training session. She hadn't even noticed that he was there. A flush of embarrassment tinged her cheeks as she met his gaze, unsure of what he must be thinking after the awkwardness that had happened the night before.

But there was no time to dwell on it now – she would not let him see her embarrassment again. She was determined to pretend that nothing had happened between the two of them. With a determined nod, Anastasia squared her shoulders and focused her attention on extending the shield to Azriel, ignoring the heat that was rising in her cheeks.

With a deep breath, she reached out with her mind, grasping at the thread that swirled around her. She directed her attention towards Azriel, visualizing the transparent shield extending from her towards him. As she pulled the thread in his direction, a shimmering barrier materialized between them, forming just in time to intercept Cassian's charge. The wooden sword met the invisible shield with another resounding clang.

Azriel's eyes widened in surprise as he stared at the spot where Cassian's weapon had been stopped, his mouth agape. He turned to look at Anastasia, a mixture of disbelief and admiration flickering in his gaze. For a moment, silence hung heavy in the training ground.

Then, a slow grin spread across Azriel's face, his eyes alight with approval. "Well done, Anastasia," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "I don't think I've ever seen something like that done before."

Anastasia forced a smile in response, but she could feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her, and heat rushed to her cheeks again. Quickly, she took a step away, her movements almost too hurried as she made a beeline for a nearby waterskin.

As she uncorked the waterskin, she could hear Cassian's lumbering steps approach from behind her. She turned to face him, just as he began to speak. "Impressive," he said, his gaze lingering on Anastasia. "If you can extend that shield even more, it could be incredibly useful."

Anastasia's cheeks flushed with embarrassment once more – this time at the praise - but she couldn't deny the thrill of excitement that coursed through her veins. She'd been so worried about hurting other people – she still saw Kallon's lifeless body whenever she closed her eyes. But she had never before considered the idea that this strange power that she had been saddled with could be used to protect the people that she cared about.

"Just don't tell Amren," She laughed, a playful grin tugging at her lips. "She'll have me making shields for hours if she knew."

With that, Anastasia turned and swiftly gathered her belongings, not bothering to say goodbye to Azriel as she hurried away. The tension between them still lingered in the air, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on what awaited her next.

-x-

"I'm going to head out, Madja." Anastasia called out from the front of the shop.

She let out a weary sigh as she finished packing up her supplies at Madja's. She was bone tired, her muscles aching from the day's work. Cassian had trained her hard this morning, refusing to let her create another shield since she had first conjured it two days ago. He'd insisted she learn how to defend herself without it, and her muscles were screaming from the workout. Madja, too, had kept her busy, performing sutures on a young carpenter that had come to them with a sliced forearm.

"Take care, dear," Madja called out from the back room, her voice filled with warmth despite the gruff exterior. "Will I see you early again tomorrow?"

"Probably," Anastasia replied with a tired smile. She was using any excuse to get out of the House, asking Cassian to fly her down to the healers almost as soon as they had finished their training. Cassian seemed to pick up on the fact that she was eager to get out of the House, but didn't ask any questions. He only said that he would be there to pick her up mid-afternoon, so as not to interfere with her training with Amren.

She had to wonder just what the small, scary female had in store for her. Amren wasn't known to go easy on Anastasia, and as Anastasia was getting better at differentiating between the types of threads in front of her, Amren had insisted they cautiously start to discern what each type of thread did. It was grueling – and anxiety inducing – work, but slowly but surely Anastasia was building her confidence that she would be able to use her magic without hurting anyone that she cared about.

She pushed open the heavy wooden door that separated the warmth of Madja's from the cool evening air of Velaris.

There, across the street from Madja's storefront, stood Azriel, unexpected and imposing- and waiting for her. Surprise flickered across her face, swiftly followed by a rise of heat in her cheeks. In truth, since that disastrous night when she had a little too much to drink, she'd been avoiding the shadowsinger. She'd willingly extended her lessons with Amren well into the evening, opting to have a late dinner alone in her rooms rather than make awkward conversation in front of Nesta and Cassian. She only said a few words of greeting to him if he stopped by the training grounds. She hadn't wanted to make him feel compelled to feign politeness when she had so clearly embarrassed herself.

"Hey," Azriel said quietly. She could hear him perfectly from across the street though.  "I thought I'd give Cassian a break and take you back today."

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, but then she nodded, grateful for the offer of a ride and the chance to break the awkward silence between them. "Thanks, Az," she replied, her voice a little hoarse from exhaustion. "I appreciate it."

"I hope you don't mind," He began, as she made her way over to him, "I just need to make a quick stop at the River House first."

She only nodded, letting him lead her to the River House in a companionable – if only awkward – silence.

When they arrived at the River House, Anastasia's breath caught in her throat at the sight before her. She'd never seen the River House before, but the grandeur of the manor was breathtaking, its impressive structure softened by the vibrant gardens that surrounded it. It reminded her of the houses she used to read about in her favorite childhood books. The gardens seemed to burst with life, vibrant blooms dancing in the gentle breeze, while the scent of flowers hung heavy in the air.

Azriel led her through the opulent doors and into the grand hall, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. He paused for a moment, turning to her with a small smile. "I'll just be a moment," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "I need to drop something off in Rhys' office. Make yourself at home."

With that, he disappeared down one of the corridors, leaving Anastasia alone in the grand hall. She hesitated for a moment, taking in her surroundings with wide eyes. The hall was spacious and elegant, adorned with paintings of the High Lord's family – and some people that she did not recognize. Voices drifted from one of the far rooms, a murmur of conversation that piqued Anastasia's curiosity.

Steeling herself, she ventured towards the source of the voices. As she drew closer, the voices grew louder, their tones filled with warmth and familiarity. She reached the doorway and peeked inside, despite her better judgement. She caught sight of Nesta and Cassian in the room, their figures illuminated by the soft glow of the afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows. Elain sat nearby, cocooned in a blanket, her gaze fixed on the world outside. Feyre stood protectively beside her; a look of concern etched on her face.

Something was wrong.

Realizing she had stumbled upon a private moment and was intruding, Anastasia quietly backed away, her steps careful and deliberate as she retreated to the safety of the grand hall. It was clear that whatever was going on in that room was not meant for her ears.

Anastasia's attention was drawn to the creak of the front door opening once more, and she turned. Stepping into the grand hall was a tall male with golden brown skin and vibrant red hair. As he approached, she couldn't help but notice the scar that ran down his face, stark against his features, and the gleam of a golden mechanical eye that replaced his left one. Despite the ruggedness of his appearance, there was an air of elegance about him, and Anastasia found herself momentarily captivated.

His brow furrowed slightly as his gaze met hers, but he approached with a polite smile, extending a hand towards her. "I don't believe we have met," he said, his voice smooth and rich with warmth.

"Hi," she replied, her voice tinged with nervousness. "I'm Anastasia."

The male bowed gracefully at the waist, a gesture of formality that caught her off guard. She hadn't been aware that people had still done that – certainly no one in Velaris had ever been that formal.

"Lucien," A voice from the back end of the hall called out. Anastasia turned to see Nesta, her face its usual mask of cool indifference, making their way towards them.

The male, Lucien, inclined his head in return, his gaze flickering between Nesta and Anastasia with curiosity. "Nesta," he replied, his voice calm but tinged with caution.

Before the male could saying anything further, Nesta continued, her words cutting through the tension that hung in the air. "Everyone is inside," she stated firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Anastasia observed the interaction between Lucien and Nesta, sensing an undercurrent of tension in the air.

"And Elain?" Lucien inquired; his tone soft yet tinged with urgency.

Nesta's scowl deepened at the mention of her sister's name. "Yes," she replied curtly. "She's there too."

Anastasia watched as Lucien gave her a small, respectful bow before pivoting on his heel and striding purposefully towards the back room. There was something in his demeanor that left Anastasia with a lingering sense of curiosity – especially after the cool welcome that Nesta had just given him.

As Lucien disappeared from view, Anastasia couldn't help but turn to Nesta, her brow furrowing with confusion. "Who was that?" she asked, her voice low and cautious – as if the male who had disappeared behind the doors would be able to hear.

Nesta's expression hardened at the question, her features contorting into a scowl as she uttered the name with disdain. "Lucien," she replied curtly. "He's Elain's mate."

Mate. Anastasia had heard that term before when she had healed the male with the dislocated shoulder. It felt like ages ago, but she wouldn't forget the surprise she had felt when the female accompanying him stared daggers at her. She hadn't given it too much thought back then, even when Madja had tried to explain, but she had to admit that her curiosity was piqued now – especially after Nesta's response, "What does that mean?"

"A mate is supposed to be a Fae's equal—the Mother's choice for them," Nesta replied, the bitterness that was evident in her tone earlier now ebbing away, and becoming softer. She looked at Anastasia, as if watching for her reaction to the explanation. "It's a bond that, if accepted, is stronger than anything."

Anastasia nodded slowly, but she had to admit that it was something difficult for her to wrap her mind around. Talk of true love and soulmates sounded like they belonged in fairy tales, rather than the real world. But then, Anastasia supposed, magical thread weaving powers also belonged in the realm of fantasy books.

And, yet, here she was.

Nesta's expression softened slightly at Anastasia's bewilderment, a glimmer of empathy in her eyes. "Feyre and Rhysand are mates," she continued, her voice taking on a much softer tone as she said, "And Cassian and I."

Anastasia thought about the High Lord and Lady – she thought of the interactions she had seen between the two of them. They did seem to have a bond that was much deeper than the married couples Anastasia knew from back home. It did make sense…

"And Elain and this... Lucien?" Anastasia ventured cautiously, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Nesta's lips tightened into a thin line. "Yes," she replied tersely, and Anastasia knew that she had broached into dangerous territory. If anything, she'd venture to guess, the situation was more than just a little complicated.

"You don't like him?"

"I don't like the fact that my sister is trapped in a bond she does not want," Nesta's gaze darkened, her features hardening with resentment. "She has yet to reject the bond. I think she might be frightened to do so."

Anastasia considered Nesta's words – and her heart went out to Elain. She couldn't imagine the idea of being trapped like that – beholden to someone that she didn't want. Nothing like that existed where Anastasia was from, and having been human, it was a concept that she found hard to wrap her head around. If she were in Elain's shoes, she didn't know if she would want that bond either…

"Bonds can be rejected?"

Nesta regarded Anastasia with a scrutinizing gaze, her expression unreadable as she weighed her words carefully. There was a moment of silence as she seemed to deliberate her response, her gaze narrowing as if searching for something in Anastasia's expression.

"Yes," Nesta confirmed, her tone grave. "But I have heard it can be quite…devastating for both parties."

Anastasia's thoughts drifted to the image of Elain, the soft-spoken and gentle-hearted sister she had come to know, and the polite male she had just met. A pang of empathy gripped her heart at the thought of the two of them entangled in a bond neither had chosen, and she couldn't help but feel a surge of sadness for the both of them.

"So why did he come here?" she pressed further, her voice tinged with skepticism. "If Elain doesn't want the bond?"

"Elain has been having more troublesome visions of late," Nesta let out a weary sigh, her frustration and worry palpable. "Rhysand thought that having Lucien nearby might help her out—calm her down. Madja seemed to agree with him on that."

Anastasia raised her brows – she hadn't realized that her mentor had been treating Elain, or the Madja had been in the habit of keeping things from her.

The sound of raised voices rippled through the air, interrupting her thoughts, and both Anastasia and Nesta turned towards the source. It was coming from the room where everyone else had gathered. Her heart rate quickened as she exchanged a quick glance with Nesta. Without hesitation, Nesta took off in the direction of the disturbance, her steps purposeful and determined. She could see Azriel and Rhysand, emerging from the top of the staircase, quickly descend and make their way to everyone else.

Anastasia followed closely behind.

As they entered, Anastasia's eyes scanned the scene before her. Elain stood at the center of the room, surrounded by both Feyre and now Lucien. Feyre's arm was draped around Elain's, holding the female steady. But Elain didn't seem to register any of the concern; her eyes remained distant and unfocused, as if she were staring off at something in the distance.

Anastasia approached cautiously; her gaze fixed on Elain as she listened intently to the cryptic words that spilled from her lips.

"I see... his lake, he has it…his black box, surrounded by a tangle of shattered threads," Elain murmured, her voice carrying an otherworldly resonance as she struggled to decipher the meaning behind her visions. "He is searching for it, seeking the one who can retrieve it for him. He calls out to her, telling her to find it."

Anastasia felt her blood run cold.

The room fell into a tense silence as Elain's words hung in the air, their meaning veiled in mystery. Feyre's voice broke the silence, her tone soft but laced with concern for her sister. "Find what?" she inquired; her gaze fixed on Elain with unwavering intensity.

"His Death."

Chapter Text

“Find what?”

“His Death.”

The room seemed to constrict around Anastasia, suffocating her as if the air had been sucked out. Her gaze locked onto Elain's, finding a reflection of her own rising anxiety in the middle Archeron sister's eyes. As the reality of her vision began to sink in, there was no masking the horror on Elain's face. Anastasia felt a pang of sympathy for her, but her own mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear.

She knew who Elain was referring to.

Her.

And Cian.

The few beats of silence allowed Elain's words to settle over the rest of Rhysand's court, but Anastasia's heart was already racing. Instinctively, she checked her mental shields, letting out a soft breath of relief when she realized they were still intact. They hadn't fallen this time – Cian wouldn't be able to see into her mind. But the momentary relief did nothing to ebb the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, heightening her senses to the chaos that began erupting around her as they processed what Elain had just said.

They seemed to react to the vision, as if they knew who or what Elain had been referring to – and it was enough to cause them all to panic.

"Did she say threads?"

"—mentioned the box before –"

Anastasia's eyes darted from face to face, trying to make sense of the fragmented snippets of conversation that filled the room. It was like the rest of them were competing to be heard, to voice their own explanations of Elain's visions. She struggled to piece together the disjointed puzzle of words.

"--it has to be him –"

"Would Vassa know anything?"

"—would he even know about her?"

The barrage of questions bombarded her from all sides, each one adding another layer to the tension that coiled in her chest. Anastasia couldn't make sense of any of it. She felt a wave of panic rising within her, threatening to overwhelm her senses as the room descended into chaos. She inhaled sharply, letting the breath out in a controlled exhale.

But before she could calm herself, the room erupted into motion. Nesta rushed past her in a blur, her movements frantic and urgent as she rushed to her younger sister's side. Feyre moved to her mate, but the High Lord looked strangely at Elain.

"Elain," Rhysand continued, his tone measured, "can you tell us anything more about this vision?"

The room fell into a tense silence as everyone's gaze fell once more on Elain.

But the middle Archeron sister only shook her head, her eyes still wide with lingering fear. "It was just flashes, but... it was clear. The threads, the box, and... death."

The High Lord nodded tersely before his gaze flickered to Azriel. It remained there for a few long moments, as if Rhysand were having one of his silent conversations.

She was sure that he, in fact, was. And that knowledge only caused the knot forming in her stomach to coil even tighter.  

"Come on," As Anastasia felt the gentle tug on her arm, she instinctively leaned into Azriel's comforting presence. His touch was warm and reassuring, and she was grateful that, despite the disaster a few days ago, he was here with her now. "I promised you a way back to the House."

With a grateful glance up at him, she allowed herself to be guided toward the door. Azriel's hands settled at her waist and his touch was steady and sure.

But she could already hear the hushed tones from behind her as they moved toward the door, and Anastasia's felt her resolve harden. Whatever plan they were going to create – whatever conversation they were about to have – was about Cian. And that would undoubtedly affect her in some way. She'd agreed to the training that Rhysand had all but forced her into, and she wasn't going to sit this one out. She deserved to hear what they had to say.

Why should she have to leave?

With a determined halt, she pulled away from Azriel's gentle guidance, her gaze locking with his for a brief moment before she spoke up.

"I need to stay," she insisted, her voice cutting through the clamor of voices around her. She was looking directly at the male in front of her – but her voice was loud enough to carry through the rest of the room. "This is about me, isn't it?"

A momentary hush fell over the room and her words seemed to hang in the air, with all eyes turning toward her as if seeing her in a new light. She could hear the rush of blood in her ears as she realized that she had dared to challenge what was undoubtedly an order to remove her from the High Lord.

"I have a right to know what's going on." She insisted, feeling her voice become stronger. She looked at the others in the room, refusing to back down from their scrutiny. She wasn't going to let the rest of them make decisions for her any longer.

Anastasia's heart raced as a hand gently enveloped her own, the warmth of Azriel's touch sending a comforting shiver down her spine. She turned to find him beside her, his hazel eyes meeting hers with silent reassurance.  In that moment, a rush of relief washed over her, and she found the courage to turn back to the rest of the Inner Circle.

Anastasia felt the weight of violet eyes on her, and she slowly lifted her gaze to meet the piercing stare of the High Lord. Rhysand's expression was inscrutable, his features etched with a mixture of both curiosity and concern. His voice cut through the tense silence as he took a deliberate step toward her, his movements calculated and deliberate. "This male that is in your head – who is he, exactly?"

Anastasia hesitated, her mind racing as she struggled to find the right words. There would be no more lies – no more half-truths.

"I don't really know," she admitted, her voice betraying her uncertainty. It wasn't a lie – she truly had no idea who the voice inside her head was. She had tried to explain Cian once to them already, but it was apparently wholly inadequate. She could feel the weight of everyone's gaze bearing down on her, intensifying her anxiety. "He's never actually explained – he was just always there."

"Did he give you a name?" Rhysand pressed.

"Cian," Anastasia replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

A ripple of tension spread through the room at the mention of the unfamiliar name. All eyes turned to Amren, in silent expectation as if the most ancient one in the room might be able to identify the male voice. But as Amren shook her head, her furrowed brow betraying her lack of insight, Anastasia's anxiety only deepened. If even Amren couldn't identify the strange voice in her mind, then who—or what—was Cian?

Anastasia felt a pang of frustration at the lack of answers, her brows knitting together. "I don't think it's his real name," she offered as she shifted uneasily on her feet, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. "He basically said as much when I first arrived."

It wasn't exactly helpful, but Anastasia felt like they needed to know her suspicion. 

"Do you think that this could be Koschei?"  It was Lucien's voice that broke through the uneasy silence, drawing all eyes to the red-headed male who had been observing from his spot in the periphery. With measured steps, he moved toward the center of the room, his hands folded behind his back as he addressed the group, "We already know that he has manipulated females before to get what he wants."

Anastasia felt a shiver race down her spine at the mention of the ominous name – as if she knew instinctually to be frightened of it, even if she had never heard it before. With a swallow, she leaned forward, her brow furrowing with confusion as she asked, "Wait, who's Koschei?"

Rhysand's gaze flickered briefly to Feyre before returning to Anastasia, his expression. "Koschei is an ancient and powerful being," he began, his voice low but carrying a weight of seriousness – even a little fear. "He's... dangerous."

Feyre nodded, her expression grave. "He's been a threat for… well, I'm not sure anyone knows for how long. He's known to manipulate women and keep them imprisoned on his lake. If he's involved, we need to tread carefully."

"Well, that's putting it lightly." She heard Cassian mumble from the corner.

Anastasia's mind raced with questions, "And what about Cian? Wasn't he the one we were worried about?"

Feyre's expression tightened at the mention of Cian's name, her brows knitting together as she exchanged a meaningful glance with Rhysand. "If Lucien's theory is correct, then Cian is Koschei."

The Night Court collects powerful females, Cian had once warned her. He'd manipulated her into distrusting them all for so long. But… if what they were saying in her head was true, was he the one who collected powerful females? The whole time he'd been using her.

Anastasia felt a tremor of unease ripple through her as Feyre's words sank in, her mind racing to process the revelation. It made sense, didn't it? Cian had been in her mind the whole time, manipulating her. He'd been in her dreams…

With a hesitant voice, she spoke up amidst the tense silence of the room. "One of the things Cian has been saying in my head is to find it," she confessed, her voice quivering slightly as she thought about her nightmares of Illyria. "I... I don't know what he means by it, but it's like a constant command."

Feyre's brows furrowed in thought, and she exchanged a concerned glance with Rhysand. "Find what?" she pressed, her voice gentle but insistent.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, shaking her head slightly. "But... but could it be the black box Elain mentioned?"

The mention of the black box seemed to catch everyone's attention, and the room fell into a heavy silence as they contemplated the possibility. It was as if a weight hung in the air, pressing down on them.

Lucien's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, his words laden with a mixture of urgency and hope. "If Elain is correct," he began, his voice catching slightly on his mate's name, "then this box contains the way to defeat Koschei... potentially reversing the curse on Vassa."

His revelation hung heavy in the air, each word sinking in with a weight that left them all silent. She looked from face to face then, gauging everyone's reactions. She didn't know who this Vassa was, but everyone else seemed to understand, and Elain sucked in a breath. But the more that Anastasia thought about it… Well, she had wanted to find a way to permanently get rid of the strange voice in her head. The mere possibility of freeing herself forever from Cian – and if it helped out the others as well – had her determined to do whatever it took to take on this Koschei.

Amren, ever the voice of reason, broke the silence with a firm declaration. "If that's the case," she stated, her tone leaving no room for doubt, "we need to find it."

-x-

The training ground was alive with the sound of wood hitting wood and heavy breathing as Anastasia faced off against Azriel, their practice swords meeting in a flurry of strikes and parries. Sweat dripped down her brow, stinging her eyes as she tried to fend off the assault. Cassian watched from the sidelines, his keen eyes tracking every movement.

"Watch your footwork, Anastasia!" Cassian's voice cut through the air as Anastasia and Azriel sparred, "Keep your stance wide, and don't overextend!"

Anastasia gritted her teeth as she deflected another blow from Azriel, her muscles straining with the effort. There was a gleam in Azriel's eyes, like he enjoyed this. Somehow, despite the intensity of their training, he managed to look entirely nonplussed, as if the rigor of it was nothing to him. But he was most certainly not going easy on her – her muscles ached from the near constant assault from the shadowsinger. She resented him for that, and couldn't help the small, feral growl that escaped her lips as she tried to put some distance between them.

Azriel laughed at that, before lunging toward her again.

A quiet understanding – and a new sense of camaraderie - had developed between them over the last few days. Anastasia was done avoiding Azriel after her disastrous attempt at a kiss a few nights ago, but she was content to pretend that it never happened. After that day in the River House, she wasn't able to avoid him anyway as they dove head first into the plans to take down Cian.

Or Koschei.

Or whoever the hell he was.

She tried to push the thoughts of Cian from her mind, instead focusing on Cassian's words. She adjusted her stance to maintain her balance. She could feel the strain in her arms and legs, but she refused to let it show – somehow she knew that Azriel would only use it against her. She adjusted her strategy, waiting for Azriel to make another move before countering with a swift strike of her own.

Despite the physical exertion – and the fact that Azriel was still running circles around her - there was no doubt Anastasias mind that she was stronger now. She was still working on her technique, and she was nowhere near as strong as a seasoned warrior like Cassian, but she was able to hold her own against an attack. She was no longer the timid girl who had arrived in the Night Court months ago.

And amidst the chaos of training, amidst the sweat and the strain, Anastasia's senses remained sharp, the threads of magic shimmering faintly in the air around her. They no longer disappeared as her senses became overwhelmed, and she could conjure them, use them, on demand. She was always admonished when she used them during training, though. Cassian insisted that she learn how to defend herself without the use of magic – in case she had ever exhausted her power.

And since that day at the River House – since that day that they planned to locate that black box – Cassian and Azriel had been training her like she would see combat sooner rather than later.

Suddenly, she sensed Azriel's position shift – his center of gravity lowered infinitesimally. She'd seen the move enough to know now that he was about to charge at her. She let him move towards her. Reacting on instinct, she spun out of the way at the last moment, narrowly avoiding his attack. But Azriel's reflexes were just as sharp as hers, and he managed to catch her arm, pulling her off balance.

Anastasia's heart raced as she stumbled forward, her momentum carrying her directly into Azriel's path. With a sharp intake of breath, she braced herself for the impact, but before she could react, the two of them collided, tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

For a moment, they lay there in stunned silence, their bodies pressed together. Anastasia could feel the heat radiating from Azriel's skin, the rhythmic beat of his heart echoing against her chest.

Anastasia's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she gazed down at Azriel beneath her. And then she felt it—that same, strange tug in her chest. And for a moment, she had to remember to breathe. It was a sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced, a primal urge that left her breathless and dizzy with desire.

But as quickly as it had begun, the moment passed, reality crashing back down around them with startling clarity. With a shaky breath, Anastasia quickly pushed herself up off of Azriel, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she avoided his gaze.

"Sorry," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to—"

Azriel's hand reached out to touch her cheek, his touch gentle but firm as he met her gaze with a reassuring smile. "It's alright," he said softly, although there was something tight in his voice, like he was holding himself back from saying something else. "It just happens with training, right?"

God, this was mortifying.

Anastasia nodded, her heart still racing in her chest as she struggled to regain her composure, gently shaking his hand away. But even as she tried to shake off the lingering effects of their collision, she couldn't ignore the heat that seemed to spread through her at the contact.

So much for pretending nothing had happened.

As Anastasia scrambled to her feet, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Cassian's laughter filled the air.

"Careful there, Anastasia," he quipped, his voice light but teasing. "Watch where you're stepping."

Anastasia rolled her eyes at the teasing, her heart still pounding from the unexpected tumble. "Yeah, noted," she replied, her voice slightly breathless as she shot Cassian an annoyed glance. How much did he know? Had Azriel told him about that disastrous night in the kitchen? She knew they were like brothers, after all.

But as she glanced at Azriel, she caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips. And she knew that he wouldn't do that. The shadowsinger was a male who kept things to himself – he wouldn't share her shame either. Despite her embarrassment, a warmth spread through her chest at the sight.

With a subtle nod, Azriel gestured for them to continue, and Anastasia squared her shoulders, determined not to let anything distract her from the task at hand.

After another hour of non-stop sparring, Anastasia's hands trembled slightly as she wiped the sweat from her brow, her muscles still thrumming with the exertion of their training session. She dug her waterskin from her pile of things at the edge of the training ring, uncorking it and lifting it to her mouth. She was still drinking from it, greedily, when she heard near silent footsteps approaching from behind her.

She turned to see Azriel approaching, "You did well today."

She would have flushed from the compliment if her skin wasn't already heated from exertion already. She pulled the waterskin from her lips as she mumbled her thanks. But she couldn't help, despite the compliment, the wave of self-doubt that creeped up on her.

"What if I can't do it?" she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. "What if it comes down to it, and I'm just not strong enough to get the box? What if it's all for nothing?"

She hadn't meant to say it – to voice her self-doubt out loud when so much of their plan was dependent on Anastasia being able to successfully use her power to get the box out of wherever it was hidden.  But she knew, somehow, that Azriel wouldn't judge her for it.

"You've come so far, Anastasia," Azriel's gaze softened as he reached out to gently grasp her shoulder. She tried to ignore the way her skin lit up underneath his palm, "I've seen the progress you've made – with both Cassian and with your magic. I have no doubt that you will be able to do it."

"But how can you be so sure?"

"Because you're a survivor, Anastasia." Azriel gave her shoulder a tender squeeze, "Since coming here, you've been through so much, and still found a way to do good while you are here. You used your magic, even when you didn't know what it was, to save lives. You found a way to make the magic work for you – and you'll do it again."

She didn't know what to say, so she offered him a smile.

"And remember, you won't be alone," He grinned, "I'll be right there beside you."

She had to admit that she was grateful that in their planning, it had been decided that Azriel would be the one to go with her back to the Illyrian mountains. It made perfect sense: they needed to retrieve the box without rousing suspicion from either the Illyrians or Cian himself. The shadowsinger was the perfect person to make sure they were not seen.

But she also trusted Azriel implicitly.

Their eyes met, a brief spark seemed to ignite between them, the air thick something unspoken between them. She couldn't quite name it but in that moment, Anastasia felt a warmth spread through her chest.

With a soft smile, Azriel reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Anastasia's face, "We'll get through this together."

Chapter Text

The air around them seemed to shimmer as they stepped out of Azriel's shadows, arriving in a clearing nestled amidst the rugged peaks of the Illyrian mountains. Anastasia couldn't help but shiver as a chill breeze swept through the crisp mountain air, sending a shudder down her spine.

Azriel glanced around, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings as he took in their new location. "Is this where you think it is?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

Anastasia nodded, her gaze fixed on the dense forest that stretched out before them and shuddered at the familiarity of it all. "Yes," she replied, trying to keep her voice as steady as possible. She wasn't about to let Azriel know just how nervous she was. "I recognize that spot… right there."

She pointed at a tree a few yards away, the trunk of it still stained a deep red. Anastasia inhaled – someone had moved Kallon's body from the spot where it had fallen just below the tree. But that moment had been burned into her memory – she knew that they were in the right spot.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the rising tide of emotions that this place conjured inside of her. "It might be weird to say… but I can feel it," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's like... like a pull in my gut..."

She felt a little saying it, but even as she spoke, Anastasia could feel the strange sensation washing over her, something pulling at her magic – begging to be found. Find it. She shuddered, the order that Cian had given had never felt more real. But now that she was here, now that she was actively searching for the strange cavern to the heart of the mountain, it was like she couldn't resist the strange pull.

They moved under the cloak of night, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves that blanketed the forest floor. They had wanted to stay hidden from the nearby Illyrian camps. While Cassian had assured them both that Windhaven was still licking its wounds from the attack by the rogue band, the last thing that they had wanted to do was draw any attention to themselves. And so, by the silver light of the moon, they walked silently.

Anastasia's magic left her able to sense the black box – it was calling to her even now – and so Azriel followed her lead. Every so often, he signaled for her to stop – a low whistle that could almost be mistaken for a bird call. It was those moments that she could feel the cool touch of his shadows, silently venturing out past her to make sure that the way ahead was clear.

"There are worse things in these woods at night than Illyrians," Azriel cautioned, his voice barely above a whisper as they pressed onward, "Even creatures that most magic – even my shadows – cannot sense."

The thought made Anastasia's blood chill. Prythian was dangerous – she'd come to understand that long ago – but she still hadn't been able to wrap her mind around the idea of supernatural creatures. They still felt like the monsters under the bed that her childhood friends had been frightened of when they were young – some intangible, made up bedtime story to keep children from wandering out of their beds at night.

She waited a few moments until Azriel gave her the go ahead, before continuing with her careful, measured steps. Her senses were on high alert as they navigated the twisting maze of trees and underbrush. She could feel the weight of the black box pulling at her like a magnet, drawing her ever closer.

"It's this way," she murmured, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the night. Guided by an instinct that she couldn't fully comprehend, Anastasia forged ahead deeper into the heart of the forest. The air grew thick with the scent of pine and earth, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves overhead and the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance.

She didn't know how long they had been walking, but the trees started to take on a different shape, and the air felt a little denser. She'd never ventured this deep into the forest before – each time she had stopped before making it this far. But she'd since this before – in the nightmares that Cian had forced into her head.

They were almost there.

As they ventured further into the forest, the atmosphere around them began to shift. The air grew unnaturally still – and even still there was a chill in the air - and an eerie silence settled over the woods. She could feel Azriel, ever vigilant, halted abruptly and gave the same low whistle to signal for her to stop.

She froze in place, her senses heightened as she scanned their surroundings. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant hoot of an owl. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, whether from the cold or some primal fae instinct she couldn't tell.

All she knew was that something was not right.

She looked back to Azriel as his eyes scanned the darkness, his body unnaturally still. Anastasia followed his gaze, her breath shallow and her heart pounding in her chest.

Then, a faint odor reached her nostrils, carried on the still night air. It was a scent she recognized all too well from her time in medical school—the unmistakable, sickly-sweet smell of decomposition. Her stomach churned, and she fought the urge to gag as the scent grew stronger.

"Do you smell that?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Azriel nodded, his expression grim.

"Stay close," he instructed, his voice low and commanding.

Azriel didn't have to tell her twice. She allowed him a moment to catch up to her before they continued walking again, this time side by side. She matched his cautious pace, not daring to venture too far ahead despite the call of magic that she was feeling. The oppressive silence pressed in around her, each rustle of leaves and snap of twigs causing her head to snap in another direction.

Suddenly, from the tree line, a movement caught Anastasia's eye. Her heart pounded as she saw a figure emerge. At first glance, it looked almost human, but as it stepped into the moonlight, the grotesque details became clear. The creature was thin, rail-like, with sinewy muscles stretched taut over its skeletal frame. Its skin, a sickly pale hue, clung to its bones, giving it an eerie, almost translucent appearance.

Anastasia felt a wave of nausea rise in her throat, and she had to suppress the urge to gag. The sight was horrifying, more so than anything she had even seen at her work in the hospital – it was unnatural. The creature's dead eyes somehow glistened with interest, and its bony fingers twitched as if eager for the challenge that Azriel and Anastasia posed.

"What is that?" Anastasia asked in a breathy whisper, her eyes locked on the creature. As if it could sense Anastasia's fear, its lips pulled back in a gnarled smile.

"A Draugr," Azriel answered, his voice low and steady but filled with contempt, "They're cursed to protect whatever ancient artifact they've been bound to, and they'll kill anyone who enters their domain."

Anastasia tore her gaze away from the creature to look at Azriel. His face was set in a careful mask of grim determination, his eyes locked on the Draugr. She could feel the tension radiating off him as he stepped in front of her, as if it would shield her from the creature's line of sight.

"What do we do?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Stay close," Azriel's gaze flicked to her, his expression softening slightly. "Where there is one, there is usually more."

As if it had heard them, the Draugr's ghastly smile widened.

Anastasia sucked in a breath as another Draugr emerged from the shadows… and then another. She counted four of them in total, their skeletal forms grotesque and menacing in the moonlight. Four – against two. The odds were against her and Azriel. Would this be the end for them? She risked a glance at Azriel, but his eyes were locked on the creatures before them, assessing. Anastasia fumbled for the daggers at her side, but they felt meager in comparison to the Draugar. Exactly how close to these creatures would she need to get to make her strikes count?

The mere thought of getting close enough to one of those creatures was enough to make her blood run cold.

Without warning, the first monster charged, its bony limbs moving with terrifying speed. Azriel lunged forward to meet it, his wings flaring wide as he drew his blade. The creature faltered off its balance, and Azriel used the opportunity to push it back into the tree line. His focus was intense, shadows swirling around him as he kept himself positioned between Anastasia and the creature.

But it was no use, as a second Draugr broke away from the pack, its gaze locking onto Anastasia. It moved with supernatural speed, and before she could fully react, it was upon her. She barely managed to dodge its initial swipe, and she could almost hear Cassian's voice in her head, calling her movements sloppy. Unsheathing one of the daggers at her hip, she slashed at the creature.

She missed, the blade cutting through empty air as the Draugr twisted away with a kind of inhuman agility. It snarled, baring its gnarled, yellow teeth, the stench of decay washing over her. The creature's eyes glinted as it lunged again, its sinewy muscles rippling under its decayed skin.

Anastasia ducked under its arm, feeling the rush of its movement just above her head. She swung her dagger upward in a desperate arc, the blade slicing through the creature's tattered clothing but not deep enough to slow it down. The Draugr hissed, its yellow eyes narrowing at her. She felt bony hands clench around her forearm before she was suddenly thrown down to the cold forest floor.

While fumbling for her footing, Anastasia felt the ground shift beneath her as the Draugr bore down, its clawed hands reaching out. She rolled to the side just in time, the creature crashing to the ground where she had been a moment before. If you go down, Cassian had told her, do not stay down. If you stay down, you're dead. Heart pounding, she scrambled to her feet.

She let out a feral cry as she drove the dagger into the creature’s eye. The Draugr let out a guttural scream before collapsing, lifeless, at her feet.

She couldn’t believe what she had just done, a mix of shock and grim satisfaction washing over her. Anastasia's gaze darted to Azriel. The body of one Draugr lay at his feet, dark, almost black ichor pooling around it. He circled the second one, like a predator taunting its prey, before he lunged at it. But as he made his move towards the creature, she saw the decayed form of final Draugr sneaking up behind him.

Panic seized her. She instinctively reached out with her magic, ready to use the threads to end the threat to Azriel, but then hesitated. Before they had left Velaris, she had been instructed by Amren to save her magic for the black box – no one knew what kind of spells had been used to bind it.

If she wanted to help Azriel, she had to do it the old-fashioned way.  

Gritting her teeth, she wrenched the dagger from the eye of the Draugr she had just killed. She let out another primal roar as she charged at the creature without hesitation, her only focus on eliminating the threat to Azriel.

Anastasia leapt into the air, her heart pounding as she landed on the back of the Draugr. The stench of rot and decay hit her like a wave, the foul odor of decomposing flesh mingling with something even more putrid. She gagged, her throat constricting, but she forced herself to hold on. The Draugr thrashed wildly, its sinewy muscles straining and twisting beneath her.

She wrapped her legs tightly around its waist, using every ounce of her strength to stay mounted. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the dagger, trying to keep her hands steady even as her fingers trembled.  The Draugr's bony spine pressed uncomfortably against her, its sharp edges digging into her flesh through the fabric of her clothes.

With a determined cry, she raised the dagger high and drove it into the back of the Draugr's neck. The blade sliced through decayed flesh, meeting resistance only as it hit bone. The creature let out an ear-piercing shriek, a sound that echoed through the forest as its body convulsed violently, a spasm of death throes that jerked and twisted under her.

The Draugr's limbs flailed, its movements growing more erratic and desperate. Anastasia clung on, her muscles burning with the effort. The dagger was buried deep in its neck, and she twisted it, trying to sever whatever remained of its spine. The Draugr's shriek turned into a gurgle as dark, viscous fluid oozed from the wound, coating her hands, and making her grip slippery.

She barely had time to react before the Draugr fell backwards, and its weight came crashing down on her. The impact drove the air from her lungs, her breath escaping in a pained gasp. She felt a sharp pain in her ribs as she was pinned beneath the heavy, lifeless body - the sheer weight of it pressing her into the cold, hard ground.

For a moment, all Anastasia saw was a blur of pain and darkness. The stench of the Draugr was overwhelming, the sickly-sweet odor of rot filling her nostrils and making her head spin. She struggled to breathe, her chest heaving with the effort. Her ribs screamed in protest, a sharp, stabbing pain that made it hard to think – hard to move.

Anastasia's heart pounded frantically as she tried to push the Draugr off. Her hands scrabbled at its decayed flesh, her fingers slipping on the slick, cold surface. The dead weight pressed down on her, making every movement a struggle. She strained, her muscles burning with the effort, but the creature's bulk was unyielding.

"Come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

It took a few more attempts, but with a final, desperate push she managed to wiggle out from underneath it.  She look over just as Azriel raised his blade at the final Draugr, bringing it down across it's neck in a swift, seamless motion. The creature's head rolled to the side, its body collapsing in a heap.

Knowing that the last threat had been dispatched, Anastasia gingerly stood up so as not to aggravate the sharp pain in her ribs. She took her time brushing off the dirt and gore from her clothes. It was only then that Anastasia dared to look over at Azriel, who was already watching her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken all over again. His eyes roamed over her, fixating on the bloody gore that was no doubt caked on to her skin. But she could see his shoulders sink with relief as he realized the dark blood on her – much to even her own surprise - did not belong to her.

Anastasia tried to catch her breath, her heart still racing. She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing at the sticky residue left by the Draugr's she had killed. "I'm fine," She assured him, but the intensity in his eyes was enough to make her shift on her feet, "It's going to take forever to get the smell out of my hair."

Her voice was breathless, her body still trembling from the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"You're really alright?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with worry – as if he didn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Anastasia nodded weakly, trying to catch her breath. "Yeah," she managed to say, wincing as she took a small step towards him. She gingerly touched the side of her torso that was radiating pain – she most definitely had a bruised rib. "Just... need a moment."

Azriel offered her his hand, letting her lean on him so as not to put as much strain on her body. "We can't stay here," he said, his gaze scanning the surrounding trees. "There could be more coming."

She nodded, trying to shake off the lingering pain and dizziness. "Right," she agreed, her voice stronger now. "Let's go."

They moved quickly, Azriel's hand firm on her back, guiding her through the forest. The trees seemed to close in around them, their branches intertwining as the forest became denser and denser as they pressed on. The only sound was the rhythmic cadence of their breathing. Anastasia's senses were on high alert, every nerve tingling with a heightened awareness as they drew deeper and deeper.

And then she felt it—a palpable tang of magic, pulling her in like a moth to a flame. She halted; her eyes wide with realization. "Here," she whispered, gesturing with a nod of her head. "It's this way."

Azriel nodded, his expression intense as if he, too, could sense the strange, void-like sensation of the magic. Was it that palpable? They moved forward with a renewed urgency, the silence of the forest amplifying the sound of their footsteps crunching on the forest floor.

It was only a few more minutes before she saw it. As they ventured deeper into the foot of the mountains, Anastasia's gaze fell upon the looming crevice ahead. It appeared almost as if it had been carved into the earth by some ancient force. The jagged, foreboding opening stood stark against the backdrop of dense foliage, as if it hadn't been formed naturally but placed there by magic.

The crevice yawned open before her; its depths shrouded in a darkness that seemed to consume the feeble light of the moon above. The jagged edges of the rocky walls jutted out like serrated teeth, casting eerie shadows that danced and flickered in the dim light.

It looked just like it had in her nightmares.

As they approached, Anastasia's heart began to hammer in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears. The fear that had gripped her in those nightmares resurfaced now with a vengeance, every instinct screaming at her to turn back, to flee from the darkness that lay ahead. But she fought the urge – they needed this box, somehow, to defeat Cian.

Swallowing her fear, Anastasia took a deep breath and stepped closer to the crevice, its inky depths seeming to call out to her. She could feel the pull in her chest, tugging her forward.

Azriel followed Anastasia into the crevice, tucking his wings tightly behind him to navigate the narrow entrance. The space was tight, the rocky walls scraping against his shoulders as they moved deeper. Anastasia's heart pounded in her chest.

As they emerged into a monstrous cavern, she could feel the potent magic thickening the air. Stalactites hung menacingly from the ceiling, their sharp points gleaming faintly in the dim light. The sound of dripping water echoed somewhere in the distance, the only sound in the depths of the earth besides their own, heavy breathing.

Anastasia's breath hitched as she took in the immensity of the space. "It's... massive," she whispered, her voice barely carrying in the vast expanse. Even though she had whispered, she could hear the echoes of her words reverberate through the cavern walls.

She took a step deeper into the cavern, her eyes glued to the stalactite covered ceiling.

But Azriel reached out, gripping her wrist tightly in his hand, pulling her back towards him. His eyes scanned the cavern with a practiced wariness. "We don't know what else might be down here."

Together, they walked further into the cavern, the pull of magic growing thicker with each step. The air was charged with a palpable energy that seemed to vibrate against Anastasia's skin. Her anxiety grew with each passing moment, her heart pounding in her chest as the magic pressed in on her senses.

"It's so strong," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I can almost smell it. We've got to be close."

At the center of the cavern, a stone table stood, ancient and imposing. It seemed to spring up from the ground, as if it were a part of the mountain itself – as if the mountain had been raised around it. Atop it rested a black box, emanating a dark, potent aura that seemed to permeate the very air around it. The magic was so intense that it felt almost tangible, like a heavy fog enveloping them.

"There it is," Azriel said, his voice low and tense. "The black box."

Anastasia took a step closer, the pull of magic drawing her in.

Anastasia stared at the black box, her heart pounding in her chest. The magic surrounding it was almost suffocating, pressing down on her with an overwhelming force. She felt a surge of doubt – she'd been slowly mastering her magic, but without even trying she knew that this would be something else entirely.

"I don’t think I can do this," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Azriel stepped closer, and his mere presence next to her seemed to still the swirl of magic and self-doubt around her. "You can," he said firmly, his hazel gaze intense and unwavering. "You're powerful – you can do this. And if anything happens, I am right there with you."

Anastasia took a deep breath, drawing strength from his words and his steady presence. Azriel was right – she could do this. She took a step away from him, close to the center of the cavern, and immediately felt the loss of his warmth. She focused on the box, letting her senses tune into the threads of magic that bound it. Soon enough, she could see the threads appear in front of her. They were black and leaden, twisting around the box like ancient chains. She reached out with her magic, feeling the threads resist her touch.

"It's like these threads have been wrapped around the box for centuries," she said, straining as she tried to move them.

Azriel mumbled that they probably had.

Anastasia nodded, gritting her teeth as she concentrated harder. She could feel the weight of the magic pressing against her, as if the threads themselves were fighting her every move. It was unlike any other thread that she had ever encountered. Sweat trickled down her forehead, her injured side throbbing with every exertion. She could feel the pain from the bruised rib blooming out, intensifying with each breath, but she couldn't afford to stop.

"There’s something making this difficult," she panted, her muscles straining with the effort. "It's like they are fighting me."

Every movement was agony, her injured side burning from the fight with the Draugr. Each breath sent a sharp pain through her torso, but she pushed on.

Azriel's eyes narrowed on the box. "Focus on the source of the resistance. Find the weak point and push through."

She closed her eyes, trying to block out everything except the feel of the threads under her magical grip. Slowly, she began to sense the pattern of the magic, the way it twisted and coiled around the box. She found a knot, a point where the threads seemed to converge.

"Here," she said, her voice tight with concentration. "This is where it’s the strongest."

With a deep breath, Anastasia gathered her strength and focused all her power on the knot, on trying to untangle it. The resistance was immense, a force that pushed back against her with a ferocity that took her breath away. But she pushed harder, feeling the threads begin to loosen, to give way under her magic. Her body trembled with exhaustion, her side aching with every movement.

But she couldn't – she wouldn't – give up.

Getting this box meant that she was one step closer to ridding Cian from her life forever. It meant that she could possibly help others – Vassa, and Elain. It meant that maybe, just maybe, her presence here in Prythian wasn't just a random trick of fate, but that it actually meant something.

The air around them seemed to hum with energy as she poured everything she had into breaking the threads. It felt like an eternity, the strain almost unbearable, but finally, she felt a snap, and the threads began to unravel.

"I’m doing it," she gasped, her eyes snapping open as she watched the black threads dissolve into the air. "I’m really doing it."

Azriel's hand squeezed her shoulder.

With renewed determination, Anastasia pushed forward, unraveling the last of the threads. The oppressive weight of the ancient magic lifted, and the box was free. She staggered back, breathing heavily, her body trembling from the effort and the pain in her side.

She staggered back, her body shaking from the effort and the searing pain in her side. Her vision blurred as dizziness took over, and she could barely stay on her feet.

"I can't..." she gasped, her knees buckling beneath her. She tried to hold herself upright, but her strength was gone. The pain and exhaustion were too much. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to the ground.

Azriel was at her side in an instant, his strong arms catching her before she could hit the cold stone floor. "Anastasia," he murmured. "Stay with me. You've done it, but you need to rest."

She nodded weakly, unable to speak as she leaned against him. Her body felt like it was made of lead, every muscle trembling. The adrenaline that had carried her through the battle and the unbinding of the box was fading, leaving her utterly spent.

Azriel gently lowered her to the ground, cradling her against his chest. "Just breathe," he whispered, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos in her mind. "I've got you."

Azriel's strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close against his chest as she fought to steady her breath. Anastasia could feel the rapid beat of his heart, so different from the calm he always exuded. She let the warmth of his body seep into her, a respite from the cold stone floor as she tried to catch her breath.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were their mingled breaths and the faint drip of water echoing through the cavern. Anastasia's mind raced with the intensity of what had just happened. She looked at the box – the feeling of the magic had all but dissipated from the cavern. She had done that. She thought about the Draugar; she never believed she would be capable of defending herself like that. Or helping Azriel like that…

As she began to recover, Anastasia shifted slightly in Azriel's arms, her eyes finding his. Shadows played across his face, highlighting the worry etched into his features. Their eyes locked, and she saw something in his gaze that she had never seen before.

"Az…" she whispered, her voice trembling – from what, she couldn't quite say. "Thank you."

His eyes darkened as she said his name, a flicker of something intense passing over his face.

The air between them seemed to crackle – not with magic, but with a new kind of electricity. Something that Anastasia supposed had been there for much longer than she cared to admit. Anastasia could feel it—a deep, insistent tug in her chest, a warmth that spread through her entire body.

Azriel's hand moved, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from her face. The simple touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt her breath hitch.

For a moment, Azriel hesitated, and she had to wonder if he was regretting this – if he would reject her yet again. But then, he seemed to come to a decision. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the curve of her jaw. His gaze was intense, focused solely on her. Anastasia felt herself leaning into him, her body moving of its own accord. Azriel's breath was warm against her lips, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

Azriel's lips were firm, yet gentle, as they met hers. The kiss was tentative at first, a question in the way his lips pressed softly against hers. Anastasia's hands clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin as if anchoring herself to this moment. He deepened the kiss, his movements slow and deliberate, exploring her mouth with a tenderness that made her heart ache. The warmth in her chest spread, filling her with a sense of completeness she hadn't known she was missing. Every brush of his lips, every touch of his hand, sent a surge of heat through her body.

His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer still, his lips moving with a ferocity that she had never experienced before. Anastasia's knees went weak, and she clung to him, afraid that if she let go, this beautiful moment would shatter like fragile glass. That he would realize that he had made some terrible mistake…

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads still pressed together. Azriel's eyes were dark with emotion, his voice rough when he spoke. "Anastasia..."

She silenced him with another kiss, unable to bear the thought of words ruining the perfection of this moment. She didn't want to think about what came next – of the black box, of Cian, of the possibility of her ever leaving Prythian. In that moment, all she wanted to think about was the male in front of her.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

"I told you – I am fine," Anastasia insisted, enunciating each word as she tried to push Madja's weathered hands away.

Anastasia still didn't know why the healer had come at this hour. Outside, the early morning darkness still cloaked Velaris – it had only been a few short hours since they returned from Illyria, box in hand. The room was dimly lit by a single candle, casting flickering shadows on the walls. It was too early for Madja to be here, fussing. All Anastasia wanted to do was sleep – the magic had taken its toll on her.

"And I told you," Madja pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not about to let my finest healer be in pain. Now, hold still unless you want me to tie you down.”

Azriel stood nearby, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, an amused grin playing on his lips as he watched the interaction. He had only left Anastasia’s side briefly to deliver the black box to Rhysand, and now he was back, his presence a comforting constant. Things had definitely changed between them, but it was for the better.

Anastasia could feel it.

She glanced desperately at Azriel, silently pleading for his help. He met her gaze with an amused grin, shaking his head. “Let her fuss,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “You know she won’t let up until she’s satisfied.”

Madja gave her a pointed look. “Listen to the shadowsinger. He has sense... for once”

Anastasia sighed, her shoulders slumping in resignation. Azriel’s ease was palpable They had the box, they were back safe, and the tension between them had shifted into something more comforting and familiar.

“Madja, really,” Anastasia insisted, wincing slightly as the balm did its work. “It’s just a bruised rib. I've dealt with this before – I know what to do to take care of myself.”

Madja gave her a pointed look. “And you’ll deal with nothing if you don’t let me do my job,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “Now hold still. I swear, you’re about as stubborn as this one here.”

Madja jerked her head to Azriel.

Azriel chuckled softly, earning a glare from Anastasia. “It’s not funny,” she grumbled, but there was no real heat in her words.

“It’s a little funny,” Azriel replied, his grin widening. He moved closer, placing his hand over hers. His thumb lightly grazed her knuckle, sending a soothing warmth through her.

“Quiet, you,” Madja scolded, not even looking up from her work. “I don’t need you encouraging her.”

“Alright, fine,” Anastasia conceded, finally allowing Madja to use her magic. She felt a warm, tingling sensation spread through her ribs as Madja worked her hands over her torso. The gentle healing energy knit together the bruised bone, easing her discomfort. The pain dissipated almost instantly, replaced by a soothing warmth.

Madja nodded in satisfaction, her eyes scanning Anastasia one final time for any other hidden injuries. “Just because you’re healed doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be taking it easy,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument, "And you'll still need to apply the balm nightly." She gestured to a pot, resting on top of some old books, on the bedside table.

Madja then fixed Anastasia with a stern look, her eyes softening slightly.

Anastasia rolled her eyes but didn’t respond, instead focusing on the rhythmic movements of Madja’s hands as she secured the bandage over the spot where she had just healed. In the months she'd been in Velaris, she knew that Madja was nothing if not thorough. The healer stepped back, finally satisfied with her work.

“There,” Madja said, her expression softening slightly. “Try not to do anything too strenuous for the next few days. And don’t you dare think about skipping meals.”

Anastasia nodded, knowing better than to argue further. “Thank you, Madja.”

Madja gave her a small, approving nod before turning to Azriel. “Keep an eye on her,” she instructed. “Make sure she doesn’t overexert herself. And make sure she eats properly. She’s too thin.”

Azriel straightened, his expression becoming serious. “I will,” he promised.

Madja gave a satisfied huff and patted Anastasia’s hand. “Good. You’re in good hands.” With that, she turned and left the room, muttering about “young fools” and “reckless behavior.”

Anastasia looked up at Azriel, wondering if they should talk about what had happened between them. The kiss they had shared in the woods had changed things, but she wasn’t sure how to bring it up. She hesitated, but one look at Azriel’s relaxed and content expression reassured her. He seemed happy with the way things were, and she realized she was too.

Azriel gently pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “How are you really feeling?” he asked, his voice soft.

Anastasia sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Tired,” she admitted. “And sore. But I’ll be okay.”

Azriel pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there as he tightened his arms around her.

Anastasia closed her eyes, the warmth of his presence soothing her frayed nerves. “I know,” she whispered. “Thank you for being here.”

“Always,” he replied, his voice a comforting rumble.

Anastasia shifted slightly, nestling even closer into Azriel's embrace. He was just so warm. "I don't want to move," she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest. "I'm pretty sure I could stay like this forever."

Azriel's arms tightened around her, holding her securely against him. "Then you don't have to," he replied softly, his breath warm against her hair. "I'm sure Madja would be happy that you're actually listening to her."

A soft chuckle escaped Anastasia's lips at his response. "As much as I'd love to stay like this indefinitely, I think I might have to get up eventually," she said, a hint of reluctance in her tone. "At least if I ever want to get the smell of Draugr out of my hair."

"That might be a good idea," he agreed, and Anastasia could feel his lips twitch with amusement, "But you can take our time – I don't mind. There's no rush."

-x-

"I really don't understand what exactly it is we are looking for." Anastasia muttered, running a hand through her hair. "Everything is so vague." She huffed in frustration, slamming shut yet another book that yielded no useful information.

The dimly lit library was filled with the musty scent of old books and the quiet rustle of pages turning. In the distance, she could hear the soft footsteps of the priestesses as they went about their work. The females had given Amren a wide berth, which Anastasia had to admit she was also grateful for. Anastasia and Amren sat at a long, wooden table cluttered with ancient tomes and scrolls – none of which, apparently, were very useful to them. A single candle flickered between them, casting shadows that danced across their faces.

Anastasia - even though it had been days since the encounter with the Draugr and she felt perfectly fine – was still barred from training by Madja. As Azriel had begun to leave during the day – performing some of his many duties as spymaster – Anastasia couldn't stand to be on her own for very long. She was itching to do something – to make herself useful again.

Which was how she found herself with Amren, elbow deep in musty old books.

Amren glanced up from her own reading, her silver eyes sharp and unyielding. "We need to know what we can expect to find inside the box before we even try to open it," she said, her tone clipped. "I don't think I need to remind you of all people that rushing in without knowledge could be disastrous."

Anastasia exhaled sharply, her fingers drumming impatiently on the table. For once she agreed with the ancient female in front of her. "‘Elain's vision – the words 'his death’ are too vague for my liking," she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. "It could mean anything."

Amren nodded, "It would appear that very few books mention Koschei. Though I cannot say that I'm surprised about that."

Anastasia had to agree with that. She'd been scouring every book that seemed to be old, about the history of Prythian for any mention of the sorcerer. But they hadn't yielded any sort of results. But Amren, her silver gaze steady, slid a particularly ancient-looking book towards Anastasia, its pages yellowed with age. She wouldn't stop until every last book in the giant library was combed through cover to cover. Anastasia sighed before opened it carefully, scanning the brittle pages.

She didn't know how long she stayed there, her eyes combing through the yellowed pages of that book. But she could feel her eyes burning with exhaustion as she tried to make sense of the words on the page. She'd learned a great deal about the history of Prythian – about Fionn and Theia and the formation of the different courts. She sat slumped over the desk, her head resting on the palm of her hand; her eyes grew heavy as the hours dragged on, and she was just about to give up when…

"Here." Anastasia sat up right, pointing to a spot on the page.

Amren looked up from her spot across the table, brows raised. "What is it, girl?"

Anastasia's eyes widened as she read aloud, "Koschei, revered as a god upon his arrival in this realm, soon became known as the master of death. He commanded the secrets of life and the grave, wielding powers that corrupted the land and bent others to his will. Over time, his malign influence spread, tainting everything he touched. Despite his initial elevation, Koschei's reign of terror led to his eventual imprisonment - the specifics of which have been lost to time..."

Amren's gaze narrowed, "And?"

Anastasia looked up at Amren, "What do you mean?'

"There is no mention of his black box?"

Anastasia looked down, scanning the rest of the text. But as she got to the bottom of the page, her shoulders slumped as she shook her head, "No, nothing."

"Another dead end, then."

Anastasia frowned, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "I've heard that term before," she murmured, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Master of death..."

Anastasia stood abruptly, nearly toppling her chair in her haste. "Wait here. I think I know where to find it."

Anastasia bolted out of the small alcove, her heart pounding with a sudden surge of urgency. She wove through the maze of bookshelves, barely registering the startled glances from the priestesses as she sprinted past them.

She charged up the winding staircases, her footsteps echoing loudly in the dimly lit corridors. The climb seemed endless, each flight of stairs stretching out longer than the last. As she ascended, her lungs began to burn, and she felt a sharp twinge in her side—right where Madja had healed her bruised rib.

Her pace slowed as she reached the higher levels, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Finally, she stumbled into her room, breathless and exhausted. She leaned against the doorframe for a moment, trying to steady her racing heart. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on the stack of books on her bedside table, their covers coated with a thin layer of dust. Rhysand had let her take them as she tried to find a way home, but she had largely ignored them as she had slowly adjusted to her life in Velaris.

She pushed off from the door and crossed the room, her movements more deliberate now.

She grabbed the book she was searching for, her fingers trembling slightly. Flipping through the pages, she quickly found the passage she remembered. Her eyes darted over the familiar words, her heart rate beginning to slow as a sense of determination settled over her.

Clutching the book to her chest, she turned and made her way back to the library.

She hurried back to the library, clutching the book tightly.

Amren looked up as Anastasia returned, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. "What did you find, girl?"

Anastasia cleared her throat as she opened the book; she had kept her thumb on the page as she raced back down to the library. She looked at Amren momentarily before her eyes flicked back down to the page, "To conjure the keys, one must wield an ancient power – to master death..."

"And Koschei is a master of death…" Amren mused, her fingers thrumming on the wood of the desk. Amren leaned in, scrutinizing the text. "Interesting… But defeating when we find out how to defeat Koschei…" Amren let her voice trail off.

"What?"

Amren’s silver eyes locked onto hers, unflinching and intense. "Koschei is a master of death – and only a master of death can open up the way between worlds."

Anastasia nodded slowly, her mind struggling to keep up with the implications of what Amren was saying. She had made that connection on her own, but she couldn’t understand where Amren was leading her. She blinked at the ancient being, her brows furrowed in confusion, waiting for her to continue.

Amren stepped closer, her gaze never wavering. "By defeating Koschei, we might not be able to get you home." Her tone was grave, each word dripping with the weight of inevitability. "You'd be stuck here forever."

Anastasia's heart was still racing from her mad dash up the stairs, but the gravity of Amren’s words hit her like a punch to the gut. Her hands clenched around the edges of the book; her knuckles white with the strain. Her chest tightened, a mix of frustration, fear, and helplessness swirling within her.

She had come so far, endured so much, and now the hope of going home was slipping through her fingers like sand.

-x-

Anastasia sat on the balcony overlooking Velaris, her mind reeling from Amren's revelation. The cool night air brushed against her skin, but it did little to calm her down. The city below sparkled with lights, and she could hear music from somewhere along the Sidra. It seemed so odd that the city could feel so vibrant and alive when she was stuck up here – the rug completely tugged out from underneath her.

Could she really live here, in Velaris?

Would she be alright if she never went back to Boston, to her career, to the life she had painstakingly built?

She'd put off researching ways to get back home in favor of working with Madja. She'd said she would get back to it – had kept the stack of books on her bedside table as a reminder. But then, everything had happened, and she fell into the routine of training and working her magic…

She just never thought the choice to go back home would have been taken away from her like that.

She sighed, leaning forward and resting her arms on the railing. The beauty of Velaris was undeniable. The winding streets, the colorful buildings, the people who had welcomed her despite her strangeness—it all tugged at her heart. She missed Boston terribly, the familiarity of it, the sense of purpose her career in the emergency room had given her. Her heart ached when she thought of it. But she had also made a life for herself here – working with Madja, making new friends…

And Az…

She stared down at the city, long enough that the lights from below began to blur in her vision and she was unable to make out the distinct shapes of the buildings.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. She turned to see Azriel approaching, his shadows swirling around his ear as if they were whispering to him. He moved to her side, his presence grounding her in a way nothing else could.

"I went looking for you as soon as I got back. When I couldn't find you, the shadows said you were up here," He said softly, looking over at her with concern, "What's wrong?"

Anastasia hesitated, her eyes flickering back to the city below. She hated that spymaster's intuition – his ability to read her so well. If she had been back in Boston, if he had been anyone else, she would have brushed off his concern, playing down what was upsetting her. And even now, she wanted to do that. Things had been going well, better than she could have ever imagined. That moment after she'd recovered the box had been a turning point - a promise of something more. And these past few days while she healed… it had been so good between them.

She wondered if telling him would ruin it, if it would scare him away from her… but Azriel could read her like a book.

And it was going to come out eventually, right?

“Amren and I were researching Koschei,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. Why was it that the only person who could send her home be the one that they were so set on destroying? She thought of Cian, of all the taunts and cryptic threats that he had placed in her mind, “This guy is bad, isn't he?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, and he looked out over the city, his hand reaching out to cover hers. “Do you know the story of Vassa?”

She shook her head, her gaze locked onto his.

“Vassa was sold to Koschei by other humans, as a way to silence her.” Azriel explained. “He cursed her to live as a firebird by day, only allowed to return to her human form at night. And there are countless other women bound to his lake on the Continent, their lives stolen by him. We can’t let him continue.”

Anastasia sucked in a breath at the revelation, feeling the last little embers of hope flicker out. There was no way that she could argue – could try to rationalize – keeping a male like that around.

"When Amren and I were in the library today, we made this connection," Anastasia’s chest tightened as she tried to find the right words to say. She turned her eyes back to the city, her voice trembling as she spoke. "By defeating Koschei, we… well, we might not be able to get me home… I might be stuck here forever."

Azriel’s hand tightened around hers, and there was a subtle shift in his expression almost imperceptible, but she caught it. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in a comforting gesture. “Koschei… he needs to be stopped,” he said quietly.

Tears pricked Anastasia’s eyes, and she blinked them away, her heart heavy with the uncertainty of her future. There was a part of her that wanted to be selfish – to find a way to use Koschei and force him to turn her back into a human and send her right back to Boston. If she were back home… well, it wasn't her problem anymore, was it? But Vassa… those women imprisoned by him… As soon as the thought had formed in her mind, it was replaced by a tidal wave of shame.

How could she think her getting home was more important than their freedom?

Anastasia looked at the city below her, focusing on the lights along the river. She picked a small light just around the north bend of the Sidra, staring at it until she could just make out the building that it belonged to. With her heightened fae senses, she could tell it was a small restaurant, overcrowded with patrons who probably didn't have a care in the world. Certainly, they didn't know what was happening in the House of Wind above them. She kept her eyes locked on that small restaurant as drew in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself and said, "I guess you’ll be stuck with me for a while."

She didn't dare look at him for fear of what she might find there – disappointment, maybe? But she could feel Azriel turn to her, could somehow feel both the shock and warm surprise that radiated off. “It’d be a blessing from the Mother to be stuck with you forever,” he said softly.

Anastasia let out a choked laugh, the tension in her chest easing slightly. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude and affection.

Azriel wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.

They lingered on the balcony for a while longer, the night air growing colder around them. Anastasia shouldn't have been surprised that the moment she started shivering from the cold air, Azriel had noticed. With a gentle touch, he pulled away slightly to look at her, "You're shivering. Let me walk you back to your room."

Azriel held out a hand, and from the shadows materialized a dark cloak, made of what Anastasia supposed to be some of the finest wool she'd ever seen.

It was soft to the touch, and its deep, rich color seemed to absorb the dim light around them. Azriel draped the cloak around her shoulders, the weight and warmth immediately comforting. His hand lingered on her arm for a moment longer than necessary before he guided her back inside.

They walked in comfortable silence, the only sound being the soft echo of their footsteps against the marble floors.

When they reached Anastasia's room, Azriel paused. "Get some rest," he said softly, "I'll see you in the morning."

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Would you come in with me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't want to be alone right now."

Anastasia hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching his. She knew that the moment she was alone, all of the self-doubt and anxiety about being stuck in Prythian would come rushing back. There just something about Azriel – she couldn't quite put her finger on it – that made all of those thoughts just disappear. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage. "Would you come in with me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't want to be alone right now."

Azriel looked at her, his expression unreadable. What she wouldn't give – in that moment – to know what he was thinking. Then he nodded, his eyes softening. "Of course," he said. "If that's what you want."

She led him into the room, the door closing softly behind them. The room was warm and inviting, a small fire already ignited in the hearth - courtesy of the House. Anastasia felt herself immediately relax. She shed the cloak that he had wrapped around her, draping it over the chair next to the fireplace.

She turned to find Azriel watching her, his eyes dark and intense. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the softness in his gaze. "Thank you for staying," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel stepped closer, his presence overwhelming yet comforting. "You don't need to thank me," he murmured. "I'm here because I want to be."

Anastasia felt a warmth spread through her chest, a mixture of relief and something deeper - something more profound. She reached out, taking his hand in hers. "I just... I don't know what I would do without you," she confessed, her voice trembling slightly.

Azriel's hand tightened around hers, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. "You don't have to worry about that," he said softly.

She looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest. The intensity of his gaze, the sincerity in his words - it was almost too much to bear. Without thinking, she stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Her free hand reached up, cupping his face, her fingers brushing against his cheek.

Azriel's breath hitched, his eyes darkening. He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. The touch was electrifying, sending a shiver down her spine. She pressed closer, deepening the kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair.

The room seemed to grow warmer, the air charged with a new kind of energy. Anastasia's heart raced as Azriel's lips moved against hers, his kiss growing more urgent. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the need for him consuming her.

They broke apart, breathless and wide-eyed. Azriel rested his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged. "Anastasia," he whispered, his voice rough.

At the sound of her name on his lips, sounding like that, she'd nearly come undone. She pulled him closer, their bodies pressed together, and kissed him again, more urgently this time. His hands found her waist, pulling her tightly against him. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against hers – everything else just faded away until it was nothing. Until there was only him. They moved together towards the bed, their kisses growing more heated, more desperate.

Azriel's hands roamed over her back, his touch igniting a fire within her. He gently pushed her back onto the bed, his body covering hers as the kiss deepened, growing more intense - a mingling of breaths and soft gasps. Anastasia's hands moved to the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards with desperate urgency. Azriel pulled back just enough to help her, lifting his arms as she yanked the fabric over his head and tossed it aside. She marveled at the sight of his bare chest, her fingers trailing over the hard planes of muscle, feeling the heat of his skin beneath her touch.

Azriel's hands were equally eager, finding the laces of her dress and, with practices hands, deftly undoing them. The fabric loosened, and he slid the dress down her shoulders, his lips following the path of exposed skin. He kissed her collarbone, the curve of her neck, each touch sending sparks through her. She shrugged out of the dress, letting it pool around her waist before wriggling free of it entirely. The cool air against her heated skin made her shiver, but Azriel's hands were there, warming her, steadying her.

Anastasia's breath hitched as Azriel's lips trailed down her neck, his hands exploring every inch of her skin. She arched into his touch, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she pulled him closer.

"Az-," she gasped, the sound of his name on her lips spurring him on. He captured her mouth in another searing kiss, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

Anastasia's breath came in ragged gasps as Azriel's kisses trailed from her mouth down to the sensitive skin of her neck. Every touch ignited a spark of desire that sent shivers down her spine. She arched into him, craving more of his touch, more of him.

He seemed to know exactly what she was thinking and he pulled back. He took a moment to look at her, his eyes filled with an intensity that took her breath away. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Anastasia nodded, unable to find the words. She was sure—more sure than she had ever been about anything. She wanted this, wanted him, needed him to chase away the fears and uncertainties that had plagued her since Amren's revelation.

Azriel's fingers found her waistband and with a swift motion, he slid her under things down her legs, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in the sight of her. His hands roamed over her body with a gentle but possessive urgency, tracing the curves of her hips, the dip of her waist. He pulled back slightly, his eyes nearly black with want as he looked at her, his breath coming just as fast.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky. The sincerity in his words made her heart skip a beat.

Anastasia reached up, threading her fingers through his dark hair, pulling him back down to her. This time, it was deeper, more insistent. She poured all her emotions into it—the fear, the uncertainty, the overwhelming need for him. Azriel responded in kind, his lips and tongue moving with a hunger that matched her own. His lips left a burning trail as he kissed his way down her throat to her collarbone, his hands gently kneading her breasts.

Anastasia moaned softly, the sound escaping before she could stop it. She could feel the heat pooling in her core, the ache for him growing more intense with each passing second. He leaned down, capturing one of her breasts in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. Anastasia cried out, her back arching off the bed as pleasure surged through her. Azriel's hand moved to her other breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple in time with the movements of his tongue.

Her hands roamed over his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the heat of his skin. She wanted to touch every part of him, to memorize the feel of him against her. She reached down, fumbling with the waistband of his pants, needing to feel all of him.

Azriel's breath hitched as she touched him, his control slipping. He pulled back, his eyes locking onto hers, dark and filled with something that she couldn't quite name.  For a moment, they just looked at each other, the only sound between them was their ragged breaths. Anastasia could see the depth of his feelings in his eyes, the intensity of his desire – it mirrored her own.

Azriel's hand slid down her body, his touch gentle but insistent as he parted her thighs. He looked at her, waiting for her permission, his eyes never leaving hers. Anastasia nodded, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She needed him, needed this.

With a tenderness that belied the urgency of their need, Azriel's fingers found her center, sliding through her wetness with a slow, deliberate motion. Anastasia's hips bucked against his hand, a soft moan escaping her lips. He teased her, his fingers brushing against her clit, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through her body.

"Azriel," she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders as she pulled him closer. She needed more, needed him inside her.

He seemed to understand, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm, building the tension inside her to an unbearable peak. Each stroke, each caress sent shivers down her spine, and Anastasia found herself lost in the sensation, her breath hitching with every touch. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he leaned down, capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

His hand left her only long enough to position himself at her entrance. The anticipation was almost too much to bear, her body trembling with need. Then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, he was inside her, filling her completely. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and connection that made her cry out, her body arching against his.

"Azriel," she breathed again, her voice a mixture of desperation and ecstasy.

He responded with a low groan, his movements becoming more urgent. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, each thrust driving deeper, building the pressure inside her to an almost unbearable intensity. The world outside faded away until there was nothing but the two of them. Azriel's lips never left hers, his kisses growing more fervent, more demanding. She could feel the raw need in every touch, every movement, and it mirrored her own.

"Anastasia," he whispered against her lips, his voice thick with emotion. "You're everything."

The words sent a fresh wave of desire coursing through her, her body responding with a newfound urgency. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. Their movements grew more frantic, each one pushing her closer to the brink.

As the tension built to a breaking point, a wave of sensation crashed over her. Anastasia's body arched, her nails digging into Azriel's back. A cry tore from her lips, his name a desperate plea. Her body convulsed, shuddering with the intensity of release. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, everything else disappeared, leaving her mind blank with pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Azriel's pace quickened, his movements becoming more frantic as he chased his own release, as if the feel of her climaxing around him drove him closer to the edge. His breathing turned into ragged gasps, his muscles tensing as he thrust deeper. With one final, powerful thrust, Azriel reached his peak. His body tensed, every muscle tightening as he roared, the sound echoing through the room.

He collapsed against her, his chest heaving as he tried to regain control of his breathing.

As the final tremors of her own release faded, Anastasia's body relaxed into Azriel's. She buried her face in his neck, her breathing ragged and her heart pounding in her chest. Azriel's arms tightened around her, holding her close, his lips pressing gentle kisses to her temple.

For a long moment, they lay there, their bodies tangled together, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Anastasia could feel the beat of his heart against her chest, the warmth of his skin against hers. She closed her eyes, letting the sensations – the feel of him – wash over her. She wanted to commit this moment to memory.

Azriel brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. "Are you okay?" he murmured, his voice soft and filled with concern.

Anastasia nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "More than okay," she whispered, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. "I've never felt like this before, Azriel."

Something flickered across Azriel's face, and for a moment Anastasia worried that she had said too much—been too honest and that would push him away. But that look was immediately washed away as the corners of his lips tugged upward into a grin. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. The warmth of his lips against her skin sent a shiver down her spine.

He pulled back slightly, his gaze locking onto hers, the depth of his emotion evident in his eyes. Anastasia felt her heart swell, the weight of her earlier worries lifting just a little. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones.

"I mean it," she said, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of feelings inside her. "This... us... it feels right."

Azriel's eyes softened, and he pressed his forehead against hers. They stayed like that for a moment, breathing in each other's presence, letting the silence speak for them.

After a while, he pulled her closer, their bodies fitting together perfectly. They lay in comfortable silence and Anastasia's eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion from the day finally catching up with her. She nestled closer to Azriel, her hand resting over his heart.

As she drifted off to sleep, the last thing she felt was Azriel's fingers gently tracing patterns on her back.

Chapter Text

The sun was high in the sky when Anastasia finally stirred.

She could feel Azriel's presence next to her, and a large, powerful arm draped possessively over her hip. She stretched languidly , feeling the delicious soreness in her muscles. As she opened her eyes, she found Azriel watching her, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice a deep rumble.

"Morning," she replied, her voice still thick with sleep. Even now, she could feel the pull between them, and the night before had only deepened her feelings for him, making her crave more.

Azriel's eyes darkened with hunger as he watched her, his hand trailing down her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "I can't get enough of you," he admitted, his voice rough with need.

Anastasia's breath hitched, her heart racing as she felt the intensity of his gaze – the question that lingered behind his eyes. She only nodded, not able to find the words as her body responded to his touch.

With a growl, Azriel captured her lips in a fierce kiss, his hands roaming over her body with possessive urgency. He pulled her close, his wings unfurling to wrap around them, creating a cocoon of darkness that shut out the daylight. Anastasia's fingers tangled in his hair, her body arching into his touch.

She felt his shadows then - their cool tendrils teasing her skin, heightening her senses. They slid over her body, caressing her in places his hands couldn't reach. It was feather-light, like gentle kisses on her skin. The sensation was overwhelming, sending shivers down her spine.

He broke the kiss, his eyes blazing with intensity. "Turn around," he commanded with a low rumble, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Anastasia was only happy to comply, her pulse quickening as she felt his hands on her hips, guiding her to her knees. His wings brushed against her back, the silky feeling of them adding another layer of sensation. Azriel's fingers trailed down her spine, making her shiver with anticipation.

He leaned over her, his breath hot against her ear. "You're mine," he growled, his voice filled with heat and desire and something else she couldn't identify. She trembled at his words, and as she felt his hands slide over her curves, his touch firm and demanding. His shadows continued to tease her, their touch cold and electrifying against her heated skin.

Azriel's fingers found their way between her thighs, stroking her with agonizing slowness. She moaned, pressing back against him, her body aching for more. His shadows joined in, their cool tendrils caressing her most sensitive areas, making her gasp. It was intoxicating.

It was – oh.

Oh.

As she was about to reach her peak, Azriel pulled away, leaving her gasping for more. "Wha-?" She half panted; her eyes filled with need.

But Azriel only turned her around, his eyes smoldering with desire. His shadows wrapped around her wrists, pulling her arms above her head, and securing them to the headboard. She tried to pull her arms down, but the shadows, cool and fluttering on her skin, did not give way. With her hands secured, Azriel trailed kisses down her body, his lips and tongue leaving a burning trail in their wake. When he reached her core, he didn't hesitate, his tongue flicking out to taste her. Anastasia cried out, her body arching off the bed as he devoured her. His shadows held her firmly in place, preventing her from squirming away from the intense pleasure.

Azriel's tongue teased and explored, every stroke making her body roll with desire. She pulled against the shadows binding her wrists, her back arching off the bed as she writhed underneath him. When he slipped his fingers inside her, curling them expertly, she came undone, a cry of ecstasy escaping her lips.

He didn't stop there. No, Azriel drove her from one peak to another, her body trembling uncontrollably, reduced to a breathless, incoherent state. Only when she was spent, her limbs splayed out and unable to keep herself upright, did he finally release her, moving up her body to capture her lips in a passionate kiss. She could taste the essence of herself on him, the tangy sweetness making her head spin.

Azriel's hands roamed over her back, his touch igniting a fire within her. She felt his need, his desire, and it matched her own. His shadows, sensing their master's intentions, slid around her thighs, spreading her legs wide for him.

Azriel's lips left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck and across her collarbone. He paused to suck gently on her pulse point, drawing a gasp from her lips. Anastasia's hands roamed over his broad shoulders, feeling the strength coiled beneath his skin - the power that he held in check just for her.

His wings unfurled, casting dark shadows across the room, and Anastasia's breath hitched at the sight of them. They were beautiful, deadly, and somehow deeply intimate. As if sensing her awe, Azriel wrapped one of his wings around her, the leathery texture brushing against her bare skin. Gingerly, she lifted her hand to the wing, letting her fingers delicately trail along its' edge.

With a growl, Azriel captured her lips once more, his kiss demanding and urgent. His hands slid down her body, caressing her curves, before settling on her hips. He gripped her firmly, pulling her flush against him. Anastasia could feel his arousal, hard and insistent against her thigh, and a thrill of anticipation shot through her.

He trailed his fingers down her thigh, slipping between her legs to tease her slick folds. Anastasia moaned into his mouth, her hips bucking involuntarily as he stroked her. Azriel pulled back, his eyes dark with lust as he watched her reactions.

"I need you," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper. "I need to feel you."

"Then take me," Anastasia whispered back, her voice trembling with desire. "I want you, Azriel. All of you."

With a fierce, possessive kiss, Azriel positioned himself at her entrance, teasing her with the tip of his length. Anastasia's breath caught in her throat, her body aching with need. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer, deeper.

He entered her slowly, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her completely. Anastasia's head fell back against the pillow, a low moan escaping her lips as he began to move. Azriel's pace was deliberate, each thrust measured and controlled, driving her to the brink of madness.

The shadows around them seemed to come alive, wrapping around her wrists once more, holding her in place as he increased his tempo. She could feel more of them – cool against the heat of her skin – teasing the little bundle of nerves at her center. Anastasia's senses were overwhelmed, her body consumed.

Azriel's thrusts became more urgent, his breath ragged against her ear. "You're mine," he growled, his voice filled with possessive intensity. "Say it, Anastasia."

"I'm yours," she gasped, her body trembling with the effort to hold back her release.

With a primal roar, Azriel drove into her with renewed fervor, pushing her over the edge. Anastasia screamed his name, her body convulsing around him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her. She felt him tense above her, his own release following swiftly, his wings flaring wide as he spilled into her.

They collapsed together, their bodies entwined and their breaths mingling. Azriel's wings folded protectively around her, cocooning them to keep the daylight out. Anastasia nestled against his chest, her heart still racing, her mind blissfully blank.

For a long moment, they simply lay there, basking in the afterglow. Anastasia traced lazy patterns on Azriel's chest, her thoughts drifting in a haze of contentment. For the briefest of moments, there was no Boston to get back to, no black box looming over their heads, no Cian to whisper vicious taunts in her mind. There was just the two of them, and that was enough.

Here, in this moment, she had everything she needed.

-x-

"Welcome back," A voice called to her as Anastasia stepped onto the training field, "Ready to get your ass kicked?"

After a few more days of rest, Madja had finally cleared her for training again, the healer grumbling about rushing into things as she finally gave her blessing. But Anastasia was ready to get back to training; she never would have guessed when she started working with Cassian that she would come to enjoy it – and grow to miss it when she was forced to rest.

Cassian and Azriel were already there, both of them leaning against one of the stones that encircled the training ring.

"We'll see about that," Anastasia smirked at Cassian as she approached.

Azriel’s eyes met hers, and she couldn't help but feel a jolt of desire. God, what was happening to her? In all her life, she had never felt like this – where a mere look could make her dizzy. She struggled to push it aside, focusing instead on grabbing one of the wooden practice swords. This was about training - not about the way his presence made her heart race.

Azriel stepped forward, his eyes dark and serious. "Time to see what you’ve got," he said, his voice low, the hint of a challenge in his tone.

Anastasia’s pulse quickened, excitement and anxiety mingling as they squared off. She'd thought that Cassian would lead her in some exercises to warm up before sparring, or at least he would have been the one sparring with her. Fighting Azriel was different though. Despite everything that had happened between them, she knew that he wasn't going to go easy on her. And just that thought made her core tighten. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his presence, and it took all her focus to keep her composure.

Azriel moved first, his attacks swift and controlled. She countered, deflecting his blows, her movements precise and fluid. With each clash of the practice swords, their bodies drew closer, the space between them charged. At the moment she blocked his blow with a single parry, his breath mingled with hers, his proximity making her heart race even faster.

"Good," Azriel murmured, his voice a soft rumble as their eyes locked. "Keep going."

Anastasia’s desire to prove herself – to rise up to his challenge - surged. She matched his pace, her confidence growing with each successful block and counter. She felt the sweat bead up on her forehead as they continued circling each other. But the real challenge wasn’t just his skill – it was the way his touch lingered, the way his eyes held hers. It made her pulse thrum.

Azriel feinted left, then swept in from the right, but she was ready. She sidestepped, their bodies brushing against each other. The contact sent a jolt through her. Her breath hitched, and she saw a flicker of something in his eyes – pride, maybe even desire.

"Focus," he whispered, his lips curving into a small smile.

She bit her lip, pushing aside the distractions, the way his voice made her feel. With a deft maneuver Cassian had taught her – changing her footwork so that he'd wouldn't know where she'd go next - she managed to turn the tables, pressing her advantage. Azriel’s eyes widened slightly in surprise and admiration.

Their movements became a dance, each anticipating the other’s next move. She held her own against him, her blade meeting his with equal strength and skill. It continued for a while – and Anastasia couldn’t help the ragged breaths that were coming from her now. Though she didn't best him, the fact that she could keep up was a victory in itself.

"Well done," Azriel said after they had finally stopped, his voice filled with genuine admiration, his gaze never leaving hers.

Anastasia felt a rush of triumph, and as they stood there, breathing hard, she couldn’t help but smile, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of training.

But before she could say anything, their moment was interrupted by the arrival of Nesta, accompanied by two women Anastasia had seen training with the priestesses. One of them, in fact, was a priestess – Anastasia had seen the female while she and Amren had been in the library. Anastasia had always felt a hesitation around them, a mix of curiosity and trepidation. She knew them by sight but had never really wanted to associate with them, afraid of her power and what it might mean to others.

Nesta’s gaze was sharp as ever as she approached, flanked by the two women. “Anastasia, meet Gwyn and Emerie,” Nesta said, gesturing to each in turn. “They’re part of our Valkyrie training.”

Anastasia felt a flicker of nervousness. She had seen Gwyn’s red hair and bright eyes from afar and noted Emerie’s steady presence, but she had never ventured to speak with them. When she had first begun training with Cassian, she'd insisted that they do it early in the morning so that she wouldn't risk the possibility of using her unpredictable magic near anyone else.

Gwyn smiled warmly, extending a hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Anastasia. We’ve seen you training. You’re quite impressive.”

Anastasia hesitated, then took Gwyn’s hand, her grip firm but cautious. “Thanks,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “I’ve been... working on it.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you." Emerie nodded; her expression friendly but assessing. The Illyrian female looked even more intimidating up close than she did from afar. "You should consider joining us for Valkyrie training. It’s challenging, but it’s worth it.”

Their compliments warmed Anastasia, easing some of her apprehension. She had avoided getting too close to anyone, afraid of what they might see, afraid of her own power. It was one thing to train with Cassian and Azriel, but to join the Valkyries as they trained? She took a deep breath, the weight of the invitation settling over her.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, her voice steady but thoughtful. The significance of her words hung in the air. It was a step she hadn't been ready to take before, but now it seemed...possible.

"Great," Gwyn said, her smile growing but refusing to push much further. "We’ll be here if you decide to."

As they moved off to join the other priestesses, who were arriving in groups, Cassian and Azriel took their positions to lead the session. Soon enough, the air was filled with the sounds of weapons clashing, instructions being shouted, and the focused grunts of effort from the trainees. Anastasia couldn't help but linger and watch as the Illyrian males interacted with the females, and Anastasia's heart swelled as she observed Azriel guiding the priestesses though their exercises.

Nesta remained by her side, watching her with a knowing look. "It seems like you're no longer frightened of our little shadow singer," she remarked, her tone teasing, as she crossed her arms.

Anastasia's eyes widened in surprise. The heat rose to her cheeks as she processed Nesta's words. Had Azriel told anyone about their night together? Was it that obvious? It wasn't as though she wanted to keep everything that had happened between the two of them a secret, but with everything else that was happening… well, she didn't know if now was the time to tell people.

Seeing Anastasia’s flustered expression, Nesta smirked, "I can smell him all over you,"

Anastasia didn't know what she expected Nesta to say as she clarified her earlier words, but it wasn't that. She supposed it was some kind of fae sense that Anastasia hadn't quite mastered yet. Unthinkingly, Anastasia sniffed, wondering just what Nesta was talking about. At Nesta's nonplussed look, Anastasia felt her blush deepen.

"Azriel has been through a lot," Nesta added, her voice taking on a protective edge as she looked out to the shadowsinger.

"I... I didn't realize it was that obvious," Anastasia admitted, her voice trembling slightly. The implication of Nesta's words hung heavily between them.

Nesta’s expression softened, but her eyes remained sharp and unwavering. "He’s good at hiding his feelings, but not from those who know him well," she said. "If you hurt him, I will come after you."

The threat was clear, and Anastasia's nerves spiked. Truly, the thought of her hurting Azriel had never even crossed her mind – the past few days had brought her greater happiness than she had ever had. But she was still adjusting to living in Prythian – still dealing with the fact that she would never return to Boston. Nesta's thinly veiled threats – even if they were out of a place of love for Azriel – only kicked up that unease.

"I won’t," she assured Nesta, trying to keep her voice steady. "I care about him too much."

"Good – he deserves happiness." Nesta nodded, satisfied for now. "And so do you."

-x-

Anastasia trudged through the front door of the River House, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. She had spent the entire day assisting Madja with a particularly severe head injury on the far reaches of Velaris. A male had taken a nasty fall while thatching his roof, and the injury required immediate, hands-on attention. The journey to his home had been long and the work arduous, involving delicate procedures to ensure no further damage was done. The day had stretched into evening, the fading light making their task even more challenging. Now, every muscle in her body ached from the effort, leaving her utterly drained.

Azriel had promised to fly her back to the House of Wind after he finished his work in the Spring Court. He had told her to wait for him at the River House, so she let herself in as instructed. The house was quiet, the soft hum of activity from earlier now replaced with a serene stillness. The scents of evening meals lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of wood and wax. She had barely stepped inside when she heard voices coming from the study.

She paused, recognizing the voices of Rhysand and Feyre. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but something about the tone of their conversation caught her attention. She moved closer, staying hidden behind the partially open door. The study was dimly lit, the flickering light from the fireplace casting dancing shadows on the walls.

“She’s made remarkable progress,” Feyre was saying, her voice thoughtful, carrying a note of pride and concern.

“There is a chance that she might be the only one who can do it,” Rhysand replied, his tone serious and weighed down with the gravity of their situation.

Anastasia’s heart skipped a beat. They were talking about her.

“Do you really think we can trust the fate of Vassa – of the court – to someone so untried?” Rhysand’s voice was laced with doubt, the weight of his responsibilities evident. His words echoed in the stillness, each syllable a heavy reminder of the stakes involved.

Feyre’s response was swift, cutting through the tension. “You did with me.” There was a note of defiance in her voice, a reminder of her own journey and the trust that had been placed in her despite the odds.

There was a brief silence, and Anastasia could almost see Rhysand’s contemplative expression, the way his brows might furrow as he considered Feyre’s words. “And so we will have to with Anastasia,” he finally said, resignation and resolve blending in his voice. His tone held a mixture of hope and caution, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“That is,” Feyre added with a hint of amusement, “if Az doesn’t go full protective male on her first.”

Anastasia’s breath caught in her throat. Anastasia stayed rooted to the spot as the conversation between Rhysand and Feyre continued. The crackle of the fireplace punctuated the weighty silence that followed Rhysand's last remark.

"The mating bond between her and Azriel certainly does complicate things…" Rhysand's voice was calm, yet the words hit Anastasia like a bolt of lightning.

Feyre responded softly, "Like it did for us?"

Anastasia's ears started ringing. Mate. The word echoed in her mind, reverberating with increasing intensity. Mate. Her vision blurred at the edges, the room around her spinning slightly. Mate. She struggled to catch her breath, her mind reeling from the shock. Mate?

Mate.

She struggled to catch her breath, her mind reeling from the shock.

She took a step back, the floorboards creaking under her weight. The noise sounded deafening in the otherwise silent house – Rhysand and Feyre had definitely heard her by this point. But before they could come out and confront her for eavesdropping, she turned on her heel, she moved away from the door.

As quickly as she could, she exited the River House, the cool night air hitting her like a slap. The crispness of it barely registered through her turmoil. Mate. She couldn't shake the word from her mind. She tried to recall everything that she had heard – from Madja, from Nesta – about mates. The Mother's choice for a fae – a bond that, if accepted, was stronger than anything. How could this be possible? She was human once, torn from her life in Boston and then forced into a fae body. She was never supposed to have a mate in the first place.

More importantly – if he knew, how could Azriel not tell her?

How could he keep something so significant from her?

Her pace quickened as she wandered the streets of Velaris, the familiar sights and sounds doing little to soothe her. The streets were quieter than usual, most of the city already settled in for the night. She passed by closed shops, their windows dark and lifeless. She barely registered the distant sound of laughter and conversation from a nearby tavern.

She walked and walked with no particular destination in mind, only trying to outrun the steady stream of thoughts in her head.

Mate. The word kept resurfacing, taunting her infinitely worse than Cian ever had, as she thought back to every interaction that she had with Azriel since they'd rescued her from that god-forsaken war camp. It was true that she had felt a connection to Azriel, a pull that she couldn't quite explain, but this? This was beyond anything she had imagined. Her anger flared again, a hot, searing sensation that coursed through her veins.

How dare he keep this from her?

She paused by the edge of the Sidra, overlooking the water. Its surface was reflecting the moonlight in a way that was almost hypnotic. But the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the shore did nothing to calm her as she struggled to wrap her mind around the concept of mates.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady her racing heart. She couldn't confront Azriel now - not with her emotions so raw and volatile. She needed time to process this, to come to terms with what it meant. Mate. The word lingered, a reminder of the bond she hadn't been prepared for. She had never asked for this, never wanted it. Her life in Boston, her career, her humanity – all stolen from her.

And now this.

As she stood by the river, the cool breeze lifting her hair, she felt a strange mix of emotions – anger, confusion, and…an odd sense of inevitability. The bond was there, undeniable and unyielding.

But how she would navigate it, how she would face Azriel, was a question for another day.

Chapter Text

Anastasia knew that couldn't remain at the banks of the Sidra for long – she needed somewhere to go. She found herself walking aimlessly once more through the streets of Velaris, until she found that her feet were carrying her to the only place she could go, really.  The revelation of the mating bond had left her feeling unmoored, a mix of anger and confusion swirling within her. She needed something to ground her, and work was the only thing that made sense right now.

Madja's was quiet when she arrived, the soft glow of the lanterns casting long shadows across the room. Madja, who had been organizing a shelf of herbs, looked up in surprise when Anastasia walked in.

"Back so soon?"  Madja asked, raising her eyebrows as she resumed organizing her herb shelf. "I thought you had left for the night,"

"I needed something to do," she said shortly.

Anastasia's expression must have been warning enough because Madja didn't press further. Instead, she handed Anastasia a bundle of bandages and pointed to the table where a pile of herbs awaited processing. "These won't prepare themselves," Madja said.

Anastasia set to work cutting bandages with swift, precise movements. The repetitive action should have been soothing, but tonight it only fueled her frustration. In her anger, she'd made short work of the bandages, cutting and folding them neatly for whenever Madja had use of them. She moved on to grinding witch hazel, the mortar and pestle moving rhythmically in her hands.

How could she possibly have not known? How long had this been kept from her? The questions swirled in her mind, each one stoking the fire of her anger. She thought back to every moment with Azriel, every touch, every lingering glance. Had he known all along? The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Her hands moved faster, almost furiously, as she pounded the witch hazel into a pulp.

Finally, she couldn't hold it in any longer. "Madja, what do you know about mating bonds?" she asked, her voice tight.

Madja turned to her, a knowing look glinting in her eyes. "You’ve finally figured it out, have you?" she said with a hint of amusement.

Anastasia’s hands stilled, her eyes narrowing. "You knew?"

The old healer chuckled softly. "It’s hard not to with the way that male looks at you."

Anastasia felt a fresh wave of anger surge through her. "And you didn’t think to tell me?"

"It’s not my place to interfere in such matters. And, even if it was, when you arrived here, you were in no place to hear it." Madja shrugged. "The bond is a sacred thing. It’s up to you and Azriel to navigate it."

Anastasia’s jaw clenched. She didn’t want to hear any more about the sanctity of some magical bond, not when she was still so furious. "I don’t want to talk about this," she muttered, turning back to her work with renewed vigor.

Madja watched her for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. But know this, Anastasia: the mating bond is a gift, not a curse. When you’re ready to accept it, you’ll understand its true value."

Anastasia didn’t respond, her focus solely on the task at hand. Grinding the witch hazel into a fine pulp, she tried to channel her anger into the monotonous work, but the words kept echoing in her mind. Mate. Azriel was her mate.

As the night wore on, the anger slowly gave way to exhaustion. Her hands ached from the constant motion, and well – her mind was just tired. Finally, she set down the mortar and pestle, wiping her hands on her apron. She needed to rest, to clear her head.

She couldn't bring herself to go back to the House of Wind. The thought of facing Azriel - of facing any of them, really - felt overwhelming. What if they all knew? What if everyone had been aware of this bond except for her? She'd already felt humiliated – embarrassed that Rhysand and Feyre were talking about it so casually. Could she really go back and face the others tonight?

"Madja," Anastasia called softly, not wanting to disturb the quiet of the infirmary. It was empty, save for the two of them, but her voice still felt too loud for such a small space.

The old healer looked up from her work, "Yes, dear?"

"Do you mind if I stay here tonight?" She asked, feeling her cheeks turn pink; she hated asking for favors. But she didn't know who else she could have asked – anyone else that she trusted, "I don't think I can go back to the House of Wind."

Madja studied her for a moment, her expression stern. "This isn't a place for hiding, Anastasia."

Anastasia nodded, ready to accept Madja's refusal – hating the fact that she even had to ask her mentor. But the gruff look on Madja's face softened when she saw the desperation in Anastasia's eyes. The healer sighed, before gesturing to the empty cot usually reserved for patients needing to stay overnight, "But if you truly need it, there's an empty cot over there."

"Thank you," she whispered, letting out a sigh of relief. It was one less thing to worry about, at least – she wouldn't have to face anyone else until the morning.

Madja gave her a curt nod and went to gather pillows and blankets for the cot. As Anastasia waited, she sighed, trying to calm the millions of thoughts that were racing inside of her. She'd distracted herself for long enough – but the moment she had stopped work, she was right back to where she had started from.

The door to the front of Madja's store opened, the small bell at the front chiming and breaking Anastasia's train of thought. Anastasia turned, ready to assist whoever needed help despite the late hour. But her breath caught in her throat when she saw Azriel standing there. His normally composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a frantic look that made her stomach clench.

Azriel's eyes scanned the room until they landed on Anastasia, locking onto her with a mixture of relief and desperation. The collapse of his shoulders made it clear he had been searching for her. Rhysand and Feyre must have heard her earlier – she hadn't exactly been stealthy in her attempt to get out of the River House – and let him know just what she had heard.  

Anastasia bristled when she saw Azriel standing there, the worry plain as day on his face, and her anger from the past few hours surging back to the surface. Her eyes narrowed, and her fists clenched at her sides. From behind her, she could hear Madja return, blankets and pillows rustling in her withered hands.

"I'll leave you two to sort this out," she said gruffly to Anastasia, though there was no mistaking her underlying disapproval with Anastasia. She placed the blankets and pillows she had gathered on a cot and then exited the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Azriel's eyes flicked to the blankets on the cot, then back to Anastasia. "What’s... what are you doing?" His voice had an uncharacteristic edge of panic.

She ignored his question, unable to focus on anything but the burning question that had been plaguing her all night. "Did you know?"

"What?" His confusion was evident, but it only fueled her anger, "Anastasia, I-"

"Did. You. Know?" she repeated, each word dripping with accusation. She wasn’t going to let him get away with playing dumb. She hadn't wanted to see him yet - she hadn't known exactly what she was going to say. But now that he was in front of her, she was going to demand answers.  

Azriel was silent for a moment, his eyes searching hers cautiously. She could see the tidal wave of torment behind those hazel eyes, and she had to harden herself as they looked at her, pleading. He swallowed hard, clearly upset. "Yes."

Hearing him admit it was like a knife to her gut. She had suspected it all afternoon – having considered all the possibilities as she struggled to understand why Rhysand and Feyre knew before her. But his confirmation of it brought a fresh wave of hurt. She turned away, unable to look at him, even though the sight of his pain tugged at her heartstrings. "For how long?"

"Since that moment at Ironcrest. When we found you in those woods."

From the very beginning, then.

"And you didn't think to tell me?" Anastasia shuddered, hardening at the realization. "Instead, you played me for a fool? Is that what you do to your mate?" She spat the last word with so much disdain that Azriel recoiled slightly, a pained look crossing his face.

"No—I... when we first found you... you were so frightened of Cassian and me." Azriel answered, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to explain himself. "I tried to keep my distance. I didn’t want you… didn't want you shackled to someone you feared."

Anastasia remembered those early days vividly. It seemed so long ago now, when she couldn’t speak to them, couldn’t understand who they were. Couldn't understand that they were not the same people who had tortured her. She had been so frightened of them—of Azriel. But so much had changed since then – too much had happened between her and Azriel.  Anastasia crossed her arms, her stance defensive. "And then?"

"And then... then you were building your life here." Azriel's voice held a note of sadness and longing, and instinctively Anastasia wanted to go to him. But she kept her feet rooted firmly in place as he continued, "I wasn’t going to hang the bond over your head like that."

His eyes were pleading, silently begging her to understand.

His explanation made sense, and she felt her icy anger begin to thaw, but she still had to ask, "And after that night in Illyria?"

This – this was her sticking point. How could he not have told her after everything had changed between them?

Azriel seemed to realize this, too, and he took a step towards her, his arms outstretched as if he were going to hold her. She backed up, crossing her arms over her chest. She wasn't going to let him to that – let him manipulate her. She needed answers.

Azriel paused at her closing herself off to him, an expression of hurt on his face. "At that point—you were still holding out hope of going home. I didn’t want—"

"All I am hearing is excuses," Anastasia cut him off, her anger flaring up again. "You didn’t tell me—and then you let me believe that this... this thing between us was real, not some fae magic trick?"

"Trick? It’s not... it’s not..." Azriel's face fell, his expression a mixture of hurt and desperation. His mouth opened and closed as if searching for the right words, but the accusation had clearly cut deep.

But she didn’t let him continue. She inhaled sharply, biting back the rest of her anger. "I don’t want to see you right now."

"Anastasia," he started, looking like he wanted to say more, but instead, he bit his tongue and said, "let me at least take you home." His voice was softer now, almost a plea, his usual confidence shattered.

She shook her head, refusing. "I don’t want to go back there."

"Anastasia, just-"

"No," Anastasia shook her head, and she couldn't help the forcefulness with which her words came out, "I don't want to go back there, Azriel. Not when it seems as though everyone there was in on some vitally important secret about my life and decided to keep it from me."

He paused, opening his mouth as if he were going to say something, but quickly decided to close it. For a long moment, he just stared at Anastasia, his hazel eyes searching – pleading. Anastasia knew she should look away, but her gaze was rooted to his. Finally, Azriel cleared his throat, "I'm sorry."

Anastasia blinked, finally ripping her gaze away from Azriel, "Just go, Az."

At Anastasia's words, Azriel's shoulders sagged, but the Illyrian gave a single, small nodded. He cast one last glance her way before turning to leave Madja's. Anastasia watched his retreating figure, a pang of guilt gnawing at her despite her anger. Perhaps it was those unfamiliar fae instincts – perhaps it was something else – but she wanted to call out to him, to take back her harsh words. But her pride held her tongue.

She couldn't deny the hurt etched across his face, but right now, she couldn't bring herself to soften towards him either.

-x-

Anastasia stared at the black box before her.

She'd been staring at if for the better part of an hour now, having come straight to the study where she knew the box was being kept. Cassian had come to pick her up from Madja's that morning for her training, but the flight with him had been unusually silent. Anastasia was able to guess just how much he had known about what happened the previous night – since apparently secrets were only kept from her, and no one else. Upon landing, she had bypassed the training grounds without a second glance at Cassian or anyone else congregated there, determined that she wouldn't force herself to endure yet another unpleasant conversation – this time so early in the morning.

Which was how Anastasia found herself staring at the familiar sight of the onyx box - its ominous presence casting a shadow over the room. She'd known where Rhysand had taken it after she'd returned with it from Illyria, safely tucked inside a study. Without hesitation, she reached out to touch the strange box, her fingers tracing the intricate design on its stone surface.

Lost in her thoughts, Anastasia didn't sense Amren's arrival until the ancient being stood silently in the doorway, her expression unreadable. Anastasia tensed, expecting a reprimand or a probing question – question just what exactly she thought she was doing here, unsupervised. But to her surprise, Amren remained silent in the doorway, observing her.

Anastasia concentrated so hard that a migraine began to throb at her temples, but she pushed through the pain, her eyes fixed on the onyx box. As she studied the intricate carvings and symbols, something shimmering lightly – so faint she almost missed it - caught her eye. Anastasia's eyes narrowed at the anomaly, and she focused on it, trying to get it to reveal itself. A thread, black as night, coiled tightly around the box. She blinked, surprised. How had she not noticed it before? She had been staring at the box for over an hour now.

How had she not noticed it then – when she had been fighting in Illyria to pry it from the threads that were keeping it hidden?

Heart pounding, she called out to Amren, who had been silently observing from the corner of the room. “Amren, come look at this.”

She could hear Amren shuffle behind her, leaning over to get a closer look.

"I've found something," Anastasia said, her voice barely above a whisper. "There's a thread... wrapped around the box. I'm going to pull it."

Amren regarded her carefully, her silver eyes trailing up and down Anastasia. "You know what you're doing, girl?" she asked, her tone grave.

Anastasia hesitated for a moment. Well, no, she didn't know what she was doing. All her training with Amren had been experiments – testing her powers to see what worked and what didn't. Sometimes, things went fine. Others, horribly wrong. Would this work? Anastasia couldn't say, but she felt a stubborn determination rising within her. "I don't," she admitted, keeping her voice steady so that it did not betray her doubt to Amren. "But I have a feeling."

"A feeling," Amren repeated, nonplussed. But pursed her lips and nodded, stepping back slightly. “Very well. Do it.”

Taking a deep breath, Anastasia reached out and carefully grasped the black thread. She felt a strange, tingling sensation in her fingers as she tugged on it, the thread unraveling slowly. It wasn't difficult – not nearly as draining as the magic binding it to the cavern had been. The box seemed to hum with energy, the carvings glowing faintly as the thread unwound.

With one final pull, the thread came free, and the lid of the box creaked open. Anastasia looked at Amren, her eyes wide. She hated to admit it, but a part of her was scared to see just what was inside of the box. But she peered over, craning her neck over the lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of dark velvet, lay an onyx needle, nearly hidden by the darkness that enveloped it.

Anastasia stared at it in confusion and frustration, her headache intensifying.

“What the fuck is that supposed to be?”

-x-

It didn't take long before Amren and Anastasia brought their findings to Rhysand. He'd sensed something shift as they opened the box, and immediately made his way over once Amren had called for him. He examined the onyx needle with a thoughtful frown, then pursed his lips before declaring that he would be calling everyone in for a meeting.

She knew it was the right thing to do – that the High Lord had to do it, but it didn’t stop her mind from racing as Rhysand summoning everyone to the House of Wind.

She hated to admit it, but she was nervous.

There was a part of her that feared reprimand – she wasn't technically supposed to be near the box by herself. But the High Lord hadn’t directed any ire towards her, and she had to wonder if maybe… just maybe she'd been useful with her magic after all. But another, larger part of her, was anxious about seeing everyone else. If her earlier experience with Cassian was anything to go by, the rest of them had known for ages about the mate bond. She couldn't shake the feeling that everyone would be looking at her. At worst, everyone there would be judging her for her reaction that mate bond. At best, it would still be incredibly awkward.

She clenched her hands into fists to stop them from trembling, her nails digging into her palms.

Cassian entered first, his tall, winged frame filling the doorway. He gave her a nod of acknowledgment, his expression neutral, but his eyes held a hint of concern. She hadn’t spoken to him at all earlier in the day.  She nodded back, trying to muster a small smile, but it felt strained. Mor followed, her gaze flicking between Anastasia and the onyx needle with curiosity. She offered a warm smile, and Anastasia felt a tiny bit of her anxiety ease.

Nesta and Feyre came in together, Feyre's eyes lingered on Anastasia as she offered a small smile that made her throat tighten. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all…

But when Azriel walked in, everything changed.

The moment he stepped into the room, Anastasia felt his presence like a physical force. Her breath hitched, as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. She had seen him only yesterday - after practically screaming at him - but seeing him now was like a punch to her gut.

Azriel's eyes scanned the room before they landed on her. The brief eye contact sent a jolt through her, and she quickly looked away, her cheeks burning. His expression was pained, and the sight of his distress twisted something deep inside her, making her anger flare up all over again. How dare he be the one to look hurt – as if he were the one wronged – when he was the one keeping something so important from her?

Anastasia tried not to look at him, but it was difficult. Her entire being felt drawn to him, and it took all her willpower to focus on anything else. She shuddered as she realized it; was it just the mating bond making her feel that way? Was it even real?

She could feel his gaze on her, a burning weight that made her skin prickle.

Rhysand cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention, and Anastasia was so grateful for the distraction. She kept her eyes focused on the High Lord as he explained, “It would appear as thought, Anastasia and Amren have made a discovery, and we need to discuss our next steps.”

Anastasia snuck a brief glance at Azriel as Rhysand continued to speak, taking in his tense posture and the worry etched on his face, before tearing her gaze away.

Amren stepped forward, holding up the onyx needle delicately between her fingers, the black surface glinting in the light. “We found this inside the box,” she explained, “It’s clearly significant, but we’re not yet sure how.”

Mor leaned forward, her brow furrowed, eyes fixed on the needle. “How can this be used to defeat Koschei?”

Ideas were thrown around from those gathered – ranging from Cassian's ridiculous stab him in the eye plan to others that were much more magical in nature. But as Anastasia listened to each of them, there was a feeling in her core – telling her that no, that wasn't it.

It was Elain, sitting there rigid with Lucien next to her, who finally made the connection.

“It’s a needle,” Elain said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “She will have to use it to weave his death.”

Anastasia’s eyes widened as she registered Elian’s words, sucking in a sharp breath. It made sense – it was a needle, and she could weave threads – but she could only see the threads that were around her, in her vicinity. She couldn't see Koschei.

“How?” she asked, her voice shaky. “I can’t see threads if I don’t know where the person is.”

Lucien leaned forward; his russet eye gleaming with intensity.

“We know where he is,” he said, voice steady. “Vassa was brought to that lake… bound to it, for a time. She would know where it is – how to get there.”

Rhysand nodded, his expression serious, his eyes never leaving Anastasia's face. “We would have to go to the continent to face him.”

Anastasia felt her heart pounding in her chest, each beat a hammer against her ribs. She had known that this was likely coming – leaving the safety of Velaris once more, but hearing it confirmed made it all too real. The weight of everyone's eyes pressed down on her shoulders, and she shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny.

“We don’t know much about Koschei." Amren looked at Anastasia, her silver eyes assessing as she added, "Our research has been all but useless. This will be dangerous, girl.”

Dangerous – like so much else in this strange new world. Anastasia gathered her courage, taking a deep breath and pushing down her fear. She had done so much since falling into Prythian – had learned to master her power, had managed to face Draugar and live to tell the tale. She could do this. Her throat felt tight, but she forced her voice to remain steady. “Okay – when are we going?”

Lucien opened his mouth to answer, but Azriel’s voice cut through the room, sharp and filled with tension. “Absolutely not.”

The room fell silent, every head turning toward Azriel and Anastasia forced herself to look at him too. His wings flared slightly, a sign of his agitation, his eyes dark and stormy. Anastasia’s breath hitched, her stomach twisting. She had known he would object, but the intensity of his reaction still caught her off guard.

She took a moment to gather herself, staring at him blankly.

“Pardon?” Anastasia said, her voice cold as she stared at him. She clenched her fists, trying to keep her emotions in check.

“Koschei has been in her head for months – trying to get her to find this.” Azriel’s jaw tightened, gesturing to the open box between them, “How do we know that this has been some kind of elaborate trap to get Anastasia to go to him? We might be playing in to exactly what he wants – she could get herself killed, or trapped just like the other females there.”

There were some murmurs of agreement, but Anastasia could not decipher who it was over the roaring in her ears, “You don’t think I can handle it?”

“It’s too dangerous – we will find another way,” Azriel insisted, his voice low and commanding. His gaze bore into hers, filled with a mix of concern and frustration. But he hadn't answered her question – and that had told Anastasia everything that she needed to know.

Rhysand interjected, delicately and diplomatically, his tone calm but firm. “There might not be another way, Azriel.”

Azriel looked like he was holding back a torrent of emotions, his eyes flicking from Rhysand to Anastasia with a mix of desperation and pain.

“I want to do this.” Anastasia crossed her arms, her anger flaring, “I want to help.”

“But-“

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she snapped, her voice rising. Even though she had said everything she was feeling to him the previous night, she could not help it as the flood of venomous words as they poured out of her. “You don’t have any claim on me.”

The last words were like a slap, and she could see the hurt flash across Azriel’s face.

Anastasia knew that the tension in the study was so thick it could be cut with a knife, with everyone deliberately looking the other way. Cassian’s jaw was set, looking on helplessly as his gaze flicked between his brother and Anastasia. Nesta’s gaze was fixed on a spot on the wall, her lips pressed into a thin line – Anastasia still hadn’t forgotten about the thinly veiled threat that Nesta had made. Even Feyre seemed uncertain, her eyes darting between Azriel and Anastasia.

Azriel took a step toward her, his wings drooping slightly, his expression one of raw hurt. “Anastasia, please…”

But she wasn’t having it.

 “No,” she said, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “You don’t get to make this decision for me. I’m going.”

Azriel opened his mouth to argue, but Rhysand raised a hand, quieting him. Moments passed in that same, tense stillness, and Anastasia had to assume that the High Lord was in his head, having one of those silent conversations. “We’ll discuss this further,” Rhysand said after what felt like forever, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Anastasia nodded at the High Lord before turning on her heel, her steps quick and determined as she left the room. She could not be there anymore – couldn't stand the feel of all of their eyes on her. The moment she was out of sight, she let out a shaky breath, her heart still pounding. As she made her way down the corridor, she couldn’t shake the image of Azriel’s hurt expression from her mind.

Chapter Text

In the days since her discovery, Anastasia made the most of her time. Lucien had immediately sent word to Vassa, requesting that she make her way to the Nigh Court immediately so they could make their way to the Continent. In the meantime, she'd doubled her efforts with Amren, pushing herself to the limits of her power. Amren had her working overtime, trying to not only control which of the threads she could conjure up at any given time, but also the level of power released every time she wove a new thread. She'd worked herself to the point of near exhaustion every day, but Amren was unyielding, her sharp eyes missing nothing – knowing just when Anastasia was slipping up. The ancient fae had little patience for mistakes, but Anastasia couldn't fault her stern approach.

She needed to be ready.

Cassian had become her silent ally in her training. He let her work off her frustrations, becoming a living punching bag for her fury. Anastasia landed blows and hits on him until she was drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.

On the last day before Vassa was expected to arrive, Anastasia panted heavily, her body screaming in protest as she delivered one final punch to Cassian's broad chest. Her knuckles ached, her muscles burned, and she staggered backward, barely able to stay upright. Cassian remained steadfast, absorbing her blows with the same stoic resilience he always showed. He didn’t utter a word of complaint, only offering her the same bits of coaching – critiques of her form, mostly – that he always did.

With her last ounce of strength, Anastasia staggered over to the edge of the training ring where her waterskin waited. She collapsed to the ground, her legs barely able to support her weight anymore. She'd taken to doing this – working herself with Amren or Cassian to the point of exhaustion, so that sleep would come as soon as her head hit the pillow. Otherwise, she'd lay awake thinking – and she didn't really want to open that can of worms. She grabbed the waterskin with trembling hands and chugged the cool liquid, feeling it soothe her burning throat.

Cassian walked over, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You did well today,” he said, and then squinted his eyes at her arms. “I think I even see a hint of muscle there.”

Anastasia snorted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Liar,” she retorted, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards. The compliment meant a lot coming from him, especially after the hellish session.

Cassian knelt beside her, his expression softening. “I mean it, Anastasia. You’ve come a long way.” He paused, then reached behind him and produced a short sword, its polished blade catching the light. “I have something for you.”

Anastasia’s eyes widened in surprise as she took the sword from him. She held it by the hilt, testing its balance. It was lighter than she expected, yet sturdy. The weight felt comforting in her hand, a perfect extension of herself. But she couldn't possibly accept it. She looked up at him, her eyes questioning.

“I heard you weren’t a fan of the daggers against the Draugar." He explained, and then laughed as her nose scrunched at the memory, "But I thought that maybe this is more to your liking.”

She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. “Thank you, Cassian.”

Cassian’s grin widened; a brotherly pride evident in his gaze as he watched Anastasia admire the finely crafted sword. But after a few moments, the silence between them gnawed at her, and Anastasia looked at Cassian dubiously. “You’re not going to lecture me about Azriel?”

Cassian's expression softened, a hint of a sigh escaping his lips. He looked as if he wanted to say something but then closed his mouth, reconsidering. Finally, he opened it again and said, “It’s not my place to.”

Anastasia raised an eyebrow, surprised by his restraint – Cassian had never been one to bite his tongue. But then his eyes flicked to something behind her, and she turned to see Azriel approaching the training ring. He had made himself scarce the last few days, and Anastasia had been grateful for the space and time to think. Her fury still ebbed and flowed in waves, and she found herself getting irrationally angry at the strangest times – usually, when she was left alone with her thoughts. The sight of him now, however, stirred up a whirlwind of emotions she wasn’t ready to confront.

Cassian turned around, ready to greet the approaching priestesses as they readied for their own training. Anastasia felt a momentary pang of guilt for not joining their training sessions after saying she’d think about it. Cassian glanced back at her, his expression softening as he noticed her tension, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Just go easy on him, Anastasia,” he said softly. “It might not seem like it, but he meant well.”

Cassian turned, leaving Anastasia on her own.

Anastasia’s eyes followed Azriel as he neared, her heart clenching despite herself. Even though she was mad at him, she couldn’t help but feel the pull towards him. Unthinkingly, she let herself look at him, really look at him, for the first time in days.  Azriel’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them. The intensity of his gaze, the raw emotion in his eyes, it all struck her like a physical blow – worse than any Cassian could possibly land on her. But she knew that his presence would only lead to another argument, and she wasn’t ready to face that just yet.

Without saying another word to anyone on the training ground, Anastasia turned on her heel and began to stalk away. She felt Azriel’s eyes on her back, pressing down on her with every step she took.

“Anastasia,” Azriel called out, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and longing.

She paused for a brief moment, her heart aching at the sound of his voice. But she didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. She needed more time. “I’m too tired for this, Azriel,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… let me go.”

Anastasia forced herself to keep walking, each step taking her further away from the man who had become both her greatest source of comfort and her deepest source of confusion. As she reached the edge of the training ground, she cast one last glance over her shoulder. Azriel stood there, alone, against the backdrop of the morning sun, and it took all her willpower to turn away and keep walking.

-x-

The evening sun was just beginning its descent in the sky as Vassa arrived at the Night Court, soaring above the House of Wind as the last bits of light disappeared behind the mountains. Anastasia, leaning on the balcony overlooking Velaris, caught sight of the firebird cutting through the twilight sky and let out a small gasp. She had never seen anything quite like it before. She shouldn't have been surprised – she had known that the human queen would be coming, and the details of her imprisonment and curse. But she couldn't help the way her jaw dropped as she watched Vassa land and transform before her own eyes into a human woman.

Vassa's firebird form was beautiful—vibrant as molten metal, trailing sparks and embers across the darkening sky. As she descended, the flames gave way to flesh, and Vassa stood there, a strikingly beautiful woman with freckled golden-brown skin and silky, smooth reddish-gold hair.

But her beauty wasn't what was striking about her. She was human.

Anastasia knew that a human queen would be coming to Velaris, journeying with them as they trekked across the continent. But… well, it was odd to see a human—it had been so long since she had seen anyone except the fae. The sight stirred something deep within Anastasia, a distant memory of her own humanity and the life she once had. She couldn't help but feel the pang of loss as she watched as Vassa walked – self-assured but distinctly human – towards the House of Wind.

Rhysand came forward to greet Vassa, flanked by Azriel and Cassian. Lucien stood a few steps behind them, his eyes never leaving Vassa. Anastasia ducked away from the edge of the balcony, feeling like she was intruding on some official Night Court business. But the High Lord gave Anastasia a smirk before turning his attention back to the human queen.

“I’m glad you were able to make it here as quickly as you did,” Rhysand said, his tone cordial and diplomatic. But there was no mistaking the urgency underneath it all.

“I don’t want to miss this,” Vassa's eyes, sharp and clear, met Rhysand's. She didn't back down from the High Lord, or avert her gaze at his power – not like Anastasia had upon her first meeting with Rhysand. Anastasia had to wonder if the confidence with which Vassa carried herself was because of her position as queen, or if humans in this strange world were just more used to the Fae.

Anastasia found herself liking Vassa immediately. There was something undeniably captivating about her fiery personality, something that made Anastasia feel an unexpected sense of camaraderie. After all, they were working to defeat the same male.

Vassa must have felt it too, because as they started to move inside, Vassa caught Anastasia’s eye and offered a small, knowing smile. “You must be Anastasia,” she said, her tone friendly yet commanding. “I’ve heard you'll be the one to help bring the bastard down.”

"Oh. I—yes, that’s me," Caught off guard, Anastasia nodded before feeling the blush rise in her cheeks. “I'm certainly going to try.”

As Vassa and the others moved inside, Anastasia stayed back for a moment, taking in the scene. The world had changed so much since she had arrived here – from being held captive to learning her power. From being frightened of any Illyrian to watching her feelings for Azriel grow to not even being able to bring herself to look at him. And now, with the arrival of Vassa, it seemed poised to change even more.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever came next, and followed them into the House.

-x-

They were prepared to leave the very next morning.

The sun had not yet fully risen in the sky, soft pinks surrounding them at the entrance to the House of Wind. But the atmosphere was nevertheless charged with a nervous excitement as the group congregated. Cassian and Nesta stood side by side, their hands casually intertwined. Azriel was a silent shadow nearby, his eyes often drifting towards Anastasia – which she had tried, and failed, not to notice. Rhysand was focused, speaking in low tones with Lucien as Vassa, in her firebird form, circled overhead. Feyre had already said her goodbyes, choosing to stay behind with Nyx and Elain.

Anastasia looked at the people assembled – the ones who she would be traveling with, flying with. Cassian and Nesta would fly together, no doubt. Which left Anastasia left to fly with either Azriel, or the High Lord.

Anastasia moved closer to Rhysand, her decision made. "I'd like to fly with you," she said quietly before remembering who she was talking to, "If that's alright."

Rhysand pursed his lips together, as if he was holding back saying something but only nodded before offering his hand. From behind him, Anastasia saw Azriel's jaw clench, but he said nothing as she walked towards Rhysand. Lucien sighed, rolling his shoulders, and turned towards the Illyrian, "I suppose that leaves you and me."

Azriel gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable. With a powerful leap, he and Lucien took to the skies. Rhysand followed suit, pulling Anastasia into the air.

The flight was long – taking the better part of the day, the landscape a blur of greens and browns below them. Anastasia felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering her time hiding and running in those forests before she knew what she was. Rhysand’s grip on her tightened slightly, a silent reassurance as they flew.

They crossed over a sea, the salty wind whipping through Anastasia’s hair and stinging her cheeks as Rhysand dipped them closer to the water line. The vast expanse of water below was a shimmering blue, stretching out endlessly in all directions. She glanced at Rhysand, his expression calm and focused, but she could see the upward turn of his lips as the water sprayed them both in the face.

The flight over the sea was long, and Anastasia found herself growing weary. Her muscles ached from the constant tension. The sun began to dip in the sky, casting a warm orange glow over the water, making it look like molten gold. As the first town came into view, a collection of small buildings nestled along the coastline, Anastasia felt a wave of relief wash over her. They had to land soon – the sky was darkening as the light faded, and Vassa would transform once more into her human form.

They descended, landing just beyond the town in a secluded area surrounded by trees. Rhysand released her hand, and she staggered slightly, her legs unsteady from the long flight. She rubbed her sore muscles, feeling the exhaustion seep into her bones.

“Alright?” Rhysand asked, his voice gentle.

Anastasia nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, just tired.”

The others landed shortly after, their expressions a mix of determination and weariness. Azriel’s eyes immediately sought out Anastasia, concern etched into his features as he watched her stretch out her limbs, but she avoided his gaze.

As they set up camp, Anastasia observed Vassa, now in her human form, closely. If she concentrated enough, Anastasia could make out the threads of magic that surrounded the human queen, glowing like embers. Anastasia recalled what Azriel had told her about Vassa - how both Feyre and the High Lord of Day had tried to use their magic to reverse the curse. A part of Anastasia was tempted to try the glowing threads that surrounded Vassa – but as much she was tempted to, the heat emanating from them warned her to keep her distance.

Azriel stepped forward towards the High Lord as they finished preparing the camp for the evening, his shadows curling around him protectively. "I’ll take first watch," he said. His shadows already began to emanate away from him, the tendrils of darkness scattering about the forest floor.

Cassian clapped a hand on Azriel’s shoulder. "I’ll go with you," he offered, their camaraderie evident.

As the two Illyrians prepared to patrol, Anastasia found herself, almost instinctively watching Azriel. Despite her anger, she couldn’t deny the pull she felt towards him. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts – she didn't need to be thinking about this now.

The night was quiet, the forest around them still. She found a spot near the fire and sat down, pulling her cloak tightly around her. The flickering flames cast long shadows, and she watched as Azriel and Cassian disappeared into the darkness.

She ended up sitting by the fire, lost in thought as the flames crackled and danced before her. The warmth of the fire seeped into her, but it did nothing to warm the cold knot that seemed to coil deep in her chest. What if this didn't work? What if this journey – this hope - was all for nothing? She didn’t notice the presence beside her until Nesta made herself comfortable on the ground next to her, her movements quiet and deliberate.

Anastasia looked at Nesta, bracing herself for the worst.

“Have you come to finally kill me?” Anastasia asked with a dry laugh as she poked at the fire with a stick, watching the sparks leap into the air. Nesta had all but threatened that very thing to her, after all. And there was no one Anastasia suspected would keep their word more than Nesta Archeron.

Nesta looked at her and sighed, her expression softening. “I should – Azriel is a brother to me.”

Anastasia cringed, waiting for the inevitable lecture. She watched the fire, noting how Nesta cringed every time the wood crackled and popped. But she kept her eyes on the flames and Anastasia pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them.

“But no,” Nesta continued, her tone softer, “I know what it’s like to be kept in the dark about things. About things that are important to you.”

Anastasia nodded, her anger simmering down a bit. "It feels like everyone knew but me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Nesta shrugged non-committally – all but confirming what Anastasia had already suspected – and reached out to adjust a log in the fire. "When Azriel and Cassian first found you, he was freaked out. He'd been hoping to find his mate, and he was so excited." Nesta smiled a bit at the memory, before she gave another small sight, "But then you couldn't speak with us… and well, you were terrified of him. He didn't know how to make sense of it, and he turned to his brothers. He needed that."

Anastasia thought about it, feeling some of her anger melt away. The image of a hopeful, then confused, Azriel flickered in her mind. She could feel a little twinge in her heart at the thought of him like that, knowing that he was reacting to her.  She picked up a small stone and tossed it into the fire, watching it disappear among the flames.

Nesta sighed again, looking at Anastasia carefully. "Just promise me – if you think about rejecting the bond – you will do it soon." Her eyes bore into Anastasia’s, filled with a mixture of concern and warning.

"Reject the bond?" Anastasia sat up straighter, her heart pounding. In the chaos of the last few days, she had forgotten all about her conversation with Nesta at the River House – about that possibility.

Could she really do that?

"I've seen what pain my sister has caused by dragging out her rejection," Nesta's eyes flicked across the makeshift camp to Lucien, who was quietly talking with Vassa. The firelight highlighted Lucien’s weary features as he conversed with the fiery woman. "I do not begrudge you for your feelings, but if you cause him harm…" Nesta let her voice trail off, and Anastasia could imagine just what Nesta Archeron would do to her.

Anastasia swallowed hard, the weight of Nesta’s words sinking in. She glanced at Lucien and Vassa, then back to Nesta. She'd thought that Nesta hated the male, but there was nothing but pity in her face. “I understand,” she said quietly, feeling a pang of guilt.

Nesta’s words hung in the air, a tangible warning. She glanced back at Anastasia. “We should probably get some sleep,” she suggested, her tone lighter but still serious. Nesta stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders, the fire casting long shadows on the ground.

Anastasia agreed, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing on her. She lay on her bedroll, staring up at the starry sky above her, the stars twinkling like distant gems. Every so often, she watched as a winged figure, the night sky even darker around him, passed over.

-x-

She decided almost as soon as she woke up that she would fly with Rhysand again. Her anger had dissipated, particularly after last night's conversation with Nesta. But she was still sorting through her feelings and couldn't help the occasional flare of indignation as it rose within her. They'd be reaching the lake that Vassa had mapped out for them on a crude sketch of the Continent today.

She needed to focus on that, and nothing else.

The sky was dark, heavy clouds rolling in, casting an ominous shadow over tree line. She cast an uncertain look up at the sky. It was like a scene from a movie – where the heroes were lined up at the gates of the fortress, and the torrential downpour just makes everything more difficult. She shuddered; the turbulent weather did nothing to bolster her confidence.

“The magic of the courts can prevent the most extreme weather from hitting,” Rhysand said, his wings beating steadily as the first raindrop splattered against them. “But there is nothing similar on the continent.”

“Yeah, back home – I mean, Boston…” Anastasia trailed off, a pang of homesickness hitting her chest. “It doesn’t get extreme weather. Winters can be kind of a bitch, though,” she added, a hint of fondness in her voice.

“You miss it,” Rhysand stated, his tone gentle, his eyes flicking over to her with understanding.

Anastasia sighed as more raindrops began to pelt her. The cool droplets stung against her skin, and she could tell the rest of the day was going to be unpleasant just by the weather. “Of course I miss it.” She was silent for a few moments, the rain mingling with the thoughts swirling in her mind. “I always took for granted living there. I’d complain all the time about tourists, or how crowded it gets on St. Paddy’s Day.”

She noticed a flicker of confusion on Rhysand’s face before she continued, “But it was home. And now I can’t go back.”

Rhysand regarded her thoughtfully, his wings adjusting to the shifting currents of air. “When this is all over, and Koschei is gone, what will you do?”

Anastasia opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She thought about what she had said to Azriel, about hoping he was okay with being stuck with her forever. Azriel’s earlier words echoed in her mind. It’d be a blessing from the Mother to be stuck with you forever. Her heart twisted at the memory. Did he really mean that? Would he still - after everything she had put him through?

She glanced over at Azriel, flying nearby and carrying Lucien. As if he could feel her gaze and the turmoil in her heart, he faltered slightly, glancing back at her. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she wondered if he could feel her uncertainty, her lingering pain. Azriel's wings beat strongly, cutting through the air with the same practiced precision as Rhysand, but she could see the slight tension in his movements.

Rhysand noticed where she was looking and, likely seeing the emotions etched on her face, didn’t press further. Instead, he offered a simple reassurance. “After this, no matter what you decide to do, you will always have a place in my court.”

Anastasia managed a small smile as she considered his words. She didn't know the High Lord very well – or at all, really. But he'd offered her a place in Velaris – no strings attached. And while she had resigned herself to never going home, for the first time the thought of making a home for herself there made her settle, and her ranging mind relax.

The rain continued to fall, heavier now, soaking through her clothes and making the flight more arduous. She adjusted her grip on Rhysand, her fingers cold and stiff from the damp chill. The dark clouds loomed ahead, promising a rough journey, but the promise of a place to belong - no matter what happened - warmed her heart against the chill.

They flew in silence for a while, the sound of rain and wind filling the air. Rhysand’s steady presence beside her was a source of strength, a reminder that she wasn’t alone in this. She watched the landscape below shift from forests to rolling hills, the distant sea now a grey, churning mass. The beauty of the continent was stark and wild, but colder somehow than the warmth of Velaris.

“Do you think I can do this?” Anastasia asked, breaking the silence, her voice almost lost in the wind.

“It’s not going to be easy," Rhysand looked at her, his eyes scanning her face with a measured intensity. "Koschei is dangerous, and the odds are against us."

Anastasia nodded, gripping the fabric of Rhysand’s cloak tighter as a particularly strong gust of wind hit them. She glanced at Azriel again, his silhouette a dark shadow against the stormy sky. She couldn't help the worry that creeped into her mind, threatening to shatter that newly built confidence.

"But you have power, Anastasia. You’ve been training, and you’re not alone in this. We’ll face him together.”

Chapter Text

They landed a few miles away from the lake. Anastasia's nerves riled up, but she suppressed them as her feet touched the cold, wet ground. She was caked in mud - looking worse for the wear from the flight, as rain and dirt had risen to meet her as they landed. The light rain that had accompanied them over the continent had picked up now, causing Anastasia to shiver. It was cold, slick, and miserable.

But that was nothing – nothing compared to the oppressive sense of magic she began to feel as they descended. It was dark, and thick, and it seemed to coil around just everything. Her senses were overwhelmed as the dark magic seemed to press in on her, tightening around her chest. It was enough to physically make her sick.

Anastasia doubled over, the force of Koschei’s power hitting her like a physical blow. The sensation was so overwhelming, so nauseatingly familiar, that she knew it had been Koschei in her head all along – that Cian had just been a ruse. She felt Azriel's presence beside her before she saw him, his strong arm draping over her shoulders to steady her.

For the first time in days, and against her better judgement, she leaned into the comfort of his touch. His warmth provided a small, fleeting relief from the icy dread coursing through her veins. But even he wasn't free from the oppressive force of Koschei's magic. She could feel the tension in his body, the worry in his grip. Despite everything, though, she couldn't deny the comfort that she felt in that connection, in knowing he was there.

But it wasn’t enough. Koschei’s magic was too strong, too oppressive. The dark power radiating from the lake pressed down on her, making her head spin and her stomach churn. She clung to Azriel’s arm, drawing on his strength even as her own seemed to waver.

"If it’s too much, we can find another way," Azriel murmured for only her to hear, the warmth of his breath tickling her ear.

Anastasia shook her head, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. "You know that’s not true." She had to be the one to do this; she couldn't let everyone else down.

Rhysand watched the exchange with a solemn expression, then nodded at Azriel. "Scout the area," he instructed.

Azriel’s shadows unfurled from him, snaking through the trees and disappearing into the darkness. Anastasia took deep breaths, trying to calm the rise of anxiety inside her. The rain pounded down harder, each drop like a cold needle against her skin. She pulled her cloak tighter, the fabric offering little protection against the elements or the oppressive magic that filled the air.

Azriel’s shadows returned after a few minutes, whispering their findings to him. He relayed the information to the group, his face grim. "Koschei is not in sight, but there are women bound to the lake by magic. And a male—drained of almost all power."

Anastasia’s heart ached at the thought of the women suffering under Koschei’s control – she'd heard from Azriel about them, about the fate that awaited Vassa if they failed. And a male… no one had said anything about a male being held by Koschei.

They huddled together under a large, twisted tree, its branches barely providing any shelter from the pounding rain. The wind whipped around them, howling through the trees and sending shivers down Anastasia’s spine. Her clothes clung to her body - soaked through and through - making it difficult to move without feeling the cold bite of the wind. The weather was atrocious, reducing visibility to just a few feet. Every drop of rain felt like a needle against her skin.

Rhysand’s voice cut through the storm, "We need to get Anastasia close enough to Koschei to see the thread."

Azriel's face was set in a hard scowl, "And only see the thread—no closer."

Anastasia wanted to bristle at Azriel’s statement – to counter that she could, in fact, handle herself. But given the oppressive weight of Koschei’s power she had already felt, she found herself reluctantly agreeing with the sentiment. But it didn't seem to matter – if Koschei wasn't there, if she couldn't see the threads, then her power would be useless.

"You said he wasn’t there though," she pointed out, struggling to keep her voice steady over the howling wind. The gusts whipped her hair around her face, stinging her eyes with rain.

Lucien, standing a bit apart from the group but close enough to hear, answered. "He must be—somewhere. He is bound to this lake—he will not be able to leave." His voice was firm, but his eyes darted around nervously, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement. Anastasia shivered at the thought of Koschei lurking within these woods, watching them even now.

Rhysand nodded, his dark hair plastered to his face by the rain, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "So we will have to draw him out."

Azriel's eyes flashed, his voice cold and dangerous as steel. "You want to use her as bait." His wings flared slightly, rainwater streaming off the dark membranes.

Nesta stepped forward, looking at Azriel rather intensely. "He’s been calling to her—he’ll come for her." She crossed her arms over her chest, her expression was unwavering.

Cassian, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, shifted uneasily, his brows furrowed in thought. He didn’t seem to like the plan, but after a moment of consideration, he said, "And we’ll be there. Az, you can cloak us in your shadows, so we aren’t seen… but she won’t be alone." His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.

Azriel's jaw clenched, "This is reckless. We’re risking too much."

Anastasia, despite the fear gnawing at her insides, found a spark of courage. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I’ll do it. Just tell me what I need to do," she said, her voice firmer than she felt.

Koschei has been in your mind this whole time.1" Rhysand approached her, his violet eyes locking onto hers, piercing through the storm. "I need you to open it up once again to him." He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the cold rain.

A whimper of fear escaped her lips. The thought of letting Koschei back into her mind was terrifying – she'd fought so hard for enough control to keep him locked out. To never have to hear that male's insidious voice in her head. Rhysand's expression softened slightly, his grip on her shoulder tightening in reassurance. "Not everything—keep the fact that the rest of us are here locked away. Let him see only what we want him to see—you, here, with the needle. Can you do that?"

Anastasia nodded, though she wasn’t sure if she could. But she had to try. Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering against rain-soaked cheeks. She concentrated on the mental barriers she had painstakingly constructed with Feyre to keep Koschei out – the steel wall that guarded her mind. She envisioned a small crack forming in within that wall, just enough to let him see what she wanted him to see.

The invasion into her mind was immediate, a dark, oily sensation sliding into her consciousness – so much more potent than it had ever been before. It was enough to make her skin crawl and her stomach twist. His vile, familiar whisper slithered through her thoughts. Hello, pet.

Anastasia's body tensed, muscles locking in response to the intrusion. She fought to keep her breathing steady, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She kept her focus, her mental defenses firm. She allowed Koschei to see her alone, standing vulnerable in the storm, the needle clutched in her hand like a lifeline. She visualized herself clearly, the rain-drenched figure isolated and exposed, just as he would expect.

But the rest of her mind remained a fortress, its walls impenetrable. She felt the dark tendrils of Koschei’s power probe at the edges, searching for weakness, but she held firm, revealing nothing more than the carefully constructed image.

Rhysand squeezed her shoulder once more before stepping back into the shadows where the others waited, their figures barely visible through the deluge. The rain continued to pour down, the wind howling around them, but Anastasia stood her ground, gripping the needle tightly in her hand.

The malevolent glee radiating from Koschei was almost palpable, and she felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she planted her feet firmly, grounding herself in the reality of the rain-soaked earth beneath her. She couldn’t afford to falter now.

Come closer, pet. Let us meet.

-x-

They made their way through the treeline, each step deliberate and silent to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. Shadows cloaked them, blending their forms seamlessly into the darkness. Despite the concealment, Anastasia could feel the presence of her companions, a silent support that bolstered her resolve. She knew Koschei was aware of their approach; his presence radiated an all-consuming darkness, void of any light or warmth.

As they emerged from the trees, Anastasia's breath caught in her throat. Koschei stood before her, his appearance both captivating and repulsive. He looked young, with angular features and eyes so black they seemed to absorb the surrounding light. His unsettling beauty made her skin crawl.

"You’ve finally come, pet," Koschei said, his voice deep and melodious, exactly as it had sounded in her mind for months. His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t tell if it was the rain or his voice causing her to tremble. "Come to me."

Instinctively, Anastasia tried to step back, her body screaming for distance from this malevolent being. But an unseen force gripped her, locking every muscle in place. She strained against it, desperation fueling her effort to move, but it was futile. Her limbs betrayed her, moving her toward him like a puppet on strings, driven by his dark compulsion.

"Still trying to resist, are you?" Koschei's eyes glinted with dark amusement as he watched her struggle. "I was the one who brought you here, gave you this new, immortal Fae body. And yet, you do not seem the least bit grateful."

Anastasia's heart pounded in her chest, her rage boiling over.

"Grateful?" she spat back, her voice shaking with defiance and loathing. "I don't thank you for that. I never asked for this."

Koschei's laughter echoed through the clearing, cold and devoid of any true mirth. "Such ingratitude," he sneered. "I plucked you from your mortal life, granted you power and eternity. And this is the thanks I get?"

Her body continued its treacherous march toward him, but she met his gaze with unwavering defiance. "I would rather die a thousand times than owe you anything."

"You speak so boldly, little pet. But what if I told you I could send you home? Back to your mortal world, to the life you left behind in Boston." Her breath hitched at the name of her city on his lips. Koschei seemed to notice, and his smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "All you have to do is free me."

Anastasia felt her heart skip a beat, the promise of returning home slicing through her resolve. For a moment, she imagined it: Boston, her old life, the simplicity of her human existence. This was her way out – she'd never have to think about magic, or the Fae, or mates again. But then the reality of what Koschei was and what he had done crashed back into her mind. She couldn't do that, and she couldn't leave A-

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I'd rather be trapped here forever than see you free," she hissed.

The needle remained hidden in her hand, a small but crucial victory in this dire situation. As she was drawn closer to Koschei, she fought to maintain control, feeling Azriel’s worry pulsing through their bond. Her eyes darted to the other creatures around the lake, bound by the same malevolent force. "Don’t you see? They’re all here because they are mine," Koschei declared, his gaze sweeping over the gathered beings. Even Vassa, struggling mid-air, was being drawn inexorably toward the lake.

The plan was unraveling. Koschei knew they were all there; their deception had failed. Anastasia's heart pounded as she looked at the male in the fae body, the only one who seemed physically intact yet utterly drained.

"Ah, so you’ve found Cian," Koschei said, a sinister smile curling his lips. "His Daemati powers have been most useful in contacting you."

Cian looked emaciated, as if the effort of reaching out to her across the vast expanse of the sea had drained the very life from him. His skin was pale, his eyes hollow, and his body trembled with weakness. Anastasia's stomach twisted at the sight, fury and sorrow mixing within her.

Koschei's gaze returned to Anastasia, his dark eyes boring into hers. "And now, pet, you will fulfill your purpose." His voice wrapped around her mind like a vice, squeezing out any remaining resistance. "Now, come."

Anastasia felt the overwhelming force of Koschei's compulsion seize her like an iron grip around her entire being. It was as if invisible chains had wrapped around her, tightening with every heartbeat, making it impossible to resist. Her muscles locked in place, her limbs no longer her own. The cold, wet ground squelched beneath her feet as she began to move once more, the rain-soaked earth clinging to her boots with each reluctant step.

Desperately, she fought to keep her mind clear, to maintain the deception even as she was compelled forward. She needed to get close enough, just close enough to see the thread and sever it. But Koschei’s power was suffocating, a relentless pressure that threatened to crush her will entirely.

Her eyes were locked on the death god before her, the compulsion forcing her to look upon him. But she could hear movement from behind her – and Koschei's black eyes flicked over her shoulder. Her friends had emerged from the shadows. Anastasia swallowed back her fear – their plan had gone completely off the rails. They were supposed to remain hidden, while she found a way to secretly weave Koschei's thread.

The death god's face twisted into a deep snarl at the intrusion.

At the sight of the rest of her friends, Koschei sneered, "After all I have done for you, pet, this is how you repay me? No matter." She felt the binds on her – the compulsion – loosen and then dissipate into the air. She felt her muscles relax as she slowly regained control over her own body. Instead, it was replaced by another kind of magic, something even darker, and a pit gnawed in her stomach.

Anastasia watched in horror as the ground around the lake began to bubble and churn, the mud and earth heaving as if something monstrous was about to emerge. She took a step back – finally in control of her own body again, her eyes widening as the first shape began to form, rising slowly from the sludge.

It was like watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion.

The creature emerged from the ground, its body a grotesque combination of mud and debris, standing nearly seven feet tall. The mud seemed to flow and shift, continuously reshaping its hulking form. Its limbs were thick and powerful, ending in massive, blunt fists that looked capable of crushing stone. As more of the creatures began to rise, they formed a circle around the lake.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing.

“What are they?” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Behind her, Rhysand's voice was filled with dread as he answered, "Golems."

Anastasia gulped, forcing herself to stand firm. The golems began to move, their massive feet thudding heavily against the ground as they advanced. The rain pounded down around them, but it seemed to have no effect on the creatures. In fact, the mud already on the ground only seemed to adhere to them as they charged.

One of the golems lunged at her, its enormous fist swinging towards her with deadly force. She barely had time to react, ducking and rolling to the side as the creature's fist smashed into the ground where she had been standing moments before. Mud splattered everywhere, and the force of the impact sent a shockwave through the earth.

“Stay sharp!” Cassian's voice rang out from somewhere behind her, still coaching her despite the circumstance. “These things are strong but slow. Use that to your advantage!”

Anastasia gulped down her fear and gripped her sword tightly, her knuckles white against the hilt. The cold, slick rain did nothing to steady her nerves, but she forced herself to focus. Another golem charged at her, its massive body barreling through the mud with a terrifying speed. She swung her sword with all her might, the blade slicing through the creature’s thick, muddy torso. It let out a guttural roar as it fell apart, its form collapsing back into the earth from which it had risen.

"Slow, my ass." Anastasia grumbled, but Cassian was no longer around to hear her. He was fighting side by side with Nesta, their blades moving in perfect synchronicity - cutting down golems with each coordinated strike. The two of them were lethal.

Before she could even catch her breath, another golem was already moving towards her. Covered in mud and blood, Anastasia swung at the creature, refusing to let herself tire even though the sword was growing heavier in her arms with each swing. The rain pounded down, turning the ground beneath her feet into a slippery mess. The next golem lunged at her, and she parried its heavy blow, the impact vibrating up her arms and nearly causing her to drop her sword.

"Shit!" she cried out as she slashed at its legs, the blade biting into the mud and sending chunks flying.

In the midst of the chaos, she could see Lucien unleash a torrent of flames, his hands glowing with fiery energy. He incinerated a golem in a blaze of orange and red, the creature's muddy form turning to ash in seconds.

As she fought, another golem came at her from the side. She spun, barely managing to fend off both attackers, her muscles burning with exertion. Each swing of her sword was more labored than the last, her strength waning. The smell of wet earth and carnage filled her senses, making her stomach churn. She ducked under a massive fist, feeling the rush of air as it narrowly missed her head. Mud splattered across her face, stinging her eyes and blurring her vision.

There were just so many of them.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Anastasia saw Vassa fight with the ferocity of her firebird form, her wings a blur of red and gold as she tore through the golems. Sparks flew from her every movement, lighting up the darkened battlefield. She was so struck by watching Vassa that she almost missed another golem charging at her, and she scrambled to block its attack at the last moment.

Rhysand was a whirlwind of power, his magic weaving through the air and striking down the golems with lethal efficiency. His violet eyes burned with intensity as he called out orders, but it was a struggle to hear him under the pounding of the rain and whipping of the wind.

Anastasia gritted her teeth and pushed through the pain, her tired arms screaming with the effort. She swung her sword again, decapitating a golem that had gotten too close. The creature's headless body crumbled, but another one rose to take its place.

She was surrounded – the golems closing in from all sides.

Azriel's shadows moved like living beings, wrapping around the golems and tearing them apart with unseen force. But it didn't matter – when one of them fell, more just rose up from the earth to take its place.

It was never ending.

Koschei watched from a distance, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Is this the best you can do?" He taunted, his voice cutting through the noise of battle. It was as if he were right in her ear, speaking directly to her. "You are all insects to me.”

Anastasia's breath came in ragged gasps as she fought off another golem, her sword slicing through its muddy form with a sickening squelch. Her arms burned from the effort, every muscle screaming in protest. She knew she couldn't keep this up forever. The golems were a relentless tide of mud and earth – new creatures sprouting from the remains of those already slain. There was nothing they could do to stop them – more would just continue to appear.

The real threat - the source of their power - was Koschei.

If she wanted to end this, they needed to take him out.

She needed to focus on the plan.

She centered herself like Amren had taught her, trying to block out the chaos around her. She had to find Koschei's thread, the source of his magic.

Her vision blurred with rain and sweat, but she forced herself to concentrate. It took her a while, the sounds and the feel of the battle around her drawing her attention away when she felt herself getting close. It was nearly impossible to focus – to use this power the way that they had intended.

But then – there.

It had appeared out of nowhere. It was dark and slick, like oil in water, shimmering with an unnatural sheen. As if it might slip away at any moment – leaving them back to square one.

Just as she was about to reach out with her magic to weave the thread through the needle, a golem charged at her. Its massive, muddy fist swung at her, and she barely managed to dodge it in time. She stumbled, and her concentration shattered. She fought back, slashing at the golem with all her strength, but it just kept coming.

Desperation clawed at her – this was it, their only chance. She had to focus on the thread, but the golem wouldn’t let up. She kept an eye on the thread as she fought the golem, desperate to keep it in her sight. If she had lost it again -

A winged figure swooped down from above, a blur of black.

Azriel.

He crashed into the golem, driving it back with a ferocity that took her breath away. He turned to her, his hazel eyes intense. "Do it, Anastasia! Now!"

His voice cut through the chaos, grounding her. She nodded, focusing once more on the thread. It had almost slipped from her grasp, but she reached out with her magic, pulling it towards her. The world around her seemed to fade away, the sounds of battle muffled and distant. The thread floated towards her, slow and deliberate, glistening like dark silk in the rain.

No one else could see it.

She held her breath as she brought the thread closer, guiding it with her magic towards the eye of the needle. It felt almost silent, as if the raging battle around her had been swallowed by the dark magic of this thread. Her hands trembled, but she steadied them, threading the needle with painstaking care.

The moment the thread passed through the needle's eye, it seemed to take on a life of its own. It pulled taut, humming with dark energy that was enough to make Anastasia sick. It hung before her, almost expectantly. Waiting for her to use it as she willed – to free it's master or to destroy him. Instinctively, Anastasia knew what she had to do. She reached for the sword that Cassian had given her, its blade gleaming with rain and mud.

With a deep breath, she swung the sword, slicing clean through the taut thread – as if it were no more difficult than cutting a ribbon. The moment the blade made contact, a shockwave of energy rippled outwards, knocking her back. She fell to the ground, her ears ringing, the world spinning around her.

Koschei let out a roar of rage, his face contorted with fury as the thread was severed. He staggered, his dark eyes widening in surprise. "It would seem that you, pet, now have claws." His voice was filled with a mixture of disdain and growing fury. He moved to attack her, and Anastasia felt as if her entire body were set ablaze

Anastasia's vision blurred as the wave of Koschei’s dark power slammed into her. It felt as if her skin was being flayed from her bones, the agony so intense it nearly drove her to her knees. Her body convulsed as each surge of power crashed into her, the searing pain spreading through every nerve, making it feel like her blood was boiling. She screamed, a raw, primal sound ripped from her throat, but it was drowned out by the chaos of the battle around her.

Everyone else was still fighting the golems, too occupied to come to her aid. She could see Rhysand and Cassian battling fiercely, their powerful strikes cleaving through the mud creatures, while Nesta and Vassa fought with a deadly grace, their movements a blur of lethal precision. Lucien's flames roared, incinerating any golems that dared approach him. Yet despite their ferocity, the golems kept coming, born anew from the earth beneath their feet.

There wasn't much more of this that Anastasia could take.

But as she fell to her knees, too overwhelmed by the force of Koschei's magic, a dark shadow descended over it.

Azriel stepped in front of her, his wings spreading protectively. "No!" Anastasia cried out, her voice. She reached out, but the pain in her body was too great, her limbs unresponsive.

Azriel’s siphons blared with brilliant blue light, the energy crackling around him as he deflected Koschei’s attacks. He gritted his teeth, his muscles straining with the effort. Dark tendrils of magic swirling around the death god, lashing out with deadly force. Azriel remained where he was, the force of Koschei's magic unable to push him back. But Anastasia could see the strain on his face, the sweat beading on his brow. Every time Koschei’s magic collided with Azriel’s defenses, it sent a shockwave of power through the air, the ground trembling beneath them.

Koschei’s gaze flickered between them before sniffing the air, a condescending sneer curling his lips. “Mates? How quaint,” he hissed, his voice dripping with malice. “Did you think that bond would protect you from me?” He unleashed another wave of magic, this one aimed directly at Azriel.

Azriel fought back with all his might, his siphons pulsing with energy. The air around him crackled with blue lightning as he deflected Koschei’s attacks, his wings creating a barrier between Anastasia and the death god. But Azriel’s movements grew slower, his breaths coming in labored gasps. The pain etched on his face tore at Anastasia’s heart.

Desperation fueled her as she saw Azriel begin to falter. She couldn't let him be hurt, not because of her. Summoning all her courage, she gripped the short sword Cassian had given her. Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to move.

She had to do this. If not for herself then for –

With a silent prayer, Anastasia lunged forward, the weight of the short sword heavy in her hand. The rain lashed against her face, mingling with the sweat and mud caking her skin. She felt every muscle strain as she propelled herself towards Koschei.

Time seemed to slow as she closed the distance, her vision narrowing to the spot between Koschei’s shoulder blades. She could feel the cold, malevolent magic radiating from him, but she pushed through it, driven by the desperate need to end this.

The moment stretched, each fraction of a second feeling like an eternity. She could see the tension in his muscles, the way his dark eyes widened in surprise as he sensed her presence… but, too late. She could almost hear the sickening thud of the blade as it pierced through his flesh, sinking deep into his flesh.

Koschei let out a strangled cry - a mixture of pain and fury. The dark magic that had been coiling around them faltered, shuddering through the air. Anastasia could feel the vibrations through the hilt of the sword - a surge of raw energy that crackled and burned.

The death god collapsed to the ground, the force of his fall sending ripples through the muddy earth. The burst of power that followed was like a shockwave, radiating outward and reverberating through the air.

Anastasia staggered back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She could feel the ground tremble beneath her feet, the remnants of Koschei’s magic dissipating into the ether. The rain continued to pour down, but it felt different now, cleansing, washing away the remnants of the battle.

The golems crumbled into lifeless piles of mud, returning one more to the earth. Anastasia turned to see Vassa shifting back into her human form, her fiery feathers fading away.

Around her, the other women who had been bound to Koschei were slowly regaining their freedom. They staggered, unsteady on their feet. Some fell to their knees, while others clung to each other.

Anastasia’s eyes found the male - Cian amidst the chaos. He was on the ground, his body frail and emaciated from the draining magic that had leeched his strength. As the dark tendrils of power receded from him, he looked up, his eyes slowly regaining some of their former clarity. His limbs, weak and trembling, struggled to support him.

But then she saw Azriel, and her heart plummeted. A gaping wound marred his chest, dark blood oozing from the ragged edges. She recognized the severity instantly – his sternum was no doubt shattered, ribs most likely splintered, and the injury was perilously close to his heart. She dropped to her knees beside him, her medical training kicking in despite the panic clawing at her mind.

Azriel’s usually vibrant wings drooped, their strength fading. His breaths were shallow and labored, each one causing more blood to seep from the wound. The skin around the injury was charred and blackened, something that Madja had said indicated dark magic. Blood pulsed from the wound with every beat of his heart, soaking his clothes and the ground beneath him. The smell of iron and burnt flesh filled the air, making her stomach churn.

Anastasia's hands moved automatically, pressing firmly against the wound to staunch the bleeding. She could feel the slick warmth of his blood coating her fingers, the faint pulse beneath her touch weakening.

"Anastasia, I–" Azriel tried to speak, his voice barely a whisper, but she cut him off with a fierce shake of her head.

"Shh," she interrupted, her voice trembling. 

She wouldn't let him say goodbye, not now. Not when she had so much to apologize for, so much to make right. She had only just found him - her mate - and she couldn't bear the thought of losing him. She had wasted too much time already. What would she do without him? How could she live in Prythian - a long immortal life - if he wasn't there with her?

Her mind raced through all her medical knowledge, desperately searching for a way to save him. She needed to stop the bleeding immediately. She tore a strip of fabric from her own clothes, pressing it against the wound with as much force as she could muster. Her hands were slick with his blood, making it difficult to maintain pressure.

Rhysand appeared beside her, his face pale and strained. She could feel his worry and devastation for his friend radiating off him in waves. "Rhys, we need to—" she began, but her voice broke.

Azriel's eyes fluttered open, pain and resignation in his gaze. "Anastasia," he murmured, his voice so faint she had to lean in to hear him. "It's... okay."

"No," she whispered fiercely, tears streaming down her face. "It's not okay. I won't let you die. I can't." She applied more pressure, but she knew it was futile. The wound was too severe, the blood loss too great.

It was a wound caused by magic – none of her medical knowledge would be enough to heal him.

Immediately, her heart went into overdrive. She had to do something—anything—to save him. Her hands shook as she frantically searched for Azriel's thread, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Her thoughts spinning too fast for her to grasp, clouding her vision and making her head throb.

She couldn't lose him.

She closed her eyes, trying to center herself, but the image of Azriel's wound kept flashing behind her eyelids. The rain pelted down harder, cold droplets mingling with the sweat on her brow, stinging her eyes. She opened them again, blinking rapidly, struggling to see through the blur of water and tears.

Her magic responded sluggishly at first, hindered by her own frantic energy. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to push past the fog of panic. But it was so hard—so hard to focus when he lay there, so still and pale. The world around her seemed to narrow, sounds muffled and fading into the background. She was sure Cassian was saying something to her, she could hear his voice – desperate. But she didn't acknowledge him.

There was only Azriel.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spotted it. The thread appeared before her, faint and almost ephemeral - a thin line of silvery light in the murky darkness of her mind. She reached out with trembling fingers. As her magic connected with the thread, she felt it tremble under her touch, so delicate and fragile, as if it might crumble to dust at any moment.

The thread wavered, slipping through her mental grasp, and her heart skipped a beat, dread washing over her. She tightened her focus, blocking out everything else, pouring all her will into holding it steady. It was like trying to catch smoke, the thread elusive and slippery, but she couldn't—wouldn't—let go. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her temple, her entire being straining to keep the thread from disintegrating.

Anastasia's hands hovered over Azriel's chest, as thread pulsed weakly in her grasp. She willed her magic to weave it back together. Her vision blurred again - not just from the rain and tears this time - but from the sheer intensity of her focus.

Time seemed to stretch and warp around her, each second dragging out painfully. The thread flickered, and she felt a surge of panic rise up, threatening to overwhelm her. She clamped down on it, forcing herself to remain steady. She couldn't afford to lose control now. Not when she was so close. She clung to the thread with every ounce of strength she had left, pouring her magic into it, willing it to hold together.

The connection solidified, the thread growing steadier under her palm. It was still fragile, but it held. She exhaled a shaky breath, her heart still racing, but a flick er of hope igniting within her.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

For her mate.

For Azriel.

Azriel’s lips parted, as if he was about to say goodbye, but she silenced him with a soft kiss, a desperate plea for him to hold on. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving the thread with her magic. Each movement drained her, the power seeping from her body, leaving her muscles heavy and her mind foggy. The effort was immense, each stitch of the thread pulling energy from her very core, but she pushed on, fueled by her love for Azriel, her mate.

As she continued to weave, the world around her seemed to dim. Her vision blurred, and her limbs felt like lead. She could feel the mud and muck beneath her, soaking through her clothes, but she forced herself to focus, to complete the weave. Her breathing grew labored, each breath a struggle as her energy waned. She was nearing the edge of her limits, teetering on the brink of collapse.

Then, she remembered her training. Her mind latched onto her medical knowledge, piecing together what she needed to do. She had to stop the bleeding, stabilize him. She pressed her hands to the gaping wound in Azriel’s chest, using her magic to weave the flesh back together, to mend the torn tissues and seal the ruptured vessels. The power flowed from her, an unending river of light and warmth, but with every second, she grew weaker.

As she wove the thread, she could feel the magic pulling from deep within her. Her vision tunneled, her strength waning, but she kept going. The thread was faint, like a whisper in the dark, but she held onto it, guiding it with her power. Her fingers trembled, her body quaking with the effort, but she couldn't stop. Not now.

Finally, her muscles gave out, and she crumpled to the ground, her hands slipping from Azriel’s chest. But then, a pair of strong, scarred hands wrapped around her, steadying her. She heard a raspy, yet familiar voice say, "Anastasia."

Relief flooded through her, and she all but collapsed into the embrace, her body trembling with exhaustion. Azriel's voice, though still weak, was much stronger than before. Tears mingled with the rain on her face as she looked up at him, her words choked with emotion. "I thought—I couldn't—Az…"

He cupped her face with those same scarred hands, his touch gentle despite the strength in them. "I know," he whispered.

She shivered, a combination of the cold rain, the exertion of her magic, and the overwhelming relief of his touch. But she felt a spark ignite within her as he leaned in, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her lips.

"You did it," he said, awe evident in his tone.

Anastasia finally glanced around the battlefield from her spot on the ground. The rest of their group had gathered around them, expressions of concern and relief etched on their faces. The mud and dirt lay in piles where the golems had disintegrated, the battle won.

Rhysand stepped forward, his face a mixture of pride and worry. "It's over," he said softly, but his eyes were on Azriel, gauging his condition.

Anastasia shook her head, tears mingling with the rain. "I thought I lost you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Azriel's hands cupped her face again, his thumb brushing away a tear. "I'm here," he assured her, his voice steady despite the pain he must have been feeling.

Cassian and Nesta approached, their expressions fierce but softened with relief. "Let's get you both out of here," Cassian said, his tone gentle.

Anastasia nodded, the reality of what they had accomplished sinking in. She glanced back at Azriel, who was being supported by Cassian and Rhysand, and smiled. She looked at the faces of her friends—no, her family—and felt a warmth spread through her chest, "Let's go home."

Chapter Text

Anastasia had been nervous all day, a constant fluttering in her stomach making her feel like she might float away. She smoothed her hands over the stunning dress Mor had picked out for her—a cobalt blue ballgown that faded into pools of silver at the bottom. The long, flowing sleeves made of tulle added an ethereal touch - perfect for the occasion.

When Anastasia had confided to Mor her plans for the night – well, her friend had gone above and beyond to make her look perfect.

Standing in front of the mirror, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. She adjusted the gown, tugging slightly at the bodice to make sure it fit perfectly. The dress hugged her in all the right places, the color complementing her dark hair and fair skin. She stared at her reflection, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

She'd never been more sure about anything in her life – but she'd also never been more nervous.

She tucked one last tendril of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling slightly. "You've faced down Draugar and death gods," she reminded herself. "You can handle one evening in a beautiful dress."

It had been over a month since their harrowing journey to the Continent, and Anastasia still sometimes woke in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat, the echoes of that horrible day on the lake haunting her dreams. The nightmares were vivid and she would wake with her heart racing, needing to reassure herself that it was over.

That she was fine.

That Azriel was fine.

And through it all—through his healing, and hers—Azriel had been there. When she woke from those nightmares, his arms would encircle her, pulling her close – a reminder that yes, he was fine. His calm voice would whisper words of comfort until her trembling ceased and she would fall back asleep to the feel of his warm breath against her skin and the rhythmic beating of his heart.

She straightened her shoulders and took another deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs before exhaling slowly. The nerves were still there, but so was a growing sense of determination. She had fought for this moment, for the chance to stand here and feel this way.

She wasn't going to let something as silly as nerves ruin it.

Gathering her courage, she made her way down the winding staircase to the balcony of the House of Wind, each step echoing softly against the stone. The hallway was dimly lit, casting a soft, warm glow over the ancient walls and adding to the intimate atmosphere of the night. Even from here, she could hear the sounds of celebration drifting up from the city below. The lively hum of music and laughter filled the air, mingling with the gentle rustle of the wind. She paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, letting the festive atmosphere seep into her bones and steady her nerves.

When she reached the balcony, the sight before her took her breath away. The city of Velaris sprawled out below, its lights twinkling like a thousand stars against the dark velvet of the night. The Sidra River flowed gently through the city, reflecting the moonlight and casting an almost magical glow over the entire scene. The sounds of distant revelry added a festive undercurrent to the serene beauty of the view.

And there, waiting for her, was Azriel, his dark wings tucked neatly behind him. His blue siphons reflected the moonlight, casting an ethereal glow around him. Anastasia gasped softly at the sight, struck by the perfection of him – her mate. His hair fell ever so slightly over his hazel eyes, and the way his muscles pulled the suit he was wearing just right made her heart skip a beat.

Azriel wore a deep midnight blue jacket that perfectly matched her gown – no doubt another gift from Mor.

The moment felt almost surreal, like a scene from a dream she was afraid to wake from.

She stepped forward, the soft rustle of her gown mingling with the distant music as she approached the man she loved.

She still couldn’t believe that this was real—that everything was over, and that she had him.

From the balcony, Anastasia could hear the vibrant music drifting up from the streets of Velaris. The city was alive tonight, and even inside the House of Wind, the sounds of laughter and celebration echoed through the halls.

She joined Azriel on the balcony, her eyes widening as she took in the spectacle before her. Streaks of beautiful light arced across the sky, each one falling in a brilliant display. Azriel had explained Starfall to her before – the journey of souls across the sky - but nothing had prepared her for the breathtaking beauty of the night. The stars seemed to dance across the heavens, leaving trails of luminescent light that painted the sky with a kaleidoscope of colors.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the beauty of the night sky, Anastasia leaning against the railing with Azriel’s body wrapped around hers. His warmth shielded her from the cool night air as they watched the souls make their journey across the sky. Azriel hummed softly to the music drifting up from the city below, the vibration of his chest resonating against her.

The cool breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers and fresh rain, and Anastasia had never felt more at peace.

Azriel’s arms tightened around her, and Anastasia had to admit that the feeling grounded her. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against her back. She felt the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, his warm breath caressing her neck, and she knew that, despite everything that had happened to her, she was right where she needed to be.

Azriel pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips soft and warm against her skin as he whispered, “You look beautiful.”

Anastasia opened her mouth to reply, but then his lips trailed down her neckline, leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake and all words left her. His touch was feather-light, sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

Anastasia pulled back slightly, a playful smile on her lips. She grabbed his hands and said, “Let’s go dance.”

He raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he let her lead him back inside where the rest of their friends had already gathered.

-x-

The grand ballroom of the House of Wind was a sight to behold on a normal day. But the way that it had been decorated for the night of Starfall had taken everything to a whole new level. Glittering chandeliers of faelight hung from the high ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the throng of elegantly dressed guests. Anastasia had been worried when Mor had picked out an elaborate gown for her to wear that night – worried that she'd be overdressed. But she was glad to see that it wasn't the case – everyone else seemed to take the opportunity to dress in their finest as well.

She had just finished her first dance with Azriel, his strong arms guiding her with practiced ease. The memory of his touch, the feel of his hands on her waist, still sent shivers down her spine, a lingering thrill of their connection. She could have stayed like that – dancing in his arms – forever. But whether it was the spinning around the room or the nervousness of the night, Anastasia had felt herself grow dizzy and told Azriel that she'd needed a break.

As they moved away from the dance floor, the music continued to play - entwining with the laughter and chatter of the guests. It seemed that everyone had been invited tonight – to celebrate Starfall and the defeat of the death god.  The tables were adorned with lavish floral arrangements, their scents mingling with the aromas of delectable food and drink.

Madja approached, her usual gruff expression softened by a hint of a smile as she looked between Anastasia and Azriel.  “Enjoying yourself, I see,” Madja said, her tone brusque but not unkind. “Don’t think this means you get to slack off. I expect you back at work in no time.”

Anastasia smiled, “Of course, Madja. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” Madja huffed, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “Now go on, enjoy your night.”

Anastasia nodded and moved further into the room, where she spotted Cassian and Nesta - Cassian’s loud laugh echoing across the hall. His broad shoulders shook with mirth, and Nesta’s eyes gleamed with a mix of exasperation and affection.

“Anastasia!” Cassian called out, waving her over. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

She approached them with a smile, leaving Azriel by the towering glasses of sparkling wine, feeling the warmth of their camaraderie. “Cassian, Nesta. It’s good to see you both.”

Cassian grinned mischievously. “Don’t forget your promise to train with the priestesses. I’ll be holding you to it.”

Nesta added, her tone teasing but her eyes sincere, “They’re all really looking forward to it. No backing out now.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, echoing her earlier words to Madja. There would be no finding her way out of it now – but she found that she didn't really mind as much. Her grip on her own power was stronger than it had ever been, and where she once had hated the training she had to admit that she liked the strength that it gave her. “I’ll be there.”

As the night wore on, she mingled with the guests – most of which she knew, but some she was meeting for the first time. But, with each passing moment, she felt more and more at ease. The music, the laughter, the sense of belonging—it was all so different from the life she had known, yet it felt right. She had found a home here, among these people.

Mor approached her, grabbing Anastasia's wrists and pulling her to an empty corner of the room, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Are you ready?” she whispered.

Anastasia glanced across the room at Azriel, who was engaged in conversation with Rhysand but caught her eye. He gave her a small, reassuring smile, and she felt her heart swell with love and anticipation. She turned back to Mor, her own smile matching the blonde’s excitement. “Yes,” she said softly.

Mor’s face lit up. “Everything is going to be perfect,” she gushed, squeezing Anastasia’s hand.

The evening continued with more dancing, laughter, and heartfelt conversations. Anastasia felt herself relax more and more, the initial nerves giving way to a deep sense of contentment - she knew she had found her place. This was her home, and these were her people.

The night air drifted in from the open balcony doors, carrying with it the scent of blooming night-blooming flowers, and she felt a deep sense of peace settle over her. She was no longer an outsider looking in; she was a part of this world, a part of this family. And as the night continued, she knew that she had found her true home, surrounded by those who loved her.

-x-

Her nerves were getting the better of her as they made their way up the corridor. The party was still in full swing, with music and laughter echoing down the hall. Their friends – Cassian, in particular – had jeered as she had said she was heading up to her room, with only Mor giving her a knowing smirk from behind her wine glass. Anastasia had felt confident when she asked Azriel to leave the party early with her, but now that confidence was slipping away - replaced by a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

As they reached her room, she paused for a moment before opening the door. There was no turning back now – not that she would ever dream of it. But she had wanted this moment to be perfect.

Taking a deep breath, she took his hand and led him inside.

Azriel's eyes went wide when he saw the small table set up in the room, two chairs, and strings of faelights casting a warm glow. At the center of the table was a small cutting board with assorted meats and cheeses. She had thought long and hard about how she wanted to do this – had been planning it since she had returned from the continent. Mor had campaigned hard for an elaborate ceremony, but Anastasia knew she wanted it to be just between the two of them.

Azriel, who Anastasia was positive had never been caught slack jawed before, looked at her, his eyes searching. "Do you...?" He couldn't even get the question out.

"Nesta explained it to me," Anastasia said, feeling a stinging blush rising in her cheeks. She still cringed at the memory of offering him some of her dinner, not knowing what it meant. "Before, I had no idea."

His throat bobbed as he looked at the display of food and then back at her, "Are you sure?"

She thought of everything she had been through—the torture, the constant fear, the person she had now become. She wouldn’t be standing here without Azriel. She didn't want to be standing here without him. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

She led him over to the table, gently pushing him down into one of the chairs. His eyes followed her every move, filled with a hungry intensity. She slowly took a piece of soft cheese, spreading it over a cracker before placing it on a plate. She brought the plate to him, his hands roaming over her body as she neared him. When she was close enough, he settled his hands on the back of her thighs, pulling her closer.

With agonizing slowness, she lifted the cracker to his lips. His eyes never left hers as he opened his mouth and accepted the food.

He grabbed her, greedily, as he swallowed the last bit of food, pulling her onto his lap. The warmth of his body against hers grounded her, chasing away the last of her nerves. She felt a surge of love and connection, deeper than any she had ever known.

She reached for another piece of cheese, this time adding a slice of cured meat. The whole time, Azriel’s hands traced patterns on her thighs, his touch sending shivers through her. She placed the second bite of food on his plate, then picked it up again and brought it to his lips. He took it slowly, savoring each bite, his eyes dark.

The faelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the room. Anastasia could hear the distant sounds of the party, the music and laughter, but here in this room, it felt like they were in their own world.

Azriel’s hands moved from her thighs to her waist, pulling her even closer. She could feel the strength in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her own. Azriel pressed his body against Anastasia's, the heat of his arousal evident as he ground against her. She could feel the hardness of him - the undeniable proof of his desire.

Ignoring the heat rising within her, she picked up another cracker, spreading a different kind of cheese on it – this time adding a dollop of honey. Her hands trembled slightly as she prepared the bite, the reality of what they were doing sinking in – and her fingers slipped on the dipper, causing a smear of honey on her pinky. Her own breath hitched as Azriel gently grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips.

She couldn't help the moan that escaped her as his tongue swirled around her finger.

The look in his eyes was one of pure devotion. He finished the bite she had made for him and before she could prepare another, his hands were on her face - pulling her down for a kiss. It was slow and sweet – she could taste the remnants of honey on his lips.

She pulled back, needing a moment to steady herself. She stood up, reaching for another piece of food to feed to her mate, but this time Azriel stopped her. He took the plate from her hand and set it down, then wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down onto his lap once more.

His lips found hers again, and she melted into him, the world outside fading away. They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, lost in each other, the food forgotten, the faelights dimming even lower.

When they finally broke apart, Anastasia looked into his eyes, and that feeling – that tug in her chest – was so much deeper now, so much more profound. She knew, in that moment, that they were bound together in a way that transcended anything she had ever known.

"I need you," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

Azriel's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

"And you shall have me, mate," he replied, his voice low and rough as he emphasized that last word.

He captured her lips in a fierce kiss, his hands roaming her body with possessive urgency. Anastasia responded eagerly, her own hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently, his eyes never leaving hers.

The soft glow of the candles flickered around them, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Azriel joined her on the bed, his body pressing against hers. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers trailing a path down her cheek, sending shivers through her.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "To have you, to claim you as mine."

Anastasia's heart raced as his words ignited a fire within her.

He leaned down, pressing kisses along her collarbone, trailing lower, each touch sending waves of pleasure through her. She arched into him, her body craving more of his touch - more of the new, depthless connection that seemed to pulse between them.

Mate.

Azriel's hands moved with deliberate slowness, caressing her shoulders, sliding down her arms, and then back up to cup her face. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was both tender and filled with a simmering intensity. She responded eagerly, her own hands exploring the contours of his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his shirt.

His lips trailed from her mouth to her neck, leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, her breath hitching with each kiss. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve, every inch of her, as if committing her to memory.

Azriel's lips found hers again, and this time the kiss was fierce, filled with a hunger that matched her own. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, feeling the hard planes of his body against her softness. The world outside ceased to exist, the music and laughter from the party a distant echo, replaced by the symphony of their breaths, their hearts beating in unison.

"You're mine," he growled again, his voice rough with need. "My mate."

"Yes," she breathed, but there was no hesitation in her voice – only need. "I’m yours, Azriel."

His hands slid to the hem of her gown, lifting it with deliberate slowness, his fingers grazing her skin in a way that made her shiver. As he lifted the fabric, she could feel his hardness pressing against her, and she couldn't help it as she ground herself into him, desperate for that friction. He paused, his eyes dark with longing as he took in the sight before him.

He deftly maneuvered around the layers of her dress, fingers expertly unhooking until the fabric began to pool around her feet.

Azriel's hands roamed over her newly bared skin, exploring every curve and contour with a reverence that made her forget how to breathe. His lips followed the path his hands had traced, leaving a trail of heated kisses along her collarbone, down to the swell of her breasts.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as he moved lower, his breath hot against her stomach. He knelt before her; eyes locked onto hers - the intensity of his gaze nearly overwhelming. Slowly, reverently, he lifted her leg over his shoulder, positioning himself between her thighs. She could feel his breath against her most sensitive area, and she involuntarily writhed beneath him.

When his tongue finally made contact, it was like a jolt of electricity. Her back arched, and she let out a cry of pleasure, her hands gripping his firm shoulders for support. He worked her with a skill and fervor that left her trembling, every stroke of his tongue sending waves of ecstasy through her body.

His fingers slipped inside her with a tantalizing slowness that had her gasping for breath. He growled against her skin, his fingers curling inside her, hitting just the right spot. Her response was immediate, her body reacting to his every touch, every stroke of his tongue and fingers.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice a husky whisper. "Let go for me."

Her release came hard and fast, her body shaking with the force of it. She cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. Azriel continued his ministrations, drawing out her orgasm until she was left breathless and trembling.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with desire as he rose to his feet. He pulled her against him, his mouth capturing hers in a searing kiss. His hands roamed over her body, caressing every inch of her exposed skin. She could feel his hardness pressing against her. Her heart raced with anticipation, her body already responding to his touch once more.

Azriel’s hands gripped her hips, lifting her slightly as he positioned himself at her entrance. The feel of his fingers tightening on her flesh sent a shiver of anticipation through her. She let out a breathy moan as he nudged against her, teasing her with the promise of what was to come. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto hers as he paused and a small devious smile played on his lips.

Involuntarily, she lifted her hips up, desperate for the friction.

Desperate for him.

Slowly, almost torturously, he began to enter her, her body stretching to accommodate him. She gasped, her hands clutching at his shoulders for support.

"You were made for me," Azriel's breath was hot against her ear, his voice a possessive growl.

The words ignited something primal within her, her desire spiking to an almost unbearable level. His movements were rough and needy, each thrust driving her closer to the edge again. She clung to him, her nails digging into his back as she matched his rhythm, the room filled with the sounds of their passion.

His hands continued to roam over her body, exploring every curve and contour, stoking the flames of her desire even higher. She could feel the tension building within her, the pressure mounting as he drove her towards another climax. His hips thrust harder, faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her neck.

Without warning, Azriel flipped them over, taking Anastasia by surprise. She found herself on top, straddling him, her breath catching as she adjusted to the new position, her body arching as she felt him deeper inside her.

Azriel's hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as she began to ride him. Her hips rolled against him, each movement sending sparks of pleasure through her body. But Azriel's eyes were locked on hers, the intensity of his gaze making her feel like she was on fire.

"Just like that," he murmured, his voice a low growl of approval. "You’re perfect."

Anastasia moaned in response, her hands resting on his chest for support as she increased her pace. The feel of his muscles flexing beneath her fingers - the way his body responded to her touch - was intoxicating. So much more intense now. Each movement she made elicited a new wave of pleasure as she felt him in places she hadn't known existed, and she reveled in the power she held over him in this moment. The pressure within her was building, each thrust bringing her closer to the edge of release.

Azriel’s hands moved to her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with just the right amount of pressure. The sensation sent jolts of pleasure through her, making her gasp and arch her back. His touch was almost too much, her body trembling as she rode him harder, faster. She could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter within her, her climax tantalizingly close.

He shifted his grip, his hands sliding down to her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he guided her movements. "Just like that," he murmured again, his voice a low growl of approval that made her shiver before he crashed his lips into hers. She was losing herself in the sensation, her world narrowing down to the point where their bodies connected.

As her climax built again, Azriel's hand slid between their bodies, his fingers finding her clit with unerring precision. He began to rub in slow, deliberate circles, each movement perfectly synchronized with his thrusts. The dual sensation was almost too much, her body trembling with the intensity of it.

"Come for me," he whispered, his voice rough with desire. "I want to feel you come on me."

The words sent a jolt of pleasure through her, her breath catching in her throat. His fingers moved faster, the pressure just right, driving her towards the edge once more. She could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter within her, she needed…

She needed….

Azriel's eyes never left hers, his gaze filled with a mixture of love and raw hunger. "That's it, Anastasia," he urged, his voice a husky whisper that made her shiver. "Come for me."

Her body responded to his command, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. She was right there, teetering on the edge, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His fingers moved faster, the pressure building, pushing her closer and closer.

And then she was falling, the climax crashing over her with the force of a tidal wave. Her body convulsed, her inner walls tightening around him as she cried out his name. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, her vision going white as she was consumed by the sensation – by him.

Azriel groaned, his own climax following hers, his body shuddering as he found his release. She could feel the pulsing heat of him inside her, the sensation sending aftershocks of pleasure through her already over sensitized body. His fingers slowed but didn't stop, drawing out her orgasm.

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, his lips warm against her skin. "You were incredible," he murmured, his voice filled with awe and love.

They collapsed against each other, breathless and spent, their bodies still entwined. Azriel's hands continued to move gently over her skin, soothing her, grounding her in the moment. The feel of his chest rising and falling with each breath, the gentle caress of his breath against her neck, made her feel safe and cherished. She nestled against him, her heart still racing.

Anastasia rested her head on Azriel's chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her back, satisfied that she was here, with her mate. The warmth of his embrace, the solid strength of his body against hers, was a comfort she never wanted to lose.

That she'd never have to lose.

Anastasia's eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, her body finally succumbing to the events of the night. She felt a profound sense of peace, a quiet happiness that settled deep within her. Just as she was about to drift off, something caught her eye.

A soft, glowing light in the dim room. It started from just underneath the swell of her breasts, snaking outwards and running to the hard planes of Azriel's torso.

She blinked away the fog of sleep, as she concentrated on the strange light, her tired mind struggling to comprehend what she was seeing. But as her focus returned to her, and she could clearly make out what it was, she sighed, happy and content.

It was their thread, golden and beautiful, glowing softly in the darkness.