Chapter Text
Azriel hated this place.
He hated everything about the Hewn City: its rot and pretense, the way that most of Keir’s ilk seemed to stare at him with enough hatred to fuel the sun. Most of all, he hated who he had to be in these halls. Just another pawn that Rhys wielded to keep the filth that lived here under his control.
Tonight, he hated it more than ever.
The throne room loomed with its usual grandeur. Torches lined the obsidian walls, their flames casting black-gold light across marble veined like shattered glass. Incense burned heavy in the air, thick enough to catch in his throat. Murmurs rippled through the gathered courtiers, their eyes darting toward the empty twin thrones that rose above them.
Azriel made his way to the right of those seats, where Cassian was already flanking the left. He kept his expression flat, unreadable, though his fingers itched against the hilt of Truth-Teller at his thigh.
“You’re late,” Cassian muttered, his mouth barely moving as he scanned the crowd.
“I’m here before the rest of them, aren’t I?” Azriel replied, eyes fixed on the shifting sea of courtiers below. His shadows whispered along the edges of the room, mapping exits, gauging threats. There was nothing yet, nothing to distract him from Cassian’s probing glare.
His brother huffed, the sound almost a growl under his breath. “Figures. You’ve been scarce for weeks.”
Azriel didn’t answer. He felt Cassian’s sidelong glance, knew that there was a question underneath the frustration. Where have you been? Why did you leave? A part of Azriel wanted to tell his brother what was going on. How he’d known Elara was his mate when he still believed her to be Munin. He’d needed someone to talk to, someone more removed from the situation than Rhys. And Cassian did seem to know how to talk to females — better than Azriel, at least.
But Cassian was clearly dealing with something of his own, something with Nesta. And Elara had asked him to keep it a secret. So Azriel said nothing.
And Cassian didn’t press.
Azriel’s jaw tightened, the leather of his gloves creaking as he curled his hands behind his back. He had been out in the field, chasing fragments of rumor and whispers of Briallyn’s movements. It had been easier to hunt shadows than to stay in Velaris.
Elara had asked for space, and he had given it.
The memory still scraped raw: waking in the healer’s wing, pain and steel wrapped through his ribs, and her not there. Her request echoing instead. That she had wanted some time, some distance from it all.
So he had brought his plan to Rhysand, to see if he could find out Briallyn’s next step. His High Lord had granted him the assignment without a word of question. Rhys must have sensed it. Known that Azriel had to go, had to put miles between himself and the bond that pulled with every breath, begging him to close the distance Elara had demanded.
His thoughts had been so consumed by Elara, by her reaction to the bond, that he hadn’t been able to discover anything about the former human and her plans.
Cassian snorted softly, his arms crossing over the broad span of his chest.
“Don’t think you missed much. Nesta’s snapping at everyone. And Elara—” He gave a careless shrug. “She’s in moods now too. You’d fit right in.”
Her name landed like a strike to the ribs. Azriel’s face betrayed nothing, but his hand tightened around the hilt at his hip until the leather creaked under his grip. So, Elara had been in a foul mood. Had it been because of him? A part of him wanted to press Cassian for more details. But he kept his eyes trained on the growing crowd instead.
Oblivious, his brother shifted his weight, leaning back on his heels. “Place hasn’t been dull, I’ll give it that.”
Azriel didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure that he could without snapping.
Movement rippled across the chamber floor, drawing their attention. Eris Vanserra strode in as though he owned the place, flames of red-gold hair catching the light of the torches.
Cassian muttered under his breath, “As if the air wasn’t rancid enough.”
Azriel’s shadows stirred, restless, slicking across the floor in thin ribbons before coiling back to him. Eris had always brought that reaction from them. The memory of Mor—broken and bloodied, left in the mud—rose sharp as ever. Eris walking away, uncaring. Azriel’s jaw locked as he watched Keir make introductions around the chamber, as if the Steward were the one to invite the prince of Autumn.
“You alright?” Cassian’s voice was low, pitched for him alone.
“I’m fine.” The words came clipped, too sharp.
Cassian angled a look at him, a brow raised. “You don’t look fine.”
Azriel kept his gaze fixed ahead. “Drop it.”
For once, Cassian obeyed.
The doors at the far end of the throne room groaned, the sound cutting through the low murmur of voices. The crowd shifted, heads turning. Rhysand and Feyre swept inside, power pressing against the stone as though the mountain itself bowed to their presence.
The chamber fell silent, conversation snuffed out as if a hand had closed over every mouth. Dozens of gazes snapped toward the twin thrones.
The quiet cracked a heartbeat later, broken by a sharp intake of breath. Gasps ricocheted against the marble walls, sharp as shattering glass. Feyre’s gown shimmered as she moved, the fabric clinging to her form, and the swell beneath the silk left no room for doubt.
Feyre Archeron—High Lady of the Night Court—was unmistakably pregnant and ready to show the world.
Azriel caught the ripple of expressions spreading through the chamber—shock first, then calculation. Eyes flicked from Feyre’s stomach to Rhysand’s face.
The High Lady of the Night Court, carrying an heir.
Whispers broke out almost immediately. Some of them spoke with envy – others with suspicion. Every predator in the Hewn Court had scented opportunity, though none were bold enough to voice it outright.
Behind Feyre, Nesta and Elain entered. Azriel kept his face blank, but he watched the way those gazes lingered too long on the Archeron sisters.
If Feyre noticed the way that the court was leering at all of them, she didn’t falter. She lifted her chin and said clearly to the stunned crowd, “May the blessings of the Winter Solstice be upon you.”
Keir stood forward. emerging from the stunned crowd. He bowed low, but his eyes gleamed with something far less deferential. “Allow me to extend my congratulations,” he said smoothly.
Azriel’s grip tightened on the hilt at his hip until the leather creaked.
Before Rhys could respond, the chamber’s focus shifted. Eris strolled forward, smirk firmly in place, firelight catching on his red hair. Every step was meant to draw attention, to remind the room that Autumn was watching. He bowed just deep enough to be proper, though Azriel saw the arrogance in every line of him.
“And allow me to extend mine as well,” Eris said, his tone smooth, the words edged. “On behalf of the Autumn Court. And my father, of course.”
Polished courtesy coated the statement, but Azriel caught the truth beneath it: a reminder of Eris’s own ambitions, and where his alliances lay. Good. Perhaps Nesta wouldn’t have to do much to remind Eris of the benefits of an alliance with the Night Court.
It was then that Rhysand’s power slid over the chamber. The whispers that had swelled after Feyre’s entrance cut off at once, pressed flat under the weight of it. The message was clear: one wrong look at Feyre, and Rhys would end them before they even realized they’d crossed a line.
Azriel didn’t mind. Not in this cesspit.
When Rhys spoke, his voice carried clean through the chamber, smooth but edged with steel.
“This,” he said, pausing long enough that every head tilted to listen, “is indeed a very blessed Solstice. The Night Court looks to the future, to my son and heir.”
He rested his hand over Feyre’s, the kind of claim that sent another ripple of whispers through the crowd. Azriel tracked every shift in posture, every darting glance, noting who hid their reactions and who didn’t. He already knew which ones might try to use this news, and which were smart enough to keep their heads down.
“But,” Rhys continued, the single word drawing the chamber tighter, “there is another reason for celebration.”
Eyes followed as he turned toward the doors. The air in the hall went still, thick with anticipation.
“Allow me,” Rhys said, voice calm but carrying a note of satisfaction, “to present…my sister.”
The black doors opened slowly, hinges groaning, as if the entire court leaned forward to see what would come through.
Elara stepped inside.
For a heartbeat, Azriel forgot how to breathe.
Torchlight caught on her skin, tracing the clean line of her collarbones, the sweep of her shoulders. The gown she wore was black as ink, cut low to bare the long column of her throat and the curve of her collarbones. Slim straps left her shoulders bare, the fabric dipping into a neckline that hinted more than it revealed. The bodice clung close, molded to her waist before the skirt loosened, whispering around her legs with each step. Slits in the skirts flashed glimpses of skin—long legs, the edge of a thigh—calculated to draw the eye without ever looking careless.
Azriel’s shadows stirred at the sight, restless. Even they didn’t seem to know what to make of her in this dress.
A month. He hadn’t seen her in a month. Still, the sight of her hit hard, sharp as a strike to the ribs.
Her posture was perfect, chin lifted, gaze cool as it swept the hall. Not cowed, not uncertain. She moved as though she had always belonged here, as though the Court of Nightmares had been waiting for her to walk back into it.
Every inch of her looked the part: Rhysand’s sister, a daughter of the Night Court.
And Azriel, silent at his High Lord’s right hand, could only watch as the female who had haunted him for weeks crossed the threshold and claimed the room with a single step.
But the way the courtiers looked at her, hungry and leering, made something black coil sharp in Azriel’s chest. He caught each flick of a male’s gaze, and his hands curled against the leather at his sides until it groaned in protest. He marked faces, measured the length of their stares, and catalogued every one he would gladly see in pieces later.
Even Eris.
Especially Eris.
Surprise had flared in the Autumn heir’s eyes when the doors opened, but it was gone now—burned away by that slow curling smile. Like a predator scenting fresh prey. Azriel’s jaw ticked, and he had to force his hands to remain empty. A blade would be too tempting, and Eris would be too easy a target.
Cassian shifted beside him, expression souring into a grimace. As if he, too, noticed Eris’ leering.
“Mother above,” he muttered, pitched low enough for only Azriel to hear. “Guess she’s not hiding away anymore.”
Azriel didn’t answer. He couldn’t, not when her gaze skimmed the chamber like ice on glass. He waited for something, anything, that hinted at how she had been feeling these last few months. But not once did her eyes land on him. Not once did she falter.
Heat pressed beneath his ribs, spreading until it stole his breath. The hunger in the room didn’t only belong to the courtiers. Yearning gnawed at him, ugly in its strength, twisting into something darker when paired with the knowledge that every male in this hall wanted to touch her.
The hush that followed her was broken only by the faint click of heels as she crossed the floor, skirts parting with each step. The crowd shifted in her wake and she commanded without speaking, without lifting a hand, and the room bent around her presence.
Azriel’s gaze refused to leave her.
He told himself to stand still, to remain stoic at his place by Rhys’s side, but his body resisted the command. His shoulders locked, his chest grew tight, and his pulse thundered against his ribs. His fingers twitched once against the hilt at his hip, an echo of the ache to reach for her, to anchor her to him instead of leaving her exposed to this chamber full of vultures.
At the foot of the dais, Elara stopped.
The chamber quieted as she lowered herself into a bow so controlled, so precise in its angles, that it looked carved from marble. Her hair slid forward over one shoulder with the movement, a dark sheet against the black of her gown.
When she rose, it was unhurried and sure. Her chin lifted, expression as unreadable as the marble of the floor.
She crossed the final steps to Rhysand’s side, skirts whispering across the stone, and positioned herself just close enough that Azriel’s shadows caught her warmth. That faint thread of her scent wove through the spice and smoke of the hall.
She was so close he could have reached out—brushed the back of his knuckles along her arm, skimmed the curve of her wrist. So close that for the first time in weeks, the bond inside him yanked taut, straining toward her like it might snap if he didn’t move.
“Elara.” Her name slipped from him low, dragged rough through his throat. Barely a breath beneath the murmur of voices echoing through the chamber.
Her eyes flicked toward him. Just a fraction, as though the motion had cost her more than she meant to give. And in that fleeting glance, there was every word neither of them had spoken.
Azriel’s throat worked once, twice. He tried for words, but his chest burned with them, his jaw tight against their escape. “You look—” He cut himself off, forcing the rest back down until it scraped raw against his silence.
Her gaze lingered, but beneath the mask he thought—no, he was certain—something faltered. The smallest break in the armor. Her lips pressed together too tightly, her fingers curled once at her side, a hesitation almost too subtle to catch.
Almost.
It was enough. Enough to make his chest burn as though the flames from earlier in the evening still licked through him.
And yet, when her voice came, it was smooth, polished, and not meant for him. Not for him in the way he wanted. “Are you going to keep staring, Shadowsinger,” she murmured, pitched low for his ears alone, “or remember where we are?”
Before Azriel could try to speak to Elara again, Keir stepped forward from the front ranks.
The movement drew every eye, causing Azriel to bristle as everyone stared at Elara. The steward’s face was drawn tight, not with his usual disdain but with a rare, unmistakable surprise. His gaze raked over Elara like he might peel her apart to see if she were real.
“This—this cannot be,” he said at last, his voice cutting harshly through the hush. His eyes swept her form again, disbelief warping into something darker at the edges. “We believed you dead. All of us. For nearly five centuries…”
A ripple passed through the crowd. Whispers unfurled in its wake, skirts rustling, boots shifting on stone as people tried to get a better look. Elara’s name hissed from lip to lip from those old enough to remember, her face examined from every angle as though the court sought proof that she was truly there in the flesh.
She did not answer.
She didn’t even grant Keir the courtesy of her eyes. Instead, her chin lifted the smallest degree, her silence cool, as if the truth of her survival was beyond question. Beyond explanation.
The weight of that stillness was heavier than any words she might have given.
It was Rhys, instead, who broke it.
His voice slid through the chamber, smooth and low, with that drawl that always carried menace beneath it.
“Then consider yourself fortunate, Keir.” His violet eyes glinted as they fixed on the lord of the Court of Nightmares. “The Night Court’s lost princess has returned—and it seems our enemies were mistaken in their triumph.”
He leaned back against the throne with a lazy grace, as if the unveiling of a sister thought dead for half a millennium were nothing more than a parlor trick. The very picture of unconcern. But Azriel caught the steel beneath it, the faint edge in the way Rhys’s hand lingered on the armrest, ready to snap power through the hall if anyone dared move wrong.
Azriel’s own shadows pressed hard against his ribs. Now, more than ever, he wished Rhys hadn’t done this—hadn’t paraded Elara here like a jewel set on velvet for every greedy eye to linger on.
Because he didn’t know if he could stomach it.
The hunger in their gazes, the way the males of the Hewn City let their eyes crawl across her body, cataloguing every inch with something ugly sparking behind their stares. Even those who masked their faces with shock or curiosity couldn’t disguise the flicker of predatory interest.
And then, of course, there was Eris. Lounging with that lazy amusement, his copper eyes alight with interest, a gleam of something sharper than the rest. Azriel’s teeth ground together until his jaw ached.
Rhys’s smile sharpened.
“Enough of this,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet in one easy motion. The chamber tensed, instinctively attuned to his command. “It is Solstice, after all. Music.”
He flicked a hand, and the silence broke. Strings rose, a swell of violins threading with the deep pulse of drums, filling the air with sound too rich and commanding to be ignored. Beside him, Feyre’s hand brushed Rhys’s, steadying and warm, her voice soft but carrying through the chamber with quiet authority. “Eat. Drink. Celebrate.”
Her smile was radiant, so very different from the cold menace of Rhys’s. The two of them together—light and shadow—tilted the balance of the hall back toward festivity and forcing the tension into something more bearable.
Still, Azriel’s eyes did not leave Elara.
The murmurs returned, quieter now, buried in the clink of goblets and the scrape of platters. A few laughs broke the silence as the courtiers pretended nothing had unsettled them.
Rhys gave Elara the smallest nod, permission and dismissal all at once. She dipped her head in return then turned away. The dark sweep of her skirts caught the torchlight as she stepped from the dais and moved into the crowd.
Azriel’s body shifted before he could stop it, one foot angling forward as though to follow. His shadows stirred at his heels, tugging toward her retreating form, restless and eager. He clenched his hands against the leather at his sides until his knuckles ached.
She didn’t look back. Not once.
Her posture was unbroken, her eyes fixed ahead as the crowd opened to let her through. Azriel forced himself still, shoulders locked, jaw tight, and watched as she disappeared into the mass of courtiers, gone as suddenly as she had arrived.
Elara hated this place.
The throne room was crowded, the press of bodies and sound closing in with every step. Music erupted from the raised platform of musicians, laughter rang too sharp to be real, and the mix of wine, incense, and perfume turned the air heavy. Her dress clung too tightly, every movement reminding her how exposed she was under the constant stares.
She remembered this as a child, the way the Hewn City watched her. Faces painted in false charm, eyes that lingered too long, Keir’s mouth smiling to her father while he plotted a potential marriage.
She had loathed it then, and standing here now, she loathed it still.
Each look that raked over her pulled at something deeper, dragging her back to the nights she had spent Under the Mountain, as Munin. She had worked over the course of the year to bury that self, to believe it was gone, but here, in these halls, the past pressed too close.
She had told herself she could endure it. Rhys had asked her to stand before Keir and remind him what strength the Night Court held—what could happen if he forgot it. She had agreed. She had thought she could wear the mask again.
But Azriel was here.
Even without looking, she felt the tether to him across the room. It pulled steady and sharp, impossible to ignore. She knew where he stood, knew the weight of his attention, though she hadn’t dared meet his eyes.
It made holding the mask harder. Harder to shut out the part of her that wanted to reach for him, to believe in the steadiness of his presence instead of the hungry gazes that followed her.
She had glimpsed him when she first entered. The faint widening of his eyes, the way his shadows curled tighter around his shoulders as if they had tried to reach for her, had nearly undone her.
She had known he would be here tonight, known she would see him again for the first time in weeks. Still, the sight of him had hit harder than she expected. She had tried to reach out to him before, to speak after everything that had happened, only to learn from Nesta that he was gone.
Off monitoring Briallyn. No word of when he might return.
The knowledge had left her hollow. Left behind. She had told herself he had his duties. That he was her brother’s Spymaster, after all. That she had no right to expect anything different. And yet—
Elara exhaled quietly, forcing the thought away as she wove through the crowd toward a long table draped in black velvet. Platters of fruit and spiced meat lay scattered between goblets and tall pitchers. She plucked one of the silver cups, filling it from the nearest decanter. The wine stained the rim dark as she lifted it, welcoming the burn down her throat.
“Lady Elara.” The sound of her name snapped her mask into place before she had even turned. Her hand tightened on the goblet, grip firm and steady as she pivoted toward the voice.
Keir stood only a step away, posture poised with a courtier’s ease, but his expression gave him away. The first shock had passed. Now, it was pure calculation that gleamed sharp in his dark eyes.
“Lord Keir,” she said smoothly. She tipped the goblet just enough to acknowledge him.
He let his gaze drag down her gown, across her face, as though confirming she was real.
“We believed you gone for nearly five centuries,” he said, his words pitched low but not quiet enough to escape nearby ears. “Yet here you stand. Tell me—how long has Rhysand known? How long has your High Lord kept this from his Court?”
Elara let a small, sharp smile curve her mouth. She tilted the goblet and sipped before answering, savoring the pause. “Do you truly think you’re owed all his secrets?”
Keir’s eyes narrowed, though his tone stayed smooth, almost conversational. “Secrets of this scale change everything. Did you know how often your father came here to discuss your betrothal?”
Elara swirled the wine in her glass, watching the dark liquid catch the torchlight. She lifted it slowly, lips curving faintly as she sipped. “I know he tried. I also know how little I cared for the notion.”
Keir’s mouth curled in something that might have been called a smile if not for the lack of warmth in it. “Your feelings mattered less than what you were worth. Silas understood that. Lord Hadeon would have secured you quite comfortably.”
Her brow arched, one finger tapping idly against the goblet’s stem. “Knowing my father, he very well might have.”
He inclined his head a fraction, his dark gaze never leaving her face. “Silas was persistent. But in the five hundred years you have been gone, Lord Hadeon has already taken a wife.”
Elara let the pause stretch, then gave a soft laugh that felt too polished in her throat, not nearly as natural as she made it sound. “How fortunate for Lord Hadeon. I would have made him miserable.”
Keir chuckled in answer, the sound low and humorless. He stepped a little closer, hand brushing the edge of the table as though crowding her space was casual. “Hadeon has been wed these two centuries. But there are others. Many who would welcome the chance. A union could steady your footing after such a… long absence.”
Mother above, she wished that she could cut him down with the blade hidden at her hip. She forced the temptation down. Forced the mask to stay in place. Instead she tilted her head, smile lingering just coy enough to pass for consideration. “Perhaps. If the terms suited me—and my brother.”
That glimmer of interest lit Keir’s eyes, sharp and calculating. “Terms can always be arranged. Imagine the strength a marriage could bring to the Night Court.”
Elara did not have to turn to know when the shadows shifted.
The air cooled at her side, the press of wings brushing the edge of her vision. Azriel had appeared without a sound, his wings angled half-wide as though instinct had pulled them there. His gaze slid between them. It was steady, but she caught the edge beneath it. A quiet claim lived there, one Keir could not possibly miss.
Keir’s smile twitched, not quite faltering.
“I only suggest possibilities,” he said lightly. “You are a rare prize, Elara. Surely your court would not let you go to waste.”
Before she could open her mouth, Azriel’s voice cut in. Low, controlled, with a steel edge that silenced the nearest cluster of courtiers. “The Night Court does not waste what it values.”
Keir’s eyes flicked to him, and amusement curled at his mouth, thin and knowing.
“So quick to defend, Shadowsinger.” His gaze returned to Elara, lingering, sly. “Perhaps I should introduce you to some of our eligible lords this evening. Males of unimpeachable heritage.”
The glance he threw at Azriel then was unmistakable. Elara’s spine stiffened. How dare Keir? She knew, of course, about Keir’s prejudice. She had heard all about the fit he’d thrown upon learning about his daughter and Cassian. Seeing it firsthand, however, turned her stomach. But she kept her smile fixed in place, a faint, easy curve that did not reach her eyes.
“That would be most gracious, Keir.” Her voice was smooth, even, though bile burned the back of her throat.
At her side, the bond trembled. A hot and sharp burst of jealousy puled through it and she flinched before she could stop herself. She masked the slip by raising her wine glass, letting the rim touch her mouth though the taste of it barely registered.
Keir’s smirk deepened. “Then it is settled. A dance or two, with males worthy of you.”
Elara inclined her head as if conceding. Azriel said nothing, but his silence pressed close, heavy, his fury kept on the thinnest leash.
She lowered her lashes, hiding the flicker of unease, and let her smile stay in place. “I look forward to it.”
As Keir finally drifted back into the crowd, Elara let the tight mask slip from her face just enough to release a breath she had been holding. The noise of the chamber pressed in—the strings winding louder, laughter rising sharp as glass, the scrape of goblets and plates clattering onto trays. Yet none of it touched her. The bond pulsed hot and heavy, carrying the thrum of Azriel’s fury until it drowned out everything else.
She kept her face lowered, lashes brushing her cheeks, and murmured toward the floor, “You can’t do this.”
The air cooled again as his shadows gathered closer, clinging to him like a storm held barely in check. His jaw was rigid, his voice a quiet rasp. “He was baiting you.”
“And I bit back in kind.” She forced her chin up, meeting his eyes. The torchlight caught in them, flecks of gold swallowed by the burn of anger. Her hand tightened on the stem of her goblet to keep from reaching for him, “I know what I need to do.”
Azriel leaned in, close enough that his wings nearly brushed hers, his words ground out from between clenched teeth. “Rhys should have never asked you to do this.”
“This is the only way I can help him right now.” She kept her tone even, cold for the ears that might be listening, though her chest ached with the weight of saying it aloud. “If Keir thinks there are threads to pull, he’ll lean closer—and that is what my brother needs. We need the Darkbringers, Azriel.”
His mouth pressed into a flat, hard line. The shadows shifted like restless hounds at his boots. “At what cost?”
“It is only a dance,” Elara said, sharper than she meant. She steadied her hand on the goblet, tilting it idly so the wine caught the light. “Nothing more.”
Azriel’s eyes burned into hers. “You know it’s not nothing. The bond—”
Her spine went rigid. She cut him off before he could finish, her voice low and clipped. “Not here. This is not the place.”
Her gaze flicked up, meeting his, and the heat in his eyes nearly undid her. The weight of it made her chest tight, made the polished mask on her face feel brittle.
“It’s not like it’s real,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “It’s not like…”
It’s not like it is with you and me. The rest of the words stuck, sharp in her throat. They were standing far too close. This conversation was far too revealing. She bit down hard, forcing the slip back before it shattered everything.
She had not spoken to him since that night—the night the bond had revealed itself, the night she’d run instead of facing what it meant. It was her own fault, now, that standing in the poisonous heart of the Hewn City, she was forced to have this conversation.
Azriel’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once. She felt all of it—anger, hurt, want—straining down the bond. A tide she had turned away from, and one she didn’t know how to stop from breaking now. She lifted her chin, made her lips curve in that practiced, cruel smile for the benefit of every watching eye. The wineglass was steady in her hand, though her fingers trembled faintly against the stem.
She could not do this here. Not with Keir’s court circling like wolves.
Not tonight.
The night blurred together in a haze. Azriel had endured it in silence, though each time Elara stepped onto the floor with another male, the tether inside him pulled taut until it was a wonder the whole court could not see it snapping. Keir had been making introduction after introduction, monopolizing all of Elara’s time. As soon as one dance ended, another male stood ready to take his pace.
It left little opening for him.
When she finally crossed to him, his body reacted before his mind caught up. Her hand slid into his, and his other settled at her back—precisely where it should be. They were on the dance floor before she could even form the protest. The music swelled, but he hardly noticed.
She met his eyes once, only once, and it nearly unmade him.
“You look as though you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, his voice lower, sharper than he meant.
Her mouth curved, though her eyes warned him. “It’s politics. Nothing more.”
His grip tightened at her waist. Not enough to draw a flinch, but enough that her breath caught before she steadied it again. “You shouldn’t have to let them touch you for politics.” His voice was low, rougher than he wanted.
Her gaze cut to his, and he could see it there, in her eyes: a flicker of unease, the strain of her control. “And yet I do. Because Rhys needs Keir to believe he has leverage. And Keir needs to think he can use me for it.”
His jaw flexed, shadows curling closer to their ankles as if they too itched to intervene. “That does not mean you on display like some prize for them to paw at.”
Something flared in her eyes then—guilt, anger, he couldn’t tell—but her smile stayed in place for the watching court. “If I can endure a dance, Azriel, then you can endure watching it.”
His hand at her back tightened before he forced himself to ease it. He leaned in closer, enough that only she could hear. “You think this is easy for me? To feel their hands on you through the bond?”
Her mask slipped a fraction, a flicker of rawness in her eyes, before she shuttered it again. “Don’t,” she said quietly, steel threading through her tone.
The music shifted, pulling them to the end of the dance. She stepped back with perfect composure, head dipping in a gesture that looked effortless. For anyone watching, it was nothing more than another turn about the floor.
Azriel released her hand, though his chest ached with the effort. He should have let her go. Should have. But the weight of the bond pulled hard enough that every instinct screamed to keep her close.
But then Eris stepped forward. All smug charm and firelight in his eyes, the Autumn prince moved like he owned the room. Cassian had already swept Nesta into a dance, leaving the heir to Autumn momentarily alone. He was alone for all of a singular moment, before Eris turned towards him and Elara and smiled.
He bowed with a flourish that made a few onlookers laugh. Elara hesitated—Azriel saw it, the small flicker of resistance in her shoulders—but then she took his offered hand.
The bond jolted, sharp and hot, when her fingers touched Eris’s. Azriel’s chest went tight. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stood where he was, watching them step onto the floor as if rooted in stone.
Eris spun her effortlessly, his hand settling low at her back, his voice low near her ear. Whatever he said made her laugh—not freely, not the kind of laugh that reached her eyes, but enough to twist something deep in Azriel’s ribs. Eris’s grin widened. He leaned closer.
Azriel’s jaw locked. His hands clenched at his sides until the leather of his gloves creaked. The shadows around him pulsed in time with his heartbeat, sharper with every turn of her skirts.
That was it.
He turned on his heel and vanished into shadow, the hall’s music and laughter cutting off like a snapped string. Cold air hit him as he reappeared in one of the upper balconies, the silence heavy after the noise below. He braced a hand against the stone railing, dragging in a slow breath that did nothing to ease the heat in his blood.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That this was the role she had chosen to play. That she’d made it clear she wanted nothing said of the bond. Not here, not anywhere. But the lie sat bitter on his tongue.
Let Rhys play his games. Let Elara wear her mask and smile at other males. He was done pretending.
The mountain air bit cold against Azriel’s face, though he hardly felt it. He gripped the obsidian railing until his knuckles ached, the jagged edge cutting into his palms through the leather of his gloves. The sting kept him grounded, but only just barely.
Rhys had warned him. Told him what the night would demand. What Elara would have to do to gain Keir’s trust, to draw the right eyes. He’d said it would require restraint. Azriel had thought he could manage that.
He’d been wrong. Watching her smile through those dances, watching Eris lean in close with that smug grin—it had stripped every ounce of control from him. And Rhys had known it would. He’d sent them both into this pit and called it strategy.
The door behind him slammed open, echoing across the empty balcony.
“What the Hel was that?” Elara’s voice cut through the night, sharp and furious.
He didn’t turn. “What it looked like,” he said, his tone flat, even.
Her footsteps clicked across the stone, skirts whispering as she came to stand beside him. “You winnowed out in the middle of the court. Do you have any idea how that looked? Everyone must know now. I’ve spent the entire night keeping Keir guessing, keeping the lords distracted—and you ruined it with one storming exit.”
Azriel’s head snapped toward her. “I ruined it?” His voice came out low, rough. “You let Eris touch you.”
Her eyes flashed. “It was a dance,” she snapped back. “A performance. That’s what this entire evening was.”
He stepped closer, unable to stop himself. “He had his hands on you like you were his to claim.”
“And you think I wanted that?” Her voice rose, cracking for the first time. “You think I enjoyed letting those males leer at me, or Eris’s hand on my waist? Gods, Azriel—do you think I don’t hate every second of it?”
He froze, the words slicing through the haze of anger before he could build a reply. Her chest heaved, the rise and fall of her breath breaking the silence between them. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight—furious, yes, but tired too.
Azriel’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking beneath his skin as shadows twitched restlessly at his shoulders. “Then why agree to it at all?” His voice came out low and rough, the kind of quiet that carried more threat than shouting ever could. “If you hate it so much—why do it?”
Elara’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “Because I don’t have a choice. Because it’s the only way I can help my brother. Because—” She stopped short, biting down hard on the words. The rest of the sentence trembled on her lips before she swallowed it.
Azriel stepped closer, heat rolling from him in waves despite the sharp bite of the mountain air. “Because what?” he asked, voice soft but edged like drawn steel. “Say it.”
Her breath caught, just barely. She shook her head, the movement sharp, frustration sparking in her eyes. “We can’t do this. Not here. Not tonight.” She tried to move past him, but his shadows rose, thin tendrils winding through the air, hemming her in without touching her.
“I’m not letting you walk away again,” he said, his hands circling her wrist. Before she could snap back, the world shifted. Cold rushed around them, shadows closing in like water. The balcony and its echoing music vanished. They reformed in a small alcove carved into the rock—a forgotten corner of the mountain. Torchlight guttered low along the walls, casting everything in dim, uneven gold.
Elara spun to face him, anger flashing sharp as flint. “Why are you doing this?”
His shadows coiled tighter around his shoulders, restless but contained. He didn’t move closer, didn’t soften. “It’s been a month,” he said. “A month, Elara. You’ve been avoiding me.”
Her laugh was quick and disbelieving. “I’ve been avoiding you? You’re the one who left Velaris for a month without a word.”
Azriel’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—something that cut through the fury just long enough for her to see the hurt beneath it.
Elara’s chest rose and fell too quickly, her pulse thudding against the quiet. The shadows around them pulsed faintly with Azriel’s agitation, their movement mirroring the restless energy rolling off him.
“Azriel…” she began, her voice low. It came out more plea than word.
“You said you needed time,” he said, each syllable clipped, precise. “I stayed away. I gave you that time.” His eyes were sharp, stormy, the calm veneer of control slipping at the edges. “And now?” His jaw flexed. “Now I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t—”
The sentence broke off, his restraint snapping in the space between one breath and the next. His hand caught her wrist and he pulled her closer.
“Azriel—” she tried again, but her voice faltered as his other hand rose, fingers tracing the edge of her jaw, then lower, brushing the line of her throat.
“I’ve been patient,” he said, the words scraped raw. His thumb brushed the hollow just below her collarbone, the motion steady but trembling at its core. “But every time you look at me, every time I saw another male touch you, I—” His mouth hovered close enough that she could feel his breath against her skin. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want this.”
Her breath hitched. The sound was small, and so deliciously traitorous. “We shouldn’t—”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice cut through the air between them. The hand on her wrist tightened, not enough to hurt, only enough to anchor her to the spot His gaze searched hers; if there was any hint of hesitation, any doubt—
“If you tell me you don’t want me,” he said, low and certain, “I’ll believe you. I’ll walk away. Right now.”
He leaned closer, tilting his head so his nose skimmed the sharp line of her jaw. Her pulse thudded under his fingers, quick, uneven, and it set something taut and hungry inside him.
“But that’s not what this is,” he murmured, letting his lips brush the corner of her mouth. He waited for the tiniest flicker of reaction, and it came: her fingers curling against his chest, trembling but she fisted into the fabric of his tunic as though seeking purchase.
Her throat drew in a shuddering breath when his mouth traced the edge of it, leaving trails of heat that burned down in slow, torturous strokes.
“Azriel—” Her voice cracked, fragile, a warning half-formed and drowned in the rising pulse of tension between them.
His shadows coiled instinctively, wrapping around them, pulling her flush against him, pressing her back into the cold stone of the wall. His hands framed her face now, thumbs brushing the planes of her cheekbones. The tenderness only sharpened the rough heat of the kiss when he finally claimed her mouth.
She gasped, a sound he swallowed with his own groan, a vibration that ran through him and settled low in his chest. He had been starving for this, holding back for far too long. His lips trailed down again, nipping at the soft curve beneath her ear before returning, insistent and desperate, to her mouth.
Elara clung to him, hands tangling in the fabric of his tunic, and he welcomed it. Her grip, her pulse, the slight hitch of her breath—all of it broke through the last of his restraint. He couldn’t stop now, not when she was here, trembling against him, letting the bond stretch taut between them. Not when it was so clear that she had missed him just as much as he missed her.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, though the word lacked conviction. “You don’t get to say that now.”
“I just did.” His tone came out sharper than intended, his control fraying.
She let out a slow, shaky breath, eyes flicking down to his mouth. “You think this is simple?” Her voice was low, tired. “You think you can just decide you’re done fighting and I’m supposed to forget what came before?”
He didn’t answer. He only brushed his thumb along her jaw, his shadows tightening like breath around them. “I think you want this as much as I do.”
Her silence was answer enough, and he let his shadows stir, sliding between them with a will of their own. They tugged at the edges of her clothing, peeling fabric back, baring the smooth planes of her skin to the night air. He let his hands find her hips, gripping, lifting her lightly, pressing her firmly against the wall.
“Tell me no,” he breathed against her lips, hoarse, tight with restraint. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll let you go.”
She didn’t flinch. “Why would I?”
Her tone was quiet, almost curious, and the small, unguarded truth of it broke whatever self-control he’d clung to.
He kissed her again, harder this time, and she met him with equal force. Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him closer until he had no choice but to press her into the wall. His shadows moved without command, wrapping around her wrists and holding her there.
When his hand traced down her side, his touch slow and deliberate, she didn’t shy away. Her body leaned into his, following every movement. He could feel her heart racing through her ribs.
When his fingers slipped beneath her skirts, he tested—light pressure, barely a breath of touch—and felt her body answer, arching into his hand. That response, silent but sure, made something inside him snap. The hunger surged, sharp and undeniable.
“Mine,” he growled against her skin. The word tore out before he could stop it, raw and jagged with the force he’d spent months trying to leash. His teeth grazed the hollow of her throat; her pulse leapt beneath his mouth. He pressed closer, hips hard against hers, and every line of him screamed the same word again, even when he didn’t speak it.
Her breath hitched—barely there, but he felt it, every tremor, every quickened beat that echoed through the bond straining between them. His shadows stirred restlessly, feeding off the thrum of need that burned through him.
She caught his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. Her voice was quiet but steady, her gaze searching his. “Then stop pretending it’s anything else.”
The words hit harder than any touch. He froze, eyes locked on hers, and for a long moment he forgot how to breathe.
“Yours,” she breathed then—rough, certain, as though it cost her something to admit it.
That single word undid him completely. His body went rigid, then trembled with the effort of control. The sound that left him was half snarl, half groan, as his shadows wrapped them tighter, sealing the world away.
“Elara,” he rasped, her name breaking on his tongue. His hands fumbled at the fabric between them, clumsy now with urgency. When her fingers found his leathers and tugged, he helped her, guiding her without thought. The last barrier fell away, and the moment she opened to him, he pressed forward—slow at first, just enough to feel the heat of her, the way her breath caught hard against his shoulder.
He bit back a curse, burying it against her throat as his hips rolled again, deeper this time, until the space between them vanished. Her body answered instantly, arching, taking him in, and the sensation ripped through him so violently he nearly lost control.
He dropped his forehead to hers, breath ragged, every muscle drawn tight. “Gods,” he groaned, voice shaking. “I can’t stop. Don’t ask me to stop.”
His hips met hers again in a rhythm that was desperate driving her back against the cold stone. Every sound she made—every gasp, every whispered breath of his name—fed the ache consuming him.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into skin. “I’m not asking you to,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, not with fear but with conviction. “I’ve spent too long trying to.”
“Elara,” he ground out, the word half curse, half prayer. His voice frayed at the edges, dark with want. He drew back, then pushed into her again, harder this time, and the sound she made—Mother above, that sound—sent fire down his spine. “You feel that?” he rasped against her ear, his breath uneven. “That’s what you do to me. I can’t think. I can’t breathe when you’re near.”
Her back arched, mouth parting on a gasp that made his pulse falter. He caught the sound with his lips, swallowing it, chasing it, his breath mingling with hers as his body demanded more—deeper, harder. His shadows slid over her wrists, binding her there, holding her still when her knees threatened to give out, and he murmured her name, curses, broken prayers against her skin.
“Then stop trying,” she breathed. Her voice was unsteady, raw. “Just—don’t stop.”
Every movement between them was a claim—each deep, relentless thrust, each drag of his mouth along her throat, every harsh exhale against her ear. It was possession, yes, but threaded through with something deeper, something that left him trembling even as he drove harder into her.
He groaned against her skin, the sound breaking apart on a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I think I do.” Her words came out on a gasp, sharp and unsteady, her body tightening around him as his hips rolled again. “Azriel—”
His control fractured. He caught her mouth with his, swallowing the sound of his name on her lips as if he needed it to breathe. “You’re perfect like this,” he breathed against her throat. “Every sound, every breath. You’re mine right now.”
Her reply came like a spark in the dark. “Then don’t let me go.”
Those words undid him. His rhythm faltered, deepened, until he was lost to it—lost to her. The world narrowed to the heat of her body, the rough scrape of stone at her back, the slick slide of skin and shadow and breath. The sound that tore from him was raw, half groan, half prayer, his face buried against her neck as he pulled her closer, closer, until there was nothing left between them but shuddering release.
When the tremors began to fade, he didn’t move. He stayed pressed against her, breathing her in while his shadows softened, their grip loosening but not fully gone. His forehead rested against hers, his touch unsteady, reverent. As if relearning gentleness in the aftermath.
His thumb brushed along her jaw, tracing the warmth of her skin before finding her lips again. This time slow, questioning.
“I’m still yours,” she whispered, the words trembling in the quiet.
Something in him cracked open at that. He drew back just enough to see her face, eyes still dark but steady now, his voice low and sure when he answered.
“No,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her mouth. “Not still. Always.”