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Chapter Text

Azriel was not surprised. He knew it would come to this in the end.

Perhaps he couldn't blame his High Lord that much, since his reasoning for protecting his Court was sound.

But it still hurt. It hurt more than he could have imagined, to have his brother of centuries tell him he couldn't pursue his own happiness. That he couldn't hope to have someone for himself, for the Cauldron had decided she was to be another's. That if he wanted to fuck someone , he should go to a pleasure hall and pay for it. As if mindless sex was all he could care about. As if the absence of someone didn't churn on his insides or keep him up at the darkest hours.

It didn't matter, after all. His court did not need another lovesick male. His family did not need his contentment. They needed the secrets he could provide. They needed the cold Spymaster, to deal with threats before they could take root.

The wind blew through his wings on the frigid night. The flight over Velaris was a peaceful one, so at odds with the rage and frustration that screamed in his mind at his brother's words. At how, once again, they made him feel utterly alone.

"You are not alone, Friend". The shadows cooed in his ear, attempting to soothe his reeling mind. He let a little ruffled breath escape him.

You know it's not the same, Little Ones.

"We know. We feel for you. Proud Brother was out of line". They weaved in and out of existence, as much aggravated as he was at Rhysand's order.

He was right. I shouldn't have hoped it would be different.

"You deserve what they have, Friend. You deserve to be loved". They wrapped themselves up his arms, their attempt at a comforting embrace.

He did not believe them. He never did, even after all his centuries.

He flew aimlessly above the various districts of the City of Dreams, the irony of the name not being lost for him. He whose dreams were always only that. Dreams. More like delusions, really.

The lights below were mostly snuffed out, most citizens already surrendered to sleep. He envied them, too. After a couple of minutes he decided that simply flying wasn't enough to calm his mind, and so he made a beeline for the House of Wind, intent on letting off some steam in the training pit. Except, he was not alone in that regard.

He glided the rest of the way to the balcony, landing with preternatural grace. He wanted to bank and head to another secluded place after seeing it occupied by a quite distinct priestess, but he figured it would be rude to do so.

Gwyneth Berdara wielded her sword with purpose, the blade shining under the moonlight, with her coppery hair unbound and waving in the breeze. The scene was a bit ethereal in his eyes, leaving he slightly mesmerized, for a heartbeat or two. 

She finally seemed to feel the weight of his stare, whirling on her heels to face him and lowering her sword. The cold bit at her fair complexion, causing the faintest blush to spread on her freckled face.

"I'm sorry". She rushed to say. "I knew you were all off to the River House, so I figured I could have the training ring for a bit.  But I can leave if you want me to-" 

"It's alright". He quickly assured her. "I just came to retrieve something". It was a lie, of course, but a little one at that. Better to spare her having to justify her actions. His shadows were entertained at the prospect, peering gingerly at her over his wings.

You didn't tell me she was here, you Little Shits. He mentally scowled at them.

"The Priestess is safe, Friend does not need us to warn him about her presence".

Still, I would like to be informed.

They waved around his hair, full of mischief. " We make no promises". He could almost hear them giggling on the back of his mind. Mother help him with their antics.

Gwyn let a shy smile bloom on her face, pulling him from his secret conversation. "I was trying to cut the ribbon". She said, gesturing with her sword to the ribbon tied to a pole in the rig.

"So I see. Aren't you cold?". He asked, his breath forming clouds in front of his face.

She shrugged, the air on her breaths no less blurred. "You stop noticing after you get moving. What about you, Shadowsinger? Aren't you cold?"

"Cold inside, as Friend always is". As if he could tell her that.

He shrugged, mimicking her expression. "You stop noticing after you get moving".

She snickered at his mockery. His shadows wavered slightly at the sound, seeming content.

Their eyes met briefly, but it was enough to conjure a wretched memory. Of her in bloodied robes, eyes blown wide with terror and tears from the horrors Hybern soldiers had inflicted upon her. He banished it as soon as it came, unwilling to let it sour the light mood that he seemed to have settled with the priestess. She had averted her eyes as well, most likely taken by the same unpleasant reminder. He hated it. Hated that he was a tether to that day. That he hadn't been fast enough to arrive at the temple, or smart enough to predict the attack altogether. One more sin to his ever growing pile.

"It is not your fault, Friend. The Priestess does not blame you".

It is, but there's no fixing it now. All he could do was make sure to stay out of her way as much as possible, to make sure she would not be made to relive that night.

"The Priestess is not bothered by your presence. She is intrigued about you. She is curious about us". They preened at the statement, as if the thought of Gwyn's attention was immensely satisfying.

She was staring at him, an inquisitive expression on her face. He probably lost himself talking to the shadows, again. He really should stop doing that.

"Happy Solstice". She quipped, probably trying to fill in the heavy silence that had formed. He snorted, unable to stop himself.

"Are you kicking me out?" He asked, shuffling his feet to make his exit and leave her to her training.

Gwyn's expression fell for a split second, probably gathering the dismissive tone of her holiday blessing. "No, I'm not! Absolutely not, I'm just... I mean...". She struggled to find the right words. "I just presumed you would like to be alone. That's why you're here at this hour, isn't it?"

His expression softened, albeit almost imperceptibly. "I forgot something". He remembered her.

She looked unconvinced. "At two in the morning?"

"She's onto your deceit. And wholly unimpressed, we must add."

Shut up, nobody asked. He replied coldly to them, earning himself more imaginary giggles.

"Can't sleep without my favorite dagger" He quipped in a conspiratory tone.

"A comfort for every growing child, I'm sure" She answered, gracing him with an amused smile.

Azriel couldn't help himself, and smiled at the priestess. He thought back to the litany of weapons that covered most surfaces in his room in the House of Wind. Probably not a good idea to mention those.

"You should definitely mention those. The Lovely Priestess would find it funny!" The shadows sang to him, seeking to humiliate him further.

"How was the party?" She suddenly asked, trying once more to fill his silences. He wish she didn't ask about that topic, specifically.

"Fine". Azriel answered, a bit too dryly. He cringed internally, knowing that wasn't a polite or nearly acceptable answer. "It was nice". He quickly amended.

"As nice as a kick to the balls, Friend"

Don't even start.

"Did you and the priestesses have a celebration?"

"We did, though the service was the main event, really."

"I see".

"Greatly articulate as always, Singer."

What is wrong with you today?! Can you leave me alone for two damn minutes? The shadows tossed and turned behind his hair, satisfied to pester their friend.

"Are you generally this articulate, Shadowsinger?"  Gwyn asked, a teasing smile on her face.

He couldn't help the snort that came then. His shadows' laughter ricocheted through his mind at her mirroring of their thoughts. "Only when I'm talking to one as knowledgeable as yourself, priestess." Azriel answered, giving her a mockery bow, a grin tugging at his lips.

She laughed at his response, sending more frozen clouds into the air. The sound was like a clear bell, drawing his Little Ones to twirl with the remnants of her breath.

"Her melody shines. The Lovely Priestess is music".

Now he was starting to get worried. His shadows had never openly complimented someone before. Lovely Priestess?

Maybe what surprised him the most was that he couldn't bring himself to disagree with them.

Gwyn's laugh dwindled, making his shadows retreat once more to their typical perch on his shoulders. She angled her head at them, observing them intently. They followed her movement, inclining themselves to match her head. That brought a smile to her face once more.

"Do you sing?" She suddenly asked. He raised an eyebrow. That certainly had caught him by surprise.

"What makes you think I sing, Priestess?" He mused.

"They call you shadowsinger. I figured it was fitting for you to sing" She answered matter-of-factly.

His shadows snickered in the back of his mind, agreeing to the priestess logic.

"I am a Shadowsinger. It is not a made up title, Priestess". He answered, matter-of-factly as well.

Her smile grew. "All titles are made up titles, Shadowsinger".

The shadows wavered slightly, agreeing with Gwyn.

Azriel sighted, internally and externally. "Right you are, Priestess".

"I usually am. So, do you sing?" She asked once more.

His mind briefly raced with an unfathomable amount of different avoidant responses, but he opted for the simplest of them. The truthful one.

"I do". And that's all he offered. He stared at her, bracing himself for her to press further, or, worse yet, to ask him to demonstrate .

But it never came. Seemingly satisfied with his answer, she nodded, more to herself than anyone else.

An idea sparked in his mind, as he found himself unwilling to let the interaction end. He jerked his chin to the sword, "Try cutting the ribbon again".

She was taken aback by the suggestion. "With you watching?"

He nodded.

She paused for a second, but made up her mind just as quickly, determination shining in her eyes. "Very well then. It's an honor to be tutored by you, Shadowsinger." She said, mimicking his mock bow from before, a grin once again adorning her features.

Azriel could get used to seeing that irreverence more often.

She squared her shoulders and steadied her feet, raising her sword once more and facing the offending ribbon. A perfect form, if he’d ever seen one. She sliced, clean and true, but the ribbon remained unfazed, merely avoiding the blade’s path, like the river that contours the rocks.

She frowned slightly, frustrated at her inability to cut the damn thing, more so in the presence of the Shadowsinger. 

“Again.” Azriel’s steady voice filled the ring. He rubbed his hands to try and seep some warmth into them. They were always acutely sore in this freezing climate, the scars pulling on his skin and tendons obnoxiously.

Gwyn sliced again, but the ribbon remained intact.

He saw it then. “You’re turning the blade a fraction as it comes parallel to the ground,” he explained. Walking a couple of steps to the weapon rack in the edge of the ring, he picked up a plain Illirian sword. He assumed his position at her left side, letting her see the full picture of his demonstration. “Watch”.

He repeated her movement, slowly rotating his wrist in the same way she did before, and then switching to the correct positioning, keeping the blade straight and without the deviation. She watched attentively, resuming her slashes once he was done.

She repeated the movement several times, forcing the bad habit out of herself. 

“I blame the General for this, you know. He can’t stop making eyes at Nesta and is neglecting the rest of his students” Gwyn said, still with that little frown on her face.

A low laugh rumbled out of Azriel. “I give you that. I’m bound to have a talk with Cassian about doing favorites”

“The Loud Brother cannot help it, Singer. And we have a feeling you will not be able to help yourself from now on, either”

The fuck are you on about?

“You will see, Friend. You will see” They added cryptically. He hated when they did that.

Gwyn was smiling broadly. She adjusted her robes and faced him once again. “Thank you, Shadowsinger. For both the company and the impromptu lesson. I’ll let you grab this mystery ‘thing’ of yours now” 

He smiled back at her. “Happy Solstice, Priestess. Don’t stay out here too long, you’ll freeze to death”

 She nodded her farewell, once again facing the aggravating ribbon. He almost felt sorry for the poor thing.

He turned and made his way out of the ring and into the warmth of the House. His scarred knuckles were immediately grateful, but he felt a different kind of coldness at the absence of the Priestess shining nature.

But he needed to sleep. Or at least, pretend to do so.

As he made his way down the stairs and into his gloomy bedroom, he swore he could hear a faint melody in the air, coming from where he left. His shadows seemed to sing in tune.

The encounter with the Priestess left him strangely settled, his mind quieter than it was a mere hours ago. Even his shadows were more languid, draping lazily over his shoulders. He smiled to himself, grateful for the reprieve of his hateful thoughts.

Alas, his peace was short lived, as it usually was.

Chapter Text

Azriel woke up from his nightly terrors a good hour before dawnbreak. He shuffled, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring into nothing.

Restful sleep had always evaded him. During the few hours he was able to keep his eyes glued shut, his mind was plagued by nightmares of the past. Of atrocities done to his hands and, worst yet, by them.

He stared down at them, propped on his lap. The gnarled tissue ached even after all these centuries, the scarring too deep to have avoided permanent damage. The warmth of the hearth could bring some comfort to him, but he never kindled a fire, unless it was absolutely necessary. He knew it was cowardly, but the roaring flames still made him uncomfortable.

“You are no coward, Friend. You should not bear shame for what was done to you before we met.” They whispered, trying to soothe him.

It’s been too long, Little Ones. More than five centuries, and I still can’t rest my hands by the fire. What does that make of me, if not a coward?

“Do you believe your brothers to be cowards, Singer?” They hissed, trying to make their friend see reason. “Do you find Loud Brother’s fear of Bryaxis to be reason for shame? Do you find Proud Brother’s avoidance of his sister’s memory a sign of weakness? Every soul has its weights to bear” 

He did not want to think about her death, did not want to go down that rabbit hole. The mention of Rhysand did little to make him feel better, either.

Memories of the shitshow that was last night's romantic endeavor with Elain flashed through his head. His hands had touched her, the lust coursing through his veins like burning poison as he clasped that necklace around her neck. He wondered what had become of it. Did she keep it, or return it to the pile in shame? It made little difference, he concluded. She was not his, and would never be his. He saw his brother's face, drained of color at his words of entitlement, of how he believed the Cauldron wrong. What a fool he was.

He was attracted to her, of course he was. Who wouldn’t be?

Tempted by her looks, he wasn’t blind after all. But it didn’t end there. He didn’t wish for a meaningless fling or just a good fuck. He wanted affection. He thought, for a moment, that she could give that to him. He hoped she would. 

He was all but thrilled at her heated gazes and subtle touches, that became ever more bold with time. She was kind, kinder than most fae he’d ever met, and not once did she recoil from his scars. His wretched scars, that mirrored the filth within their owner. How could he be so stupid, to try and stain her grace with his touch. 

The thought made him feel sick, and bile rose to his throat. The frustration and rage at his brother were still there, but muted, his disgust for himself becoming far louder than any other emotion in his chest. His breath came in pants, and none of them filled his lungs with the air he craved. The shadows sensed his growing panic, and quickly swarmed him, blocking the view of his hands and whispering comforts in his ear.

“What is done cannot be changed, Friend. We are sorry for it, but you should not give up.” They paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “Happiness may be closer than you think.” They finished, roving his skin with cool and smooth caresses.

I’m tired. So tired of feeling like this. Even his inner voice started to break at the confession.

“We know. We understand.”

And they did. They were always there for him, no matter how dark his mind had become or how vile he felt after every mission. Unfortunately, it just wasn’t enough.

He slowly regained his focus, steadying his breathing. The shadows dispersed their cloud, settling once again on his shoulders and allowing him to see his hostile bedroom. Weapons were neatly distributed across the walls, intertwined with rows of books he wished he had the time or the disposition to read.

The blasted snowball fight would start in a few hours, and quite frankly he felt like not going. He did not want to see his High Lord face any more than necessary for the foreseeable future. But maybe Cassian’s boisterous laughter could do something for his shitty mood. 

He quickly showered and ate in the kitchen, the House silent and devoid of any life but his own. The shadows fussed about him, telling him how he wasn’t eating enough, or how his coffee had too much sugar in it. Damn mother hens . He flipped them off without giving it much thought. They flicked his ear in response, earning him nothing but sharp pain and a round of giggles from his hooligans. He wasn’t amused.

The sky was still dark and the air very much frigid. Sunlight had started making itself known, but he doubted anyone would be awake for at least another hour yet. And so, he flew down to the River House, to gather the spoils of the last horrible night.

The halls were silent, all its occupants still blissfully sleeping. He made his ways within the corridors of paintings, the talent of his High Lady evident in her work. He ignored the sting of jealousy from seeing a depiction of her and Rhysand, happy as they could be. He was an awful brother, and an even worse male, but he could do his best to hide it.

There it was, the absurdly large pile of presents.

And resting on top of it, that damned, cursed necklace. The single thing he ever bought with true hope blooming on his chest. Discarded, just like him.

His face flashed with hurt, but he quickly schooled his features. He did not have the right to be sad. He did not have the right to feel about this at all. This was for the best, he told himself. Lucien is a better male, a good male. She would find her happiness that she deserved, and he would watch, from as far as he could manage.

The shadows took pity on him, standing heartbroken at the sight of the necklace. They whipped around his wings and into the pile, snatching up his gifts and the necklace into their pockets, as they called them. They wanted to say more, to comfort him. But they also knew it would do little to calm his mind, and so they remained silent.

He gathered himself and walked out of the house, launching to the skies towards the mountain cabin.

---

At last, his brothers deigned to appear. The sun was already showing its face over the peaks, thawing a little of the crisp air, but doing little to warm Azriel’s mood. Cassian was ecstatic, for reasons he could imagine, and Rhysand stood as high as always, completely unfazed. 

It grated on Azriel, how he was so indifferent to his desires. He suppressed in the cold rage that reared its ugly head. This was not the time nor place for that. He needed his head in the game.

His shadows, on the other hand, would not let it slide that easily. Before he could figure what they were doing, the first snowball was already barreling from his High Lord’s blind side, straight to his nape. It struck him with a resounding thud, almost bringing his clueless brother face first into a snowy spa session.

Rhysand gathered himself, scratching the back of his head, a sneer on his face. “What the fuck was that?”

Azriel’s face broke into a shit eating grin, followed closely by Cassian’s roaring laughter. You should not have done that, you brats, but I’m so glad you did .

“Do you feel a little better?” They inquired, eager to lift their friend’s spirits.

He sure as hell did.

The general couldn’t hold his laughter, sucking in great volumes of air at a time. He looked lighter, like the weight of the world had been lifted off his chest. And by his smell, he knew exactly why that was.

“Loud Brother was entangled with his mate all night long, Singer. It started with a heartfelt gift, and then- ”

Stop right there, I don’t want to know the specifics. He was still smiling while looking at his brother. At the end of the day, despite his own misery, he couldn’t be happier for him.

He ducked as a particularly large snowball flew over his head, no doubt being thrown by an aggravated Rhysand. Cassian had composed himself and already scurried behind his barricade, figuring it would be best to stay out of his brothers’ way, as they seemed intent on murdering one another using nothing but compressed snow.

So it started.

Him and Rhysand were dead set on each other, forgetting Cassian completely in their scuffle. Snowballs flew faster than should be possible, powered by the rage and frustration from him, and the pride and arrogance of his brother.

“Let us help, Friend! Let us teach Proud Brother a lesson he won’t forget!”

He had never stooped that low in the Snowball Fight. All his one hundred and ninety nine victories were conquered fairly, without shadows or magic. 

But today? Today Azriel did not give a single fuck.

You have my blessing, Little Demons. Make it hurt.

His shadows did not need to be told twice. They darted to his feet, amassing snowballs faster than all three brothers combined, and started handing them to their friend, who was so lost in the heat of battle that a savage grin now adorned his face.

He threw snowball after snowball, without ever letting up. Rhysand did not have time to react, to prepare. He tried sneaking in a throw of his own in the midst of the assault, only to have a nasty hit to his jaw, yelping in pain. Azriel figured his hooligans may or may not have put ice chunks into his ammunition. His smile only grew wider.

Finally, he had hit Rhysand enough times to secure his brother's defeat, taking quite a number of hits himself, in his careless, murderous snow rage.

Cassian knew that, and chose the right moment to throw a single snowball, hitting the Shadowsinger on the back of his head. A master strategist, indeed. His shadows howled with laughter at his defeat in the hands of his Loud Brother, frantically rolling on and off his shoulders. 

He was content, nonetheless. As silly as it sounded, it filled him with satisfaction to have pummeled his High Lord to the ground, even if he cheated. Besides, Cassian was on cloud nine, and he would not be the one to take that from him. 

And so Azriel lost the annual snowball fight, unable to secure his 200th victory, earning to himself only a boastful Cassian and an even more pissed Rhysand.

Off to the birchin, then.

“Do you want us to further mess with Proud Brother, Friend?” The shadows inquired, eager to secure even the most petty of revenges against Rhys.

No, leave it alone. Even if he's being ridiculous, he’s still our High Lord.

They snickered. “More like High Baby…”

And despite his heartbreak, his rage and his loss, Azriel still found himself smiling. In the back of his mind he thanked his shadowy friends, whom he would be terribly lost without.

“We will always be by your side, dear Singer”

---

The soak in the sauna was strangely quiet, not filled with their usual jokes and teasing. Cassian didn’t seem to mind, happy for his victory and certainly eager to get any business done and get back to his mate. Azriel thought about Nesta, and how long of a way she had come in the last months. It made him more settled, to think that his friend had found healing. 

Rhys was still staring daggers at his face, but he decided to ignore it, the petty mirth of having defeated him crashing down once the adrenaline faded. In the end, it achieved very little, probably only making his brother inclined to turn his job more miserable out of spite. He did not believe him capable of such a thing, but then again, he also was taken by surprise when he pulled rank last night, so who could really predict what his High Lord would do next.

“The Brave Painter could, Singer. She could talk the High Baby out of his high horse ”

I’d bet my wings on it. He smirked. Smirked and pondered, for a moment, the possibility of involving his High Lady on the matter. He highly doubted she would be pleased by her mate making choices on her sister’s stead. Ultimately, he decided against it.

This has to stay between me and Rhys. I would not put a strain on their relationship for my sake. Not now, anyways. She is already too stressed, too scared for the baby. She does not deserve to have my problems thrust on her like this.

The shadows paused for a moment, considering his words, and the meaning behind them.

“You are not a burden, dear Friend. Your demands deserve to be tended to.”

Just leave it alone. I’ll manage.  

The shadows, ever loyal, spoke no more of it.

---

He held the necklace in front of his face. The delicate chain dangled the tiny stained glass rose, soft and pure, just like the one he bought it to. A mistake , he’d said. Stupid, imbecile, ignorant piece of-

“That’s enough, Singer! We will not allow you to dwell on this matter. You made your move and it failed for circumstances out of your control. It is not right. It is unfair. But this is how things turned out to be.” They paused, letting their words sink in their stubborn friend’s head. “So unless you want to defy the High Baby, which we would promptly support, we advise you to let it go.”

He mulled his shadows’ words as he walked the Palace of Thread and Jewels, on his way to return the necklace. It sat heavy on his pocket, a symbol of his newest hope, and consequently, of his newest failure.

A bell rang when he opened the door, stepping inside of the lush establishment. The many showcases were filled with intricate accessories. Pendants, rings and bracelets of every shape and color, boasting the mastery of the jeweler that made them.

He made a beeline for the cashier, stating that he wanted to return the necklace. He did not want to see it ever again, but that didn’t mean that someone else shouldn’t appreciate its value. The cashier was polite and efficient, and in no time he saw himself outside again, free of the burden of the rejected gift.

“You did the right thing, Friend”

He scoffed. The right thing was the single farthest thing from anything I could’ve done on the last two days.

“While you are still breathing, there is time to make things right. All is not lost, dear Singer.” They paused, another of their cryptic silences. “You will see, soon enough.”

He huffed, annoyed at their deliberate unhelpfulness. You better stop with that ominous nonsense, or so help me Mother, I’ll eat enough sugar to put myself into a coma. Cauldron knows I need the rest.

His shadows uproared, waving frantically around his hair and wings, probably scaring more than a few passersby of Velaris.

“You would not dare to do something like that, Singer! We have to worry enough about you alrea-”

He tuned out of their ramblings, walking absentmindedly through the streets of the district. The city was bustling with activity, with small food vendors every few meters, and shops standing in all the luxury gold could buy. He was not looking for anything really, his gift giving mood soured for the next century, at the very least.

But he couldn’t stop it from catching his eye.

It was a small shop, almost unassuming. The storefront was weathered, probably having seen one too many winters without a paint job. Maybe if his High Lady walked by it, she would offer to do it free of charge for the owner. 

It didn’t matter, really. The appearance of the place was wholly unimportant. He could have found it with a shady merchant in a back alley, and it still would have reminded him of her. 

The necklace was dainty, crafted in silver, the chain links twisted in what resembled small currents. From it dangled a single teardrop gem, small, but shining in the brightest teal. He blinked once. Twice. The shadows had stopped their antics, seemingly mesmerized by the piece as well.

He stared at it with wide eyes, his shadows slowly extending toward the piece. The sound of the opening door ripped him from his stupor, sending his shadowy friends reeling back to his shoulders.

A high fae female left the shop, closing the door behind her. She smiled politely at him and went on her merry way. He looked again at the necklace. Thinking, considering, machinating.

He turned around and started walking in the opposite direction. His shadows made their distaste on the move more than clear.

“Where do you think you are going, you fool of a Singer?”

Anywhere that my family currently isn’t. Why, any preferences? He asked nonchalantly, knowing exactly what their next words would be.

“And why, pray tell, did you not buy that necklace to the Lovely Priestess? We know you thought about her too.”

I’m done buying necklaces. My money would be better spent on booze. Or sugar, for that matter.

“Turn around and buy that necklace, Baby Bat.”

I will not.

“The alternative is for us to steal it and give it to her with your deepest regards, Singer. Make your choice, and make it fast.” He knew they were not joking.

He rubbed his palms on his face in frustration. On top of all the things that could happen to him, now his most loyal friends were threatening mutiny. Over a fucking piece of jewelry.

Why are you so keen on me giving it to her? He practically screamed into his thoughts. Have I not done enough damage already? What do you expect to come out of this, huh? ‘Here it is, Priestess, the prettiest of doohickeys. Now please fix my broken heart with your easy company and shining irreverence’. What the fuck do you think will happen?

“We expect nothing from it, dumb Singer. It is a gift, meant only to be given, and nothing more. The Lovely Priestess soothed your mind in the darkest hours, even if she was not aware of it. Do you believe her unworthy of such a treat?” They hissed, expecting a response.

Of course she is worthy. I have nothing but respect for her. And that’s precisely why I should not cross that boundary.

The shadows paused, deep into consideration. After a few heartbeats, they came up with a solution. “Give it anonymously. Deliver it to the Kind Writer and ask her to pass it in your stead. The Lovely Priestess will receive her gift and you will keep the distance you wish”

He wasn’t in his right mind for this. But they didn’t leave him much choice. Fine, you win.

But I’m eating a honeybun after this.

---

It was already dark when he descended the steps to the library, Gwyn’s necklace firmly clasped in his ruined hand. Even then it felt unholy, to hold something so delicate. But the shadows spurred him on.

If he was being true to himself, he would agree with them. She made for marvelous company in a dreadful time, having brought a soft peace to him without even realizing it. She deserved a considerate gift, and he would see it given. Not that he would ever admit it to his shadows. They would never let him live it down.

“You will thank us profusely for this later, dumb Singer. That alone is enough knowledge for us to tease you about” They weaved in and out of his vests, content in the certainty that their friend could never hide anything from them.

He stood in front of Clotho’s desk, smiling softly at the female. He deposited the necklace on a tiny stack of papers. “Would you give this to Gwyn when you see her, please?”

The priestess raised her hooded head to assess the Shadowsinger. After a moment her magical pen began scribing in a piece of paper. ‘A solstice gift from you?’

“Actually, I would ask you not to tell her it was from me”

‘Why?’

He paused for a moment, once again tempted to weave a lie to mask his reasons. But, as he looked at the Kind Writer, he figured she would understand him well, at least on this matter. “It’s just a gift from a friend.” He said, and then concluded, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to give the wrong impression”

She stared at him, looking at more than just his stony features. Finally, the pen started writing again.

‘Your eyes are sad, Shadowsinger’

He gave her a weak smile, that probably looked as sad as the rest of him. “I lost a snowball fight today”

He knew she saw through his deflection, but she was too polite to pry. ‘ I’ll give it to Gwyneth. Tell her it's a gift from a friend.'

He nodded, relieved at the understanding of the priestess. “Thank you, Clotho.”

“The Kind Writer is wise. She sees right through you, Singer.”

I know.

The pen started writing again, and the words he saw on the paper were not lost on him.

‘She deserves something as beautiful as this, Shadowsinger. I thank you for the joy it shall bring her.’

His shadows danced in agreement. “The Kind Writer is right. The Kind Writer is wise. We told you, dumb Singer, but you would not listen. The Lovely Priestess deserves this gift, just like the sky deserves the sunrise”

He nodded his agreement, a not so sad smile tugging at his lips, and gave the priestess one final goodbye before ascending the stairs once more. 

Something warm settled on his chest at the thought of the priestess enjoying the gift. He could see it then, how Gwyn’s eyes would sparkle at the jewel. Something precious, something to care about.

A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

Chapter Text

He did not sleep at all. The mental image of Gwyn appreciating his gift was a welcome reprieve, but a short-lived one at that, the loneliness settling once more as he stared at his ceiling. He tossed and turned, but oblivion never came. Maybe it was a good thing. He probably wouldn’t like to find out what kind of torture his mind had prepared for his unconscious.

He jumped out of bed at the earliest hour in the morning, eager to do something, anything, to have some peace from himself.

After a quick bath, he descended into Velaris, making his way into a cozy bakery by the side of the Sidra. The smells that escaped through the open door could only be described as heavenly. He entered, looking for the desired sweet treat he had promised himself the day prior.

He almost grimaced. As if I deserved a fucking sweet treat . His musings were sour, his mouth following suit, and the prospect of food suddenly stopped being so enticing. His shadows reared their heads.

“That’s absurd, Singer. You need to eat.”

You always tell me I eat too much sugar, anyway. Maybe it’s high time I stopped.

He turned to the exit, barely having entered, and the shadows became more frantic at that.

“We only tease you, Friend. We do not wish you to starve yourself, or to deny you simple pleasures of life. We want you strong and we want you healthy. We are sorry for bothering you. Please, eat.” They slithered through his wings, as much an apology as their words. He did not blame them. He knew they meant well, and would still care for him, even if he devoured every single pastry in Velaris. His stomach grumbled, as if to make a point with his shadows.

He sighed, but turned to the counter and bought the first baked thing he came across.

---

The honeybun had tasted like sawdust in Azriel’s mouth.

He tried to distract himself with meaningless tasks and countless reports. He tried training until his knuckles were bruised and bleeding, and still it didn’t make a bloody difference.

The thoughts of Solstice would not let him be. 

His shadowy friends knew a million regrets ran through his mind, without ever letting up. He was going through the motions of his duties, but the shame was there, pounding at his brain, becoming more and more unkind as the sun set and the evening trickled by. They were agitated, for they knew that their friend cared little for his own well-being, and it broke them to know they couldn’t stop him from spiraling.

It was always way worse during the nighttime.

Azriel was tired. The kind of exhaustion that seeped into his bones, but also in the depths of his psyche. He was tired of himself. He didn't want to move, to think, to be.

Eventually his body gave out, and he let himself fall into his bed, barely taking off his leathers before passing out.

---

The blood was everywhere. 

His boots felt the wet soil underneath. It coated his hands, his arms, his legs. But there was no pain. It wasn't his blood splattered on the ground.

The male with auburn hair was laying sideways in the dirt, holding his stomach, coughing. The crimson liquid trickled from all over his body, staining his green clothes head to toe. The scarred side of his face had been cut open once again, a golden mechanical eye discarded among the puddles of gore. He did not look up to his opponent’s face. There was no fight left in him.

Still, Azriel raised his boot. It came down hard. Again. And Again. And Again.

He could hear it then. The pleading. The incessant, nauseating pleading of a sweet voice, that sounded so broken to his ears. He turned his head, and there she was. Surrounded by his family, all deeply horrified. Their eyes were filled with fear and disgust, looking at him like he was someone else. Something else. Like he was not fae, but a savage beast, primed for slaughter. They were not wrong.

And the Seer. The sweet, Cauldron blessed Seer, was amongst them. On her knees, the blood staining her pastel dress, clutching her chest as if her own heart had been ripped out. She was crying, wailing, screaming. Begging, he realized. Begging for her mate's life. The mate that laid half dead at his feet, and that he was still kicking.

He smiled at her then, his boot coming down to the male’s neck one last time.

---

“Wake up, Singer! It is not real! Wake up! WAKE UP!” The shadows roared in his head, trying to pull him from his wretched nightmare.

He startled out of his torment, shaking like a newborn fawn and dripping with sweat. Staggering out of the bed, he held his hand to his mouth, before rushing to the bathroom and puking his guts out in the toilet. 

He knelt there, wave after wave of nausea, until there was nothing left to throw up. And still he heaved. Tears streaked down his contorted face, horrified at what his mind had conjured. At the violence he knew he was capable of doing. He couldn’t stop shaking, his breaths coming in shallow rasps, the bile coating his throat and burning his nostrils.

The shadows watched, streaking his back and wings with soothing motions, trying and failing to anchor him to reality

“It was only a nightmare, dear Singer, and nothing more. You did no harm to that male.”

The sobs wracked his body, the only thing keeping him upright was his grip on the toilet’s side.

But I would have. Had it come down to this, had Rhysand not intervened before it was too late-

He heaved again, his body cramping with the effort.

“What you saw is not who you are, Singer. You are not a cruel male.”

He let out a humorless laugh at that, feeling his throat ache at the motion. You and I both know that’s bullshit. Cruel is what I am. All that I ever was.

“Singer-”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He snapped, bellowing out loud.

The shadows recoiled from his outburst, but said nothing. They floated a few inches away from his frame, no longer touching him. It twisted his gut even more, to know they still cared for him even after seeing him in his most rotten state. He couldn’t bear it.

“Just leave me alone. Please.” His voice was a broken whisper, barely there.

And the shadows, his most loyal friends, slithered underneath the cracks of his bedroom door, heartbroken at leaving him in the moment he felt most vulnerable.

He didn’t deserve them. Not their care, and not their compassion. And so he stayed there until the sun dripped through his closed curtains, sobbing and shaking and heaving, trying to gather a modicum of control over his body to carry on his duties to his court.

---

Training resumed in the House of Wind. Azriel had just enough time to compose himself, taking a shower to clean the smell of filth out of his body and recalling his shadows to him. They streaked on his shoulders, their touch even more gentle than usual. 

I’m sorry for screaming at you. His guilt churned on the inside, jumbled with all his other terrible feelings.

“We know, dear Friend. We understand” His throat constricted again. It was that simple. No hurt, no judgment. He really didn’t deserve them.

Nesta and Gwyn emerged from inside the House, with Emerie being winnowed in shortly after by his High Lord, who seemed uninterested in speaking with him, even mind to mind. That was probably for the better too.

He stood in the training pit, greeting the trio with a curt nod, and instructed them on the drills of the day. Nesta brought with her a Symphonia, gifted by Cassian, and the music it broadcasted served as extra motivation for her. He loved music, but to say he wasn’t in the mood was an understatement.

The remainder of the priestessess filtered through the archway, going through the series of exercises he pressed them on. He resisted the urge to look for the current-shaped chain links around Gwyn’s neck, remaining a good distance from her and the rest of the students. He felt unclean, and did not want to stain them with his presence.

Soon enough, training had come and gone, and his thoughts started eating at him with renewed determination. If anyone thought his excessive silence was strange, no one commented on it. He was grateful for that, at least.

Just then, he felt the dark talons of his High Lord mind raking against his own. He didn’t care about it most days, but today would prove a challenge to face his brother without snapping. He wasn’t sure how to feel really. If he should let his cold rage dominate him once more, or thank his brother on his knees for preventing something akin to his nightmare coming to fruition. Both options disgusted him, so he settled for his professional indifference instead, a perfect mask for a Spymaster.

Yes, High Lord?

'Report to my office. Cassian is inspecting the Illyrian camps, and I need to know if there’s any movement on the Continent.' His brother's voice bore no warmth whatsoever.

On my way.

And just like that, his peace was gone. Azriel sighted.

---

The meeting was surprisingly uneventful. His brother seemed ill inclined to discuss any matter besides court business, and Azriel shared the sentiment. The bags under Rhys' eyes betrayed that he wasn't getting much sleep either, frantically searching for a way to save his mate and unborn child.

Azriel stalked out of the office on the River House, his shadows clinging to his armor like second skin. He was probably not the most welcoming sight. Striding down the hall, he couldn’t help but wonder how his High Lady was faring in all of this. It had not been required of him to search into it, but he felt the need to help. To do more for her. Despite any recent conflict with his brother, that’s what he still was. His brother. And she was, by extension and care, his dear little sister, with a ticking clock above her head.

It would do well to see her, he decided. And if helping her with anything did qualm his festering mind, then all the better.

Phasing through the shadows, he landed in front of her Atelier in the Rainbow. His shadowy friends unclenched themselves from his armor, slipping behind his back and wings and finally weaving out of existence. Strange.

What’s wrong with my shoulders? Afraid of the Brave Painter?

No answer came. He huffed an annoyed breath, turning the handle of the entrance.

I’m going to be real pissed with all of you if you keep doing tha-

Turns out, his shadows were not scared of his High Lady.

But they were scared of the flowery sister who happened to be accompanying her, as they always seemed to vanish in her presence.

The sisters turned to face him. Feyre broke into a warm smile, while Elain’s face froze in slight shock. He stood with the door half open for a heartbeat, but immediately gathered his wits and closed it behind him.

This has to be some kind of sick joke.

He turned from the closed door to face them again, his face once more donning the mask of the Spymaster. He could feel the bile threatening its way up, the devastated Elain from his nightmare flashing in his eyes.

“Az! You have the most perfect timing!” Feyre said, clapping her hands. “I was just finishing some touches on a painting I picked from Elain’s memories, but I’m afraid I held her for too long. I was going to winnow her myself but, since you’re here, can you escort her back to the house, please?” She asked in earnest. 

He glanced at her baby bump. How much of a bastard would he be to say no to his pregnant High Lady’s request? Probably the greatest of them. But he couldn’t really deny her, could he? That’s what he came here for, to lighten her burdens. 

His reeling head was a second too late, because the middle Archeron sister spoke first.

“That’s not necessary, Feyre. I need to do some errands anyway, I’ll be fine on my own.” He noticed the slight waver of her voice, the tremor of her bottom lip.

“Are you sure, Elain? If Azriel doesn’t mind then-”

“I’m sure, yes. I’ll be on my way.” She quickly gathered her basket and skipped to the door, out in the streets before any of them could protest. If someone saw that, they’d think she was running for her life in the most polite of ways.

His High Lady stared at the door with her eyebrows in her hairline. It was not usual for Elain to go anywhere with such haste, nor to lose an opportunity to spend some quality time with the always attentive Shadowsinger. She looked at Azriel then, but his face remained impassive as he stared at the closed door. He didn’t seem surprised by her sister’s behavior in the least.

“Did something happen between you two, Az?” She asked, a slight frown now forming on her face.

A thousand different answers boiled in his mind. And this time, he would not be truthful.

“I may have lost her Solstice gift on a mission” The lie slipped smoothly. He knew it not to be his best deceiving work, but he prayed Feyre trusted him enough not to question him about it. Or worse yet, question her sister .

“Oh. That is a shame.” She let a small smile bloom again. “You ought to be more careful with a lady’s gifts, Az. We sometimes pour our hearts into them.” She spoke in the condescending tone most mothers used with stubborn children. 

She was better off stabbing him with Truth-teller at the pang of guilt that striked his chest. He fucked up. He fucked it all up.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Feyre” He answered, giving her a nod and turning to leave.

“Wait. Did you want to discuss something with me when you came here? I’m sorry, I just sprung escort duty on you and didn’t even ask if you needed anything.”

He couldn’t face her, couldn’t school his devastated expression that had formed in the split second he turned to leave. He swallowed in an attempt to steady his voice, and answered, “No, everything’s in order”.

She took a second too long, but said. “Alright then, take care.”

He only nodded without turning, immediately phasing through the shadows, not bothering with the door. He dropped the couple of feet from the wards in the foyer of the House of Wind, almost racing to his bedroom. His shadows were returning, gathering what had happened from his friend’s agitated behavior.

“We are sorry, Friend. We did not know the Bright Seer-”

Why the fuck do you leave everytime she’s there? WHY? He barreled into his bedroom, smashing the door closed behind him.

“Her power is too bright for us. It hurts to be in her presence. We are truly sorry, Singer…”

He didn’t know why he even asked. He didn’t fucking care. He gathered what little things he needed from his room, strapped a sword to his back and headed back out. “Where are we going, Singer?”

Scout. I can’t stay here. I need to DO something. He came back to the foyer and took to the skies, barely a minute having passed from his arrival to his departure.

His shadows were unsure of what to do or say, and so they stayed silent.

Chapter Text

The wind whipped at his wings as he ascended beyond the snowy mountains that surrounded Velaris. The freezing cold worked to bring him some clarity, and the dull ache that intensified in his scarred hands quieted his thoughts even further. In moments like this, where his mind was the worst of enemies, pain was one of the few things that helped him cope.

“Singer…”

Spare me your lectures. They are not wanted, nor needed.

The shadows tightened around his torso at his dry tone. “You are determined to not care for yourself, so we worry for you in your stead. Do not blame us for that.”

Azriel really didn’t have it in him to argue.

He flew through the mountain ranges for a couple of hours, the thought of checking in on his Loud Brother crossing his mind, but quickly being shut down. His last sudden visit to a family member only served to stoke his misery, and he wasn’t eager to make the same mistake twice in a row. 

“A scenic view might help you, Friend.” The shadows quipped, eager to pull him out of himself.

I’m not here to frolic. I’m giving myself time to wind down so I don’t make a stupid mistake within our enemies’ borders. He had learned early on his life how little tolerance there was for careless spies. Rhysand’s father had seen to that personally.

“Where are you even planning to go? Your contacts did not see any strange movements as of late.”

He knew that, and it only served to spur him further. All of his spies, from anywhere he had reached, had reported absolutely nothing of relevance. It was too quiet, a deliberate kind of silence.

I’m going to check in on the Continent. Maybe there’s something my spies are missing there.

His shadows weaved on his leathers, taking in his words. “Perhaps you should stop by the water, Friend. The tides might help soothe you.”

He scowled. You are awfully persistent today.

“Give it a chance, Stubborn Bat. You won’t know until you try.”

Sighing, Azriel phased through his shadows and into the east coast of the Night Court, being greeted by the white sands and dark sea that separated Prythian from the Continent. He couldn’t deny the stark beauty inherent to this place. Closing his eyes and breathing in the salted breeze, he focused on the rhythmic crash of the waves upon the shore.

Surprisingly, it worked.

The waves brought a constancy, the same kind of cyclic calm he got from sharpening Truth-Teller, with the scrape of the stone on metal drowning out the rest of the world.

Azriel stayed like that for a couple of minutes, disconnecting from his ever growing pile of worries. His breathing evened out and his heart beat slowly on his chest. His shadowy friends draped over his shoulders, resisting the urge to say ‘ We told you so’, at least for the time being. Their dear Singer had found a small fragment of peace, and they would not take that for granted.

Eventually he opened his eyes, staring into the horizon. The guilt, shame, and all other kinds of burdens were still present, but not as loud as before. They were almost… manageable. He looked to the dark clouds that wandered the sky, taking in one final steadying breath.

Thank you, Little Ones. 

The shadows ran up his arms and into his hair, tossing it around playfully. “Anytime, dear Singer”

With that, he phased into the Continent, filled with renewed determination to uncover what their enemies were plotting.

---

Azriel was beyond frustrated. Hours upon hours of searching and stalking, and all that he had gathered was a big fat pile of fucking nothing.

The shadows waved around his shoulders, unbothered. “Do not fret, Singer. Perhaps all is well, after all.”

In another life that might turn out to be true. There’s something going on and I just can’t figure out what.

“You are being paranoid.”

I’m the Spymaster. Being paranoid is literally my job.

His shadows were starting to grow frustrated with their friend’s pessimism. “We mean to say you are more paranoid than usual, Bat. More paranoid than you have any right to be, given what we have gathered thus far.”

And what exactly is it that we gathered thus far, Little Ones?

“That there is NOTHING to worry about.” They waved in front of Azriel’s face, trying to get their point through their friend’s thicker-than-average skull.

He wasn’t naive enough to hope that was actually the case. His instincts told him something was up, and being in the dark about it was driving him insane. It wasn’t the only reason for his dwindling sanity, but it certainly didn’t help.

It never hurts to be prepared.

“It never hurts to take a break, either.”

I can think of at least a dozen situations where it would be extremely inconvenient to take said break. A boyish little smile was tucking at the corners of his lips now. Maybe he enjoyed riling his shadows a bit too much.

“We will hear no more of it. Go back to the House, Bat. Shower. Eat. NOW.” They snapped, their patience running thin with their Singer.

Azriel's smile finally broke through his mask. As you wish, Mother Hens.

---

By the time the Overworried Bat finally landed in the training ring, the stars were high in the sky, and most responsible adults were deep asleep.

Apparently, Gwyneth Berdara was not a responsible adult.

He found her in the same spot they had met nights before. She brandished her sword with purpose, her form without any flaws. He knew it was a question of time before she ended that poor ribbon’s life, and he’d bet all the riches in Velaris that it would happen sooner rather than later.

“Priestess.” His low voice called out in greeting.

She turned, relaxing her stance and offering him one of her shy smiles. “Shadowsinger.”

“Is your resolve to split the ribbon stopping you from getting proper rest?” He inquired, a bit curious as to why he had found the priestess up here at such a late hour, more than once.

Her face fell at the question. “It’s something like that.” She answered halfheartedly, looking down.

His shadows approached his ears.“The Lovely Priestess had a nightmare, Singer.” He cursed himself internally for his lack of tact.

“I’m sorry, Priestess. I really shouldn’t pry.”

Her shy smile returned tentatively, and she raised her head to meet his gaze. “Well, you are the Spymaster. A bit of prying should be expected.” She pointed the sword at him, narrowing her eyes in a mock of a fearless expression. “But don’t believe for a second it’s going to be that easy to extract my secrets, Shadowsinger.”

He smiled at her then. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She lowered her sword and cocked her head at him, a curious expression in her face. “So, what brings you up here at such a late hour, Shadowsinger? Did your Bat instincts decide to finally kick in, or did you forget your favorite dagger once again?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Something along those lines, Priestess. Let’s just hope I don’t start craving blood anytime soon.”

She laughed, the sound attracting his shadows once more, their ethereal shapes dancing in her cloudy breaths. She looked at them, her laughter dying down, but with a smile remaining.

“I’m sorry for that.” He rushed to say. “They can be a little… invasive, sometimes.” He tried calling them back to his side, but they ignored him.

She waved him off. “Don’t apologize. I don’t mind them at all. In fact, I find them quite fascinating.”

His shadows leapt of joy at her statement, if that was even possible. They circled her neck before returning to their singer, leaving a trail of goosebumps where they had touched her skin.

To say that Azriel was shocked was an understatement. Never had someone been so comfortable with his shadows before. “I’ve heard many things said about them over the centuries, Priestess, but ‘fascinating’ is certainly not one of them.”

“The Lovely Priestess is kind. She compliments us, unlike you, Grumpy Singer.”

I’m not the one inventing offensive nicknames at every twist and turn.

“We are not to blame for your lack of imagination.”

He scoffed mentally. Why are you so entranced by her anyway?

“We told you. The Lovely Priestess is music. You are just too deaf to listen, dumb Singer.”

Maybe if you told me what you actually fucking meant-

“Did you know you start frowning when you talk to your shadows for too long?” Gwyn’s voice broke him from his internal conversation, her lips pursed in a poorly suppressed smile.

He just stared at her with his mouth half open.

“I mean, at least that’s what it seems like you’re doing. I can’t hear anything, if you’re worried about that.” Her lips were quivering with the effort to not laugh at his stunned face. “It’s quite rude to leave someone out of the conversation, you know?”

Azriel closed his mouth and composed himself. “I’m sorry, Priestess. They have been pretty annoying as of late.”

“Get a mirror, Bat” 

Eat glass, Little Demons.

“So, they talk to you a lot?” She seemed genuinely curious now.

“Unfortunately, they do. Getting them to make some actual sense is the hard part.”

His shadows waved indignantly around him. “You would understand us clearly if you did less brooding and more thinking, dumb Singer.” He ignored them.

“They seem to disagree with you, Shadowsinger.”

“The sun will freeze and the seas will boil before they agree with me on anything, Priestess.” He answered dryly.

She laughed again. “Somehow, I think that’s on you”

The shadows waved up and down in front of the priestess, as if nodding. “It most certainly is.” 

Azriel thought the whole thing was beyond ridiculous, but couldn’t help the smile that invaded his face as he shook his head. 

Just then, his body decided there was no better timing to remind him that the last thing he’d eaten was a honeybun. On the day before. The grumbling of his stomach was thunderous, probably loud enough to wake up Nesta inside of the House. He had the decency to blush, if only a little.

Gwyn’s laughter was unrestrained this time, the shadows dancing with her in their antics. She looked at him with eyes full of mirth. “That’s probably the loudest sound I’ve ever heard you make, Shadowsinger.” Unfortunately, her laughter didn’t last, a frown slowly taking its place. 

The realization dawned on her. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten something?”

He didn’t answer immediately, debating whether he should tell her the truth. He chose to deflect instead.

Azriel, the bastard, grinned at her. “Don’t think it’s going to be that easy to extract my secrets, Priestess.”

Her frown only deepened. “I’m serious, Shadowsinger. You can’t hope to keep up your strength if you don’t eat.”

The shadows nodded frantically. “That is what we keep telling him! The Lovely Priestess understands. She is way smarter than you, Singer!”

"You’d be surprised at how filling a honeybun can be.” He quipped, trying to draw out her smile again.

She looked at him like he had grown an additional head. “A honeybun?”

He nodded.

She crossed her arms. “And when exactly did you eat this honeybun of yours?” 

“A couple of hours ago.” He lied.

“How many hours are we talking about?”

He grinned at her again. “Is this an interrogation, Priestess?”

“If it needs to be, then yes. Stop deflecting, Shadowsinger.” She didn’t look amused.

He shook his head. “I ate by morning, right after sunrise.”

“He is lying, Lovely Priestess! Do not believe the Lying Bat!” His shadows had left his shoulders and now wavered frantically from side to side in front of the priestess.

“Your shadows seem to disagree with you, Shadowsinger.” 

Azriel sighed. Cauldron boil him, she was not letting this go. 

“Yesterday’s sunrise” He finally admitted.

His shadows nodded then, and Gwyn’s face drained of color. “You’ve been training us and going on missions for almost two days straight. Without eating!? Have you lost your mind, Shadowsinger!? ” She looked genuinely distressed. If it was with him or for him, he couldn’t tell.

“It is both, Singer.”

“It sounds a lot worse if you put it like that.” He quipped.

“It sounds a lot worse because it IS a lot worse. Frankly, I don’t even know how you are able to stand right now!” She was getting real mad real fast at how unfazed Azriel seemed to the gravity of his behavior. His shadowy friends were all the more amused at how furious she was with him over his carelessness. 

He glared at his shadows. Little Shits, you’re going to pay for this later. They went behind the priestess back to amass themselves in what resembled a comically large middle finger.

“Don’t you dare reprimand your shadows for ratting you out. I can’t even hear them speaking, but I’m certain they are much more reasonable than you are.” His shadows nodded enthusiastically. And his stomach grumbled again, now with the cramping of hunger taking root as well.

Gwyn shook her head, clearly exasperated. “Come, Shadowsinger. It would be a tragedy to let our Spymaster keel over out of hunger.” With that, she stored her sword in the rack and stomped her way back into the House proper, without looking back at him once.

He had little choice but to follow the fuming priestess.

They were halfway down the stairs, Azriel tracking behind her with a respectable distance, when suddenly she turned to him, and he backstepped in reflex at her still aggravated expression. “Where is the kitchen?” She asked in a clipped tone. 

“Just keep descending and turn left towards the inner parts of the house at the first corridor.” He stopped for a second. The corner of his lips turned up. “Or you could just follow the shadows.” At his words they darted ahead, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for their Lovely Priestess.

She huffed and turned her back on him, following the Little Traitors, who were eager to help feed their purposefully starving friend. She arrived at the kitchen, and lost no time at all  opening up cabinets and gathering ingredients. Flour, butter, brown sugar, some chocolate. He looked at the table and his eyebrows hit his hairline at the realization.

“Are you going to bake us some cookies, Priestess?” It wasn’t really a question.

“No. You are going to bake us some cookies, Shadowsinger.” She said in a tone that left no room for argument.

Azriel, of course, argued. “I’m going to bake us some cookies?”

“Yes, you.” She answered, without missing a beat.

He shook his head in disbelief. “And what if I told you I wanted to taste your culinary talents, Priestess?” He asked, unable to resist the temptation to rile her a bit further.

Gwyn narrowed her eyes at him. “I’d tell you that I need to make sure you’re capable of feeding yourself, Shadowsinger. You cook, I clean. Get started, now.” She started moving again, this time searching for bowls and trays.

He stared at her for a couple more seconds before removing the siphons on his hands and taking off his leather bracers. If cookies were what she wanted, then by the Mother, cookies were what she was getting. 

There was definitely something wrong with him at how amused he was at this, at her. She was worried for him, and he just couldn’t fathom why.

“Because that is what friends do, Singer. We worry. We care”

---

He didn’t really know what to make of this situation. There he was, the Spymaster of the Night Court, one of the most powerful Fae in all of Prythian, the Shadowsinger, the Monster Underneath Their Enemies Beds. Sat in the kitchen, scolded until his ears burned by a priestess almost a head shorter than him, patiently waiting for the tray of cookies she had coerced him into baking.

This was beyond absurd. The only thing stopping him from laughing out loud was the unsuspecting Archeron sister sleeping a couple of doors in.

The silence was heavy, still charged with the priestess now diminishing indignation. This time, he was the one that tried to fill it with idle chatter.

“Why cookies?” His voice was even lower now, trying not to wake the sleeping Lady Death to witness this unusual scene.

She turned to face him, the remainder of her anger fading from her face, melting in what he could only point as profound sorrow, and maybe something else.

“My sister and I used to ravage them all the time, when we were little.” She paused, taking a steadying breath. “We used to sneak into the temple’s kitchen to try and steal some while they were still hot. We were always caught red handed.” She released a tiny laugh, a longing smile now adorning her freckled face. “Ever since she died I…” She paused, swallowing. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had any. Too long I’d say.”

It tore him to pieces, to see her like this. To know it was his fault, his failure, that she no longer had a sister to share her joy. He made sure none of that slipped through his mask, but still he apologized. “I’m sorry, Gwyneth.”

She looked at him, her big teal eyes shining with unshed tears. She took a deep breath, blinking the tears away, and nodded, taking his apology for regular condolences, and not the guilty admission that it was.

What the shadows did next would forever mesmerize Azriel.

They weaved themselves into her hair and around her neck, stroking her gently, just like they did when they wanted to bring him some semblance of comfort. Never, not even in his wildest dreams, he imagined them doing something like that to someone that wasn’t him. To add to his surprise, she inclined into their touch, her expression softening. She actually liked them. They stayed like that for a couple of minutes, silent tears seeping from her eyes, with the shadows losing no time before wiping them. Eventually, his shadowy friends untangled themselves from her before returning to the shoulders of their singer. She seemed more at peace now, and something settled in Azriel’s chest at the sight.

“Thank you, little shadows. Your touch is really soothing.” She said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Little Ones.” He added.

“What?” She looked at him a bit confused.

“I like to call them Little Ones. They like being called that too.”

She smiled a little more brightly at the endearment. “In that case, I'm very grateful for your comfort, Little Ones.” His shadows made a long nod, more akin to a curtsy than anything else. She let out a little laugh at the sigh, which delighted them.

“You can be a little thoughtful sometimes, Friend. We appreciate it.”

He snickered. Sometimes?

The shadows reared their heads at him. “The cookies are going to burn if you don’t take them out of the oven, Bat.”

He quietly cursed, rising from the bench and grabbing the cooking mitts from the counter. He hesitated for a heartbeat in front of the oven. He was not keen on willingly getting his hands near any heat.

“Let me.” Gwyn said, catching him by surprise. She gave him a look that seemed to gaze into the bowels of his soul, and a little smile bloomed on her face once again. She extended her hands, motioning with her head to the mitts he was holding. He handed them over to her. She put them on and opened the oven, taking the tray out and depositing it on the counter. The smell of the freshly baked goods was intoxicating.

She looked intently at the cookies. They looked quite appetizing, if he could say so himself, but a kernel of doubt started eating at him at her expression. Did she not like them? Did she find them ugly, maybe overcooked? A thousand possibilities raced through his mind, each worse than the previous, until she met his gaze again, silencing his spiraling thoughts.

“Thank you, Azriel.” She paused, searching for the right words. “I never thought I’d want to eat these again but… But I’m glad that you’ve made them for us.” His throat tightened at her sincerity. Also, his heart skipped a beat or two after hearing her say his name, but he would not dwell on that. He would not dare dwelling on that .

Gwyn grabbed one of the cookies, humming to herself in contentment. “Now, let’s eat.”

---

Later in the night, after sharing a whole tray of cookies and a lot of hushed laughs with an irreverent priestess, Azriel was content. Content and sated, like he hadn’t been in a long, long time. 

After laying down on his bed, sleep came to him easily. For once, it did not bear any of his terrible dreams.

Chapter Text

A single ray of sunlight sneaked its way between his curtains, shining in the Shadowsinger’s face. Azriel groaned and opened his eyes, blinking once, twice.

He didn’t dream, not one dreadful memory or cruel projection plagued him for his few hours of lying on the bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a night of actual restful sleep. One more thing to thank Gwyn for.

“Get up, Singer. Dawn has come and passed, and training must start soon. You will not hear the end of it if you arrive after Lady Death or the Lovely Priestess.”

Sometimes his shadows did bear sound advice. But only sometimes.

He slowly made his way into the bathroom, washing away the lethargy of slumber and quickly bathing, before making his way into the kitchen to have some breakfast. His shadowy friends and the priestess had worked hard to feed him last night, so he might as well keep up the streak of nutrition while he was at it.

“We are so very proud of you, Singer. We pray you do eat something a bit more nutritious than cookies though.” The shadows quipped, mental voices dripping with sarcasm. 

Very funny. Have you considered doing comedy?

“We would be a lot more successful than you, that much is for sure.”

He scoffed. Not that high of a bar.

“Good thing you know your place, Friend.”

He finished his meal and made it up the stairs. Nesta was already in the ring, going through stretches. He could practically feel her nervous energy, restless in her mate's continued absence. It had been three days since Cassian departed for the Illyrian Camps, and he probably wouldn’t be back for at least two more. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

Nesta turned to him, her expression hopeful. “Azriel. Any news on Cassian?”

“Good morning to you too, Nesta.” He answered dryly.

She scoffed. “As if you cared for pleasantries. Do you know when Cassian is coming back or not?”

“Soon”. Was all he replied, keeping his face impassive while staring down the oldest sister. 

She huffed and returned to her stretches, but not before placing down her Symphonia in a safe nook and tapping it, its music filling the space of the training ring.

Soon enough, Gwyn and the priestess started to filter through the training ring entrance. Some of them rejoiced at the sound of the Symphonia, dancing to its music for a few minutes before starting their training proper. Azriel, of course, let them. It filled him with joy to know these females felt safe here and were able to find pleasure in the simple things in life.

Rhysand winnowed with Emerie in tow, and Azriel prayed to the Mother not to feel the scrape of his dark claws against his mind. Alas, his prayers fell on deaf ears.

‘Azriel. We need to have a talk. Come to my office after training is done.’ His voice was cold, bearing the authority of the High Lord and not his brother’s usual carefree tone. Not that he heard the latter in the last few days.

Care to tell me what this is about?

‘You know damn well what this is about.’ 

He had no clue what this was about. I don’t believe I do, no.

‘I’m not in my most patient mood, Spymaster. My office, as soon as you’re done.’ And with that, his High Lord gave a polite nod to the ones in the training ring and winnowed away. Azriel was confused. What am I missing here?

“You are most certainly not going to like it, Singer. Do you wish for us to fill the High Baby’s shirt with lint to try and postpone this meeting?” They asked in earnest. He almost shook his head at them. No, I’ll just hear what he has to talk about and be done with it.

The lightness of the night of cookies all but disappeared, his High Lord’s contempt leaving Azriel with a sour taste in his mouth. But he still had a training session to instruct, and so he did, with the same cold precision he carried all of the duties to his court.

He phased through his shadows after a curd nod in farewell to the priestesses, landing in the porch of the River House. His steps were silent against the tiles in the corridors, and in no time he saw himself in front of the door he had come to resent. He took a deep silent breath and opened it.

His brother was seated, sifting through old healing tomes and scrolls that littered his desk. He didn’t raise his eyes as Azriel entered and closed the door behind him.

“High Lord.” His mask of indifference was in place, but the blood pounded on his ears with a headache that started forming before this ‘talk’ had even started.

“I believe I've made myself very clear about you staying away from Elain, Azriel.” Rhysand looked at him then, his cold demeanor a stark contrast to the fury behind his starry eyes.

Azriel refrained from scowling at his High Lord. He couldn’t be serious about calling him for a meeting because he had stumbled upon Elain for the insurmountable amount of ten fucking seconds. “You did.”

Rhysand laid the book in his hands back on the desk and stood to meet the Shadowsinger eye to eye. “So tell me, Spymaster, why did I hear Feyre talking of you showing up at her Atelier, just in time to take Elain to wherever she needed to be?” His brother did not give him time to respond, sidestepping his desk in a confident walk towards him, his hands in his pockets. “Were you planning on taking her flying, her body flushed tight against yours? Or maybe you would winnow her directly to your bed, fuck her senseless and spare the effort of pretending to care?” Azriel opened his mouth, his expression finally starting to show the indignation he was feeling at his High Lord’s accusations, but Rhysand pushed on. “I told you would regret making a move on her and I meant it, Azriel. I thought you'd have better judgment than this.”

“I did not know Elain would be there.” He struggled to keep his tone even High Lord’s face. “I passed by the Atelier to know if Feyre was in need of anything after I saw you half-awake through our meeting.”

“Bullshit. You know where everyone is all of the time, and now you mean to tell me you conveniently don’t know Elain's location?”

“No, I do not!” He answered, finally starting to raise his voice. “My shadows cannot stand to be near her, so I can never know where she is. It was a coincidence, one I did not want to happen in the first place!” Azriel retorted, his anger growing hotter by the second.

Rhysand scoffed. “And you never mentioned that up until this point? You take me for a fool, Azriel? One would think a Spymaster more competent at lying.” His brother was toe to toe with him now, his expression losing some of its authority in favor of a look of pity. Azriel didn’t know which one was worse. “Do you think I take pleasure in waving my rank in your face over something like this? That I wanted it to be this way? Well I don’t, brother. I want you to be happy, but I just can’t afford to dive headfirst into another war, to lose another ally. You two are just not meant to be.” His expression had turned almost pleading now. “You should understand that. Why can’t you just let it go?”

Azriel was not having it. “Look into my head and see it for yourself, High Lord, if I’m so unworthy of your trust.” He said with as much scorn as he could muster. He didn’t care anymore what Rhysand thought of him for it. This was going too far over too little. “I only wished to help my High Lady, my sister, in whatever way she needed me at the moment, nothing more!" He let out a snarl, his rage making itself known. "But don’t let my words sway you from getting the answers you so badly want to hear, brother. Go ahead, TAKE A PEEK!” He shouted, flaring his wings. 

Rhysand was stunned, clearly not prepared for an outburst like this from Azriel of all people.

Azriel knew that had been enough, but he wouldn’t stop now. He couldn’t. “Come on, what’s holding you back now? Is it really above you to look into the minds of your own subjects? It certainly isn't to order around your own family.” Rhysand frowned and opened his mouth to respond, but now it was Azriel’s turn to interrupt him. “What’s the next best thing? You going to throw me into the dungeons of Hewn City and have someone else torture out the answers you believe? Or maybe you will call on Morrigan to get the truth out of me instead, make it a bit more personal.” His brother’s face contorted with hurt, the target hitting its mark. But Azriel wasn’t done.“Fair warning, she wants very little to do with any truth that comes from me. Wanna know my professional opinion as your Spymaster ? Command me to hold my hands over the fire. That used to be your father’s favorite.” He practically spit the last sentence at Rhys, who now looked at him like he had just stabbed him in the chest and licked the knife clean. 

It was the lowest of blows, but he didn't have it in himself to care. Not now, at least. Rhysand simply turned away from him, shaking his head, incapable or unwilling to summon any words at the venom he had spilled.

So Azriel just left, feeling a hundred times more miserable than when he’d arrived. His shadows snatched him away from the River House, dropping him in the only place they knew could comfort their Singer.

---

Illyria was cold. Cold like the hearts of the bastards that inhabited it, it’s warmongering people a reflection of their brutal land, or so the Shadowsinger believed.

Yet, it was home to the most warming and gentle thing Azriel still harbored in his life. Rosehall was a small community, made of modest houses and trades, hidden in the midst of the mountains. Glamoured out from the rest of the world, including other Illyrians. Its people were formed by rejects and refugees from the war camps, rescued from cruel fates under the guise of exile or death, given this self sustainable haven and the chance to start anew.

Azriel staggered out of his shadows, astonished at them for not phasing him to the House of Wind, where he originally intended to go. But his remaining rage quickly faded at the sight of the cottage that stood before him. Of the female that threw loose corn to a bunch of chickens that chirped happily at her feet.

She was beautiful, breathtakingly so. Her calloused hands and feet betrayed the life of servitude she was forced into, but they didn’t take away from her soft features. So unlike her son, who hated looking at himself in the mirror, seeing only the wretched male that sired him. Her wings drooped from her back, the scars of clipping a reminder of why this place existed, why he loathed the people he hailed from.

She turned to him, her face breaking into a beaming smile. A smile he didn’t deserve, but couldn’t help returning.

“Hello, Mama.” Azriel’s shoulders dropped, a bit of the weight he always carried leaving him for the moment, the Shadowsinger disarmed at his mother’s presence.

“Azriel! My beautiful boy!” She dropped the corn sack and rushed to embrace her son. “I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you for a long while yet, child.” She looked up at him and her smile grew, if that was even possible. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. You should definitely visit more often, youngling!” She smacked his chest playfully. He had visited for Solstice, as he usually did, but for his mother, it was never frequent enough. She wanted him to come by everyday, to live with her if she had any say in it, and he couldn’t blame her. Not after having his childhood denied of her love.

“I am more than five hundred years old, Mama. ‘Youngling’ scarcely applies to me anymore.” He embraced her once again, her smell of mist and roses a soothing balm to his senses.

His relief was short lived, the cruel words he’d spit at his brother returning to him in full force. He cringed, and his mother felt the sudden change. She backed away from him a step and cradled his face in her hands, forcing him to face her, even while his features were covered in shame. “What is it, child? What happened?”

He didn’t speak for a moment, unwilling to share all the stupidities he’d done in such a short time. 

“Dear Mother knows best, Singer.”

They were not lying. This was his mother, and he knew he would get no judgment from her. So he answered. “I messed up, Mama. I was a fool, trying to take love from a female that’s mated to another.” He shook his head, his mask of composure breaking from the weight of the last couple of days. “And I’ve just said terrible things to Rhysand, things I can never take back.” He closed his eyes, unable to face her. 

He could not see it, but his mother’s face bore an empathetic smile. “Oh, Azriel.” She embraced him again, rubbing her calloused hands on his back in soothing motions. “Everyone makes mistakes, dear child. You are too hard on yourself.” She released him and grabbed him by his hands, guiding him to the door. “Come inside, let’s get you out of the cold, lest your hands will be aching terribly.” He didn’t deserve her love or care, but he was spent, and relented to his mother’s sweet words.

She dragged him inside the cottage, sitting him on a couch with slots for wings, pouring him warm tea into a mug. She didn’t offer him a place by the fire, she knew better than that. The lukewarm porcelain would have to do. His shadows streaked down his arms, enveloping him with their presence, grounding him. He stared into the steaming liquid, not making a move to sip it. She sat across from him in a rocking chair with tea of her own in her hands.

“Tell me about it, child.” She said, with an even and patient voice.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and began retelling the events of the last few days. How he had gifted Elain the necklace, lusting for her affection. How Rhysand had pulled rank on him and forbidden him from pursuing her. How he had rid himself of said necklace, in shame. How he had stumbled upon Elain again in the presence of his High Lady. How she must have commented in passing about it to his High Lord, who took upon himself to berate and accuse him for something that wasn’t under his control. And finally, he told of the venom he had distilled at his brother, who couldn't even look him in the eyes after he was done. His voice broke more than once throughout the whole ordeal, but it was done. His shameful behavior laid bare for her to see.

Strangely, he did not mention his reprieves with the priestess, choosing to keep those small comforts to himself. He didn’t want to give his mother any wrong ideas, whatever they were. 

At least that’s what he told himself.

“Dear Mother will enjoy hearing about the Lovely Priestess, Singer. She will be happy you found a new friend.”

Not today.

His mother didn’t say anything for a long while, only listening attentively to his ramblings. After he had finished, she sipped from her now almost empty mug and set it on the low table between them. 

She raised her eyes from the table and looked at her son. She saw the face of a man that had been sentenced to the gallows, drained of hope, quietly waiting for death to retrieve him. It broke her heart to see her child like this, as free as he ever dreamt to be, and yet chained down by his own doubts. “I think I understand the gist of it, my son.” He raised his head, looking at her with the same hazel eyes that adorned her face. 

“I am not going to chastise you for wanting to love, and to be loved, regardless of who the target of your affection was. Sometimes, love shows up in the most inconvenient forms, and sometimes it is just an illusion, and we only find out about our foolishness when we’re in too deep.” She paused then, the memory of Azriel’s monstrous father flashing behind her eyes. Azriel flinched, no doubt thinking of him too. “But even then, love always serves a purpose. Even if it is misguided or risky, something good always comes from it, be it lasting happiness or a valuable lesson. You are proof of that, my beautiful son. You are my lasting happiness, the one thing I do not regret.” His face deformed with hurt, and he had to look away. How could she say that? How could she hear about all of this and still call him good?

“Dear Mother knows your heart, Singer. She knows the pain you carry. She knows you do not deserve it.” 

My actions have consequences. If I suffer for them, there’s none to blame but myself, Little Ones.

“ But…” His mother carried on, oblivious to his internal conversation. “As I understand it, you did not love this female. You wished, desperately, for her to love you, and so you lusted for her, in hopes of that desire blossoming into true affection.” She looked at him, now with the stern face of a mother worried for her son. “To do something like that to a female that has yet to reject her bond is incredibly foolish, my son. It could only end in heartbreak, for you and for her as well.” He took her lecture in silence, soaking in every word. He knew she was right, but it still hurt to her the words said out loud. “Rhysand, High Lord or not, had no right to interfere as he did. He took the choice out of both you, and it is not how it should have been dealt with. However, it was probably for the best. This could have ended in great tragedy otherwise.”

The memories of his bloody nightmare came back to him, Lucien's body beaten and crumpled under his scaled boots and Elain’s pleadings ringing impossibly loud in his ears.

“He stepped over a line no brother ever should, but his heart was in the right place. Of course, It does not excuse his behavior, but it is a start.” She paused for a second, searching for the right words to say. “You did the right thing, returning the necklace to the shop. It had lost its meaning and should not be kept after what happened. It would only serve to bring you more pain. As for the words you threw at him earlier, well…” She took the last sip from her tea, which had already turned cold. “You were hurting, Azriel. He cornered you with an ill founded accusation, and you lashed out. You are not to blame for that, but you should take responsibility for it, and apologize.” He was now frowning at her, considering what she was saying. 

“You hurt him, just like he had hurt you before. Like him, you did not say anything that was untrue, but it does not make it less cruel. And like him, your actions are understandable, but not justifiable. He is your High Lord, yes, but more than that, he’s your brother, one you chose for yourself, and that you were chosen by as well. Don’t let this be what drives you apart, child.” She raised from her chair, avoiding the low table and cradling her son’s beautiful face in her hands once more. 

“You can still find love, my sweet little boy, for you have so much of it to give.” She passed her fingers through his hair in a tender gesture, Azriel closing his eyes at her gentle touch. Silent tears were streaming down her son’s face, and she was grateful to the Mother she could be there to wipe them this time around. “Love is not meant to be taken. It is meant to be given and cherished. Truly fortunate are the ones who give love and receive it back in equal measure. That is what you yearn for, and that is what you deserve, my son. Do not settle for less.”

“Thank you, Mama.” Azriel smiled, taking his mother’s hand from his face and kissing it tenderly. “You are truly wise.” He rose from the couch, pulling his tiny mother into a crushing hug. She laughed against his chest, the sound bringing him a peace he didn’t know he craved. 

He was still hurt, but a little less lost. Still lonely, but a little more hopeful for the future.

She finally managed to push him enough off herself to breathe, joyful for her son’s affection. Everyone knew him for the stoic and cold Spymaster, but she knew better. He was Azriel, the sweet little boy with an even sweeter tooth, and a heart that bled for those he cared for. 

“Won’t you stay for dinner? Evellyn is learning to hunt with Galgar, they should be back with her first blood any minute now. She would love for her big brother to prepare it for her.” She looked at him expectantly, eager to have every ounce of her son’s time that she could muster.

He gave her a sad smile. “I’m sorry Mama, but I still have reports to finish and lists to fill. But give her my congratulations, or tease her in my stead, if she doesn’t manage to kill anything.” He was smiling openly now, the thought of his adoptive little sister pouting after an unsuccessful hunt incredibly amusing to him.

“We pity the rabbits that come across the Little Star’s path, Singer. She is as fierce as she is brilliant.” He smiled mentally towards his Little Ones. That she is.

She smacked at his chest once again, a pout not unlike the one he just imagined his sister having now adorning her face. “I’ll not pester her if she fails. She is still learning, Azriel, just like you are right now, albeit on a different matter.” He smiled at her but didn’t respond, only kissing her forehead and making his way to the door.

“Oh, and Azriel?” He turned back to face his mother, the female now bearing a knowing smile. “Next time you come by, tell me more about her. And I don’t mean the female you lusted for.”

He couldn’t stop his eyes from bulging a fraction, but he quickly schooled himself. Too late it seemed, for his mother's smile had turned into a shit eating grin. “I knew there was something you weren’t telling me about, boy. Or rather, someone.” How the fuck did she come to that conclusion?

“We told you, dumb Singer. Dear Mother knows best.”

Fuck off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother.” He answered dryly.

“Sure you don’t, child. Come and visit me once you figure it out.” She paused, her face once more melting into motherly adoration. “I love you, Azriel. Don’t ever forget that.”

He smiled back at his mother. “I love you too, Lilliana. I’ll try and visit more often, maybe bring back some meat of my own hunting.”

“I look forward to it, my sweet boy.”

He stepped out of the cottage and into the cold of the Illyrian Mountains, immediately missing the warmth of his mother’s love. But he had duties that needed to be tended to, and an apology to start planning. But first, he would start with a ‘thank you’.

Thank you for bringing me here, Little Ones. Dear Mother truly knows best.

“Anytime, Singer.”

Chapter Text

The sun had already set when Azriel finally landed on the training ring. It was empty, the absence of a certain priestess not going unnoticed by him, but it was still early in the night and she was probably still tangled up in her duties to the library. He had met her here twice now, and only by pure chance, but still, a small part of him wondered if he would stumble upon her this evening.

“The Lovely Priestess is inside the House, together with Lady Death and the Resilient Clothier.”

He smiled softly at the thought of the three of them enjoying each other's company. Nesta had captivated the females with her fiery loyalty, and he was glad she had found in them the companionship and understanding she longed for. They were all incredibly fierce, having faced tragedies no one should have to.

Azriel made his way inside the house, stopping in the kitchen to make himself dinner, as his shadows had urged him. 

He started hearing it then. Their laughter was rich, muffled by the thick walls but still recognizable. It seemed like the females were throwing an all out party, complete with music and… 

Am I going mad, or is this the sound of trotting hooves on the floorboards?

“You talk with your own Shadows, Singer. Mad is an understatement. But if it is of any consolation, you are not yet hallucinating.”

And how exactly did they manage to get a hor-

“It is not a horse, dumb Singer.” They interrupted his question before his thought had even finished, seemingly appalled by his insinuation. He waited, but no other sentence came from the cryptic Little Ones.

And you’re not going to tell me what it is?

“You should ask about it to the Lovely Priestess.”

He shook his head at their stubbornness, but relented and went about his cooking, the sounds of the three females and their hooved mystery a pleasant background noise to the sizzling of his pan.

After having his fill of eggs and meat he wandered to his gloomy bedroom, away from their celebration. Once inside, the noise faded altogether, and he was left alone with his thoughts, or as alone as he could be. He took a seat at his desk and sifted through the letters and reports he had to deal with. Is everyone safe, Little Ones?

His shadows wavered in place for a few minutes, collecting information about every single person he was close to. At last, they answered. “Loud Brother is still a day and a half away from finishing his inspection on the Illyrian Camps, for the dismay of Lady Death and his own.” He nodded. that was to be expected. “The Brave Painter and the High Ba-”

You may refer to him as Proud Brother, Little Ones. If I hope to make amends, let’s start from our side, shall we?

The shadows scoffed in his mind, but corrected themselves. “-and Proud Brother are having some alone time. He did not share what transpassed between the two of you with her. She is no fool though, and suspects that something is amiss, but will not press him on the matter.” He let out a breath, slightly relieved. That's good. Go on.

“The Morrigan is currently intoxicated and in throes with-”

Is she safe? Azriel interrupted them.

“Very much so, Singer.”

Then that's all I need to know. He didn’t want to repeat the mistake of invading Mor’s privacy. Proceed.

“The Tiny Drake is holed up in her apartment, reading a manuscript of gory contents.” He shrugged. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Dear Mother, Little Star and the Gentle Giant are having dinner, enjoying fresh rabbit stew.”

He smiled. So Evellyn is learning well, after all.

“We told you, Little Star is cunning and no beast is a match for her. In a few years, few Fae will be, either. His smile vanished at their comment.

Let’s hope that doesn’t have to be put to the test. Rosehall exists to protect its people from the violence of their lands.

“She is learning so she can protect herself, Singer, just like the Priestesses are. It does not mean they will succumb to violence, only that they will be able to withstand it if it comes to them.”

He sighted. I know. I just worry that they will feel compelled to use their skills on battles that shouldn’t be on their shoulders.

“If there comes the day they choose to fight, Singer, you can only hope to be there to fight by their side, and not try and stop them. You have no right to do so. It will be their decision, and their decision alone.” The shadows said sternly, leaving no room for discussion on the matter.

I won’t let it come to that. His hands were closed tightly in determination over his desk. 

The shadows clung a little more closely to his shoulders. “We will not let it come to that, Friend.”

He nodded at their statement. Anything else on the Inner Circle’s safety?

“Nothing you do not already know, Singer. The Bright Seer is somewhere inside the River House, but we cannot be really sure.” The mention of the middle Archeron made him frown, thinking about what his mother had said to him. He did not love her, not in the way he had loved Mor for centuries, and even that spark had already faded. The realization he was still alone was painful, but nothing he wasn’t used to. “And the Chosen Sisters are having a most pleasant night, as you might have guessed by their laughter.”

Chosen Sisters? That’s a new one.

“They have adopted one another to share the weight of their highs and lows, Singer, just like you and your Brothers have. It is something special. Something that will bring change of the best kind to the land.” His shadowy friends spoke in a dreamy voice, most likely seeing something he wasn’t able to grasp.

Again, Azriel was left to decipher what his shadows meant by their ominous comments. But for once, he was not worried about it. He simply believed them to be right, as they usually were.

He finished his paperwork close to midnight, stripped himself of his leathers and siphons and dropped face first into his bed, physically and mentally drained by all that had happened since he last woke up. Sleep came to him easier than it usually did, but his nightly terrors would not be so kind.

---

He raised his bloodied knife to strike again. Rhysand stared at him with purple eyes full of hurt, the stars inside them dulled by his pain. His fear. He was strapped down to an iron chair in a dark room, blood leaking from his mouth and nose, a series of cuts and holes strewn about his body, some of them stained with the sickening blue of faebane. 

Down came Truth-Teller, piercing his High Lord’s flesh once more. Rhysand screamed, an ear-tearing sound. Azriel had heard him scream like that, a long time ago, on the day he’d lost his mother and sister.

“Is this what you wished to do to me, High Lord?” He twisted Truth-Teller inside Rhys’ leg, wrangling out more wails in the process, the blood oozing down of the wound in waves. “Strap me to a chair and carve away, like you’ve ordered me to do so many times before?” Azriel’s voice was heavy with contempt, satisfied at the suffering he was bringing his prisoner. He slowly removed the knife, cleaning it on his High Lord’s shirt.

Rhys’ breath came in shallow rasps. “I would never do something like this to you, brother…” Rhysand’s voice was hoarse and weak from all the screaming.

Azriel punched his already swollen face. “Don’t you DARE call me that!” He snarled at him. Rhysand coughed blood, his head falling with the blow. After a few shallow breaths, he managed to whisper, “I never wanted it… to come to this.” He raised his nebulous eyes, now wet with unshed tears, to Azriel's disgusted expression. “You… are still… my dear bro-”

Azriel striked one last time, the dark blade connecting to his High Lord’s neck with a wet sound, silencing him. Rhysand’s eyes bulged, the stars within them blinking once, before snuffing out completely.

----

Azriel startled awake, with labored breaths and sweat covering his body. He was met with absolute darkness, his shadows already encapsulating him in a fierce hug. “It is not real, Singer. You would never hurt your brother like that. That was not you.”

He knew they were right. He knew he would never hate his brother like his dream self portrait. He knew he would never use his own skills to torture him. Still, the knowledge didn’t stop him from holding his head between his knees, curling into a ball, heartbroken at the idea his twisted mind had weaved. It didn’t stop his shaking or the sobbing that followed. He was a monster, a bloodlusted monster, and all his nightmares ever did was show him his true face. It made him sick, and the only thing stopping him from retching up his dinner was the shadows’ embrace, keeping him grounded. 

Azriel couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to apologize to his brother, and he needed to do it now. He gathered himself as quickly as he could, which still took a couple minutes for his shaking to subside, and put on a clean set of leathers. It was still the middle of the night, probably just shy of three in the morning. Even so, he figured his brother rarely slept these days.

Where is he?

“You will find him in his office, Singer”

He walked out of his room. The house was no longer filled with the Chosen Sisters’ joy, the females probably long asleep. He made his way to the training ring and launched himself into the air and out of the wards. Take me there, Little Ones.

His shadowy friends lost no time enveloping his frame and delivering him on the outside of the closed door of his brother’s office. A door he had started to loathe, but that now he suddenly felt fearful about. What am I even going to say to him? I haven’t thought this through. What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if-

“Doubt will only lead to inaction, Singer. Take a deep breath and say what you want to say. Remember, you are not alone.” They clung fiercely to his shoulders after their statement. Azriel breathed in. And out. In. And out. He grabbed the doorknob with shaky hands and twisted it, coming inside the office before he could get cold feet.

He was faced with a snoring Rhysand. His High Lord was spread over his desk, drooling all over his precious scrolls and ancient tomes. Azriel was so caught in his surprise that he couldn’t hold back a loud snicker from leaving him. Damn you, Little Shits. You should’ve warned me.

“You seemed quite determined to speak with him. We did not wish to deter you, Singer.”

His brother’s breath snagged and he startled awake, groaning and rubbing his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room. His gaze finally focused on Azriel, who instinctively adorned his Spymaster’s mask. Rhysand's eyes narrowed, suddenly aware and full of suspicion. It pained Azriel to enact such a reaction from his brother. He let his mask fall, showing some of the guilt and regret he felt down to his core. 

“Rhysand, I… I’m sorry to have come by so late…” He struggled to find the right words, now that he was here. “But I would like to talk with you, brother. If you would hear me.” He managed to say, sounding almost pleading.

His brother’s eyes bulged a little at that, showing his surprise at the Shadowsinger’s tone. It was a good start, better than an outright dismissal. “Of course I will hear you, brother.” His voice was still heavy with sleep, but he seemed pretty alert despite it.

Azriel paused for a few more seconds, looking down, searching for the right thing to say.

“Speak your mind, Singer. Even if your voice shakes.”

And so he did, remembering all the words his mother had with him. “I’m sorry for the cruel things I said to you earlier. I wasn’t in my best shape and I hadn’t intentionally gone against your order, so… I lashed out. I know you would never do any of the things I suggested you would, and I understand your worries regarding me and Elain.” He looked at his brother then, who stared at him with an unreadable expression. “I know why you did what you did, even if I don’t agree with it. I’m still very much pissed by how you treated me at Solstice, but it made me realize how foolish I was.” He looked into Rhysand’s eyes, the same ones he saw losing their stars just a couple of minutes ago, and felt a small relief to see them shining brightly.

His brother didn’t answer immediately, lowering his head and digesting what he’d blurted out. Azriel resisted the urge to fidget, the habit unbecoming of a Spymaster. He waited for what only could have been seconds, but felt like hours. Finally, Rhysand met his eyes once again, his gaze softened.

“It seems I must apologize to you too, brother. In my attempt to stop you from making a mistake bigger than you realized, I ended up making several of my own.” He frowned in consideration. “What you said about my father…” Rhys face contorted in a pained expression. Shit.

“I wanted to hurt you, Rhysand. You shouldn’t give it any thought. It’s in the past.” It was the truth. Whatever Rhysand’s father had done to him while he worked as his personal spy was of no consequence now. The male was dead and buried. “You are not like him. You will never be like him, brother.” He trusted that more than he trusted himself.

Rhysand shook his head, his face still full of hurt. For him, he realized. His brother was hurt on his stead. “I… I didn’t know, Azriel. I should have known, I should have put a stop to it while I…” He swallowed, trying and failing to school his features, but taking a deep breath. “Forgive me.”

Azriel smiled sadly. “There’s nothing to forgive, brother.” Rhysand looked like he wanted to argue, so he beat him to it. “But I do forgive you, if it will help put your mind at ease.”

His brother gave him a sad smile of his own. “It will, my friend. And I’m sorry for pulling rank on you that night. I think it might not have been the most… elegant solution.” Rhys grimaced as he said the last two words.

Azriel scoffed. “You think ?”

Rhysand flipped him off without missing a beat, a small, now genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I get that I offended you with my early meeting too, and I’m sorry for that as well.” His look turned more severe towards the Shadowsinger, the faint smile disappearing, and he steeled himself for what came next. “That being said, my position still stands, Azriel. I don’t believe it's right for you to pursue Elain, at least for the time being. I’m telling this to you as your brother, and not as your High Lord, something I should have done from the start. I’ll not order you to stay away from her again, but I’ll still ask you to do it, for all our sakes, including your own.” Rhys stared intently at him, waiting for a response.

Thankfully, he already had one in mind. “A wise female gave me a lecture on the subject. You don’t need to worry about it anymore, brother.”

His brother's smile returned, a sigh of relief leaving him. “Is that so? Well, I’m glad someone was able to talk some sense into that thick skull of yours, brother.”

Azriel let a small smile of his own slip through. “Don’t call your victory just yet, Rhys. She’s not thrilled with you, either.” Rhysand had the sense to cringe at the statement. He knew how fierce Lilliana could get in defense of her son. “Extend her my apologies as well.”

Azriel nodded, not losing his smirk. “That I shall, brother.” He turned to the door, but looked over his shoulder at Rhys. “Now go get some real sleep. In a real bed. With your mate. Before she decides that I’m the one responsible for you looking like you took a beating and comes after my head.”

His brother laughed then, a full sound straight from his chest, and rose from his chair. “I will, you damn busybody.”

Azriel shrugged. “What can I say? I’m good at my job.” And with that, the Spymaster phased through his shadows once again, feeling a lot lighter than when he’d arrived.

---

He couldn’t sleep for the rest of the morning, but it didn’t bother him as it usually did, spending the next few hours before sunrise sweating himself out in the ring to pass the time. Soon enough, he had winded down from his routine and his students had started filtering in, the Chosen Sisters being the first to arrive. Training went without any incidents, but the stubborn ribbon refused to be split. 

He was especially focused on the look Gwyn was giving it, as if it was a mortal enemy facing her on the battlefield. It was inspiring. She was close, so very close to cutting the damn thing, he could feel it in his bones.

They parted with the usual pleasantries, Nesta once again unsatisfied by his unclear response about Cassian’s return. He knew his brother should be here by tomorrow morning, but why would he spoil the surprise? His shadows snickered on his shoulders.

“And you have the nerve to call us unhelpful, Hypocrite Bat.” 

He raised an eyebrow at the shadowy wisps over his shoulder. I’m not her shadow, nor her oldest friend. The same can’t be said about you lot.

The shadowy ones didn’t know how to respond to that, so they did what they learned to do best with their Singer. They deflected.

“Are you not curious, Friend?”

Azriel knew their shenanigans, and opted to play dumb. 

I’m curious all of the time, and about a number of things. He drew Truth-Teller and started absentmindedly throwing it into the air and catching it again, while making his way inside of the House. Is Tamlin currently full of fleas and lying down on his own filth? A throw. Are the Mortal Queens prone to mysteriously dying of slashed throats? And another. What’s the taste of the chocolate cake from that new bakery on 6th street? Another. So many questions, so little time to answer those. He caught his dagger by the hilt one last time before sheathing it and descending the stairs. But what exactly is it I should be curious about, Little Ones?

“You did not ask the Lovely Priestess about the hooves, dumb Singer.” Oh, so that’s what this was about.

He almost rolled his eyes. How observant of you, Little Ones. I am so very proud of you for noticing, you know that? He tried to sound as sarcastic as possible in his own thoughts, which was a fine art he had mastered over the centuries of sharing them with his shadowy friends.

“We are being serious, Singer. We know there are other things you want to ask her about as well, there is no point in messing with us over this.”

There’s always a point in messing with you, Silly Ones. Namely my entertainment.

“Unfortunately, we are very aware of that.” He snickered, but his shadows were not amused. “Now, do you want to know what the Lovely Priestess thought about your solstice gift or not?” He stopped in his tracks, lost for a moment in the image of her receiving the pendant from Clotho, the joy it would bring her. He suppressed a little smile from bubbling up from the warm spot in his chest. 

Azriel regarded them with confusion instead. Why are you so keen on me growing close to the priestess? And don’t you dare bullshit me about it. We’ve been together for over five centuries and you’ve never, ever, made a point of pushing me towards anyone else before.

The shadows waved in and out of existence around him, considering his question. They settled on a half-truth. “We are tired of seeing you miserable, Friend. We were there when you fell for The Morrigan and pinned for her until recently. We were there to tell you about her conversation with the Brave Painter-”

You shouldn’t have done that in the first place! He thought, fury boiling over him. He had asked for his shadows to check on everyone, as he often did, only to have his heart crushed and handed to him in a thousand tiny pieces. She didn’t want to tell me, and I had no right to know about it before she was ready to share!

“How much longer were you going to live on a delusion, Singer? We suffer as you do, and we would not have you be miserable for a minute longer, obsessing over something that could never be!” The shadows were as indignant as he was, circling around his frame.

He shook his head. It was wrong, so fucking wrong to have found out about Mor’s truth like that. He was the Spymaster, yes. But a spy to their enemies, not to his own family.

His shadows carried on, unbothered by his anger. “What we meant to say, Friend, is that we understand you. We see you. We saw how the priestess cared for you and saw to your needs. How even in a short time, she was able to put you more at ease with her presence.”

He was done with their meddling. So what? Is she to become my new pinning? My new obsession, as you like to put it? How is that going to help me exactly? Better yet, how is this any fair to her? You saw how Mor reacted when I jumped at Eris! How she was fucking terrified of me! Gwyn is a Priestess and a survivor, while I’m a bloody killing machine! How is that ever going to work?

“Dear Mother and Little Star would thoroughly disagree with you in that regard, Singer.” The shadows answered defiantly.

Azriel gritted his teeth. They don’t know the truth! They never saw me deliver pain to Fae for days on end, dragging out their suffering for as long as their body could take for a sliver of information! They never knew about the people that I captured that had no information at all!

His shadows recoiled at the memory. Of the few times their Singer had brought meaningless pain over Fae that were supposed to hold vital information, but ended up not knowing any better. Of what Azriel had done to himself afterwards.

He didn’t want to think about it. I get that I’m miserable as is, but do you know what I feel like the most, Little Ones? I’m tired. Just tired. I’m so damn tired of hoping, I just can’t do this again. Not with me, and certainly not with her. His face was now full of hurt, the mask of the Spymaster falling to his shadowy friends.

They didn’t answer, only hugging his frame closer. Azriel kept walking, skipping the kitchen and lunch entirely and holing himself up in his bedroom again, with his everflowing desk of paperwork.

---

It was almost midnight by the time he rose from his chair. His body had started showing the first signs of hunger, but Azriel didn’t feel like eating. Or sleeping. Or doing anything else for that matter. He’d kept his mind occupied with work, looking several times through countless reports and issuing many more instructions to his contacts. But even that had started to grate on him.

He finally left his room. Maybe flying would do him some good, to let the chill outside numb the turmoil within. He made his way through the dark House without really looking at anything, one step after the other, up the stairs and into the training ring. He felt the cold kiss of the breeze on his face and stretched his wings, reading himself to take off.

Azriel raised his eyes from the ground. He blinked, and there she was. Seated near the edge of the ring, looking at the city below, hugging her knees. She turned her head his way, a curious tilt to it. Her big teal eyes were fixed on his outstretched wings, her rosy lips parted in a tiny gasp.

“Shadowsinger. Fancy seeing you here, in your home, of all places.” She said jokingly, her breath clouding in front of her. “Out for a midnight walk…” She looked back to his wings, and he tucked them in on instinct. “...or should I say flight?”

He studied her features, the slight frostnip that colored her freckled cheeks. “Something like that, Priestess.” He answered, the sentence coming a little dryer than he intended.

She blinked at him, taking in his stiff posture. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t pry.” She threw his apology from their last late night meeting right back at him, a smile tucking at the corner of her lips. She did not look sorry in the slightest. 

It felt like a fever dream now, what happened then. How she’d cared for him and shared a bit of her past in the process. How she had been genuinely worried for his well-being, and got mad at him over his own neglect for basic needs such as food. She probably wouldn’t be happy to know that the last thing he’d eaten was dinner the night before… 

Her bright voice snapped him from his musings. “Well, don’t let me stop you from turning into an angry popsicle, if that’s your idea of a hobby.”  Her smile turned teasing as she said the words, hoping to diffuse some of the tension the Shadowsinger always seemed to carry around him.

It worked. Sort of. Azriel huffed a breath. “Are you actually kicking me out this time around?”

Gwyn did not take the bait, her smile only growing wider. “Maybe I am, Shadowsinger. I have very little room for brooding and sulking in my agenda, you see. Perhaps next week, when the crescent moon finally shows its face.” She really looked at him now, into his tired eyes and unusually unruly shadows. “But I think I can make an exception for you. Come, sit. Let us admire the best thing the Night Court has to offer.” She said, while patting the ground beside her.

Azriel tilted his head at her, the same way she tilted it at him. “And what would that be, Priestess?”

She laughed at his question, as if he’d asked the most ridiculous thing one could muster. His shadows settled at the sound. “Isn’t it obvious?” She asked, looking at his slightly confused face for a second too long, a touch too intently. Finally, she snickered. “The stars, silly! How you live in a House with such a great view of the night sky and don’t stop to admire it daily is frankly beyond me, Shadowsinger.”

He just stared at her, ever more taken aback by her brazenness, her ability to surprise him over and over again. She was still looking at his eyes with her too-knowing gaze. After a couple of seconds of him not making a move, she narrowed them. “Do you want me to beg for your company, Shadowsinger? Because I can assure you, that’s certainly not happening.” 

He shook his head. Opened his mouth and closed it again.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew getting to know her and spending time with her would only bring more heartbreak for everyone involved, whatever the outcome. A better male would bid his farewell and never look her way again. A better male would let her gaze in peace at the stars, who were actually deserving of her company. A better male would simply leave her alone.

But he wasn’t a better male. He was a bastard. A selfish, violent bastard that did not deserve the air he breathed or the food he put in his mouth.

He knew better than to approach her, and still stepped in her direction. He took a seat beside the Priestess, lowering himself to the ground and propping his elbows onto his knees, looking at the city below and the stars above, anywhere but her.

His shadowy friends, the little traitors, lost no time into circling their Lovely Priestess in greeting. She giggled at them, reaching for some that settled around her arm and started… petting them?

Azriel blinked, convinced he had finally gone insane from hunger, overwork or any other ailment that was likely to befall him. The Priestess was petting his shadows like they were a bloody cat, and his shadows were actually playing the part, cocooning around the spot she was stroking and undulating happily.

Saying Azriel was amused was an understatement. I’ll take the liberty to start calling you Furballs from now on.

“You may call us Puss in Dark for all we care, Singer… This is heaven.” The little fuckers purred in his mind. Actually purred.

He threw his head back and laughed. He just couldn’t hold it back any longer. It was a deep, satisfying sound, so rare to come from him these days, and went on for a few seconds. After he got a hold of himself, he looked back to the little offenders, a smile still on his lips, and was met with a dumbfounded Gwyn, who stared at him like she’d never seen him before.

Being the bastard he was, he couldn’t lose the chance to tease her about it. “I thought we were supposed to look at the stars, Priestess. Or is there something on my face that I should be concerned about?” He asked jokingly, already feeling a lot better than a couple minutes before. The shadows were infuriatingly right, for the Priestess did manage to put him at ease.

She blushed fiercely at his comment, averting her gaze upwards. “No! No, of course not, It’s just…” She looked tentatively back at him, her teal eyes shining like ponds in the moonlight. “I just never heard you laugh like that before.” She paused for a heartbeat. “It really suits you.”

Now was his turn to blush and look away. What was he, a damn teenager? You’re five hundred and forty, Azriel. Get a grip. 

It was probably polite to say something back. “I have a very strict sense of humor, Gwyn. Only the funniest of jokes are able to crack me up.” He looked at her again, now a bit more in charge of his reactions. 

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that so? Well, it’s a good thing I enjoy a challenge then, Azriel.”

Cauldron boil and fry him if he didn’t blush again with his name on her lips.

They were silent for a time, looking up at the many constellations and nebulae that covered the sky in a scintillating tapestry. It was… peaceful. He couldn’t remember the last time he stopped to stare at it. At the marvels that lay above his head every single night.

A small smile tugged on his face. “This is nice, Priestess. I don’t usually indulge in sightseeing, or stargazing, for that matter.” He told her, facing her again.

She had an amused look on her face. “Really? Could have fooled me.”

“Ask her, Singer. You will not regret it.” The obnoxious shadows quipped.

He almost sighted out loud, but decided to comply. He was indeed curious about what those noises were.

“I heard some commotion during yesterday’s evening in the House.” That seemed to get her attention. “Involving what sounded suspiciously like hooves.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Care to tell me what that was all about?”

Her eyes bulged momentarily, before settling in a more calculated, serious expression. “You have to promise me not to laugh, or to tell anyone else about it.”

“I’m the Spymaster, Priestess. Keeping secrets is what I do best.”

She was not having it. “Promise me.”

He sighted. “I promise, Gwyn.”

She stared at him for a few seconds more, her face gradually twisting into the most mischievous smile he’d ever seen in his long, miserable life. Oh, Mother, what had he gotten himself into?

On an impulse, he decided it appropriate to tease her a bit more. “Well, what is it? I’m actually starting to get worried, you know. Is Bryaxis finally here to become Nesta’s pet?” She was shaking her head now, holding her mouth to stop her giggling. “I mean, that’s fine by me, but you probably should warn Cassian before he gets back…” She was openly laughing now, and it was music to his ears. His shadows danced around her, delighted at her joy.

“You are ridiculous, Shadowsinger. Of course it’s not Bryaxis!” She looked at him then, barely holding in her laughter. “It was a miniature pegasus!” She practically squealed with excitement, throwing her arms in the air.

And that was the first time Gwyneth Berdara left Azriel speechless.

It wasn’t just because she had said one of the most absurd things he’d ever heard. Well, that too. But her expression while she said it, that’s what took his breath away. The mirth in her teal eyes and shining smile, so akin to the look he pictured her having after receiving his secret solstice gift. The warm thing in his chest stirred at the sight, just a fraction.

She caught him staring at her and her laughing subsided, the blushing returning with full force. She pouted, crossing her arms, suddenly self-conscious. “Is there something on MY face that I should be concerned about, Shadowsinger?”

He laughed again, the sound catching her by surprise. “No, Priestess. There’s nothing you should be concerned about regarding your face. But regarding the state of your sanity…” He trailed off, so much amused by her indignant expression.

“My sanity is perfectly fine, thank you!” Oh, she was pissed.

“The miniature pegasus begs to differ.” And he was having the time of his life.

She shook her head, clearly exasperated. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“If you tell me the whole story of how exactly you three got a miniature pegasus, I might.” He said, still smiling.

“The House did it. It gives Nesta whatever she asks for, doesn’t matter what it is.” She sounded dead serious. “Of course, the miniature pegasus wasn’t real, but the illusion was still there. And it was absolutely adorable. ” The dreamy voice she just used was just as adorable.

What? No. Focus. The House wasn’t able to do that for centuries. How the hell can Nesta do this?

“The House likes her, Singer. Just like we like you.”

That doesn’t explain much.

“Pity.”

He clicked his tongue. Ominous Little Shits.

“Hypocrite Bat.”

He didn’t grace them with an answer. Instead, he basked in the Priestess company for a few more hours, which passed without him even noticing.

He bid her farewell, and watched as she slowly descended the stairway back to the library. 

Just like when he met her for cookies, his sleep was quick and his dreams, non existing. He could really get used to that.

Chapter Text

Azriel could feel something was different. 

It was in the prickling of his skin and the alien euphoric feeling that moved him about before training. 

Today was going to be important. Today, things would irrevocably change.

His shadows felt it as well, wavering enthusiastically around his head. They insisted on him feeding himself, and he obliged, devouring an abundant breakfast before making his way up. The warmth of the sunlight still hadn’t completely expelled dawn’s mist, and the wind was eerily tamer than usual in the training ring.

The Chosen Sisters were the first to arrive. Nesta and Gwyn crossed the arch and greeted him, the latter shining a bright smile his way. He nodded at them, a small tug on his lips showing itself to the Priestess in return. 

Emerie was winnowed in by Rhys, who greeted him with an amicable nod. His brother scanned the ring, a slight frown forming on his face. He could feel it too, then. The trio had a different energy about them, moving almost in sync with one another.

The remainder of the priestesses began filtering in, but Azriel did not start their training as he usually did.

Instead, he stared at a poised Gwyn, who had already retrieved a sword from the rack and now faced her deadly foe. He observed her posture, the way she raised her blade at the flaunting ribbon and how her body radiated strength and resolve. 

It finally dawned on him. This is it. It would be the last time she’d have to face the poor strip of white fabric.

Just then his brother arrived, with flawless timing at that. There would be no consoling him if he missed it.

Nesta murmured something to Gwyn, but he didn’t really process what it was. All he could see was her big teal eyes, full of assessing calm. He came by Cassian and stood alongside his brother, not straying his gaze off the Priestess for a second.

The wind finally picked up, making the ribbon waver wildly in front of her in a mockery dance. She didn’t balk. He knew she wouldn’t.

“Do it for the miniature pegasus.” Came Emerie’s voice. He had the sense not to glance at Cassian, who surely would be sporting a confused frown. Gwyn’s rosy lips quivered, and Nesta laughed, a sound as rare as his own unrestricted amusement.

“The miniature pegasus,” She said, “was an illusion. And now it's back to its make-believe meadow.”

“It loved Gwyn the most, despite your efforts to woo him.” Emerie amended, and Azriel didn’t doubt her. Nesta only smiled at Emerie’s teasing.

They became silent again when Gwyn shifted, readying her strike. Azriel couldn’t help some of his admiration from bubbling up to his face. She was remarkable, a warrior in every sense of the word.

Gwyn whispered to herself, “I am the rock against which the surf crashes.” and her Chosen Sisters straightened at the claim, both a mantra and a calling. “Nothing can break me.” She finished.

“Nothing can break us.” Emerie answered.

Azriel felt his senses flaring. The world seemed to stop at her words, holding its breath, shifting in its axis. Something else was gazing upon the ring, something much bigger than all of them. His throat constricted, all the hairs of his body coming on end, and his shadows stilled, entranced by the scene. A thousand years from now, this would be regarded as the moment that changed everything.

And he was there to witness it. He was there to see the Lovely Priestess and her Sisters steer the course of history.

Gwyn spun, the flow of her movement a song on itself. It was not the ribbon that stood before her. It was all the ghosts of her past that tormented her at night. It was all the days she felt weak and vulnerable and guilty over surviving. It was all she ever was, and all she did not want to be any longer. Her blade cut through the air with a clear hiss and a sure path, slicing the ribbon in half in the most flawless of motions.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. There were no other words for it. His shadows were the only ones to see their Singer’s starstruck face, all other eyes fixed on the coppery haired priestess.

He could barely hold himself together, the adrenaline running through his body almost overpowering him. As half the ribbon floated down to the ground, all he wanted to do was roar of joy for Gwyn. He was in awe. At her form, her skill, her determination.

At her, he realized. He was awed by all of her.

But that was their moment, their celebration, and he would not take that away from them.

Nesta bent and snatched the defeated ribbon from the ground, tying it solemnly to Gwyn's forehead. A symbol as powerful as the one who now wore it. Not an Invoking Stone, the mark all priestesses carried. 

No, it was the symbol of a fighter. A force of nature. A…

“Valkyrie.” Nesta’s choked voice finished his thoughts. 

Gwyneth Berdara, the first Valkyrie to grace the land in five hundred years, touched the ribbon on her head with shaky hands, seemingly overwhelmed by her own feat. She blinked several times, turning to her Chosen Sisters and smiling so openly he couldn’t help but grin at the sight as well. 

She turned to him, and for the briefest of moments their eyes met. He tried to convey all of his pride and admiration for her in a single reverent nod of his head, and her smile only grew brighter, if that was even possible.

Training resumed for the remainder of them, but before long another one of the Sisters had stepped up to the standing pole, a new ribbon tied to it by the Shadowsinger. Emerie positioned herself in a similar way as Gwyn had done before her, seizing up the offending silk. She, too, sliced it in half in one swift motion, having her headband tied by Gwyn. The pride in Emerie’s face was a privilege for him to see, as she was the first Illyrian female, perhaps ever, to have undergone training and to be crowned a warrior in her own merit. A true ray of hope for his damned kind.

Lastly came Nesta. The beads of sweat were shining on her apprehensive face, her posture stiffer than the other two. Azriel knew that inside her head the pressure to cut that ribbon had skyrocketed in the last few hours, after witnessing her Chosen Sisters doing it with as much grace as they had. She purposefully ignored Cassian’s presence, but his eyes were fixed on her like a hawk to its prey. Not a look of worry, but one of pure, undivided attention.

“Loud Brother wants to memorize every detail of this moment, Singer. He trusts her, more than she trusts herself.”

Azriel looked back at Nesta, who closed her eyes and took deep, slow breaths. He is not wrong to do so. She was the one that started this, and she won’t fail now.

Nesta opened her eyes, now only filled with steely resolve. She moved, as fierce and consuming as the silver fire that burned in her veins. One swing, and the ribbon was no more. Emerie picked the half from the ground and bound it in Nesta’s forehead as well. 

Three Sisters, Three Valkyries.

Nesta finally looked at Cassian, a private smile blooming on her face. He saw the pride bustling from his brother, and he was glad to be there to witness it all. No amount of gold or glory could ever top what had transpired here this morning. 

And Azriel had a sneaking feeling it was just the beginning of what the Valkyries would achieve in their immortal lifetime.

---

He heard her soft steps before he saw her coppery hair. Azriel was reclined against the wall at the bottom of the stairs that led to the training ring. It was nearing midnight, and he had been willing to bet all of his earnings that she would make her way up there during the late hours. Alas, he would have earned a fortune.

As much as he would love to join her, Azriel would not allow her into the training ring tonight. He didn’t want her to ruin the surprise he and his Loud Brother had prepared for the Valkyries’ training.

She finally appeared from the lower levels, the ribbon no longer tied to her forehead, probably safely stored somewhere with her belongings.

Azriel had been the one to exchange the cut ribbons from the poles, and on a whim he’d asked his shadows to store her other half. He wanted to keep a piece of that powerful moment, and his shadowy friends did not complain about it, seemingly happy to keep anything from their Lovely Priestess.

Gwyn approached him in the dim hallway, her teal eyes always sparking with curiosity.

“Shadowsinger. Interesting choice for a sulking corner you picked today.”

He gave her a plain look. “Good evening to you too, Priestess. You Valkyries really don’t have it in you to be polite, do you?” A small teasing smile cracked his mask.

She snickered, a small blush creeping up her freckled cheeks at the title. “You shouldn’t insult Emerie like that. She’s not here to defend herself.”

He acquiesced. “True. My apologies to her.” His shadows took the opportunity to greet their Lovely Priestess, circling around her excitedly.

She smiled softly at them, running her hands through the air as they passed. “And good evening to you, Little Ones.”

Azriel huffed. So you are entitled to a proper greeting, but I’m not?

“Jealousy is a poison one feeds oneself, Singer.” They answered with mockery wisdom. Little Shits.

Gwyn spoke again. “So, what are you brooding about tonight?”

He raised an eyebrow to her. “It might come as a shock to you, Priestess, but I don't brood all of the time.” She looked wholly unconvinced. “I do have hobbies, other than ‘turning into an angry popsicle’, as you put yesterday.”

She grinned at him. “Somehow I doubt that. Sparring and sharpening your favorite knife don’t actually count as hobbies, Shadowsinger.”

“And you get to decide that because…?” He tilted his head, mimicking her usual movement.

“Because that’s common sense!” She huffed and indignant breath. “Hobbies are supposed to be unrelated to work, Shadowsinger. Both of those are bound to your occupation, so they clearly don’t count!” She said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“The Lovely Priestess  has a good point, Singer.” The Little Traitors quipped, losing no time to side with Gwyn.

You would agree with her if she told you Cassian was celibate and Morrigan was sober. Your opinion is the least valuable here.

They snickered. “Jealous Singer.”

“What did your shadows say?” Gwyn asked, ever more in tune with his silent conversations.

He sighted. “They tend to agree with you, Priestess, if only to mess with me.” He answered dryly, purposefully not telling her of the jealous part.

Gwyn nodded approvingly at the shadowy hooligans. “It doesn’t matter why, Shadowsinger. It only matters that they do, and that makes it two against one.” She said, victory in her voice. “Sharpening pointy things and fighting till you’re bloody and beaten are not real hobbies, and that’s final.” She concluded with a shit eating grin.

He scoffed. “Well, that might shorten my list considerably.”

Her grin only got wider. “I figured it would. So, what remains on your list? Outside of singing, of course.”

Azriel frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You said you have other hobbies besides flying until you’re freezing cold, which isn’t even much of a hobby to be quite honest. They are supposed to be actually entertaining, you know.” She looked pointedly at him. “I’m asking you what the remaining hobbies are. We already established that you did sing, so that’s out of the way. What do you do in your free time, Shadowsinger?” She asked earnestly, her curiosity spiking at the prospect of getting more information on the reserved Spymaster.

He thought really hard for a moment. What was the last time he had actual free time? He couldn’t remember. There were always new threats to be investigated, new enemies to be watched, with very little downtime between one mission and the next. He looked into the Priestess teal eyes, still awaiting his answer.

His face lightened as he came up with the most obvious one. “I love to tease the Little Ones. It’s amusing, really, how easy they are to rile up.” He smiled openly as he said the words, knowing his shadowy friends knew them to be true. As if to prove his point, they swarmed about him furiously, pulling and messing with his hair. “See?”

“You are insufferable, Singer. ”

Their Lovely Priestess released a delighted laugh at their antics, earning her some shadows of her own to orbit. They always seemed drawn to her joy, as if hypnotized.

“I don’t think pestering your friends is an appropriate hobby either, Shadowsinger.” She twirled her finger around the shadows surrounding her before they made their way back to their perch on their Singer’s shoulders.

Azriel shrugged. “Perhaps not, but it sure is entertaining, as you claimed they should be.”

Gwyn just shook her head. “Are you going to give me a real answer or not, Azriel?”

His smile turned teasing. “Is this an interrogation, Gwyneth?” Questioning him was starting to become a sort of habit for her. One he did not mind that much.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “If it needs to be, then yes. You sure are making it sound like one with your deflections.”

He didn’t balk from her accusatory gaze. He would die before admitting it, but seeing her so intent on getting information out of him was utterly amusing, and one of the main reasons why he was starting to enjoy the Priestess company so much. She made a point to get to know him, to really know him. 

Nobody had ever bothered doing that before.

“Sometimes I play the piano.” He finally said, giving her an ounce of information about him, something not even his brothers knew. Only his mother and Evellyn, for whom he indulged in playing, from time to time.

Gwyn’s eyes lit up at his answer, probably not expecting it in the slightest. “You do? That’s wonderful, Shadowsinger!” She was smiling brightly at him now, and he would be the greatest of liars if he said that alone was not worth a small breach to the privacy he so highly maintained. 

Still, her curiosity did not subside. “Funny. Nesta never mentioned that you played, even though she loves music…”

“She must have been preoccupied in her time here.” His expression gave nothing away.

The shadows, always eager to compromise their Singer, waved in denial on his shoulders for Gwyn to see.

“Thank you, Little Ones.” She nodded at them, smiling. “I figured there was something he wasn’t telling me.

He glared at the Little Traitors still perched on him. I swear on the Cauldron, if you don’t stop pulling shit like that I’ll banish you everytime I see her.

They only laughed in response. “Empty threats, Singer. You could not keep us from the Lovely Priestess if you tried.”

Azriel sighted, not finding it in himself to argue with his shadowy headaches. Instead, he decided it would be easier to just give a proper answer to the Priestess, who waited on his silent conversation. “Nesta could not mention it to anyone because she has never heard me playing before.”

Gwyn raised an eyebrow at that. “How come she never heard you playing, living in the same House as you for so many months?”

He shook his head. “She hasn’t heard me playing because no one in Velaris ever has. I don’t play for others to hear, so no one that lives here knows that I can.” He looked at her intently now. “No one except for you, Gwyn.” Her eyes bulged at that. She opened her mouth, but did not find the words to say to him, and so she closed it again.

Azriel stared at her with a serious expression. “I would prefer for it to stay that way, Priestess.”

She saw his stern expression and nodded firmly, recovering from her surprise. “Your secret is safe with me, Shadowsinger.” An idea sprouted in her mind, and a little grin tugged on her rosy lips. “On one condition, that is.” 

He grimaced. Shit, I should’ve seen this coming.

His shadows snickered. “Serves you right, Singer.”

Shut up. “And what would you have me do, Priestess? Mind you, I can’t grant magical wishes.” He had a fairly good guess what she was about to request of him, but he would be damned for offering it without her asking first.

“Nothing of the sort, Shadowsinger.” She quipped playfully. “My only request is that you promise to play for me one day, that’s all.”

His guess was on point, it seemed. He tilted his head at her. “And how do you know I’m any good as a musician, Priestess? You might be disappointed.”

She gave him a too-knowing look, one she had started to master in their few encounters. “Something tells me you tend to excel in anything you do, Shadowsinger.”

He smiled at her. “Flattery won’t work on me, Valkyrie.”

She stared into his eyes in silence for a couple of heartbeats. “I’m not trying to flatter you, Azriel. I’m only speaking the truth.” She blinked, seemed a little flustered, but finally spoke again. “So, do we have a deal?”

He saw her excitement at the prospect of him playing, the sincerity of her request. How could he deny her anything when she looked at him like that?

Azriel finally nodded. “I can do that, Priestess.”

She beamed and offered her hand for him to shake. “It’s a bargain.”

He looked at her freckled hand like it was a spear aimed at his heart. Is she being serious right now?

“As serious as you should be, Singer. She wants a bargain, and by The Mother, she will have one.”

He clicked his tongue. It was too little too late to back down now. He looked down to his gnarled skin, the scar tissue mocking him with its twisted flesh, a stark contrast to the Priestess' fair complexion. Surely she wouldn’t want this to be anywhere near her, touching her. There wasn’t that much of a need to bargain over something like this anyway-

With all his centuries of honed reflexes, Azriel did not see it coming. 

Gwyn huffed an exasperated breath at his hesitation. In a fluid motion, not unlike the one she had used to sever the ribbon by morning, she extended her arm and grabbed his scarred hand in a determined shake, her firm palms full of callouses from the months of rigorous training.

Azriel snapped up his head to meet her eyes, his own full of alarm. 

But he saw nothing in those teal pools beyond her mirth and mischief.

None of the pity or disgust he was used to seeing when people touched his hands. None of the doubt or slight grimace that usually adorned their faces. She did not hesitate, did not flinch at the contact with his scars, something even his family couldn’t help doing from time to time. The warm thing in his chest stirred.

He felt the pricking of a bargain tattoo branding itself on his right wrist. Gwyn held his hand for a second longer than needed, before slowly letting it go. She pulled her sleeve up to look at her new marking, and he did the same with his bracer, still a bit shaken. 

The ink was that of a black ribbon, tied into the shape of a musical note, the edges of it blurred with shadows just like his Little Ones. They sneaked from his shoulders to take a closer look at it. “It is extremely fitting, Singer. We like how we look.”

He looked at Gwyn’s face again, but she was still admiring her tattoo, a twin of his own. After some seconds of quiet, she let her robe’s sleeve fall back into place.

The moment passed and she nodded, more to herself than anything else. “Very good, Shadowsinger.” She sidestepped him, aiming for the stairs. “Now hurry up, we have some stargazing to do. I have a lot of time to make up for living inside the mountain, and you seem to be in desperate need of a new hobby to add to your meager list.”

She took a total of two steps before he remembered what he actually came here to do and blocked her path with his body, while still keeping a respectful distance from her. “I’m sorry, Priestess, but the training ring is off-limits for the night.” He answered, his tone even.

It was her turn to frown and tilt her head at him. “And why is that?”

The corner of his lip tucked up, but he didn’t answer.

The Priestess frown only deepened. “What are you up to, Azriel?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out, Valkyrie.” He answered with a mischievous grin. “Tomorrow, that is.”

He had given Cassian the most twisted of ideas for their next step in training, and his brother was quick to agree. They spent hours on end working to transform the training pit into an obstacle course of the worst kind, only stopping to share a meal with his brother and discuss some of the situations happening in the war camps. 

The course was filled with traps, hard terrain and sections that required teamwork to come through, just like the ones used as qualification for the Blood Rite. But the females didn’t know that, and Azriel, being the bastard that he was, wouldn’t be the one to tell them, either. 

It was all the more amusing to face the inquiring Priestess knowing what awaited her in a couple of hours. 

She crossed her arms, pure defiance in her face. “This isn’t funny in the slightest, Shadowsinger.”

He let out a low laugh. “I find it pretty funny, Priestess. Perhaps I’ll shift my hobby from teasing my shadows and start to tease you instead.”

His shadows swatted at his head, indignant on her behalf. “Leave the Lovely Priestess alone, Singer!” He almost scoffed at them. So now you want me to leave her alone? Well, it’s a bit too late for that. I doubt she’ll let me off the hook with that bargain on our wrists.

Azriel refocused on the frustrated Priestess in front of him and consciously wiped his teasing smile from his face. “I’m really sorry to ruin your plans for stargazing Gwyn. Believe me, I would very much like to join you for that. But you’ll have to be patient.”

She looked at his apologetic expression and serious tone, and finally nodded, relaxing her defiant posture. He could practically feel the disappointment flowing from her in waves, and felt like shit for being the cause of that. 

But maybe there was something he could do about it…

“Why don’t you join me for another late night snack?” The words tumbled out his mouth before he could give it a second thought. Her head snapped up at his request, and for a split second he worried that he had overstepped an invisible boundary, made a terrible mistake.

He opened his mouth to take it back and apologize, but her answering smile silenced him. 

“I thought you would never ask, Shadowsinger.” She turned without waiting for his response, stepping happily towards the kitchen. He let out a relieved breath and followed.

She looked at him over her shoulder while still walking ahead. “Maybe we could just ask the House for some food today.” 

He hummed. “Were my cookies that terrible?”

“The cookies were delicious, don’t get me wrong. But the House enjoys providing, if you ask politely. Besides, I really want to see your face when she feeds us.” She gave him a devious smile. As if on cue, all the faelights of the corridor blinked, throwing the hallway into total darkness for a second.

He was not prepared for that. The sudden display of the House sent Azriel’s instincts into overdrive, with him grabbing Truth-Teller’s hilt and glancing wildly around all windows for an nonexistent threat.

Gwyn only giggled at his reaction. “You’re like a scared kitten, Shadowsinger. Don’t worry, the House doesn’t bite.”

This time, only a single faelight to his right blinked. 

Great, as if the shadows weren’t enough, now I have to start being polite to the damn House. He relaxed a bit and fell into pace with the Priestess, who was still throwing him amused glances.

He only hoped the House wasn’t mad about him slamming his bedroom door a couple days prior…

---

Morning arrived, his late supper with the Lovely Priestess earning Azriel another good night of dreamless sleep. He showered and ate before joining his Loud Brother in finishing up the details of the obstacle course.

He and Cassian awaited patiently while the training ring filled out with confused priestesses. Gwyn looked at the course with her usual challenging stare, making a point of narrowing her eyes his way. 

“The Lovely Priestess understands now why you would not let her see the stars. She wants to get into the course and complete it right away, Singer.”

He smiled mentally to them. I’ll love to see her try.

Nesta was last to arrive, and Cassian explained the course and its objective. To make them work as a team, a unit, and not as individuals.

The priestesses murmured between them, taken by surprise by the challenge thrown at their faces. Azriel clapped his scarred hands and they all moved about their positions to stretch. “You will work on groups of three.” Came his low voice.

Gwyn, ever defiant, lost no time to ask. “What do we get for finishing the course?” She faced the Spymaster with her sparking teal eyes.

His shadows danced around his shoulders. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Azriel gave her a crooked smile. “As you have absolutely no chance of completing, we didn’t bother to bring a prize.” A lot of booing followed his statement, the other students unsatisfied at their lack of faith.

Gwyn raised her chin in challenge. “We can’t wait to prove you wrong.”

---

As he predicted, they did not, in fact, prove him wrong.

Not yet, at least.

Gwyn, Nesta and Emerie were the ones that got the farthest, an impressive halfway through the whole thing. Most Illyrian aspiring to be warriors that tried the course weren’t able to get even a fourth of the way in the first time around. Their effort was truly commendable.

“Sadist Monsters” Gwyn hissed the insult within his earshot.

Azriel and Cassian, like the assholes they wore, watched and grinned from ear to ear as the Chosen Sisters limped their way to the water station, defeated.

Gwyn gave Azriel a fulminating stare as she passed him on her way out the training ring. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Shadowsinger.” 

“The Lovely Priestess will make you eat your smile, Friend.” The Little Ones seemed eager to see Gwyn prevail.

He stared into her back with an amused expression. I’m counting on it.

When he finally turned, Nesta was looking at him, smiling mischievously. “You have no idea what you just started.” He tilted his head at her, narrowing his eyes.

“Remember how Gwyn was with the ribbon?” She winked and gave a little condescending tap on his shoulder. “You’re the new ribbon, Az.” She had intended to sound it as a warning, a veiled threat. 

But Azriel could only feel his heart skipping a few beats.

Chapter Text

Every morning the trainees tried their bodies against the obstacle course, and every night the General and the Spymaster modified it, making it impossible for them to get used to the challenge. 

Still, their resolve did not waver. Each hour spent bloody and beaten over rotating wooden arms and climbing ropes brought all of them a little bit further on their next attempt. The Chosen Sisters were in the vanguard, always one step ahead of the other trios, with Gwyn looking the most determined to complete it first and erase the smugness from Azriel’s face.

To add insult to injury, the cruel bastards made them train as a unit with military synchrony, fighting and breathing as one. Marching, shield walls, and many other warfare techniques were being ingrained in their bones, the General and the Shadowsinger serving as simulated adversaries for them. Their bodies had developed the endurance necessary to withstand the training, but it didn’t make things easy. 

More priestesses cut the ribbon, each being graced with a white headband to mark their achievement, and Azriel knew that soon enough everyone that attended training would come to bear their own. How long until a unit conquered the course was another matter entirely. Cassian wanted to make a bet, but the Shadowsinger didn’t think it would make much sense. 

At the end of the day, both would wager on the same furious trio, but for two different reasons entirely.

---

The days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned into a month. The Spymaster in Azriel itched to stand watch at the staircase like he did the first night, but he didn't bother to do so. He trusted Nesta and the priestesses to overcome the challenge without cheating, and so he tried, and failed, to get some sleep. His general insomnia settled once again, the dreams of burning flesh and bloody walls returning in full strength in the absence of the Lovely Priestess nightly company, with only his shadows to give him some reprieve. He made a point to avoid Elain during the daytime, and did not show up at any dinners on the River House, keeping himself to the House of Wind. 

It’s not like he shared more than a few words while being there anyway. His family would hardly miss him.

Gwyn spent her free time rummaging through books with Emerie and Nesta in the private library of the House, searching for any inkling of information on Valkyrie tactics and history. Azriel kept his distance, not wishing to disturb their focus.

It was only after two full months that he and Cassian saw the Chosen Sisters getting really close to the finish line, and figured the next morning would be the one they conquered the course. His brother wanted to bring Devlon and another Illyrian Camp Leader to witness the completion of the trial, an idea he wasn’t really thrilled about. Cassian knew the Valkyries did not need their approval or recognition, but he still wanted to display their strength to the winged males. It was an undeniable statement against the archaic ways of their people, a scornful gesture to their prejudice. Azriel could agree with that. 

He made his way down the steps and into the Library proper. The House remained silent on his way down, the dim faelights not betraying its sentience. He had yet to try and make absurd requests to it, as Gwyn had suggested. It just seemed awfully inappropriate to do so in his mind.

His shadows roved the walls of the staircase, basking in the House’s magic. “We can feel the House beating heart, Singer. It oozes darkness, but not malice. It would welcome your requests.”

The House has a heart? The thought was particularly amusing to him.

“Yes. It lies in the bowels of the Library, where Bryaxis once resided. We are very similar to each other, for we both live in the dark, and so we hear its dreadful song.”

Azriel considered his shadowy friends’ words. If you are so similar, how can I understand you, but can’t hear the House?

“We are alike, but we are not the same, Singer. We came to be because of you, but the House was Made by Lady Death.”

So can Nesta speak to it?

“We do not believe so. It is not bound to her like we are to you. If she ever came to pass, the House would live on. Still, we feel its love for its creator. The House will do everything in its power to make Lady Death comfortable and well, like we try to do with you, Friend.”

Azriel gave a private smile to them. And I probably don’t thank you enough for it, Little Ones.

“Do not mind it. We became part of you, as you became part of us. Our will is one symphony, even if our mind is dissonant. As long as you do not harm yourself, we are happy.”

His shadowy friends became silent once he reached the Library. The Kind Writer was at her desk, perusing an ancient tome. He approached slowly, keeping his hands behind his back, purposefully avoiding his usual imposing stance.

“Good evening, High Priestess.”

She raised her hooded head from the floating book, her expression matching the title the shadows referred to her. Her pen fluttered about a piece of paper for a moment, before turning it to Azriel.

‘Good evening, Shadowsinger. How may I be of assistance today?’

“Have you heard anything about what the priestesses have been going through in training?” He hoped she had, as it would make things easier to explain.

The pen began scribing once more. ‘It’s hard not to notice the bruises and shallow cuts some carry. I would find it really upsetting, if it weren’t for the smiles and energy that accompanied them.’

He nodded sheepishly. “Tomorrow Gwyn will most likely be able to finish the obstacle course they’ve been facing. Cassian and I believe it will do good to have two males of my people in the training ring to witness that, to show them the strength that resides here.” His voice was solemn as he spoke. “I would ask you just to inform the other priestesses to skip training for tomorrow, if they do not wish to be near them.”

Clotho smiled sadly at him. ‘It shall be done.’

“I would also like to warn Gwyn personally, if that’s alright? ” Azriel would not invade their sanctuary without the High Priestess' permission.

Clotho simply gestured for him to proceed. ‘Most of the priestesses here are used to your presence, Shadowsinger. It will not disturb them. You’ll find her among the lower levels, or assisting Merril in her office.’

He nodded his thanks and was about to leave in search of Gwyn when the pen started scribing again.

‘She was radiant with your gift, Shadowsinger, and got really curious about who had left it. She wanted to thank you.’ Clotho’s eyes gleamed as he read the words. ‘A shame her admirer wishes to remain anonymous, don’t you think?’

Azriel averted his gaze from the Kind Writer stare. “I’m just glad she liked it.” And he really was. The warmth in his chest made itself known at the thought of the joyful Priestess. But he wanted it to be a precious thing for her to have, free of any attachment. It was a gift born of shame, of a night of mistakes, and he did not want to sullen it with himself any more than necessary. 

“Thank you, Clotho.” And with that, he left in search of the Lovely Priestess, almost fleeing from the High Priestess.

He decided to check in Merril’s office first, since it was also on the uppermost level of the Library. Not only that, but Gwyn personally assisted in her research, and it was likely for her to know where the Lovely Priestess was. He was not thrilled at the prospect of meeting her. The only handful of times he heard Gwyn talking about the scholar painted a really demanding, borderline unpleasant picture, but he hoped he was wrong. Alas, he was not.

Azriel softly knocked on her door.

“Come in.” Merril's melodious and stern voice came muffled through the thick wood. 

He twisted the handle and entered, his eyes quickly scanning the small office. Merril was seated on a desk in a corner of the room, surrounded by several stacks of precariously balanced old books. Unfortunately, she was alone.

“Yes?” She asked without raising her eyes from her writing.

“Good evening, Merril.” She snapped her head up at his deep voice, probably expecting to hear another priestess speaking. “I’m sorry to disturb your studies, but Clotho informed me that Gwyn was helping you with your research, and I need to speak with her. Do you know where she could be?” Azriel sounded as polite as he could muster.

Merril stared at him with her twilight eyes, her bone white hair standing out against the warm brown of her skin. Her beauty was striking, but it did little to soothe her cold expression. “What do you need her for, Spymaster?”

“I have something important to discuss with her.” As High Priestess in charge, Clotho was entitled to any business he wished to conduct inside the Library, but he did not hold her second in command to such a privilege. If she really wished to know, she could ask someone else.

Her brows creased at his unclear answer. “The Library is not a place for idle chatter. She has work that I’ve demanded personally from her, still to be delivered.”

And yet here you are, idle chatting and wasting my damn time. His shadows snickered at his thought. “I’m here on official business. If you do not know where she is, I’ll take my leave and find her myself.” He made a conscious effort to keep his tone even.

Her expression soured further, but she finally answered, her clear voice full of contempt. “I sent her to retrieve some books hours ago, but she has not returned. Perhaps I should commission a map of the Library to be drawn for her, since she seems incapable of navigating its corridors without one, always taking an eternity to retrieve my texts.” She regarded him with a distasteful look. “I hope you can at least help her find her way back here quicker, Spymaster.” She pronounced his title like it left a bad taste in her mouth.

His shadows bristled at the not so veiled insult at Gwyn’s competence. Azriel reeled them back, not wanting them to make a scene. It doesn’t matter how insensitive she’s being, she’s still a priestess that sought refuge here, and deserves some respect.

“Respect!? She is being bitter and unreasonable, Singer! The Lovely Priestess promptly does what is required of her, day in and day out, without complaint! Her body is sore from training and her mind is numb from fitful sleep. The Sour Scholar does not offer her respect!” The shadows seethed in his mind, ready to show the scholar just how offended they were.

He didn’t so much as frown, trying not to alert the bullying priestess of his shadows hostility. It is unfair, and I'm not happy about it either, but you will not threaten Merril over it. It would only make things worse for Gwyn, and probably get us banned from the Library. Stand down, now.

His shadows begrudgingly did as they were told, refraining from taking up the whole doorway in their indignation.

Azriel did not grace Merril with an answer to her rude comment. He simply turned on his heels, closing the door behind him silently.

The Library was mostly deserted, the other priestesses already retired for the night. The endless rows of bookcases weaved through the several levels built within the mountain. The air was stagnant and heavy with the smell of old tomes, evoking an ancient feeling to anyone exploring its cavernous depths, but the place was kept clean and free of dust by the magic within its stone walls.

He made his way down, searching for any sign of Gwyn between the lines of bookcases and desks, finally spotting the Lovely Priestess’ coppery hair on the fifth level, near the stairway to the sixth. The faelights got dimmer the further down one went, and here the half-light gave the place an eerie appearance. The ominous pit that was the seventh level did not help in the slightest. Most fae did not wander too far down, taken aback by the sinister whispers that came from the bottom well, where Bryaxis once resided, but now something else seemed to lurk. Azriel thought back to the heart his shadows spoke of, and couldn’t help peering down over the railing. 

Darkness there, and nothing more.

He looked up again, to the Priestess now just a few bookcases away. His shadows darted ahead, warning her of his presence. She turned her head towards him from the wooden ladder she was perched on, a particularly heavy tome in her hand. She was at least ten feet from the ground, rummaging through a shelf engraved into the wall of the mountain. The ladder was a bit on the shorter side, and it looked like she was struggling to get the books from the taller sections of the stone bookcase, even though she was a tall female herself. In an attempt to reach higher, she put the ladder almost flush against the wall, in a position that seemed less than stable.

Gwyn smiled weakly at him. “Shadowsinger, what a nice surprise…” Her voice was a bit sluggish, completely at odds with her usual energetic speech. "Come, help me out with this.”

He looked at her more intently as he stepped closer. Her movements were also slower than normal, and she was blinking and rubbing her eyes constantly. She must be exhausted. 

His shadows stirred. “Bone tired, Singer.”

He grabbed the heavy book from her hand and put it in the cart she was lugging about, already filled to the brim. She nodded and murmured a half-hearted ‘thank you’ before turning from him and coming up to the last step in the ladder, searching for another book.

“You look tired, Priestess.” He stated the obvious, articulate as ever.

She hummed. “Merril sent me to pick up two dozen books scattered across the whole Library. These are the last ones. I probably should’ve started here and made my way up, but…” She didn’t finish her thought, instead extending her arm for a tome on the top shelf, just out of her reach. Gwyn had to tiptoe on the last step. “She must be fuming by now with how long I’m takin-”

Her low shoe slipped, making her lose her balance. Gwyn let out a surprised gasp and grabbed the handlebars of the ladder in reflex. The movement was enough to dislodge the top of the ladder from the wall it was propped up. Tired as she was, she wasn't fast enough to grab the bookcase and steady herself. 

The ladder started toppling backwards. 

Azriel had a split second to decide between catching her fall or slamming the ladder back into place. 

He opted for the latter. His hands bolted to the middle of the handlebars, pushing it with all his body weight, Gwyn still on top, into the wall with a thunderous thud. The wooden ladder bent and cracked, but did not snap at the Illyrian’s brute force.

After a heartbeat of being completely still to see if the wood would hold, he sighted. Fuck. Remember me to tell Rhys to bet bigger fucking ladders for this place. 

“Will do, Singer. The Lovely Priestess will not risk breaking her bones over ancient books ever again.” 

Good. He finally looked up to meet Gwyn’s face.

She was staring over her shoulder at Azriel, her teal eyes blown wide. It would have been an ugly accident. He was still bracing the ladder, almost pinning her above him, but he quickly backtracked to give her space. She stared at him for two more seconds before releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding and slowly descending the creaky steps. Finally on the sweet ground again, she let out an embarrassed laugh and faced him. “Sorry for that, Shadowsinger. Seems I’m not on my best performance today.” She was a bit more alert now, her heart probably racing from the scare.

He only nodded. “It’s not your fault. This place is entitled to some new equipment, and I’ll see it taken care of.” He gestured with his head to the book cart beside her. “Let me help you grab anything else you need. I wanted to talk with you about tomorrow.”

She frowned slightly. “What about tomorrow?” Before he could even answer, her eyes lit up and she was already speaking again. “Is it someone’s birthday? It’s someone’s birthday, isn’t it? I knew I was forgetting something! I--”

He chuckled, interrupting her before she spiraled too much. “It’s not someone’s birthday.” He answered, looking at her more sternly, but keeping his tone gentle. “Tomorrow me and the General wish to bring two males to witness your trio facing the course. I wanted to ask you if you were comfortable with that. If not, you can tell me, and it won’t be a problem.”

She blinked. “Oh. Well, that’s certainly unexpected.” She paused for a moment, considering. “When you say witness, you mean…”

“They will remain on the outside, only to watch. They will not interact with any of you.” He and Cassian would make sure of that.

She slowly nodded. “I don't necessarily have a problem with it, but…” She paused, raising her eyes to meet his “...why exactly are they going to be there in the first place? And what about the other priestesses? Their opinions are important, too.”

“The other priestess will be warned by Clotho. As for your first question, well…” Azriel knew she would ask, and the bastard also knew he wouldn’t answer. He grinned at her instead “...That’s for me to know and for you to find out, Valkyrie.” He filled his voice with smugness, repeating his words from the very first night the course was up in the ring. “Tomorrow, that is.” It would rile her, set her up to give all of herself the next morning.

Gwyn narrowed her eyes at him, now burning with contained fury. “I’ll enjoy wiping that smile from your face, Shadowsinger.”

He chuckled again. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He gestured with his head to the upper levels before she could retort. “Lead the way, Priestess. We wouldn’t want to keep poor Merril waiting.”

She huffed an annoyed breath but didn’t answer, only sidestepping him and making a beeline for the stairs up. She left the cart for him to haul, and he was glad to be there to help. It looked like she needed it.

They made their way up the levels in silence, the Lovely Priestess steps soft against the stone. She had put up a determined face and had some more confidence in her walk, but he could see through the facade. The exhaustion she was bearing was just going to be ignored for one more day, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at springing even more expectations at her. He would never admit it though, as Gwyn, or any other trainee for that matter, would have his head if he’d go easy on them. Remember me to talk Cass into giving them a little break for the rest of the week.

“We would pester you to do it regardless, Singer.”

They got to the uppermost level, and Gwyn finally turned back to him, grabbing the cart full of books with a firm grip. “Thank you for your help. I’ll deliver these to Merril now.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. She probably didn’t want to have Azriel witness any of the verbal lashing she would most likely receive. “I can come with you to deliver them, if you want.” If only to passively induce Merril into being more gentle. Though he imagined it would do little in that regard, considering how bitter she was with him alone.

Gwyn gave him a sad smile and a small shake of her head. “That's ok. I’ll live.” She turned, slowly towing the cart along. Azriel watched her go, wishing he could have some words with the tyrannical scholar without making matters worse, and maybe prevent Gwyn from hearing things she didn’t deserve. That was not the only thing stopping him, however. 

She was incredibly resilient in her own merit, and did not need him fighting her battles for her. If she tolerated Merril, he was not in any position to interfere without her asking.

Before disappearing down the corridor, the Lovely Priestess looked over her shoulder, giving Azriel one of her teasing smiles. “See you tomorrow, Shadowsinger.”

He simply smiled back. What a great day it would be.

---

Azriel could not sleep. The mattress did not sit right on his skin, and his mind did not feel like shutting down. His thoughts wandered back to the tired Gwyneth, and he wished he could do more for her, give her some reprieve from her nightly terrors, as she often did for him. 

But who was he kidding? He was an instrument of pain, not comfort. Of war, not peace. 

He was reluctant to admit it, but he’d started growing fond of her company. It was easy being with her, hearing her teasing quips and irreverent takes. She did not fear him like many did, did not hesitate to challenge him or to speak her mind in his presence. It was so rare to have someone be so truthful and open in his line of work, or in his social midst for that matter. The shadows always knew when someone was lying, reading the deceit in their tones like an open book. Not once did they pick anything like that from the Lovely Priestess.

That was what scared him the most. She had become a friend. An honest, dear friend, who did not know the true ins and outs of his place in the court. Of the dread of the Spymaster, who dragged fae to the dungeons of Hewn City never to be seen again. He was a monster, but a necessary evil, the information he gathered along the centuries critical in maintaining the stability of Rhysand’s rule as High Lord, and of his father before him. Still, it did not make his work any more pleasant.

He never enjoyed it, never relished in the suffering of those he tortured and maimed. Not even of faeries he hated or who were undoubtedly cruel and unlucky enough to end up in the tip of his dagger. He never felt righteous for the pain he brought. One would imagine that he had become numb to the anguish he inflicted, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. As the centuries went by, his guild and disgust over his actions only grew, festering in the bowels of his mind. It had turned into a beast of its own, constantly gnawing at his sanity. It was a torture he deserved, he knew that. But it still made each day a little more difficult than the last.

There was no redemption for him now, no atonement for the atrocities he committed. And that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would do it all over again. That he did not regret it. 

Not If it meant that his family could sleep comfortably at night without the same weight in their hearts. Or that his brothers would come home to find the love they deserved. Or that others would get to watch his yet to be born niece or nephew turn into a strong leader one day. If it meant that none of the priestesses would witness the horrors of war ever again. If it meant that his mother and his little sister could live in peace, away from all this bloodshed. 

For all those things he would do it, over, and over, and over again. 

Azriel would sell his soul and damn himself to endure the same punishment he’d inflicted on others for the entirety of his immortal life, if only to make sure that his loved ones would be safe.

But now, the weight was getting too heavy to bear. The kindness the Priestess showed him brought a temporary peace, but also an unstoppable wave of shame. Staring at Truth-teller in the darkness of his hostile bedroom and denied sleep, it became impossible to ignore. He was a terrible male, full of rage and with unfathomable amounts of blood on his hands. How could he call someone so kind, so thoughtful, a friend? How could he be so selfish as to allow himself to grow closer to her, basking in her light?

His shadows interrupted his grim thoughts, unwilling to let their Singer spiral further. “The Lovely Priestess does not judge you, Friend. She understands you are not without sin, and she does not care.”

She doesn’t know the whole truth, has not seen the horrors of what I’ve done first hand. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, refusing to look at the dark blade for one more second. He tucked it back to its place underneath his pillow. Not even Rhysand and Cassian can stand to watch me work for too long, and they’ve seen me doing it countless times. They have five hundred years of fighting alongside me, and even they find it repulsive. As they should. As I do.

His shadows tried giving him a reassuring hug, draping over his body like a blanket. “She witnessed you slaughter half a dozen of Hybern’s soldiers in the blink of an eye, Singer. Do not underestimate her. She knows of the violence you are capable of. She is not afraid.”

Azriel didn’t want to remember that day, just as much as he didn’t want Gwyn to remember it. That was one more evil he probably did even without realizing. How many times did he bring up that bloody memory for her? How many times did he force her to relive it with his presence?

“Singer, it is not your-”

I’m not in the mood to have this discussion today, Little Ones. Just leave me alone for tonight.

The shadows hated it. They were part of him, as he was part of them. It felt wrong to leave their SInger to wallow in his own misery, but there was little they could do about it when he made his will clear. They left him in his cold bed, slipping through the cracks of his room, like they’ve done so many times before. Tonight, they could not help their friend.

But perhaps they could do something he wished he could, and help another instead.

---

At last, morning came. Azriel felt like shit, but that was nothing new. After a quick bath he made his way to the training ring, skipping breakfast to set up the course to the Chosen Sisters for what he and Cassian hoped to be the last time. He called back his shadows, who promptly started fussing about him.

“We know you did not feed yourself, Bat.”

Yeah? See if I care. 

“You cannot keep this up, Singer!”

Watch me.

The shadows stopped their obnoxious bickering once his Loud Brother arrived. Cassian had always been a lively figure, who laughed the most and the loudest. Lately, that had only gotten better, with him reeking of Nesta all day long. There probably wasn’t a single surface inside the house that was safe from their incessant fucking. Azriel would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous of all the action his brother was getting, but mostly of the connection he seemed to be building with his mate. He was glad for him, nonetheless.

“Morning, Az. I see you left things ready. What, too anxious to sleep?”

“More like too loud, you both are worse than rabbits. Try giving the poor female a break.” He answered with his dry humor.

His brother laughed. “What about me? Doesn’t your dear brother deserve a break as well?” 

Azriel snorted. “No rest for the wicked, Cass. We’ll sleep when we’re dead.” 

Cassian grinned at him. “Can’t say I’ll miss the rest if I get to be with her everyday.” He paused, looking at the sun rising behind the mountains. His humor started fading as quickly as it came. “Let’s go get the camp lords. The ladies shouldn’t take much longer to show up.”

Azriel only nodded, grabbing his hulking brother’s shoulder and throwing them across the shadows. They stopped first in Windhaven to grab a stoic Devlon, and then jumped to the Lord of Ironcrest, Arctus. 

Kallon, Arctus' son, was a name well known to Azriel. The male had started stirring unrest in the Illyrians about Rhysand’s rule after the last war with Hybern had ended, and he was gambling by bringing his father here. The Lord was most likely involved in his son’s antics, or perhaps purposefully turned a blind eye to it. it didn’t really matter, as the brute was about to witness strength where his narrow mind did not find possible, and that could go both ways. Azriel knew his people to be deadly set in their customs, and perhaps it was not the smartest idea to throw their traditions against them. 

But change was needed, and the Valkyries were the main characters of that. They could not wait and hope for the immortal bastards to transform their ways in their lifetime, and he and the General were not keen on letting the oppression in Illyria go on for another millenia. Today, they would make an example of what their court could be. Of what it would soon become.

They deposited the males like potato sacks on the outermost edge of the ring, with clear instructions for them to stay put and stay quiet, or else. Every Illyrian knew their position, and the Lords, as proud as they were, would not go against their General’s orders while being in their right mind.

Soon enough, Nesta emerged from inside the house alongside Gwyn, who looked a lot more rested and refreshed than when they parted ways. She faced him with her teal eyes full of challenge, but couldn’t help a little smile from slipping as well. He grinned in return, keeping his arrogant posture that infuriated her to no end. Soon Morrigan dropped Emerie in the ring. She and Nesta asked Gwyn where the other priestesses were, confused by their absence, but she only answered they had been called to a ceremony, which she had been relieved from. They did not seem to notice the two grumpy Illyrian Lords on the edge of the ring, and after they had finished their stretches, they threw themselves at the obstacle course with renewed fury.

The first part was always a test of dexterity and balance. Today’s circuit was rigged with a line of a dozen vertical wooden beams, each twice as tall as the average fae and a foot wide. The way to cross it was to climb the first one and skip across the top of them to the next session, which was easier said than done. 

The Sisters nodded at each other, taking up their positions. Gwyn at the bottom, with Emerie seated on her shoulders and bracing against the pole. Nesta gathered momentum in a small run and climbed on top of them with one swift movement, making it a lot easier for her to reach the top of the beam and start jumping from pole to pole. Emerie went next, getting on her feet on Gwyn’s shoulders and lifting herself up the beam. She paused, turning around slowly and bracing her heels against the edge of the wood, extending her arm downways to Gwyn. 

She ran the same way Nesta did before her, managing two steps up on the wood to grab Emerie’s arm in the air. The Illyrian allowed her body to topple backwards, pulling Gwyn up while using herself as a counterweight. They both stood atop the narrow beam, holding each other for balance. They slowly gave little side steps, inverting their positions, so that Gwyn could jump to the next pole and leave Emerie more space to do it alone. She was the one that struggled the most with balance, since she’d lost the fine control over her wings. But that didn’t stop her from persisting and learning to adapt, to compensate for the extra weight.

And so the three Valkyries passed the first challenge, stepping over the poles without any falls. The second stage was problem solving and teamwork, and if their solution to the first task was any indication, they wouldn’t fail this one either.

It was a small labyrinth of rotating wooden cylinders, with thick arms sticking out of them, promising a lot of pain. They weaved through one another in a strange, intertwined pattern. If one looked as an individual, it was completely impassable. But they weren’t alone.

The arms rotated too quickly to avoid all of them on their way in, not to mention it was impossible to predict where the ones down the line would strike. They stood for precious minutes debating what to do, but Gwyn gave an idea and they finally settled on a plan. It was risky, but it was their best shot at making it to the finish line before their one hour deadline. Emerie and Nesta went in together, bracing simultaneously against the arms of the first and second cylinder, so Gwyn could sneak her way into the third. It hurt to stop it’s spinning, but it was possible if there weren't extra arms coming from your blind side. That was the reason they needed to be precise in their timing, as there was no point in the maze that was targeted by a single cylinder. Emerie released the first set of arms and skipped to the fourth. They kept switching from cylinder to cylinder, making slow but steady progress across the sea of hostile wood, taking care to not let Emerie's wings be caught in the fray.

They carved a painful path along the maze, leaving on the other end bruised and bleeding from all the impact they had to share.

Now, with their bodies tired and spent, was the time for the strength test. The Valkyries had to each pick up a bound pack of rocks from the ground, throw it across their shoulders and walk through a set of slippery terrain, with slopes and depressions strewn about in a circuitous route. The pack weighed more than their body weight, and was no easy task lifting it in the first place. Emerie tended to excel in brute strength, and so she helped her Sisters lift their packs, before crouching and hauling her own in one swift motion. Together they marched through the route, giving each other courage to keep moving forward.

The final slope came to an end, and Gwyn let the pack fall backwards without any grace, laughing maniacally as she crossed the finish line, where the Shadowsinger stood in front of her. She was covered in mud,  sweat and blood, but it did little to take away from the beauty of the wild smile she threw his way, her teal eyes sparking with glee. Azriel smugness was gone, replaced by genuine happiness for the Lovely Priestess and her Sisters. Nesta and Emerie came right behind her, panting like old smokers and sweating in the gallons. They could not hear them, but his shadows were euphoric, dancing for their achievement, and especially for Gwyn.

The Lovely Priestess reached out her open hand to Azriel, calloused and full of splinters and cuts from the course, but with her face still parted in the biggest grin known to faekind. “So, where is it?” She wiggled her fingers, drawing attention to her empty hand.

Azriel laughed. “You already have your prize. You just passed the Qualifier Course for the Blood Rite.” He dipped his head in salutation and to emphasize his next word. “Congratulations.”

Gwyn's gaping mouth was a testament to her surprise. Nesta and Emerie only looked at him in shock.

“That’s why you brought them?” Gwyn looked up at the males on the edge of the training ring, her Sisters following her gaze.

It was safe to say the Camp Lords were not happy at what they’d just witnessed. Devlon looked like he was about to have a stroke, and Arctus was fuming red, showing his teeth in a silent snarl.

“You told the priestesses not to come?” Nesta asked Cassian and him.

Azriel answered “We told Clotho that we might have company and to warn the other priestesses.” Azriel stared the males down with a look that promised cold death if they so much as breathed wrong in the direction of the Chosen Sisters. Devlon mumbled something to Arctus before they took flight Eastward, back towards Illyria. “They opted not to come.” He finished.

Nesta turned to Gwyn, an indignant look in her face. “But it seemed you didn’t know what we were doing. Didn’t they warn you?” Her protectiveness spiked at the prospect of a blindsided Gwyn.

But the Priestess was quick to respond. “Azriel came by the Library and warned me we might be observed today, but they didn’t tell me what the reason was. I had no idea this was the Qualifier for the Blood Rite.” Her eyes looked intently at the Shadowsinger over the grime that covered her face. It was hard to tell exactly which emotions swirled under their teal light.

“The Lovely Priestess is proud of herself and her Chosen Sisters, tired from the course, excited for the future, nervous in your-”

That’s quite enough, Little Ones. Azriel chastised them. Leave some of Gwyn’s feelings to herself.

His shadows wavered mischievously on his shoulders. “We only tell what the Lovely Priestess is willing to share, Singer.”

Emerie was awfully pale, finally asking Cassian the question that had started pounding on her mind. “We’re not entering the Rite, are we?” She, as an Illyrian, knew how brutal and unforgiving the Rite could be. They were mad if they wanted them to casually partake in it.

Cassian shook his head. “Only if you want to. We wanted Devlon and Arctus, and whoever they tell, to understand that you are as well trained and talented as any Illyrian unit. This was the only way of making them see that. Being a Valkyrie means nothing to them, and you certainly don’t need their approval but…” Cassian looked at Emerie again “...I wanted them to know. What you achieved. The Valkyries did not have anything akin to the Blood Rite, but you are trained to endure it as any other Illyrian warrior would.”

“The courses?” Gwyn asked.

“All different Qualifiers from over the centuries.” Azriel answered.

Cassian smiled at them. “With the exception of partaking in the Rite, you’re all as close to being Illyrian warriors as you could be.

Nesta faced him, cleaning the edge of her mouth from the blood splattered there with her thumb. “I prefer being a Valkyrie.” Her Chosen Sisters only murmured in agreement.

Cassian bellowed a laugh. “May the Cauldron help us all.”

---

Azriel was not comfortable. 

Starfall had come, and it was the first function he would attend since that disastrous Solstice. All these past months seemed like an eternity, the agonizing pang of solitude he felt after the last party reduced to the dull ache he grew used to throughout the centuries. The pregnancy of his High Lady was now pretty advanced, the bump showing itself loud and clear, and while Feyre glowed, Rhysand seemed to turn more haggard by the day. They were running out of time.

But tonight wasn’t a night for sulking and brooding. It was a night of celebration. And so he would try to put up a happy mask and some fine clothes, for both his brother and his High Lady sakes.

So much had changed, and he was glad for it. For them.

For Nesta, who finally seemed comfortable in her own skin, using her training leathers and waltzing with Cassian like they were the only ones up there. 

For Rhysand, who held Feyre with so much love in his eyes that it became hurtful to watch. 

Of course, nothing was as hard to watch as the veiled despair that permeated his Proud Brother. But some things still stung. 

How Elain now seemed to avoid his presence like the plague. He was sorry for hurting her, but ultimately glad she had decided to avoid him as well. How Lucien, ever the wanderer, tried and failed to get his mate’s attention. How Morrigan made a show of courting another male right before his eyes. How Vivienne sparkled with her pregnancy, a smiling Kallias unworried for her life. How Helion kept hitting on every single (and coupled) mildly attractive fae that passed by. 

It all started subtly grating on him, slowly but surely making him blend more and more with the shadows in the corner. This was not his place. This was a place of joy, and he had little of it to give.

Until the spirits and the stars began raining. The colorful streaks painted the sky in the most beautiful tones, and suddenly all of those pesky thoughts vanished, pushed back by a pair of sparkling teal eyes that popped up in his mind. Was the Priestess seeing this as well? The kind and fierce Gwyneth, who loved the stars so much as to gaze at them every opportunity she got. Was she looking out her window at the marvel that now graced the night sky?

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. She couldn’t just look at it though a piece of glass. She deserved better. She deserved the best view Velaris could provide. His shadows leapt in agreement.

He made his stealthy way out of the party and down the Library steps, fueled with resolve. She wanted a prize, didn’t she? So he would make sure that she got one.

He didn’t register the way down, didn’t register the brief exchange he had with Clotho before making his way to the door of the Priestess' private chambers. He brushed his knuckles against the wood three times before he could change his own mind and drown in self-doubt. This was a nice thing for a friend, and nothing more.

Gwyn opened her door, wearing a thick nightly robe and with her coppery hair in slight disarray. He didn’t dare look into her chambers, didn’t dare so much as blink. Instead, he simply asked, in a voice he hoped didn’t betray his nervous energy. “Would you like to see Starfall somewhere with the best view?”

Her answering smile was a thing of dreams. She didn’t hesitate, only nodding wildly and putting on some slippers before closing the door behind her. As they made their way up, side by side, he looked at the ceiling and, for the first time, asked something to the House. “Can you please keep us hidden?”

It immediately obliged, the faelights blinking once and winking out, leaving them in complete darkness. He didn’t want to overwhelm the Priestess with all the guests strewn about, and so they would sneak their way past the gathering.

He felt Gwyn grabbing his arm at the sudden lack of vision. She was not as used to it as he was. He hesitated for a second, but finally laid a scarred hand over her own. “Come, I know the perfect spot. There won’t be people making so much noise.” 

Gwyn let out a relieved breath, followed by a low giggle. “I have high hopes for this, Shadowsinger. You better don’t disappoint me.” Her teasing voice was a balm for his worries.

He merely grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Priestess.”

Her freckled skin shone in the moonlight as he sneaked her through the dark corridors and into a private balcony on the opposite side of the mountain. Starfall had picked up its pace, the spirits now traversing the sky in full force, an endless wave of light and hope. Gwyn spun with open arms, marveled at the spectacle. It was far superior than looking at it from the narrow window of her room.

They simply stood there, not talking, only admiring what unraveled above them. Gwyn’s teal eyes reflected a thousand different lights, her rosy lips stuck permanently in an awed smile. She was in bliss, nothing she had ever experienced compared to this moment. The stars were so close she could almost touch them, their trail of dust falling into her face and making her sparkle even more. She giggled and laughed with abandon, reaching her hands up and letting it fall on her freely. 

She was coated in stardust. Together with her freckles, it made her into a starry night in her own merit, her coppery hair like a molten river full of precious gems.

“This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Gwyn didn’t take her eyes off the illuminated sky as she said it, her voice heavy with emotion. “Thank you, Azriel.”

It took him a heartbeat to answer. The mesmerizing image of the shining Priestess was now permanently engraved on the walls of his mind. “Yes.” He swallowed the lump that threatened to form in his throat. “The most beautiful indeed.”

Azriel was still looking at her long after the words had left his mouth.

Chapter Text

Two months. Only two months left until Feyre went into labor, and still they hadn’t found a way to save her. Azriel started a side project from his spying, as he was forbidden from stepping anywhere near Briallyn and the Crown. He received reports of his contacts all over Prythian and beyond, from anyone that had access to any substantial amount of books, searching for anything related with Fae pregnancy and winged offspring. It was rare to find relevant information, and all comparable examples ended in tragedy, being that the death of the mother, the baby, or both.

The Shadowsinger couldn’t help but spin back into his usual brooding, frustrated at the lack of productive things to do. He had delivered bigger and safer stairs to the Library, scouted the borders between Spring and Autumn and rechecked his family’s well being with the shadows more times than he could count. He even considered paying a visit to Rosehall, but quickly discarded the idea, as he didn’t want to sour the spirits of his mother and little sister.

There was nowhere he was needed, no mission worth the risk, with little consolation to be had for his High Lord and Lady. And so he sat at his desk in his gloomy bedroom, fireplace unkindled, pouring over half-empty reports like they would magically reveal some new information he had missed.

His shadowy friends tried to take his mind off the things he couldn’t control, without success.

“You are already doing everything in your power, Singer. Creasing your brows until it becomes permanent will certainly not help.”

He sighted in frustration, reclining in his seat and running a mottled hand through his hair. I know there is little to be done, but that doesn’t make me feel less useless. Less fucking blind. The hand that still held an almost blank report grasped it tighter, crinkling the paper. There’s little to no information on the Mortal Queens, Beron has been quiet for far too long, and Feyre is running out of time. He had started grinding his teeth without realizing. It just feels like everything is about to fall apart before my eyes, and I can do nothing but sit and watch it happen. 

Azriel hated feeling this powerless. It made him relive the countless tragedies he had witnessed in his immortal lifetime. Rhys was imprisoned and abused for fifty Mother forsaken years, while he twiddled his thumbs stuck in Velaris. Lilliana suffered at the hands of his monster of a father during his years in the Illyrian camps, without him being able to do anything to help her until he had passed through the Rite. Rhysand’s Mother, who took him in when Lilliana couldn’t and cared for him like her own, was butchered alongside her daughter, with his brother only finding it out once the boxes with their severed heads floated down the river.

He could never forget that image. Of sweet Selene, Rhys' little sister, soaring over the Rainbow one day, dead and discarded on the next, her body missing its wings. 

Azriel couldn’t help but consider the what ifs. Couldn’t help picturing Evellyn in her place. 

He should have known of Tamlin’s betrayal. Could have used the shadows to spy on him, could have stopped it from happening any number of ways. But he didn’t, and only the memory of their faces smeared with blood and twisted in agony remained to haunt him.

His shadows interrupted his spiraling thoughts. “No one could have imagined such barbaric crime would take place inside the Court. Neither you or Proud Brother had the resources, power or experience you wield now. Their death could not be avoided, Friend.”

Azriel scoffed with bitterness. And here I am, patiently waiting for Death to knock on our door once again. 

He got up from his chair, heading to the ring to try and sweat out some of his worries. 

The creeping cold of the night air had subsided into the refreshing breeze of spring, and turning into a flying popsicle was no longer an option. The stars had shifted with the season, bringing new constellations into view, and Azriel wondered if Gwyn would climb up the stairs in the late hours to gaze at the new scintillating visitors. A not so small part of him hoped she would.

He started his workout, promptly losing track of time, his powerful frame used to enduring hours of mindless exercise. Between crunches, push-ups, pull-ups and squats, there was no muscle spared from his routine. Once his frustration became too much, he punched the hardwood of the training dummies until his knuckles were torn and bleeding, the sharp pain dulling his dark thoughts. As his hands started begging for some time to heal, he finally settled for a break. 

He took a seat on a small wooden bench and focused on sharpening Truth-teller, hearing only the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone. The sound drowned out the rush of the wind and the obnoxious pessimism of his mind, numbing Azriel’s senses and making it possible for him to just be, if only for a short time. His shadows draped over his shoulders in a relaxed stance, not bothering to say anything to their Singer, enjoying the respite just as much as he was. This went on and on, the Shadowsinger allowing the languid strokes on the dark edge to take him off his own head for long, peaceful minutes.

Cold metal touched the right side of his neck, and Azriel went completely still. Time slowed down to a crawl between one heartbeat and the next as his head went into overdrive. He hadn’t heard a single step, too lost on his task. Panic surged, and his instincts screamed for him to explode in darkness and death, all of his seven siphons flaring to life. But he knew no enemy could blindside him, for the shadows would never allow it.

No, they only favored one fae in particular. Little Shits.

As if on cue, the Priestess spoke in her clear voice. “Well, fancy seeing you here, Shadowsinger. Seems like your old age is finally getting to your hearing.” Her voice was full of amusement. “I suppose I have to thank the Little Ones for not announcing me.”

The soothing noise of his whetstone had prevented him from hearing the soft steps of the stalking Priestess. The shadows, Little Traitors they were, did not warn him of her presence either. She had drawn a sword from the rack behind him, silent as an owl’s flight, and now held it against his exposed skin. The shadowy ones rolled off his shoulders in bouts of laughter only he could hear.

But their laughter wouldn't last for long. The smugness of Gwyn’s tone had stirred the competitive side of him, and he couldn’t help a savage smile from spreading like wildfire. It was the snowball fight all over again.

Azriel smacked his huge wing on her left side and spun in the opposite direction, fast as a predator. 

The dark blade of his dagger slid from the tip of Gwyn’s sword to its guard, trapping her edge away from his precious jugular. 

They were now face to face, close enough for their breath to mingle in the air between them. 

The Priestess held her ground, an equally wide smile on her freckled face. Her smell swirled around him, a soft mix of water lilies and cinnamon. It was a wonderful combination, the sweet and spicy aroma hitting him like a blow on itself and igniting the blood in his veins.

He pushed her blade up and jumped back, putting some space between them. As tempting as it was, he couldn’t afford to get distracted by her alluring smell. It was obvious she wanted to challenge him, and he was more than thrilled to comply. She had picked a fight with the wrong brooding bat. 

Azriel circled her, studying, waiting for an opportunity. She gave a single step forward.

He pounced, swinging from his right side. Gwyn twisted her blade his way with a precise slash.

She realized too late it was a feint. He dodged her swing quicker than she thought possible, sweeping her legs from underneath her with a powerful low-kick. 

Gwyn fell backwards but did not lose her balance, rolling away from him.

The Shadowsinger was ready for it. Two steps, and he was upon her again. He slashed and thrust with purpose, while Gwyn did her best to keep up, avoiding his strikes with grace and using her sword as a buffer for his body. 

One, two, five, ten swings, and still he did not relent. Her longer weapon was useless against his swift footwork, and she was not fast enough to disengage from his onslaught.

Even under constant pressure, Gwyn fell into rhythm with Azriel, sneaking some slashes and kicks of her own, which the Shadowsinger avoided with preternatural speed.

Their fight turned into a dance, the metallic clang of their blades a song that guided their steps. 

She struck, and he parried. She spun, and he followed. 

They dueled in synchrony, lost for minutes on end in the sound of clashing steel.

But the Shadowsinger was a master of violence, and few could rival him in this craft. 

He ducked one of her slashes, and Gwyn stepped back in reflex. He saw through the movement, hitting the pommel of his dagger behind her kneecap.

Her leg gave out at the impact, and the Priestess fell to one knee with a gasp.

She didn’t have time to raise her sword before the flat side of his dagger was resting on her slim neck.

They stared into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily. The erratic beat of Azriel’s heart betrayed the heat that rushed underneath his skin, and his wild grin only grew larger. He could practically feel Gwyn's raging pulse from the point Truth-teller touched her skin, a mirror of his own.

He had fought in battles his whole life, over five centuries of slaughter, and still she gave him a marvelous duel. 

Azriel retreated a step and offered her his scarred hand without thinking, the Priestess taking it right away. Her smile also remained full, even after her loss. 

She let out a shaky laugh, turning her back on him and returning her sword to a nearby rack. “How can you be that fast. It’s not fair!" It didn’t really sound like a question. Her cheeks were flushed from the intense exercise and her robes were thoroughly crinkled.

Azriel chuckled, sheathing Truth-teller. “You made me work for my victory, Priestess, and there are very few that can brag about that.” He nodded in praise, and she beamed a little brighter.

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. He didn’t hold back against her, at least not consciously, but he surely didn’t have any bloodlust towards her as he commonly had with his enemies. Even so, had it been a real fight, she wouldn’t have walked away from it. 

The thought sobered Azriel, and made his chest tighten with worry. He couldn’t help but think about the possibility of the priestesses being thrown into a war all over again. Of them feeling responsible to take part in it, now that they had formal training. They knew how to fight like the best Illyrian soldiers did, but that did not make it easy for him to picture them amongst the frontlines. He didn’t care if it made him selfish, he felt the overwhelming need to protect them from the battlefield. 

To protect her from the violence he so mindlessly took part.

So, as the idiot he was, he kept speaking. “But remember this, Priestess.” Azriel’s voice had turned serious, and his grin had disappeared. “Battling as a unit is completely different from fighting alone, especially with an opponent twice your weight and much more experienced.” He looked intently at the now slightly confused priestess. “Most fights are better just avoided.”

She tilted her head, her brows creasing slightly while her smile faltered. “Why are you telling me this, Shadowsinger?” She paused, considering. “Better yet, why don’t you teach us this kind of combat, if it's so distant from what you’ve been showing us?” She looked down at the spot she was just kneeled, and her joyfulness vanished entirely, finally understanding the veiled request within his words. For the Valkyries not to take up arms if given the chance. “There may come a day when we won’t be able to avoid fighting, Azriel.” She stared back at him with hardened eyes. “Where there won’t be anyone to save us but ourselves.” She sounded hurt, and the Shadowsinger hated that she was right.

Her gaze turned pained, and Azriel nearly flinched at what she said next. “If I had known what I know today, perhaps I could’ve defended the other priestesses in Sangravah. Perhaps I…” Her voice came out a little choked “... perhaps I could’ve saved my sister, and so many others with her.” 

It was a punch in his gut, to see the guilt plastered in her face. A burden she should not carry, that he would do anything in his power to relieve her from. “What happened isn't your fault, Gwyn.” He made to reach for her, but stopped midway, unsure if she would want consolation from him, of all people. From the male who arrived too late. “It truly isn’t.”

She shook her head vigorously, her face a picture of pain and regret. “I don’t want to fail like that ever again.” Her voice was a broken whisper.

The shadows rushed from his shoulders, unable to withstand the Priestess' sorrow. They weaved around her arms and neck, their cool presence infinitely soft against her skin, like they had done so many months before, and Gwyn leaned into their touch. They stayed like that for a few minutes, the somber Shadowsinger quietly observing.

Thank you, Little Ones, for doing what I cannot.

“You do not need to thank us, Singer. We do not wish to see the Lovely Priestess like this. She has endured enough.”

Gwyn was looking at his shadowy friends with gratitude, running her hands through the air around them. “They really are sweetlings, aren’t they?” She gave them a sad little smile. “I appreciate it, Little Ones. For this, and for that night, too. You helped a lot.”

Azriel stared at them in confusion. That night? What is she talking about?

His shadows sounded almost sheepish as they answered. “You wanted to bring comfort to the Lovely Priestess on the night before she completed the Course. She could barely keep her head upright from exhaustion. You wished to be alone and sent us away. So we went to soothe her in your stead.”

His eyebrows shot up at their admission.

Looking at how comfortable she was with them, at how they brought her out of her dark thoughts the same way they did for him, Azriel decided he didn’t mind it in the slightest.  

I’m glad you did that, Little Ones.

They gradually made their way back to the shoulders of their Singer. “We know, Friend. We are glad, too.”

Gwyn raised her head to face him again, her teal pools still wet with unshed tears. She stared into his hazel eyes with a piercing intensity. “We need to be prepared for when the fight comes. I need to be prepared for it, Azriel.” 

He gathered his thoughts for a few seconds before he nodded.

“Fighting like this tends to involve a lot of physical contact, and neither me nor the General knew if you and the other priestesses would be comfortable with that-” Her frown only deepened at his words, and she was speaking again before he could finish.

“I am not a frail thing made of glass, Shadowsinger! I can’t speak for the other priestesses, but if I can survive your sadistic trap of a Qualifier, I can surely survive some contact as well!” She looked intently at his unreadable gaze. “You should ask them if they are prepared to take this step, instead of simply deciding what they can or cannot do!”

He had the sense of looking away in shame from her indignant expression. “The Lovely Priestess is right, Singer.” His shadows added, as if it was needed.

I know she is. He looked again at Gwyn’s troubled face. It’s high time I gave them the credit they deserve.

“I will make sure to ask them about it tomorrow, Gwyn.” He paused, considering what to say next. “I’m sorry for not bringing it up before. Me and Cassian never intended to halt your growth or ignore your wishes.”

His answer seemed to satisfy the Priestess. She began relaxing her posture and gave him a tentative smile. “I’m just glad you understand.”

She turned from him and walked to the edge of the ring, sitting on the same spot where they once stargazed. She looked at him over her shoulder, patting the ground beside her. “Will you sit with me? There are news stars to see.” A peace offering, if he’d ever seen any.

Azriel did not hesitate to join her.

They stared at the countless dots of light spread over the dark sky, a comfortable quiet falling between them. His shadows didn’t miss the opportunity to get more pets from Gwyn, and she let out a little giggle as they crawled into her lap in silent request. She lost no time running her hands through the mass of ethereal hooligans while humming something that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby, the Little Traitors wavering in tune.

Their Singer smiled at the scene. I’m going to have to get used to sharing you lot, won’t I?

They barely stopped their purring to answer. “You should already have started doing so, Jealous Singer.”

He didn’t grace them with a reply, only shaking his head. He looked up just in time to see a red falling star blasting across the sky. A bad omen, if the stories were to be believed. 

But sitting there, glancing at the Lovely Priestess, her voice filling the night air and his shadows purring in his mind, he didn’t give it any importance. 

If only he had done so.

---

The Shadowsinger doubled down on the Valkyries’ training. If he couldn’t get his Court the information they needed, he could at least prepare them to the best of his capacities. He talked with Cassian about what the Lovely Priestess had told him, but did not mention the details of their encounter. His brother, like the remainder of his family, was a damn busybody, and would most likely draw the worst possible conclusion from his meetings with Gwyn. She didn’t deserve their probing and prying.

She smiled candidly at him the next morning, as he addressed the gathered priestesses, together with Nesta and Emerie, for the changes in their training regiment. They were all excited to take the next step and engage in single combat and sparring, and that became the focus of the second half of their mornings. They would still fight and train as a unit, but they would also have the opportunity to enhance themselves as individual warriors, capable of holding their own without backup.

They organized the priestesses at random and divided the ring in two different sections, where two pairs of trainees could spar simultaneously and be observed by the others, Cassian and Azriel each supervising one of the smaller rings. They started with physical demonstrations of basic hand-to-hand techniques and footwork, the Shadowsinger employing his ridiculous speed while his Loud Brother focused on his brute strength and sheer size. Naturally, Azriel’s fighting style suited the priestesses best, and he was the one they paid most attention to. Nesta seemed divided, taking turns while watching the Spymaster and the General going at each other, while Emerie's eyes were firmly locked on Cassian’s stance, and how he used his legs to put the most impact behind each blow. Gwyn stared intently at the Shadowsinger, as he figured she would. She was nimble and extremely flexible, and he didn’t doubt she could become even faster than he was with enough practice.

He heard faint snickers in the back of his mind, and he would’ve rolled his eyes at his shadows, if Cassian hadn’t thrown a mean right hook his way, which he promptly countered with a jab of his own. What is it now?

“You are more oblivious than you think, Blind Bat.”

And you are more annoying than you should, Little Shits. Spill or be silent.

“If you think the Lovely Priestess is staring at you out of sheer curiosity for your technique, you are severely mistaken, Singer.” Their voices were dripping with amusement, as it normally was when they were privy to anything their singer was not.

And what, pray tell, would she be looking at me for, if not to learn? He delivered a series of quick punches towards the General, who was much too big to block or dodge all of them in time. One connected to his plexus, leaving him gasping for air, and the other right above his liver. Cassian winced and stepped back from his assault.

Azriel was about to pin him down and end the demonstration when his shadows answered. “The priestess enjoys seeing you fighting, Dumb Singer, because your sweating figure pleases her.”

Azriel nearly tripped as his mind came to a screeching halt. He hesitated for a heartbeat, but it was enough for Cassian to catch his breath and kick him in the stomach, sending him rolling back through the arena. Not a moment later the General fell upon him, immobilizing him on the ground and ending the spar.

His brother helped him up, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. “Something on your mind, Az? Really thought I was done there for a second. What, feeling merciful today?” He patted his giant hand on the Singer's shoulder. "Not that I'm complaining. Wouldn't want to have my ass handed to me in front of Nesta."

Azriel gave a halfhearted grunt and made his way to the water station, consciously avoiding Gwyn's stare. His throat had gone dry at what his shadows had said, but he decided he would simply not acknowledge it.

“Playing dumb won’t save you this time, Brooding Bat. We know how you admire her beauty as well. Her rosy lips, her perfect skin, her wonderful smell-”

That's enough. He mentally barked at his shadows. Gwyn is a good friend. Yes, she is beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean my affection would be warranted. He finally dared to glance at her, now that she had taken a position on the ring to spar with Roslin. She fought with grace and wit, and soon enough her fellow Valkyrie was on the ground. Too many times I’ve lusted for the wrong female. Her friendship is the closest thing to happiness I’ve known for a while, and I’ll NOT risk that again. 

“You are a fool for thinking that, Singer. You-”

ENOUGH I SAID. His shadows stilled completely at his mental outburst, and he was certain that if someone was paying attention, they would see his indifferent mask slip to one of cold rage. I do not care what you think is best. She is kind beyond words, while I’m nothing but a bastard. I will not ruin what we have.

His shadows wavered slowly around his shoulders, unsure of what to say next. Once again, they settled for a half-truth. “The Lovely Priestess wants something beyond friendship from you, Singer.”

Azriel looked at her once more. His cold rage melted like snow in the spring, and he let himself take all of her in. He looked at how her smile captured the sunlight. At how her fellow priestesses seemed to gravitate around the joy she shared. At how her teal eyes locked with his, and his chest stirred with a warmth he couldn’t explain.  He saw all this and shoved it in a tiny box deep within his heart. A memory far brighter than anything he deserved.

It’ll pass.

---

Azriel was halfway down his bowl of chicken soup when he heard the thunderous arrival of Cassian on the training ring. Loud Brother indeed. 

“He and Lady Death had a big fight, Singer. The General is in dire need of consolation.”

Azriel got up at once, abandoning the rest of his dinner to the House and giving it a near silent ‘Thank you for the meal’.

He found his brother beating a training dummy like it owed him money. The scene would be almost comical, if it weren’t for the clear desolation emanating from him. Azriel allowed his steps to sound through the ring, and his brother finally turned to him, his shoulders drooping with defeat.

“I fucked up, Az.” came his gruff voice.

“What did you say to her?” He made his voice clear of emotion. If he was this distressed, the last thing his brother needed was his judgement.

His brother took a deep breath before answering.

“I pressed her about the mating bond, I-, we were walking over a bridge of the Sidra and I… fuck-” Cassian struggled to find words, but Azriel couldn’t tell if it was the shame of what he had said or pure desperation that hindered his speech. “I said I wanted people to know we were together, that we were mates. She said that for her it was just a word, that it didn’t mean anything. I got so angry, Az… I-” He stopped his rambling and looked at Azriel. “She told me that not acknowledging it was the last shred of humanity she had. That once she did, she would be one of us.” Cassian was trembling now, trying and failing to contain his emotions. “She said she didn’t want any of this, that she didn’t have a choice. And it gutted me, Az. Mother, I’m so STUPID!” He pivoted and struck the dummy one last time, his siphons flaring and blowing the poor wooden beam to splinters. 

His anger was completely directed at himself. Azriel was quite familiar with the feeling. 

“And then I told her.. Fuck, Az, I told her that I didn’t choose to be shackled to her either.” Cassian let his hulking body drop on the bench, holding his face in his hands. His voice broke on his next words. “I realized what I said the moment it left my mouth, and I tried to apologize, tried to tell her I was just angry and I didn’t mean it but…” He looked back at him with red eyes “She didn’t listen. She cashed in the bargain we made when she started training and sent me away to spend the night here. She told me not to speak to her until she spoke to me first, or until a week passed. The bargain made me fly away, Az.” Cassian’s breathing was coming in waves, and he was clutching his chest like his heart was about to give up beating. Azriel couldn’t imagine the pain of what he was going through, to be forcefully separated from his mate.

But, in the end, he had brought this upon himself. Azriel didn’t blame Nesta for her reaction. Actually, he imagined it was for Cassian’s own good. He hadn’t said anything that she had thrown at him in anger. She only told him her truth, and Cassian didn’t take it as he should’ve. Azriel considered a multitude of reasons why she would send him away, but his shadows confirmed his suspicions.

“Lady Death did not want to cut Loud brother with her sharp words, Singer. She sent him away because she believed she was protecting him from herself.”

Azriel didn’t share his shadows insight with his brother, as it would only make him feel worse about himself. Instead, he did what a good brother would do, and gave the General of the Night Court the beating of a century.

---

The night had settled in, and Cassian had already wound up in one of the private parlors of the House, sporting several bruises and probably drinking himself to oblivion. His Loud Brother had sent for Mor to pick Nesta up from the Velaris and drop her wherever she wished, but Azriel deduced she would probably spend the night with Emerie in Windhaven. The Shadowsinger had also asked Mor to tell Gwyn the gist of what happened, and that Nesta would probably welcome her company, if she wished to go. He was still in the training ring, installing a new dummy, when he heard the soft steps he came to know so well.

Gwyn crossed the arch from inside the House, her face a picture of worry. She didn’t bother with their usual banter. “Is it bad?”

Azriel nodded. “Cassian royally fucked up.”

Gwyn frowned, but said nothing. She opened her mouth and closed it again. They stared for a few seconds at each other, and the earlier confession of his shadowy friends barreled uninvited into his mind. Suddenly his clothes became too tight, and the silence grew heavy instead of comfortable.

“Morrigan will be here to take you any second, Priestess. I should probably go check on my idiot of a brother, to make sure he doesn’t drown himself in one of the toilets.” He mustered a polite smile and started to leave, giving her a wide berth on his way inside the House. Her clear voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Thank you for calling for me, Azriel.”

Azriel looked back at her. She was hugging herself, bracing her arms as if she was cold, but the breeze was slightly cool at best. She was uncomfortable, perhaps terrified to be leaving the Library. But she still wouldn’t let her fear dominate her, and would go see her friend in need of consolation. His chest filled with pride.

“Of course, Gwyn. I know she will find solace with you two.” He nodded a final time and went down the stairs in search of Cass, a slight whiff of her sweet aroma as a parting gift for him. 

It wasn’t hard finding his hulking brother. He was draped on a sofa, unmoving and staring at nothing. Surprisingly, no alcohol was in sight.

“Hey.” Azriel crossed his arms and reclined against the doorframe. “I believe you don’t need me to tell you how much of an idiot you are. So I’m going to spare you the lecture. Just promise me to try and give her some space.” 

Cassian didn’t answer, only letting a heavy sigh leave his lips and rubbing his hands on his face once more. Azriel left him to his brooding. He firmly believed that this was something his brother and Nesta could mend, and he deeply wished they did. They both deserved the happiness they could provide one another.

He returned to his dark room and laid on his giant bed, eager for some rest. Alas, rest never came. He tossed and turned, but sleep still evaded him. After a couple of hours, he gave up on pretending and returned to his reports. His thoughts wandered constantly back to Gwyn and her nervousness at leaving the Library. He was itching to send his shadows to Windhaven, to watch over her like they did on the night she was exhausted, but thought better of it. Nesta went there because she didn’t want to deal with things here, and he would respect her privacy on the matter. They had each other, and they would be fine.

Tomorrow he would check on them. Tomorrow, things would hopefully sort themselves out.

---

Finally, morning came, and Cassian went after Rhys the moment his bargain allowed him to leave the House. Mor had reluctantly told him where she had dropped Nesta off, and his Loud Brother was bound to make his way there and fix things up. Azriel was completely against it, but it wasn’t his mate to chase. They left, and the Shadowsinger made his way to the kitchen, a rare bout of hunger, and better yet, of actually wanting to eat something, striking him. 

It did not take five minutes for Rhysand to speak into his mind. 

It did not take a whole minute for him to tell Azriel that the Valkyries had been taken in the dead of night, to participate in the Blood Rite.

It did not take a single second for him to stab his right hand with his kitchen knife. The silver pierced his flesh like a block of butter, the blade ramming the wood underneath it. The blinding pain was a mere buzzing sensation against the roaring rage that consumed him. At his wretched kind, and at himself.

Taken. They were taken.

They were taken against their will and thrown into a deathtrap. They were alone and confused and in a fucking warzone. Azriel’s gut twisted, and he almost puked the eggs he had just eaten right then and there. He could’ve stopped this, could’ve sent a single fucking shadow to watch over them, and he would be there in a heartbeat, the moment they were attacked.

It was his job. His only job. To know, to be careful, to anticipate disaster before it struck. But he had failed to do so once more.

And now the Chosen Sisters would pay the bloody price.

Chapter Text

Azriel used all his five centuries of training to stop himself from doing something stupid, like diving into the Blood Rite himself. 

The waves of sharp pain that came from his punctured hand brought some clarity over the haze of fury that threatened to consume him. His mind was running through every possibility, every likely scenario, each time coming to the maddening conclusion that he simply couldn’t get the Chosen Sisters out safely. The likelihood of making it in one piece was abysmal.

The dampening field that surrounded the mountain wouldn’t allow him to shadowalk out of the Rite’s perimeter or locate any of them once inside. Even if he managed to get in, he wouldn’t be able to easily find the three Valkyries or fly swiftly while carrying them. Not without making his presence known to the Illyrians and putting a bounty on their own heads.

Restraining Cassian was his immediate priority. Much like him, his brother would want to fly head on to Ramiel, damn the consequences, and as tempting as it sounded, it would throw the whole Court in disarray. If he did fly there, Azriel would be right behind him, and his High Lord and Lady would be forced to deal with the fallout on their own, losing both the leader of their armies and master of intelligence in one fell swoop. They were too vital to sustain such a risk. It would cripple the Night Court, something that Beron and Briallyn were hoping to happen so they could plunge into another war.

There was too much at stake, and too little time to plan the next logical step. 

The most viable plan was to infiltrate the Rite and escort them from the inside, bringing all of his weapons with him and keeping them safe in the outskirts until the week passed. It would be effective if he stayed hidden and assassinated anyone who got too close. He was the Spymaster after all, and being stealthy was his specialty. But that plan had a multitude of flaws. The males who disposed of the sleeping warriors weren’t stupid. They would most likely separate the Chosen Sisters in three different drop points, like they did with his brothers and him five centuries prior. He wouldn’t have enough time to go from one side of Ramiel to the other, even more so if he tried to keep a low profile and didn’t fly unless absolutely necessary. He could make it to one of the Chosen Sisters, perhaps two if he was lucky, but neither him nor them would give up searching for the third, which would inevitably get them killed or compromise his presence.

Azriel felt pinned between the sword and the precipice, every choice more hopeless than the previous. He hated it. He hated with every fiber of his being that the only option which didn’t jeopardize his whole Court was to sit still and do nothing. To pray for the Mother, the Cauldron, or whatever unforgiving being that puppeteered with their lives to have the smallest amount of mercy for the Chosen Sisters. Those females never asked for this, never agreed to take part in this cursed tradition, but had their choice ripped out from them anyways. Again.

It made his blood boil. His siphons glowed with violence, the rioting shadows flaring up like wild flames. They were going haywire over their Lovely Priestess abduction, the cacophony of their distress grating against Azriel's senses. He didn’t blame them, as their outrage mirrored his own. Gwyn’s lighthearted presence had become a constant blessing in his wilted life, and for the first time in centuries he'd started looking forward to rising from his bed. Most of his existence he’d done it solely out of duty, for his family, his Court and Rosehall. But now, things had changed. Seeing her every morning, talking to her, looking at the stars by her side, were gasps of fresh air to a male who spent an eternity drowning in himself.

His skin crawled at the image of Gwyn among the hostile nature of the damned mountain, surrounded by males in their most animalistic state. He would flay them and leave their carcasses to rot, if only he could get to her and help keep her safe.

He didn’t dare linger on the possibility of the Valkyries not making it out. Because if they didn’t, little would remain to salvage of his miserable heart. If that tiny speck of warm light inside of him vanished…

There would be no salvation for the males of his kind, no stopping the carnage that would follow in his wake. He would slaughter them all, and would relish in doing so.

“We must find her, Singer!” The shadows were louder than ever. “The Lovely Priestess is all alone! Stop thinking and start acting!”

He nodded. Take me to Feyre. I’ll talk her into letting me go.

The Shadowsinger got up from the bench, ripping out the bloodied silver knife embedded in his hand, barely blinking at the sting. He was about to dart outside and shadowstep into Windhaven, but the House had different plans. The door of the kitchen closed abruptly, almost knocking the Shadowsinger off his feet.

“What the fuck!?” He pounded on the wooden door and tested the latch, but it didn’t budge. “I don’t have time for your games, House. Your Maker needs my help NOW!” He started banging more fiercely, his punctured fist leaving bloodstains on the dark wood from his blows. The wood groaned, but didn’t give. Azriel gritted his teeth and charged his siphons. Blasting the damn thing into oblivion was always an option.

An audible thunk sounded behind him, and he turned to see a fresh set of reports, right there on the kitchen counter. They were brand new, something that had just arrived and he'd not combed through yet. He let out a low curse. What can be more important than getting them out of that hellhole?

He ripped open the letters and devoured its contents. The bile rose to his throat and soured his tongue. Eris had been captured by Briallyn and was most likely already under influence of the Crown. Fucking imbecile. He could omit this information from Rhysand and focus on rescuing the Lovely Priestess and her Chosen Sisters, but that would be treason. This was something that threatened the safety of the whole Court, and he was bound to share it with his High Lord. He let out another curse and ran his unwounded hand through his wild hair. Rhysand would not allow him and Cassian to go to Ramiel under normal circumstances, even more so now that Eris needed rescuing. His Proud Brother would not leave his pregnant mate. No, that mission would fall upon the Spymaster and the General. The perfect excuse to keep them off of the bloody mountain.

He glared at the door, but it remained tightly shut. A set of clean rags and a salve appeared on the table, and he let out an exasperated sigh.

Deciding it would be useless to argue with the furniture, he quickly cleaned and applied the salve to the already healing wound on his hand before the kitchen finally unlocked. The Shadowsinger bolted upwards without so much as a word of thanks to the House. Things had just gone from bad to much, much worse.

---

Cassian was catatonic. Azriel could’ve sworn he hadn’t taken a single breath in the several minutes they were inside of Emerie’s thrashed store. The Inner Circle was all there, except for Mor, who had winnowed to Vallahan before she got the terrible news. Everyone that needed to hear what he had to say was present, so he forced his angry shadows to behave and lost no time spilling his piece.

“Eris has been captured. My spies in Autumn reported that he went missing after leaving to hunt with his dogs, captured by Autumn soldiers under influence of the crown, and the contacts on the continent saw him inside of Briallyn’s palace. It is safe to assume his mind is at the mercy of the Crown.”

Feyre frowned, while Rhysand clicked his tongue. His dark voice filled the room. “We need to get him out. He is the only heir to the Autumn Court that we can expect to be an ally in the foreseeable future.” His Proud Brother glanced at Cassian, who seemed completely out of the conversation. “This is our priority. Now that those three are inside the Rite, there’s nothing we can do to free them, so we’ll focus on damage control.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes twitched in annoyance. He expected this to be his High Lord’s decision, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t disappointed. Or that he wouldn’t try and fight him on it. “I can get in without being seen and bring them together until the Rite concludes. They would be safe.” He stared intently at his brother, but the High Lord didn’t deign to answer. He turned his eyes to Feyre, who he knew tended to act according to what her heart believed was right, not what politics demanded. “We can’t just leave them to fend for themselves. They are well trained, but the Rite is savage, unforgiving and brutal. Its-”

“I’m going after them.” His Loud Brother’s gruff voice stopped him in his tracks. Azriel turned toward his now standing frame. Fucking shit timing, Cass.

The General tapped on the crimson siphons on his hands and the remainder of his scale armor covered his torso. He nodded toward Rhys.

“Winnow me to her. Az, you go after Gwyn and Emerie.”

Rhysand didn’t budge. “You know the laws, Cass.”

The general snarled. “The laws can go fuck themselves.” 

“What laws?” His High Lady asked.

“Tell her.” Rhys’ voice was filled with night and authority, and Cassian had little choice but obey his command. “Tell her, Cassian.”

Cassian seemed on the verge of exploding in fury, but he answered nonetheless. “Anyone who takes a warrior from the Blood Rite shall be hunted and executed, alongside the warrior that was dishonorably removed.”

Feyre rubbed her face with mild despair as the gravity of the situation began to settle in. “So they need to stay in the Rite.”

“Not even I can break these rules without risking civil war with the Camp Lords. No matter how much I want to.” Rhys tried to use a soothing voice, but it only grated on Azriel’s nerves. 

It wasn’t Feyre stuck without magic in the outskirts of the mountain, or this would be a completely different conversation.

Cassian was more than justified in wanting to rescue the Valkyrie Sisters, and Azriel felt the need to go, too. He respected Emerie and came to care about Nesta, for he saw the self-loathing behind her mask of aggression. But, if he was being honest with himself, Gwyn was the one that didn’t leave his mind since the moment he received the news. She’d been right about their training. Even if the Valkyries didn’t learn everything about fighting, violence would still come to them, and they would be left unprepared to face it. He had failed in teaching them everything he could, and now they were stuck in the damn Blood Rite against their will. Rescuing them was the right thing to do, he owed them that much. But they needed a plan, and not to burn Ramiel to the ground hoping for the best, like Cass seemed intent on doing. He was an extremely talented strategist, but with his mate’s safety on the line, he wasn’t thinking straight.

“Then what?” Cassian bellowed, interrupting Azriel’s thoughts. “Are we to sit our asses and wait a whole fucking week?”

Feyre grabbed his shaking hands. “Cassian, didn’t you hear anything that we just discussed?”

Azriel doubted he had. So he briefed again how Eris had been captured.

“I don’t fucking care about Eris.” Cassian started walking towards the door. Fuck, if he leaves in this state, he’ll only make things worse.

Rhys' claws dug into his mind, and the Shadowsinger let him in immediately. A mistake. His High Lord did not leave space for discussion.

‘Help me convince Cassian to be reasonable. This isn’t a request.’ The dark presence was gone before he could retort. He doubted even Feyre knew what Rhys had just done. That his High Lord had just asked him to abandon the female which presence he now treasured the most.

Azriel clenched his teeth. Rhys wasn’t going to listen, and if Cassian left without a plan he would get himself killed and not accomplish a damn thing. So of course, I’m the one who needs to sort out this fucking mess. Azriel steeled himself and doned the mask of the Spymaster.

“We need to free him.” His voice was cold and detached, so unlike what he normally used with his brother.

Cassian slowly turned to him, his eyes lit with hot fury. “We need to?”

Rhysand and Feyre stepped to his side, making a formidable wall. One he wanted nothing to do with, but had no choice but being part of. “We can’t go.” Feyre said with a sad voice, gesturing toward Rhys.

Yes, Feyre couldn’t really go, not with only two months left of pregnancy, but Rhys…

His Loud Brother beat him to it, squaring up to his High Lord. “You can be back in one hour.”

“I can’t go.” Nightly storms waged around them, Rhys’ power making itself known.

“Yes you fucking CAN!” Cassian was a breath away from snapping, his siphons flaring dangerously. Azriel stepped his way. He would end up blowing up Emerie’s shop if he kept this up. “You-”

“I can’t” Rhys voice came out broken, full of pain, enough to smother Cassian’s rage. The hairs on the back of Azriel’s neck stood up at his Proud Brother’s grim tone. Something was wrong. Something was deeply, painstakingly wrong. He anticipated Rhys wouldn’t want to leave his pregnant mate’s side. But this isn’t it. What am I missing? 

“Proud Brother and Brave Painter made a bargain no one should ever make, Singer.”

What kind of-

“Why can’t you go?” Amren’s accusatory voice sliced his inner conversation.

Feyre joined a tattooed hand with Rhys. His throat bobbed, but he didn’t answer. His High Lady filled the dreadful silence.

“We made a bargain. After the war. That we… would only leave this world together.”

Azriel’s blood ran cold. No. Please tell me they didn’t. Tell me they’re lying.

“They are not, Singer. Their lives are bound. One cannot live without the other.”

The Shadowsinger could not believe they would do something this irresponsible without thinking about the consequences, without consulting anyone. He had to ask, had to make sure he wasn’t getting this wrong.

“You made a bargain to die together?” He could barely fathom the weight of the question that just left his mouth or contain the emotions that threatened to pour from it.

Azriel was completely still, doing everything in his power to not let the torrent of rage and frustration he was feeling overcome his rational side. If he did, he probably would join Cassian on razing that fucking mountain to the ground, damn Rhysand and the Court. Clearly he was the only one in this madhouse of an Inner Circle that hadn’t gone batshit insane. He took a deep breath, numbing his senses and his thoughts. He heard Amren chastise Rhys and Feyre over the foolishness, but he didn’t pay attention to her words, only clocking in once Feyre started speaking again.

“If Rhys dies…” Her voice was heavy with pain and fear “... then I die.” Her fingers traced her round belly. The baby would die as well. The bitter, unrelenting truth clicked in Azriel’s head, and the only thing that kept the contents of his stomach on the inside was his ability to compartmentalize his emotions.

“And if you die…” came his low, almost impassive voice “... then Rhys dies.” He was staring pointedly at the baby bump now. If she didn’t survive childbirth, all three would die. Azriel would be left without a brother, a sister, and a niece or nephew.

Not only that, the Court would be left without a High Lord, a High Lady or an heir. It would simply come to ruin, the power being thrown at Morrigan in the best case scenario, and at fucking Keir in the worst. This was a nightmare, one worse than his twisted mind could ever conjure.

No, he couldn’t afford to go down this rabbit hole. Azriel took all of his fear, his doubt and his rage, and shoved it in a dark corner of his mind. He would deal with his emotions later.

Rhys’ expression was a picture of pain. “I never thought this would happen.”

Amren was rubbing her temples, trying to stave off the certain headache that had started to build behind her eyes at their foolishness. “We can discuss the idiocy of this bargain of yours later.” Her sharp words earned a glare from Feyre, which she promptly returned. She turned to Cassian. “You and Azriel need to save Eris.”

Cassian clenched his fist and shot back. “And why not you?”

“Because I’m powerless, boy.” The fierce look she was giving his brother would send lesser males scurrying away. “I’m useless beyond my advice, and Morrigan is out of reach. This is a dangerous mission, in the territory of an enemy that holds an item of the Dead Trove. Azriel can’t go alone.”

He could go alone. It would be a risk in case he entered open combat, but that was part of his job. In fact, it would be definitely easier to breach Briallyn’s palace if he didn’t have to lug around his hulking brother, who most certainly would have his mind on his mate trapped in another continent, and not on the task at hand. But he knew that if Cassian was left here unchecked he would fly to the Rite without backup and get himself a death sentence. So he kept his mouth shut.

Feyre spoke again, almost pleading. “Please Cassian, we need you to help. You know we would not hesitate to do things ourselves if we could.” She placed her hand on her belly while she spoke, and her defeated voice was enough to thaw the General’s resolve, his shoulders sagging. “You were the one that dealt with him all those months. You know first hand just how much damage the information he has on the Court could cause.” She frowned, her gaze turned inquiring "How much does Eris know about us?”

Cassian gritted his teeth. “Too much. He knows that we have most of the Dead Trove, and was afraid that we would use Nesta’s power as a weapon to seize power on Prythian.”

Feyre tried to sound hopeful. “Perhaps the Made dagger we gave him can shield him from the Crown’s influence.”

Rhys shook his head. “We can’t know that for sure. He’s still under Briallyn’s claws, and she could just take the dagger before enslaving his mind and call it a day. Besides, she doesn’t really need the Crown to make him spill.”

No, she didn’t. “There are many more methods of making him talk.” Azriel’s somber voice finished his High Lord’s thoughts. 

“You need to go now.” Amren interrupted them, pointing a finger at Cassian. “The more you delay, the bigger the chance of her obtaining vital information from the Autumn brat.”

The clock was ticking, and Azriel was left without a real choice. He silently stepped beside his Loud Brother, who seemed to be fighting an internal battle to give up on rescuing his mate. Azriel understood him, at least partially. He didn’t have a mate to save, but the thought of the Chosen Sisters not returning, of Gwyn not returning…

He wouldn’t allow his fears to take root. They were prepared, more so than the recruits that took part in the Rite. The Illyrians had more time to train, yes. But the quality of their training was lackluster at best. They were taught with brutality and scorn, and learned to fight only with their arms, not their brains. The Valkyries knew better. They were a unit, a sisterhood. 

He only hoped that they could find one another amongst the bloodshed.

---

He and Cassian made their silent way out, with Azriel walking them through the shadows and landing in the dark shores of Prythian, before making a second jump to the Continent. Once inside their enemies borders, they took to flying as high as their wings could sustain, where the air was so thin it became difficult to breathe. They couldn’t risk being exposed or captured, as they didn’t know how far the influence of the Crown would reach. Cassian flew with a permanent scowl on his face, while the Shadowsinger kept his impassive exterior, even with the pounding headache that had crawled its way into his temples after everything that happened. He was used to enduring it. He was the stoic one. The practical, logical brother. 

In reality, it couldn’t be farther from the truth. His mind screamed how wrong it was leaving the Lovely Priestess behind. He knew there was little he could’ve done in the first place, but his heart still wanted to try, to be close to her should anything happen. His shadows mirrored his feelings. They kept a tight fit over their Singer’s scaled armor, but their voices didn’t give him any solace.

“This is not right. The Lovely Priestess is alone. She is in danger. We need to turn back. We need to keep her safe.”

His headache was only getting worse at their rant. You know I want to. But The High Lord has spoken, and the High Lady has agreed.

“The High Baby can choke with his hypocritical orders! We would be already carrying the Brave Painter out if she was the one abducted!”

He fought back a frustrated groan. But she wasn’t. It was Nesta, someone Rhysand doesn’t care about on a good day, and despises on the rest. He doesn’t see her as a priority, or even as a loss. I’d hoped to convince Feyre to let me go after her. I thought she would stand her ground and stick by her sister. I was wrong. 

His shadows considered his words about his High Lady, the bitterness and disappointment behind them. “The Brave Painter is only agreeing to what the High Baby thinks is best. She does not know any better, for she is not used to her position of power. But he is treating the Chosen Sisters as irrelevant. As fae who do not deserve the effort to be saved! It is not right!”

Maybe it was infuriating, but the simple truth was that his Proud Brother didn’t care. Not personally, at least. Gwyn and Emerie are strangers to Rhys. He didn’t say it openly, but if they die, they die. Azriel’s throat tightened at the dark thought. Perhaps he would pay his respects to them, but he wouldn’t be truly hurt. They hold no Court relevance, no secrets to be kept. Which isn’t the case for Eris. 

His shadows seethed in the back of his mind. “Kill the Tortured Heir. Target his ugly head and be done with it. Each second we spend here is another moment where the Priestess is being hunted.”

Azriel ignored them. There was little point in killing Eris. As much as he loathed the male, he was still their best shot at deposing Beron and avoiding another war. Besides, his death would not free the Chosen Sisters from the Rite, it would only make their political situation worse.The Shadowsinger was dying to turn back, but his loyalty to his Court wouldn’t allow him to do so before completing his mission. 

He was the Spymaster, and his feelings weren’t important.

---

After hours of flight they finally arrived at Briallyn’s palace.

The fortress was surrounded by high walls and copious amount of guards, but they wouldn’t seem as more than tiny birds to human eyes at their altitude. They circled the perimeter until their wings and backs were sore from carrying their weight, but saw no movement in or out of the castle. No sign of Eris or the soldiers that captured him. As the sun began to set, Azriel signaled to Cassian to prepare to head down and settle a watch for the night. There was no point in keeping tiring themselves if they could use the trees as cover to scout.

They settled on the treetops once darkness had crept in and they could descend without being spotted, in a more shaded part of the forest west of the castle's entrance. His shadows scattered around their location, making sure to not allow anyone to get too close without the Singer’s knowledge. They would take turns sleeping and watching the fort for any movement. This was the most aggravating part of missions like this. The waiting. Staring at the closed gates hoping for something, anything, to happen. Cassian took on the first watch, seated on a branch that faced the castle and munching on hard bread. He constantly glanced towards the northeast, as if he could see Ramiel protruding in the horizon.

Azriel laid to rest his body on the thick branches, but his mind found no reprieve. The gnawing beast of guilt churned his insides in time with his pounding headache. He wasn’t a male of faith, but he had no other choice now but to pray for Gwyn to safely return home. He wasn’t naive, either. He knew the Chosen Sisters were all capable, but the Rite was unpredictable and ruthless. It was the alternative his kind found millennia ago to introduce new soldiers to indiscriminate killing and danger. To the horrors of the battlefield. He wanted to believe they would be fine, that they would find each other and prevail. He needed to believe so. Still, he laid on the groaning wood, kept from sleep by his cruel imagination.

---

Right after midnight Azriel relieved his brother from watch duty. He knew Cassian hated the inaction the most. The Spymaster was used to the subtlety of scouting and spying, while the General excelled in intimidation and open warfare. He hoped his brother, unlike himself, would be able to doze off for at least a couple of hours. 

He took a seat facing the castle. The night air was filled with the rustle of the wind and the buzzing of insects. Nature, like their enemies, didn’t care about his inner turmoil. Didn’t care about the desperation that was slowly but surely clawing its way into his heart. He glimpsed at the starry sky, hoping that it would bring some sort of comfort, perhaps reminding him of the Priestess that loved to observe them.

But he was met only with sadness, the stars in the Continent so different from what they would contemplate in Velaris. Duller, distant and cold. They wouldn’t give him the company he wished to have. They couldn’t make sure Gwyn was safe with her Chosen Sisters. So Azriel focused back to the gates of the keep, trying to ignore the heaviness of his heart and the longing that settled in his bones.

She was on her own, and so was he.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived, and Azriel left a nervous Cassian to watch the gates while he scouted the surroundings. There were no fields or villages in the lands of the palace, except for the walled city that circled it. Its grey rock stood alone in the middle of absolutely nowhere, as if purposefully resting in a place far away from any other civilization. It was unusual for a keep to be this isolated, and it only added to the unsettling nature of the place. To Azriel's eternal chagrin, his shadows couldn’t infiltrate the walls and pinpoint Eris’ location, as they were stacked with wards and protections that rivaled those in the House of Wind. If he wanted intel, he needed to gather it directly, and from the outside. He and Cassian took precious hours between receiving the information of Eris’ kidnapping and arriving at the palace, so there was a chance he had been immediately moved to a dungeon or another keep controlled by Briallyn. 

The Shadowsinger kept within the darkness of the trees by the side of the road until a human merchant made its merry way out of the gates, following the cart until he was a safe distance for interception. He stepped in the middle of the road like Death had sent him to collect the poor man’s soul. His giant wings, roiling shadows and cold demeanor were enough of an incentive to make the middle aged peasant stutter away any information he knew, the shadows abiding by the truth of every sentence said.

An auburn haired male was dragged into the palace two nights ago, surrounded by guards that were not from this land. He’d heard rumors in the local tavern that the male was a spy from Prythian and would be taken somewhere else to be ‘questioned’. He also said there were whispers of the Queen being possessed by an ancient demon or that she’d made a deal with a being not from this world. Azriel could imagine who those rumors were referring to. They’d long suspected Beron and Briallyn’s involvement with the sorcerer Koschei, but hearing her own people talking about it made the threat a lot more tangible. 

They didn’t know what the sorcerer, the Death God, was capable of achieving. The only solid information that they had was that he was bound to a lake in some undisclosed part of the Continent, and that he needed agents outside of his influence to do his bidding. The Bone Carver had mentioned his older brother before, as did Elain in her visions. These had proved mostly precise up to this point, and had been crucial to dictate their victory in the last war, but were now few and far between, suppressed by her own self-control, or even worse, by some external influence. We can’t rely on her for information. He made a mental note with his shadows to redirect his efforts of finding Bryaxis to pinpointing this cursed lake. Watching the sorcerer’s movement was a lot more vital than finding the lost nightmare.

He finished his conversation with the human merchant and sent him on his way with a pocket full of gold and a veiled threat to buy his silence over their interaction. Every new piece of the puzzle made the Shadowsinger more and more disturbed, and the telltale wavering of his shadows had become an incessant whirlwind of darkness around his shoulders. He scattered them to the winds to watch the perimeter, but mostly because he couldn’t really deal with their distress on top of his own.

He found Cassian exactly where he’d left him, watching the gates with furrowed brows and compulsively glancing at a mountain that was too far to see.

“Eris is still inside.” Azriel's voice sounded hollow to his own ears. Cold and detached like the stars of this land. “The merchant I’ve talked to was adamant about it. There are rumors he’ll be moved from here, and with any luck they’ll turn out to be true. We’ll wait and watch. Once they leave, we’ll follow them from above the clouds.” 

Cassian didn’t turn his way, giving a soft grunt in response. They spent the remainder of the day switching positions between resting and watching. Cassian ate in regular intervals, but Azriel didn’t bother. He’d tried to take a bite of his provisions, but it had felt like munching sawdust and bile. He stored the bread back with the shadows and sat on the branches with an empty stomach.

The only small consolation was that Cassian had yet to collapse into a screaming and sobbing mess, and that meant Nesta was still alive. But being alive did not mean that she was well. There was no way of knowing if the other Valkyries were reunited with her, or if they were still breathing at all. So he and his brother settled in eerie silence, waiting for time to pass. Hoping the people they cared about would still be there once they came back home.

*****

Day turned into night once more, and no auburn hair made it out of the city gates. Cassian had taken the first watch, and Azriel would stay up from midnight until sunrise. 

The Shadowsinger had resigned to simply surviving until this ordeal was over. It had been almost two whole days since his last meal, but he felt no hunger, and certainly no desire to eat. Tomorrow he would probably have to force some bread down his throat, or he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from fainting. He barely slept during Cassian’s watch, and what little time of unconsciousness he mustered was agitated and not restful in the slightest. His eyes stung viciously and his headache had morphed into a constant, obnoxious thrumming. The lack of a bath made his skin prickle underneath his armor, the grime covering his hair and face doing little to help. His body was tired and spent, running on discipline and desolation only.

Those things shouldn’t bother him. He was a soldier, trained to endure days on end covered in blood and filth while sleeping out in the open. Their less than ideal accommodations weren’t what tore him apart.

Truth was, Azriel was a mess. 

Everything had piled up in his head, and his heart became heavier by the second. He was useless, helpless to the torrent of desperation that crashed again and again in his core, but that he knew he couldn’t let out. Cassian was finally getting some rest, finally able to give himself some reprieve from worrying for Nesta’s safety, and he couldn’t in his right mind take that away from his brother. Not only that, they were in the middle of Mother forsaken enemy territory, and he doubted they would be merciful if they found him curled up in the forest dirt like the pathetic male he was. 

The last thing they needed was for him to lose control. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions take hold. But his body didn’t care what he thought was convenient. 

The dread seeped into his bones and pressed on his heart like a vice. It became harder and harder to breathe, the blood now frantically pounding on his eardrums. The chaotic heartbeat fused with the nightly noises, turning into a hellish cacophony to his overwhelmed senses. Everything was too loud, too much. His heartstrings coiled tight, the pain writhing in his chest as if he’d been stabbed, pushing the air out of his lungs. His vision blurred with wetness that refused to stay hidden, and his throat tightened and closed, as if the air itself wanted to smother his worthless life. He grabbed the branch he was seated on until his knuckles turned white, nails digging into the bark. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make a sound if he wanted to.

Gwyn could be dead, and he wouldn’t even know.

His Loud Brother could wake up screaming at any moment, going mad with the grief of a lost mate, with no way for him to help.  

The Chosen Sisters could never come back from the Rite, and all of their training and growth would have been for nothing but their own demise.

Feyre's hope was dwindling fast, and Rhys and the baby would die with her, leaving the Court at Keir’s mercy. 

Their enemies conspired with a Death God and chased at their heels, just waiting to finish them like a dying mutt.

All of his worst fears had come true. Everything was crumbling, and Azriel was watching from the sideline, powerless to stop it. Unable to save anything, to save anyone. He couldn’t even think straight anymore, his head pounding with relentless fury and his body seizing with tremors he couldn’t control.

His shadows took precious seconds to sense his panic, scattered as they were. They quickly reunited with their Singer as his despair hit them like a tidal wave. Never before they felt him so hopeless. He was holding on to the wood like a lifeline, blind to anything but his own crippling fear. He needed to breathe, to get out of his own mind. Needed to be anywhere but near that cursed castle. So they took him away, leaving a small bundle of dark wisps to watch over the closed gates and a passed out Loud Brother.

They shadowalked from the treetops, landing near a calm river in the middle of the forest. Azriel toppled from their grasp like a sack of bones, his reflexes saving him from breaking his nose on the smooth rocks of the riverside. The tremors wouldn’t stop, and his breaths came in sobbing gasps, as if he was drowning in the air itself. The tears he couldn’t refrain ran hot down his cheeks.

They would all die, and he would be left alone. 

Everything hurt, and Azriel just wanted it to stop. 

He wanted to crawl into nothingness and cease to be. 

But the Little Ones wouldn’t let him lose himself. They swarmed him in their tender darkness, their cool touch roving over his feverish skin. They held him tightly, trying their best to stop the tremors that ran through his frame. He choked and gasped, with painful sobs being his only response to their care. 

They tried to comfort him with their words, but he couldn’t really listen to them. “We are here, friend. You are not alone. Everything is not yet lost. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”

Their soothing presence drowned out the sounds from the outside, but still didn’t reach their Singer. His skin prickled and stung like a thousand needles were assaulting him. He was disoriented, confused. His cries finally let loose, but they were meek and weary. He didn’t even have the strength to scream anymore. He just let his tears stream freely, his sobs and heaves of air broken things against the dark embrace of his oldest friends.

His shadows sent some wisps to double check the perimeter they were in. Safe, nothing but insects and starlight surrounding them. They pressed on his siphons to let his scaled armor recede from his trembling frame, leaving only his leather vest and pants still clinging to his body, damp with sweat. They vanished those next, together with the siphons strapped to his hands, their Singer now left naked to the night air. He didn’t notice them around him, didn’t feel anything but the wailing of tragedy inside his head.

Finally, they tugged on his bare arms, slowly lifting him to his feet and physically dragging him into the river. He stumbled into the crisp running waters, the cold shock of it bringing him to his senses once more. His eyes snapped open, and he took everything in at once. The cold water running over his scarred skin. The sound of the river over the smooth rocks. The tiny spots of greenish light from the glowing bugs in the humid air. His head still pulsed with pain and his blood still pounded on his ears. His body trembled like a newborn calf and his breath came in hitched gasps. 

But as the minutes passed by, he ever so slowly began to recover.

His skin was no longer covered in filth and sweat. The erratic beat of his heart had somewhat calmed, and the overwhelming sense of dread and doom that constricted his insides unspooled itself, little by little. The sharp pain in his chest subsided to a dull ache, and his throat unclogged, allowing him to inhale properly once more. He took a deep, chest filling breath, fueling his lungs to the point they were taut and stretched, unable to bear a single more ounce of air, and released. 

He did it again. And again. 

His ravaging headache hadn’t gone away, but became barely manageable. His tremors went from waves of distress to shivers of simple, ordinary lack of heat. He welcomed it. Anything was better than what he was feeling to this point. He dunked his messy hair and folded his wings into the freezing waters, submerging completely, focusing on the feeling of every membrane and tendon. He stayed inside the icy current, bracing for the sharp cold and the pressure threatening to pull him away. Bracing for the future, and everything he’d still have to deal with once morning came. He stayed until his lungs burned and his mind had been invaded by the mute sound of being underwater, and nothing else. 

At last Azriel rose, the water cascading down his imposing frame, and he finally started feeling as master of his own mind again. 

I control my emotions, and not the other way around. The words played on repeat inside his head, like one of the mantras the Valkyries used to steel themselves for combat. 

Even if he was his own worst enemy, he wouldn’t let himself lose. Besides, the shadows would always have his back.

He stepped out of the river. His shadowy friends immediately dried him, sending all the water and dampness on his body to their pockets of empty space and returning his now dried leathers. The Shadowsinger was still deeply tired and shaken, but back to a functioning male. His Little Ones settled around his neck and slithered along his arms.

They stilled once they roved over his bare right wrist. 

How could they have forgotten?

“Singer, take a look!” They started waving with joy, almost frantically. It felt like a lifetime had passed since they’d done so. “All is not lost, she still fights!”

Azriel glanced down, confused by their sudden display. Until his eyes caught the dark ink engraved in his tanned skin.

The black ribbon in the shape of a musical note was still plastered there, just like the night it had spawned on his wrist. The bargain tattoo was a beacon of light rekindling his heart, that tiny speck of warmth stirring deep within him.

Alive. Gwyn is alive. 

His blind worries and scaled armor hadn’t allowed him to see the most obvious signal he could’ve had of her, right there under his nose. He couldn’t know if she was hurt or if she’d found her Sisters, but solace still wormed its way inside. 

He skeeted a gentle thumb over the black ribbon, almost reverently, as if he was caressing the soft skin of the Priestess’ freckled cheek. It was enough for his wild bloodstream to finally start to settle. That little blotch of magical ink had given him what he needed the most.

Hope. Merciful, shining hope that the Lovely Priestess would be fine, and that he would see her precious teal eyes again.

He closed his own hazel ones in silent gratitude, and prayed. 

To whomever looked upon that training ring when the Chosen Sisters cut their ribbons.

Prayed with all of his ruined heart for their safe return home.

*****

Cassian woke up as soon as the first rays of sunlight pierced the horizon. The General took over watch while the Shadowsinger finally relented to his bodily needs and swallowed some pieces of bread and cheese. He did not feel like eating it, but at least he didn’t feel like puking it out either, so it was a promising start.

He could feel the nervous energy emanating from his brother, even as he remained silent. The constant glances to the direction of Ramiel were a telltale sign of his worry, and Azriel couldn’t help but mirror it in his own way, now rubbing his right wrist mindlessly. That little sign of Gwyn’s still beating heart had picked up his pieces, stopping him from fracturing entirely under the weight of every disaster that hung over their heads like guillotines. 

It didn’t take long for his brother’s composure to start cracking as he did some hours before.

“Briallyn must know we’re here.” Cassian spoke, his voice gruff and full of impatience “Do you think she’s waiting for us to make a move?”

It was a solid concern, and one he’d started sharing once the flow of carriages and people that crossed the walled city gates seemingly vanished overnight, the wooden monoliths now permanently closed at all hours.

“I think the better question would be if Eris is still alive” He answered in a grim tone. There was no way of knowing if the Autumn heir still breathed. His shadows couldn’t venture inside the keep, and now every source of internal information was restricted as well. They were completely in the dark. “I can’t tell if he is.”

His brother let out an angry sigh. “Waiting is pointless. We should break in. Stay out of sight so she doesn’t know we’re there and isn’t tempted to use the Crown on us.”

“Loud Brother cannot be stealthy to save his own life, Singer. It would end up in capture, bloodshed or worse.”

I know. Invading is not an option. With the amount of protection that covers the place it would be risky even if I went in alone.

“I told you, the place is heavily warded. If Briallyn is going to move Eris, it's better for us to get him when that happens.”

“Maybe the merchant was wrong.”

That’s something Azriel had already mulled over. The man had told the truth about hearing the rumors, but if the rumors themselves were truthful or a ruse to waste their time was another thing entirely. There was no real way of knowing, especially now with the city closed off.

“Perhaps he was. We’ll keep watch tomorrow.” He crossed his arms and looked at his brother with sympathy. “I know you want to help Nesta. Maybe Amren can find a loophole…” He trailed off. It was a pitiful attempt at comforting his brother, and he knew that.

Cassian shook his head in defeat. “There’s no loophole. If I interfere, we both die. And even if I did, Nesta would kill me if I went in there to save her. She’d never forgive me for that.”

Azriel severely doubted that. They didn’t choose to be there and didn't have anything to prove. But he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t willing to argue with his brother’s coping. Mother knew he needed some of his own. The Valkyries weren’t anything if not determined, and had every chance of survival if they managed to find each other. Being a unit was their biggest strength, and the blotch of ink over his wrist had restored some of his faith in their return.

The third day and night went by uneventfully, with him and his brother moving almost silently around one another, waiting for Briallyn to show her hand. Azriel settled on a barely functional routine of at least two meager meals a day, and a handful of hours of sleep at night, his migraines finally giving him a break. More than once he lifted the scaled bracers of his wrist to check on the bargain tattoo, by now turned into a lifeline for his sanity. He would play a thousand different songs for the Lovely Priestess if he only got the chance to see her again. The warm light on his chest kept stirring every time he saw the dark ink, basking in the knowledge that Gwyn still breathed.

---

The fourth day was just as quiet as the previous, but the lack of movement had begun to stir Azriel’s instincts the wrong way. This was definitely a purposeful silence, a calculated maneuver by Briallyn. Their enemies would only make their move once the time was right, and it unsettled him to no end. 

Cassian felt the same, and was loud about it, too.

“Four days, fuck.” The General seethed. “We’ve been sitting our asses here for four fucking days.”

Azriel kept his impenetrable emotionless mask, sharpening Truth-teller in languid strokes, trying to soothe some of his own nerves. His brother’s jarring voice disturbed his tentative peace, but he didn’t blame him.

“Seems like you’ve forgotten how much spywork is sitting down waiting for the right moment.” He looked intently at his brother. “People don’t practice their evil deeds when it's the most convenient for you.”

Cassian scoffed, rolling his eyes like a bratty teen. “I stopped trying to be a spy because it bored me to death. I can’t for the life of me get how you deal with this shit all the time.”

I wonder about that myself. “It suits me.” Was his only answer.

“It gives you time to take part in your favorite hobby, Friend.”

And what is that?

“Brooding.”

Azriel ignored their feeble attempt at teasing him. It was endearing, but useless. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes. The shadowy clowns gathered at his feet, significantly calmer since the moment they found out their Lovely Priestess was alive. He was too, but not nearly as much as them.

Cassian exhaled a tired huff. “I know I’m being impatient. I know. But don’t you really think we should go to that damned castle and take a peek?”

Azriel fought back a sigh. He was starting to consider gagging his brother, and not in a fun way. “I’ve said it already. Castle is too damn protected, even Helion couldn’t get past its traps. Besides, Briallyn has the Crown. I’m not interested in explaining to Rhys and Feyre why you died on my watch. And even less interested in explaining it to Nesta once she’s back.” He made his point more than clear.

Cassian faced the castle again, but his eyes wandered to the northeast as he spoke. “Do you think she’s alive?” His voice was heavy with doubt, and Azriel's heart ached for him.

“You would know if she’d died.” He stopped the slow gating of the whetstone on the dark edge and looked into his brother’s eyes. “Right here, Cass. You would know…” He tapped his scarred hand on his brother’s chest. 

Cassian didn’t look much reassured. “There are many unspeakable things that could be happening to her.” His voice was heavy with emotion. “With Emerie and Gwyn.”

Azriel knew that, and it haunted him. He knew that knowing the Priestess was alive wasn’t the same as knowing she was safe. Not by a long shot. Be he couldn’t dare lose hope now, lest the crumbled all over again. No, his brother needed support, and he would give it to him until his last breath.

“You… we trained them well, Cassian. Trust that.” Azriel paused for a moment, and his next words were for his brother as much as they were for himself. “That's all that we can do for them.”

A flash of movement attracted Azriel’s attention back to the city gates, and his heart started hammering on his chest. Fucking finally.

“There’s someone leaving” Cassian followed his gaze as it landed in the opening gates. They nodded at each other and jumped to the sky at the same time, using the shadows as cover for their forms and reaching the clouds in a few wingbeats.

Azriel looked down once again, inspecting the caravan. It was small for a royal entourage, almost unassuming.

“I’m not seeing a prisoner cart.” Cassian stated.

But Azriel had seen the auburn hair they’d looked at the front of the caravan, riding high with the other members. “They don’t need one.” He couldn’t help letting a slight bitterness at the heir’s stupidity from leaking into his voice.

“Stupid asshole. She enslaved him with the Crown.” Cassian grunted.

“The Tortured Heir still carries the Made dagger, Singer. Perhaps he wasn’t kidnapped, but escorted.”

Azriel was filled with disgust at their conclusion. If that was the case, the situation was a lot more worrying than they thought. “Look at his left side. He’s still with the dagger. They would’ve made him turn it over if he was entranced.”

Cassian cursed. “So possessing another Made object really protects him from the Crown.” Cass' face distorted into a sneer. “Traitor.” He spit in disgust. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” His brother was tense, readying himself for violence. “Let’s grab him, drag his ass back home and dismember the bastard.” 

Can’t say I’m eager to do that. Killing in the open field was easy for him, terrifyingly so. But the Shadowsinger was tired from betrayals and schemes, and torturing the male wouldn’t bring him any satisfaction. If it was their only choice, then he would oblige, but he wouldn’t be happy about it.  

Azriel answered his brother with a somber voice. “Let’s follow them. If we capture Eris now, we could end up not getting anything from him. At least not swiftly. Let’s follow him and see where his treason goes, See who they’re meeting with. Must be important for them to leave the safety of the keep.”

Azriel only hoped his instincts were wrong and that certain someone wasn’t who he suspected.

---

For three agonizingly long days they followed the bloody caravan. The glimpses they had of the small batch of riders did little to smother their unease. There was a small curved figure that rode beside Eris, who they assumed was Briallyn, even if she didn’t bear the golden glint of the Crown above her hooded head.

Cassian had turned into a pile of nerves, now barely sleeping at all. Tomorrow morning the Rite would end, and they would finally get to see the Chosen Sisters again. Get to know if they were alive and well, and not just breathing through the horrors their kind could inflict. 

Azriel wasn’t any better. The farther to the east and into the continent they flew, the more disturbed his shadows became. They whispered of something being wrong in the air, of a foul magic that ran along the breeze, ancient and full of malice. He could feel it too, and it unnerved him.

“I’ve never been to this part of the Continent before.” He murmured to his brother. “It feels ancient, like the Middle.”

Cassian didn’t answer him, too focused, or unfocused, at the group below them.

They were approaching a small lake in the distance, and the vision made Azriel’s blood run cold. His instincts weren’t wrong. But perhaps he could use this to their advantage. They had accompanied the caravan all the way to this place, and he was positive he could pinpoint this location now. If this really was Koschei’s lake, this was a vital piece of intel for his Court.

He and Cassian descended from the clouds and into the woods several hundred meters behind the group, making sure to use the shadows as coverage for their forms. He didn’t like their current situation, outnumbered and following their target like rabbits lured into a trap. But they had run out of options.

He tried scattering his shadows to watch their surroundings, but the Little Ones were against it.

"We will not leave your side in this land, Singer. It is evil, wrong and twisted. We need to be ready to take you away at any moment, and being divided will stop us from reacting fast enough to protect you.”

It would be more useful for us if you made sure we haven’t been spotted or ambushed. You could protect me and Cassian both.

“Loud Brother can take care of himself.”

He suppressed the urge to click his tongue and curse. Stubborn Ones.

They followed the group on foot until they stopped by the lake margin, making up camp. An assortment of human nobles and soldiers, twenty in total. Eris' horse was strapped to a tree, but the male wasn’t anywhere within sight. It made the hairs on his neck stand up in attention. If he wasn’t in camp, he had to be in the woods. Shit.

“Here, Cassian.” He heard the conniving heir whisper behind them, and turned just in time to see the autumn male hold the Made dagger against his brother’s chest.

Cassian froze under the dagger, but his expression was one of burning ire. “I knew you were a lying bastard. But this is low, even for you.” Cass spat the words at Eris. Azriel was only a step away, but he could do nothing in this situation. As formidable as his speed was, he couldn’t risk Cassian being stabbed with that knife. If the weapon’s power was anywhere near Ataraxia’s, his brother would bleed out or combust before they could reach Prythian and save him. 

Eris snickered. “Honestly, I’m disappointed with Rhysand. He didn’t even try to look inside my head. He's been so boring lately.” He pressed the dagger a little further down, and Azriel was certain Cassian was now feeling its bite against the skin, the leathers soft as butter against its magic edge.

He needed to try and distract him, get an opening. “You’re not getting away with this. You’re a dead male Eris. You’ve been for a long time.”

Eris glanced at him, and he noticed it. How his eyes seemed unfocused, not the usual flaming bitterness behind them. “Yes, yes, the whole old thing with the Morrigan. What a pity you insist on that.”

This wasn’t Eris. Not on his own mind, at least. He never once referred to Mor that way. Cassian seemed to notice it too, by the way he stilled and narrowed his eyes at the heir.

His brother spoke up. “Free the poor male, Briallyn. Come and get us instead.”

Eris lost his smile, his face now impassive like a mask, and the Made dagger slid away from Cassian’s chest.

A hoarse and wilted voice came from behind them. “I have you in the palm of my hands, Lord of Bastards.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Azriel felt the fear gripping his heart at the queen’s voice. They had no escape. He was certain they were within the Crown’s reach, and she could subjugate them with a simple thought.

They had walked right into her trap.

With no choice but following her, she guided them out of the forest and into the lake, Eris walking behind them at a stiff pace. Azriel still felt like his mind was his own, and Cassian still seemed in control as well, by the way he was agitated. It made no sense. Why would the queen intercept them and not put them under her control?

They broke through the line of trees. The caravan they’d seen just minutes before was gone, vanished from the face of the land. Like they were smoke and mirrors, never existing in the first place. His fear was quickly freezing into cold rage. They’d been played like pawns. He didn’t doubt she had expected their arrival since the moment they captured the Tortured Heir. This was never meant to question Eris. It was always made to attract them. And they’d fallen for it, lice mice on mousetraps.

Another stack to his endless pile of failures.

The hooded figure stopped with her back to them, facing the lake. Eris stopped by her side.

“Let’s get this over with.” Cassian said. He was impatient even for losing his free will.

Briallyn took out her hood, and it fell hollow to the ground. There was no one inside. Another trick, another illusion.

“A simple animated seed of magic.” A whispery voice sang from the lake. It was old, full of venom and the condescendence of presumed wisdom.

A shadow in the shape of a tall male appeared, floating above the waters ten meters from the margin. It wavered and contorted like a desert mirage.

“Who are you?” Cassian asked, his siphons flaring red.

But Azriel knew the answer to that. “Koschei.” He whispered. The Death God had conspired with the human queen to lure them here. But for what end?

“Where’s Briallyn?” Azriel's voice was covered in veiled threat. His syphons glowed with cobalt flame, and his stance was open. On the outside, he looked ready to lunge at the sorcerer, but he was preparing for something else entirely. This was a Death God, as old as time itself. They stood no chance against him. With the Crown out of the equation, their best shot was grabbing Eris and walking through the shadows as far as they could take them. Cassian was slightly out of reach, but he was counting on his brother being fast enough to reach him mid-air.

“I spent so many months wanting to chat with you, and you won’t even speak to me?” His sibilant voice was like sandpaper to Azriel’s ears. His shadows had gone eerily silent at Koschei's presence, hidden underneath his wings. 

“Release Eris, and then we can talk.” His brother demanded. Azriel needed to communicate with him somehow. This wasn’t a confrontation anymore. They needed to leave, and take Eris with them. This creature couldn’t get its hands on the Made dagger. He’d never wished for Daemati abilities more than he did now.

“You fell for my trap quite easily.” Koschei stated. It was the truth, and it only aggravated Azriel further. “Though you did take some time to make contact. I believed you’d run head straight into an offensive, being the brutes you are.” Koschei cackled, a bone chilling sound.

His shadows finally spoke, despair coating their multiple voices. “Singer, the Crown is nearby! You need to leave NOW!”

Azriel could only murmur a silent ‘Run’ at his brother. He lunged for Eris and grabbed the male before throwing himself into the air within half a second. He’d already reached a great height before he looked behind him.

Cassian hadn’t followed.

He turned, hovering in the air, and his heart fell as he saw Briallyn walking out of the treeline, a stunned Cassian frozen in place with empty eyes. 

“CASSIAN!” His scream fell on deaf ears.

Koschei and the elder queen exchange words he couldn’t hear, and the single moment of concentration it took to create a blue shield around him before diving back to the ground was enough time for Briallyn to reach his static brother. 

They winnowed, something the not-so-human queen shouldn’t be able to do. Probably Koschei’s work.

Azriel cursed and beat his giant wings to stop his descent. Cassian was captured, and with Eris as deadweight, he was completely alone. He had no idea where they could have gone, and he needed to get away from the sorcerer as fast as possible. Mother knew what other powers he had. 

So against all his instincts the shadows took him and the Autumn heir away, leaving his Loud Brother behind.

---

They landed miles to the west of the cursed lake, but Azriel kept jumping through the shadows, until they landed on the shores of the Night Court and into Hewn City. 

The carved obsidian walls reflected the rage that consumed his being. One problem only piled to the next. He rescued Eris just to lose his brother. Fuck. Morning was upon them, and the Rite was ending. He would dive into that mountain the second sunlight hit its frozen peak. Azriel checked the tattoo. She’s still there, still alive. He sent a lone shadow to stay at the edge of the Rite’s dampening field, to bring him there as soon as the spell lifted.

He deposited the useless heir in a random suite on the Court of Nightmares, taking the Made knife from his belt and stashing it with his shadows. He left the male seated on a comfy sofa and was about to head out when he heard a heavy gasp behind him. 

He turned, and Eris was staring directly at him, his hands gripping the soft cushions and his face twisted in confusion and irritation.

“Where the fuck am I? What are you doing here?” The fire of contempt that usually burned behind his eyes had returned, the queen probably releasing him from her hold now that he was of no use to her.

Frankly, Azriel wasn’t in the mood to deal with his bullshit, so he figured it would be better to go before he killed the male himself. “You’re in Hewn City. You fell under the Crown’s influence and were being used by Briallyn as a puppet. We rescued you. Keep to this room until someone comes to pick you up, or your next accommodations will be in the dungeons.” He turned without waiting for the heir to respond.

Locking the door behind him, he quickly sent a missive to Keir informing him of their guest and analyzed his next steps. He couldn’t worry about Cassian right now. He needed to go to the Valkyries as soon as the sun rose, and that would be any minute. That’s what his brother would have wanted. He jumped once again, landing on the River House, intent on briefing Rhysand of their situation before he could jump back to the mountain. 

That's when it hit him. The smell of blood. Lots of it, as it was pungent in the air, prickling his nose.

His siphons flared and he drew Truth-teller. Rhysand? He threw the mental question out, but his brother’s mental claws didn’t respond. His shadows darted around the house, and for a couple seconds, he feared the worse. Perhaps the queen had sent Cassian here while under her control, and his family had gone out to embrace him, just to get a sword straight to their hearts.

“Singer, come to your brother’s room. It’s the High Lady.”

He sheathed Truth-teller and ran up the stairs to his High Lord and Lady’s bedroom. What happened to her? 

The shadows hesitated for a second before responding in a grim tone. “Her womb is bleeding.” 

His throat tightened painfully. No, it's too soon, she should be months away from labor.

He made the final sprint over the double door of Feyre’s room, only to be met with a vision straight out of one of his nightmares. Feyre was sprawled on the bed, sweating profusely and breathing with difficulty, blood coating her sheets like she was the victim in a murder scene. A distraught Rhysand held her hand with white knuckles, his eyes stuck to his mate’s tired features as he whispered sweet nothings to try and keep her steady. A stone-faced Madja knelt before her open legs, trying her best to stop the bleeding. Mor was also in the room, her normally cheerful face contorted with despair.

“Feyre…” His voice was weak. There was nothing left to say, nothing he could do to help. They were supposed to have more time, they were supposed to save her. 

The lone shadow made its way back, warning him that the Rite had ended. His heart was cleaving in half, but there was nothing he could do being here any longer. Rhys and Madja were the only ones capable of making a real difference. He glanced at Morrigan and caught her attention, walking her out of the bedroom. 

“I need your help winnowing the Valkyries out of the Blood Rite. The faster we take them out, the better.”

Morrigan nodded slowly, a bit disoriented by everything that was happening, but her next words hit Azriel like a blow. 

“Gwyn and Emerie are already here.” Azriel froze, unsure if he’d heard her right. She didn’t seem to notice and kept speaking. “They arrived just a few minutes ago. They won, Azriel. They won the Blood Rite, and the monolith cured their wounds and winnowed them here. They said Nesta stayed behind at the Pass of Enalius to buy them time to reach the summit.”

Azriel absorbed all the information but didn’t quite process it. His analytical mind was fried, too many emotions assaulting him simultaneously. Shock, fear, bliss, rage, and everything in between roiled on his chest, ready to combust. His shadows did their best to stop his inner storm.

“The Lovely Priestess is safe and healed, Singer. Lady Death needs our help. We need to go.”

They were right. He snapped out of his lethargy and grabbed Mor’s forearm, barely noticing the small flinch she gave at his hands, and stepped through the shadows to the summit of that cursed mountain.

They landed, and the vision before them was chaos. Nesta and Cassian were locked in a passionate kiss, her body covered in blood and gore like a vengeful goddess and surrounded by the fallen bodies of Illyrian warriors. She’d made a last stand just like Enalius had, and survived. How the fuck Cassian ended up here he had no clue, but he didn’t really fucking care. They were safe, and that was just another unbearable weight lifted from his chest.

They heard him and Mor land beside them, and snapped their heads in their direction. 

“Eris?” Cassian immediately asked. 

“Safe. The Made dagger is in our possession again, even though Eris is angry and confused. He’s in Hewn City, but…” Azriel trailed off. He couldn’t utter the words and bring himself to shatter the small happiness Nesta had just found. She looked so tired, so wounded. She’d just survived the most brutal test a warrior could have. How was he supposed to tell her that her sister was dying?

Thankfully Mor saw his hesitation and intervened. “It's Feyre.” 

Her voice was broken enough that the older Archeron immediately stiffened. Her soft content disappeared, and she made to stand up, in which Cassian helped her. “Take me there.”

Mor nodded and grabbed onto her arm, winnowing all of them back to the River House.

Feyre was even paler now, and Rhysand had stopped his torrent of kind words, now with his mouth closed in a tight line, panic and pain plastered on his face. The pool of blood on her sheets had only grown larger, her breathing shallow. Nesta seemed like she was about to be sick at the scene, and the shock on Cassian’s face was evident.

Madja was the one that broke the silence. “I turned the baby, but he’s not coming out. He’s stuck in her vaginal canal.”

Amren gave a sharp intake of breath from a corner. Elain was there too, her face drained of color and her body trembling like a fawn. He hadn’t even noticed they were here before.

“She’s losing too much blood.” Madja carried on. “And I can feel the baby’s heart is under stress.”

He and Cassian made their way to stand beside their brother, each putting a hand on his shoulders in silent support. He kept his face as controlled as he could, even if he raged on the inside. It's not fair.

“What do we do?” Mor asked, voice heavy.

Madja shook her head. “There’s nothing we can do. Pulling the baby out through a cut will kill the mother.”

“Cut?” Nesta asked, which earned her a glare from Rhysand. He knew this process was lethal, and didn’t want to discuss the alternative.

“An incision on the abdomen, even if done carefully, is a great risk. It never worked before. Even with Feyre’s healing, the blood loss has weakened her…” Madja trailed off. 

So this was it, there wasn’t any hope.

“Do it.” Feyre mumbled, her voice loaded with pain. Rhysand gripped her hand tighter, desperation now fully taking over him.

“Feyre.” He protested.

“The baby most likely won’t survive.” Madja’s voice was calm but serious. She’d seen death like this before. “He's too small. We’ll threaten the life of you both.”

“Of all of you.” Cassian amended, eyeing Rhys.

“Do it.” Feyre’s voice left no room for argument, fueled with the power of the High Lady. No fear, no doubt. Only a stark determination to save her baby. She faced Rhys before she spoke again. “It’s the only way.”

With teary eyes, Rhys slowly nodded.

Elain crossed the room and came to stand beside Nesta, gripping her sister tightly. They approached the other side of the bed, the Bright Seer bowing her head in silent prayer. Nesta followed suit, closing her eyes and begging for the Mother’s mercy.

He tried to muster his faith. Tried to spark that tiny kindling of hope his chest had brought to life over the last couple of months.

But there was none left to give.

Feyre was dying. The baby was dying.

And his brother would die with them.

Elain gripped Feyre’s other hand while Madja left to grab her supplies. She came back not a minute later, a set of silver utensils, majorly surgical knives, and towels in her arms.

Rhys' power flowed out of him in waves, trying and failing to heal his dying mate. 

Madja readied herself for the procedure. “Rhysand, go into her mind and take away her pain.”

Rhys nodded and blinked in confirmation, letting out a low curse while Feyre’s painful expression softened and her eyes closed. He tried speaking with her. “Feyre, darling…”

“No goodbyes, Rhys.” Her voice was smooth, no longer tainted with pain. “No goodbyes…”

Madja lifted Feyre’s dress and got to work. 

One, two, seven layers of tissue she cut, draining more and more from Feyre’s already dwindling blood reserves. 

Finally she took out a small bloodied bundle, wrapping him in covers. But something wasn’t right, something…

It was quiet. Too quiet. The baby wasn’t screaming, wasn’t making a single sound.

Wasn’t breathing.

His heart shattered in a million pieces as he gripped his brother’s shoulder tighter. As Rhysand cries let out and he started to thrash and scream, launching himself to Feyre’s bed.

Azriel and Cassian tried to drag him out of the bed, to give Madja some space to try and save Feyre. But deep within him, he knew this was the end. This would be the death of his brother and sister and his newborn nephew, and the beginning of the end for his Court.

A sudden golden glow erupted from near the doors.

Nesta stood, the Crown above her Head, the Mask over her face and the Harp in one of her hands.

She was a vision of power. Of Death Itself. Her eyes burned with silver flames as she took a step towards the bed.

Rhysand lunged for her, out of his mind and trying to protect his mate from a threat that wasn’t there. Nesta raised her hand and his brother froze in place, paralyzed by the Crown. He wasn’t her High Lord while she wore that artifact.

Azriel knew Nesta would never purposefully hurt her sister, especially now. No, this was something else entirely. She was using the power of the Dead Trove to try and save Feyre. But no one had wielded the whole Trove and survived. His grief became even harder to bear.

He couldn’t lose another sister too.

Nesta’s bloodied and dirty finger hovered over the last string of the Harp and played it.

One moment she was standing on the other side of the bedroom, and the next she was draped over Feyre’s body, whispering something. Like she’d skipped time itself.

Rhys made to lunge for her again, but Amren stopped him before Azriel could. “Listen.”

Nesta only whispered. “I give it all back.” Her shoulders shook uncontrollably while she wept, holding her sister tightly.

Rhys shook his head, dark power flowing out of him in waves, when Amren dug her nails in his neck to stop him from doing something stupid. “Look into the light.”

Light, of the most pure silver, flowed from inside Nesta and into Feyre. 

“I give it back. I give it back. I give it back.” She kept whispering, her power flowing over the High Lady.

Nobody moved.

The light traveled under Feyre’s skin, filling her and the room around them with life. His siphons pulsed with power, sensing a presence in the room, like the one that looked at the training ring on the day of cut ribbons.

Someone was watching. Someone was listening to their prayers.

To Nesta’s prayers.

The light traveled through Feyre and into the tiny bundle in Mor’s arms, her face going from pure terror to awed shock. As it did, black ink engraved itself on Nesta’s back, visible through her torn leathers. A bargain with the Cauldron itself, for the lives of her family.

The light didn’t leave her completely, a small part of her still burning inside of her.

No one stopped Rhysand from bolting to Feyre’s side. The blood had vanished, and her face was now full of color again.

Feyre opened her eyes. She blinked slowly at her mate, and then looked at her sister, her face covered with adoration. “I love you, too.” She whispered, smiling.

A wail cut across the room, the bundle on Mor’s arms now not so tiny anymore. She was openly crying now, carrying the baby to the bed like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Because it was.

A precious, screaming, healthy, beautiful little boy, with tiny wings and a black tuft of hair.

Feyre started crying too, extending her arms to hold her adorable son. Rhys embraced her, crying and laughing, staring with wonder at their baby in her arms.

Nothing short of a miracle.

“Let him feed.” Madja spoke, and Azriel had the impression she had spoken some other things that nobody had listened to, too preoccupied with the heavenly scene that unfolded in front of them.

Nesta had receded from the bed, discarding the Trove on the ground like they were children’s toys. Rhys finally turned towards her.

Azriel braced himself to intervene. If Rhysand even thought about giving shit to Nesta for summoning the Trove, he would beat the shit out of his brother in front of his newborn nephew.

But that’s not what happened. To Azriel’s eternal shock, Rhys dropped to his knees in front of Nesta, kissing her knuckles and murmuring a heartfelt ‘thank you’, over and over again.

Nesta simply knelt in front of him and gave him a tight hug.

Azriel let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. That he felt like he’d been holding for the entirety of the past week.

Feyre, Rhysand and his nephew were safe, and his Court would prosper with them.

The Chosen Sisters had not only lived through, but thrived in the Rite, with two of them becoming Carynthian, the highest honor anyone could achieve. Not that they needed it. They were already formidable before.

Nesta was safe, and had simply saved them all from death and ruin.

Gwyn was here, healed and whole. Azriel wanted to see her, to talk to her, to be by her side. 

Relief flooded his being like Nesta’s light had flooded the bedroom. 

Everything was going to be fine. Everyone he loved was still here.

He wasn’t alone, and he couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come.

Chapter Text

The winged little boy was already nursed and calmed from his turbulent arrival to the world. Feyre held the baby with tenderness, her motherly love filling the air around them. 

Azriel couldn’t help thinking about Lillianna, and the childhood that was taken from her as much as it was from him. How she would've enjoyed holding him for more than one hour a week. He would need to visit her soon to give the good news of his nephew’s birth. She was more than deserving of such joy. Perhaps he could play her and Evelyn some happy songs as well.

“Will you hold him, Nes?” His High Lady called softly from the pristine bed, not a trace left from the nightmare that had just transpired in those white sheets. 

Nesta had been quietly observing from one of the corners of the room, surrounded by Cassian’s steady arms. She looked spent, but a soft happiness radiated from her, like the sky after a summer storm, with only gentle clouds left behind. Her eyebrows shot up to her hair at her sister’s request, but she approached the bed nonetheless.

Feyre extended the fussing baby with a certainty Nesta herself seemed to lack. She picked the perfect small bundle with a tentative but sure grip, uneasy from bearing something so precious in her arms. But soon enough love poured out of her expression, and it was worth a thousand words and more. The little boy was a blessing, one she had made sure was given a chance at life. Silent tears ran down her cheeks at the barely open blue eyes, already filled with tiny stars. She beamed at him, and it was a contagious thing to see, Azriel's own smile assaulting his stoic features.

He glanced at Cassian, and his brother seemed to be having a hard time keeping his heart from bursting out of his chest. The same adoration Feyre and Rhys gave off when looking at each other transpired from the General in waves while he stared at Nesta holding the baby. Azriel was sure it would turn into a beautiful painting one day.

“What will you name him?” Nesta asked, her voice loaded with emotion. 

Feyre looked at Rhys, who was surprised by the question, even if it wasn’t an unusual one. His brother was still pale and aloof from the roller coaster of emotions he’d just experienced. From almost losing his mate to holding his newborn, he was shaken to the core.

“Proud Brother did not think to name the child before he was born, Singer. He wanted to be sure his mate would survive, first.”

Azriel's chest tightened a fraction at his shadows’ words.

Feyre and Rhys stared into each other's eyes for a moment, lost in their silent conversation. The High Lady turned from her mate to face Nesta and her son before she spoke. “Nyx. His name is Nyx.”

Nesta nodded approvingly, whispering softly at her nephew, her smile even brighter.

“A fitting name for the Night Prince." The Little Ones prompted. “A name who will be celebrated as just and powerful. Who will love and be loved for many centuries to come.” They gave another of their eerie prophecy-like comments, but one he felt wasn’t foreboding for a change. No, it was a promise, a warning from his shadowy friends and from the bowels of his own mind. That he would fight for this child and his future until his dying breath, and that same vow would be kept by all who witnessed this miracle birth.

He looked at the discarded Dead Trove on the ground. The name sounded comically inaccurate after they’d been used to stop the deaths of people he loved and all the misery that would follow. So much fighting and hate had surrounded the objects along the centuries, but he saw them in a different light for the first time. They were tools, simply meant to be used, not inherently evil or twisted. Their power had always been sought with greed and ambition, and thus their legacy was one of war and conflict and cruelty. With Nesta as their master this was sure to change, and the thought soothed him. She was fierce and fiery, loyal and brave. She was good, and his chest was bursting with pride for what she had just achieved here by using them. And he had to make sure she knew that. 

Laying on the rug of this bedroom, surrounded by so many happy tears, the objects were the most unimportant things in this place. But they still needed to be secured, and his High Lord and Lady had better priorities than giving orders at the moment, so it fell upon himself to see things done while they enjoyed their son. Something he would never complain about, knowing how close he came to losing them all. 

He walked silently towards Mor and asked gently for her to winnow the Made objects back to their safekeeping places. She nodded, wiping her tears with shaky hands and gathering the Trove. She gave a final teary eyed glance to Nyx before winnowing away.

Nesta raised her head from Nyx, carefully beckoning Cassian over and handing the boy to his Loud Brother, who now seemed hellbent in being anything but, holding the tiny heir with quiet diligence. She smiled back at Feyre one more time and headed for the door. Azriel waited for her to cross the threshold and followed right behind.

“Nesta.” His voice was hoarser than he expected, but he didn’t mind. If there was ever a right moment to wear his heart on his sleeve, this was most certainly it.

Lady Death turned back to him, a slightly confused expression in her face.

“Thank you, Lady who sent Death away. Thank you, Lady Life.” His shadows quipped in the back of his mind. They knew she couldn’t hear them, but it didn’t erase the echoing feelings from their Singer.

Azriel smiled internally. That’s a much more appropriate name. The Shadowsinger wondered for a second what he wanted to say to her as well, but settled for simplicity over poetry. 

“Thank you, Nesta.” He said earnestly. “Thank you for saving them. You worked a miracle here, and I’ll forever be in your debt.” He’d always had respect for the female, even coming to admire her after she beckoned the priestesses and Emerie to train. Today, that admiration had increased tenfold. He could never hope to repay her for what she did, but he could still show his gratitude to the best of his abilities.

A small tremor ran through her body. She raised her tear-stained face and smiled gingerly before speaking. “You don’t have to thank me, Azriel. I-”

“Don’t.” He interrupted, “You saved them. You. Saved. Them.” He would never, ever, let her downplay what she’d accomplished. “You saved me, and you saved this entire Court from ruin. Don’t you ever forget that.” His words were fierce, but their message was softer than most things he ever said. “Because I won’t forget it, sister.” The last word felt natural on his tongue, just like his shadows felt natural on his shoulders. 

Her face twisted with too many emotions at his words, and more tears fell from her eyes. She didn’t answer, but wordlessly stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, pressing her face against his chest. He was caught by surprise, but quickly hugged her back, touched by the gesture. She was still covered in blood and dirt, but he didn’t mind it in the slightest. They stayed like this for a few minutes, and he used that time to send his shadows out and pinpoint the other Chosen Sisters location. He’d bet his wings it was after them she’d been intent on going when she left the bedroom.

He released his hold on her body, but still rested his mottled hands in her arms, bracing her unsteady feet. She must be exhausted. She sniffled two times before drying her tears and beaming at him, just like she had at Nyx. 

He grinned back. “Gwyn and Emerie are in a room facing the river. Follow the corridor and turn left twice. Third door to the right.” He spoke, his voice back to his even tone.

She nodded in appreciation and turned, walking with quick steps through the corridors. He watched her go before turning in the opposite direction, content on making sure she knew how he valued her.

He stalked down the hallway in search of Nuala and Cerridwen next. The shadows had informed him they were preparing pastries in the kitchen, and Azriel desperately needed to know if anything else of importance had transpired in Prythian in his absence. He normally would sift through the mass of reports that magically arrived on his desk or discuss matters directly with his High Lord, but he figured his brother deserved some reprieve to enjoy his son and mate’s presence undisturbed. And frankly, he wasn’t sure he could sit still to concentrate on reading documents even if he wanted to, so a verbal briefing would have to do.

He opened the double doors to the half-wraith twins carefully moulding trays of sweet breads on the marble countertop, their dark hands covered in powdered sugar and sticky paste. They looked up from their work simultaneously and smiled subtly at him. They were his most skilled spies, but the household affairs seemed to please them greatly, and he couldn’t blame them.

“Nuala, Cerridwen.” He nodded in greeting. “I was hoping you could debrief me of anything that happened while I was away, if you have the time.”

“Of course, Spymaster.” They answered in unison and faced him completely, abandoning the dough. 

“There was a new development with Beron-” Nuala started.

“-that followed your departure.” And Cerridwen continued, showing their habit of intertwining one another’s sentences.

“The reports from the Autumn Court contacts-”

“-didn’t mention any unusual movement in The Forest House, but apparently Beron justified-”

“-Eris’ continued absence as a planned trip to the Continent. He most likely played a part on the heir’s capture-” 

“-and is aware of his traitorous relationship with the Night Court.” The twins voice became somber as they spoke. 

Azriel clicked his tongue. This complicated things. Beron chose to be discreet about it to his Court, but if he suspects of Eris involvement with the Inner Circle, the heir will be in great danger once he returns home unscathed. He wasn’t thrilled about wasting a week of his time rescuing the male just for him to die right after, and within Autumn of all places. As much as he loathed the prospect, he needed to talk to Eris and plan their next steps.

“Anything else I should know?” He asked.

The twins shook their heads in denial and answered in unison. “No other major occurrences to report, Spymaster.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to your baking.” He gave them a polite smile and turned to leave, closing the white doors behind him.

The smell of honey and jasmine were first to hit him. He snapped his neck to the left and came face to face with Elain, frozen on the outside of the kitchen, probably on her way to make something special to her still breathing younger sister.

She stared into his eyes for a couple of seconds, and he expected her to bolt or excuse herself, like she’d done whenever they crossed paths these last months. For better or worse, she didn’t.

Instead she visibly relaxed her shoulders, letting out a shaky breath, and her expression turned more determined, a polite smile gracing her features. The first one she’d offered him since Solstice.

“Hi, Azriel.” Her voice was a bit heavy from all the stress they’d just been through, but remained firm nonetheless.

He put up his mask of neutrality, which came to him as naturally as breathing. “Hi, Elain.”

She hesitated for a second before speaking. “Do you mind if we… talk? In private?” Her eyes fell a bit, betraying too many emotions. Hope, fear. Mostly sadness. 

His heartbeat spiked. Fuck, I’m not in the right headspace for this, but I can’t just keep avoiding her forever. He waited for the input his thoughts were normally accompanied by, but none came. His shadows had abandoned him, and he was alone to deal with this, whatever it was.

The Shadowsinger steeled himself. He wasn’t eager to have this conversation, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. So he nodded, following her to one of the nearby empty parlors.

Both entered, and he closed the door behind him. He remained standing, putting a good distance between him and the middle Archeron. The tall windows shone the morning light into the luxurious yet comfy room, decorated much akin to the remainder of the River House. Warm colors graced the walls and rugs on the floorboards, and cushioned seats were scattered in a circle on the center of the room, all equipped with slots for winged fae to sit comfortably. Ironic, since comfortable was the last thing he was feeling right now.

The air was cloyingly heavy, full of tension of the worst kind. He hadn’t prepared for this. If he was being sincere, he hadn’t thought about Elain at all, at least not for a while. He hadn’t even noticed the change, all his desire for her quickly smothered once he realised how twisted the motivation of his attraction was.

And it dawned on him now how unfair he’d been with her, pining for her like he had, just to leave her hanging. To tell her it had been a mistake, and then fucking disappear. He cringed internally. I’m an idiot. It had been a mistake, but not for the reasons she probably believed he meant. He needed to explain, to clear the air between them.

He took a deep breath and started. “Elain-”

“Azriel-”. They spoke at the same time, interrupting one another. 

He acquiesced, cleaning his throat. “You first.” He hoped that hearing what she had to say could give him a hint on how to solve this mess. He was so damn incompetent when it came to speaking about his feelings, it was nearly laughable. His shadows had become crutches over the centuries, able to read the lies and emotions of everyone around him like open books. He hadn’t needed to develop a sense of the right thing to say to the people that he cared about, always choosing to remain silent. Now he was left terribly unprepared to face the Bright Seer.

Elain nodded, bracing herself as well. This wasn’t easy for her either, it seemed. 

“I wanted to apologize to you, Azriel, for what happened at Solstice. For getting everything wrong between us. We were getting along so well, and I felt so comfortable when I was near you…” She took slow, steading breaths between each sentence, but couldn’t stop her voice from getting a little more frantic with each word that left her mouth. “Our eyes were always meeting, and you looked at me with such intensity, it made me feel all those wonderful things.” She shook her head slightly, and her doe eyes filled with disappointment. 

It gutted him to see her like that, but he wouldn’t avert his gaze. He deserved her contempt. 

“And it was exactly what I wanted, Azriel.” Elain carried on, her words pouring desperately out of her. “It was what I needed. I needed to feel something, anything again, and I ruined our friendship with my foolishness.” She frowned, her face falling further. “I didn’t want Lucien then, and I don’t want him now, and I was desperate to prove myself that. To prove to myself that I-” She sobbed “- that I could still make a choice of my own, have a semblance of control over my life.” She lifted her honeyed eyes to his face, brimmed with tears. “I wanted to feel loved, and I wanted it to be you because of how dedicated and kind you’ve been to me over the last two years and I…” She gasped a heavy breath. “You were there for me when I needed the most. You rescued me, and you listened to my rambles when I was confused and lost in my visions. You grounded me and you saw me beyond the madness that everyone thought I was falling in.” 

She stopped her fast spilling words, and her eyes filled with softness. Somehow it was even worse for him to watch. He didn’t deserve any good natured sentiment for what he’d done, what he’d felt for her at the time. 

After another second of heavy sobs, she resumed speaking. “I’m sorry for ruining that, Azriel, and I’m sorry for running away like I did. I didn’t know how to act near you, and I was so ashamed-” She sniffled, her voice finally breaking. “I miss you. I miss you a lot, and I don’t want things to be estranged between us. I want my friend back.” A few tears slipped and her lip trembled, but her eyes were full of hope. “Will you please forgive me?”

Azriel was stunned. Here he stood, receiving an apology he never deserved in the first place, from a female that had nothing but kindness to give to a cowardly bastard such as him.

He stepped closer to her. “You have nothing to apologize for, Elain. It’s me who should be begging for your forgiveness.” He opened his mouth to continue, but came out blank. He didn’t know how to put his feelings into words, especially now that he felt like shit for doing this to her. He grinded his teeth, desperately searching for the right thing to say. Elain’s tears hadn’t stopped falling, but she didn’t balk from him, didn’t run away. She only waited, just like he’d waited for her to spill her piece.

He needed to tell her everything. She deserved the truth, so the truth was what he would give her.

“You didn’t get anything wrong. I wanted you, Elain, but...” He paused, thinking where to start, how to make her understand how she wasn’t in the wrong for wanting what she did. “I’ve been alone for a long time. And seeing Rhysand and Cassian with your sisters…” He braced for the bitter truth, for the disgust she was sure to feel from his words. “I was jealous, and angry. I wanted to believe the Cauldron was wrong. How couldn’t it be? Two of my brothers were mated with two of your sisters…” He raised his eyes to meet her face, the shame burning within him. “...I felt entitled to you, Elain.” He paused, unsure on how to make his point clear. “I wanted you, but not in the way that you deserve. I wanted to be loved, too, and I saw you as a means to that end. What I felt for you wasn’t love. It was… misguided. A desire that I hoped would eventually turn into true affection, into something meaningful.” His mask started to fall while he spoke, little by little showing the disgust he felt for himself. “I envied Lucien, and I didn’t want to respect your wishes. I just wanted to be the one you were bonded with instead. I was a fool, and I could never give you what you truly deserved.” 

He closed his eyes, unable to withstand her unreadable look. “I’m a horrible male, Elain. It’s not a coincidence I’ve been alone for as long as I have. I regret leading you on like this and ruining the friendship we had. You did nothing wrong. I’m the only one to blame, and I’m truly sorry.”

His eyes were still tightly shut while Azriel braced himself for her to break, to scream at him, to throw something at his face, to slap or punch him, to tell him all the horrible things she surely wanted to say after hearing all of this. He was almost eager for it. To be held accountable for his selfishness. He’d take it all gladly, if only to atone for his disgusting behavior. 

Her rage, her spite, her scorn.

He deserved it all.

But no scream came. No hateful words and no angry fists to his chest or face. 

He slowly opened his eyes, looking up to meet her stare.

Silent tears ran down her face, but she was smiling. Smiling. She gave a few tentative steps toward him, standing close, but not too close. “I don’t think you’re a horrible male, Azriel. Far from it. I was drawn to you because of how gently you treated me. You didn’t give up on me, and I’m grateful for it. I understand why you were jealous of what your brothers and my sisters have. I’d thought about that too, before Solstice. How it would be perfect if you were chosen for me, not him. I believed I would be able to accept it then, but I’m not really sure I would…” She seemed to get lost in thought for a moment, before speaking up again, her sobs entirely gone. “My forgiveness is yours, Azriel, for I did exactly the same. I just hope you can forgive me, too.” She looked at him expectantly.

She didn’t even need to ask.

“I still don’t believe you did anything wrong, Elain, but if it will calm your mind, then yes, of course I forgive you.” He felt his chest fill with lightness. This was good. He’d managed to not completely fuck something up for what felt like the first time in his very long, miserable life. No more avoiding family dinners like the plague or giving anxious stares across the table. Still, it took him more willpower than he was willing to admit to raise his elbow for her to hold, self-doubt still burning in the back of his mind.

“Friends?” He asked, a small, tentative smile tugging at his lips.

She took his arm in a graceful movement, drying her wet cheeks with her free hand and smiling back at him. “Friends.” She answered, her voice once again steady.

They left the parlor with slow steps, happy to have mended what they’d lost over a courtship doomed from the start. They stayed in companionable silence for the first few corridors, but he felt more than saw a small tension building in her arm as they walked. He glanced towards her, and she had a slight crease between her brows.

“Is everything alright?” He asked.

She startled, but quickly answered. “Yes, everything is fine. More than fine. It’s just…” She hesitated again, and the Shadowsinger simply waited for her to gather the courage to speak. 

“What happened to the necklace?” She asked, sounding a bit remorseful. 

Azriel grimaced. He’d hoped she’d forgotten about the cursed thing, but that luck was beyond him. “I found it abandoned on the present pile the morning after. I figured you didn’t want it, so I returned it to the jeweler.” He spoke in a soothing tone, trying to not upset her again.

He searched her eyes for hints of hurt, but found none. After a small pause, she nodded in understanding. “I see. It was a beautiful gift, and I shouldn’t have just discarded it like I did. But, to be honest, I’m glad that you gave it back.” She gave a little reassuring squeeze on his arm, and he smiled softly at her.

He thought back about the necklace, at how he wanted her to have something of his, to claim her in a way. A gift given for all the wrong reasons, and swiftly dealt with before it could cause more harm. “I’m glad I did it, too.”  

He couldn’t help but picture the teal pendant he bought for Gwyn that same day. Something beautiful, with no strings attached to himself. Something to bring her joy, and nothing more. 

Something of secret, lovely beauty. 

The warm light in his chest stirred a fraction., and his desire to see the Lovely Priestess grew stronger.

“What you said about yourself being a horrible male…” Elain started speaking again, without hesitation this time.

Azriel frowned, losing his train of thought, which had just diverged to an adorable pair of shining teal eyes. His wretchedness wasn’t a topic he was fond of discussing, simply because it stung to dwell on.

But Elain didn’t notice his discomfort. “I think you should give yourself a chance at something real, Azriel.” She stopped walking and stared into his eyes. “You deserve happiness as much as your brothers do, and you don’t need a stupid fae bond to have it. Do you understand?” She was fervorous in her speech, probably more incisive than anything he’d ever heard leaving her mouth. “You deserve to be loved, not because the Mother or the Cauldron said so, but because you were chosen by someone else. That’s what I’ll keep searching for, and that’s what I believe you deserve, too.”

Azriel didn’t need his shadows to know she was telling him something she wholeheartedly believed to be true. That she needed to believe for herself.

Deep down, he wanted to believe it too.

He silently nodded, far too stunned to answer, and they resumed their walk back towards their joyful family.

They arrived in Feyre’s bedroom, and Elain gave his arm a small squeeze before returning to the bedside, while Azriel came to stand beside Cassian. His shadows slowly appeared over his shoulders, the distance between him and the Bright Seer now bearable for them to lurk. 

Alas, they lost no time to start pestering him.

“Congratulations on speaking your truth, Singer. We are proud.”

No thanks to you. He answered half-jokingly. He was a little bitter about them leaving him hanging, but he knew it wasn’t by choice, so he wouldn’t be bothered. Besides, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself as well.

The shadowy ones ignored his mean comment. “The Bright Seer is right, Friend. We know she is, just like you should. You deserve to be loved for who you are, just like we love you.”

He cringed internally. I was hoping you would not bring that up again. Now I’m left to think that hope is for fools and madmales.

“Stubborn Bat.” They chastised him, but quickly deflected to a topic that interested them fully. “When are we going to see the Lovely Priestess? We want to see her, we want to bask in her warmth!”

Soon. Let Nesta be with her Chosen Sisters in peace. We’ll go when she returns, and we'll see her if she wants to see us.

His shadows agreed, but were not happy. They wanted to be with Gwyn, to be certain that she was truly fine. If he was being honest with himself, he desperately wanted so, too. But the Valkyries had just left a warzone, and he wished to give them any time and space they might need to settle. He owned them that much after failing to stop their kidnapping in the first place.

He looked to the side, trying to distract himself from thoughts of the Lovely Priestess. 

His brother was one step away from melting into a loving puddle from holding Nyx. Azriel couldn’t even tease him for it, because he would probably be looking very much the same if he was in his shoes. The little boy was adorable, already having the most powerful fae in Prythian wrapped around his chubby little finger. 

A shame I wasn’t made to hold anything so precious.

“You’ve got no idea how much trouble this one is going to get in.” Cassian said.

Feyre laughed while Rhys only gave a weak smile. 

“Those pretty eyes are going to be trouble magnets, I’m sure.” She said.

The shadowy ones stirred. “Lady Life is returning. Now is our chance to go, Singer!”

Azriel smiled internally. Of course they’d been monitoring her movements. Little Busybodies. 

He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, but he shared his shadows' enthusiasm.

Nesta opened the doors, her outfit still betraying the fighting she’d been through. But before Azriel could even shift in his spot and give a single step towards the door, she threw a meaningful look towards Cassian, and his Loud Brother turned to him, extending Nyx in silent request.

Azriel went completely still, his face freezing with coldness while panic seized his body. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his arms and nestle the sweet bundle.

His shadowy friends felt his fear and tried to reassure him, to no avail. “Your nephew will not recoil from your touch, Singer.”

He didn’t believe them. He felt the blood of five centuries of torture drenching his hands, his arms, his legs, his teeth. He was drowning in an ocean of pain, and he couldn’t drag this thing full of innocence to the depths. 

He was filthy. Twisted. Unclean. 

No one in their right mind should ever let a baby near him, let alone ask him to hold one. He felt the shadows gathering at his back. Someone else would take his nephew if he wasn’t there to-

Cassian didn’t give him the chance to refuse, swiftly putting the tiny heir into his arms.

Azriel flinched. 

The mottled tissue of his burn scars formed an unholy halo over the poor baby’s head as he gripped him as gently as he could. Something inside of him cracked and healed a thousand times over at the sight, his nephew weightless in his hold, yet unburdened by the horrors of living.

Nyx didn’t cry for his mother or wail in fear of him like he expected. Didn’t feel the damp crimson that stained his soul. He was simply staring at him, his eyes like the evening sea, made of deep blue and full of stars. His tiny velvety wings twitched, the talons and hard bones missing, at least for the time being.

The Brooding Brother was mesmerized. The baby moved his arms in little arches, his white bundle of blankets a stark contrast to the dark presence of the Shadowsinger, like the white sands over the dark shores of the Night Court.

Azriel let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and the world followed its natural pace once again. He blinked, freed from his fleeting spiral, and started to rock Nyx back and forth, his nephew’s movements promptly diminishing, soothed by the motion.

His shadows floated down his shoulders, circling the young one in a smoky embrace and dancing in front of his face. He could swear those blue dots sparkled in response. The baby slowly closed his eyes, his breath a mere whisper. He felt safe, even while resting on his ruined skin, and that made Azriel’s throat clog with emotion.

Little Nyx. A miracle baby. My nephew. Sleeping on his arms like they weren’t made only to slaughter and maim. Like they were capable of bringing comfort instead of agony.

This was perhaps one of the happiest moments of his whole Cauldron damned life.

He stared at the drowsy heir for another minute before turning to give him back to his High Lady.  He slowly placed Nyx on Feyre’s arms, who smiled warmly at him. He gave a single kiss on her cheek and made his way out, nodding to his brother.

He let his emotions settle before he surrendered himself to the wanting deep in his bones.

“Yes!” His shadows began wavering with excitement. “Let us find who we missed the most!”

Azriel wandered through the corridors the same way he had indicated to Nesta a few minutes prior. He was so glad, and for so many things, it was hard to even process it all. His steps were hurried as he passed through the halls filled with paintings from memories of his High Lady and the Inner Circle. 

He and his Brothers, bloody and beaten on Ramiel. He had to ask her to paint the Chosen Sisters as well.  

Rhysand and Feyre, side by side on their thrones. Perhaps a painting of Cassian and Nesta passionately kissing on the Pass of Enalius beside it would be fitting.

The windows outside revealed a sight almost as endearing. Her and the General snuggled on the lawn in the backside of the property, facing the river bathed in sunlight.

Azriel slowly absorbed all these small pieces of happiness, doing the opposite of brooding for a change. 

He arrived at the front door of the waiting room Gwyn and Emerie were supposed to be. His nerves suddenly attacked him, and he became hesitant to disturb the females. But his shadowy friends wouldn’t let him back out now, and neither did he want to.

He knocked softly before he could change his mind. Once, then twice.

“Come in.” Her clear voice was muffled through the wooden door, but it still sounded like music to his ears.

He twisted the handle, stepping into the room. It was similar to the parlor he’d just been, but some of the cushioned seats had been favored for a sleek table, with a porcelain pot and steaming cups. His gaze drifted to the far end of the sofa…

And there she was, sipping tea. 

His knees threatened to buckle at the wave of emotion that overwhelmed him. It had been only one week, but it felt like he died and came back, only to stumble upon her in this new, wonderful life, full of warmth and joy, so strange to him. He managed to stay on his feet and not make a fool of himself. Barely.

Gywneth was sitting on a comfy sofa on the opposite end, enjoying one of the simple pleasures of being, now that the hellish ordeal was over. Emerie was nowhere to be seen.

The Lovely Priestess looked… fine. If one could summarize breathtakingly beautiful as fine, that is.

Her clothes were bloody and full of dirt like Nesta’s, but she didn’t have a single scratch on her perfect skin. Healed, just like he and his brothers were when they touched the monolith and turned Carynthian. He didn’t move to enter the room or approach her. He just stood at the door like a dark statue, taking in every single detail. Her teal eyes looked at him with the same curious energy they always bore, and he stared at the freckles framing every inch of her gorgeous features. Her head inclined a fraction in silent questioning of his lack of words, making her coppery hair slide from her shoulders and capture the sunlight in a molten river of metal. Her rosy lips finally turned up into a heavenly smile, and he felt his treacherous heart stutter inside his chest.

His Little Ones rushed from his shoulders, surrounding the Priestess in a cheerful cloud.

“The Lovely Priestess is back! The Lovely Priestess is safe! The Lovely Priestess is fine!”

They continued chanting in his head, spinning around her like children in a playground. Gwyn let out soft giggles at their antics, running her hands through their ethereal forms.

“I missed you too, Little Ones.” Her eyes sparkled. “And it seems like you’re the only ones that missed me at all, since your Singer has yet to speak a single word of greeting.”

She looked back at him with a wicked expression.

A teasing grin slowly spread through his face in response. Oh, how I’ve missed this…

“I’m afraid my lack of eloquence still stands. I think I need some time to get used to teasing you again, Priestess.”

She snickered. “Truly hopeless, I see. It’s a good thing I’m back, then. How would the almighty Shadowsinger practice his fabled conversation skills if I were to disappear?”

He raised an eyebrow at her, making a conscious effort not to let his cheerful expression fall. “How, indeed.” 

The thought of her demise made his heart ache painfully, but he ignored it. She was right in front of him, and he wouldn’t waste a single moment of their time with what if’s. The shadows had settled in her lap, and she resumed petting them absentmindedly, just like the last time when they sat on the edge of the training ring.

He gathered all his five hundred years of courage, and took a step towards her. Followed by another. And another.

All the while he kept watching, finely tuned to every little reaction she could give him. Azriel wasn’t a fool. She’d just returned from the Blood fucking Rite. There was no way of knowing what had trespassed inside that damned place, what unspeakable things she and her Sisters had gone through. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable with his presence. 

But she didn’t seem to mind. There was only curiosity and restlessness behind those big teal pools, and each step made his heart pound a bit faster. He finally settled on the sofa beside her while she looked at him, unafraid. Her sweet cinnamon smell floated around him, muted by the grime that covered her, but still present enough to make him hold back a shudder at the fragrance. At how right it felt to his senses.

He had so much to say, so much to tell her. How he went nearly mad in her absence and prayed every night for her safe return. How it made him notice just how much he needed her light, how much he cared for her. But none of that mattered beyond the single truth worth sharing, boiled down to a simple sentence.

“I missed you, Gwyn.”

The confession was a whisper, barely audible at all. He almost believed he hadn't actually said it out loud. It was a quiet plea, raw and loaded with so much emotion, even his shadows stilled at his words.

She stared into his hazel eyes, the silence stretching between them. His heart hammered in his chest, waiting for her answer.

Ever so slowly she reached out her hand, grabbing his own in a tender hold and grinding his riotous heart to a screeching halt.

“I missed you too, Azriel.”

His name on her lips threatened to undo him. He knew, the moment the words had left her mouth, that he was in too deep. That no matter what he thought about himself, he couldn’t ignore the tidal wave that crashed inside his chest.

He'd fallen for her, and there was no amount of denial in the world that would change that.

How long had he yearned for something as simple as this? To hold hands without fear, without doubt. It was something so casual, yet so intimate. The Priestess squeezed his fingers with her own, and his heartstrings coiled in answer. He was staring at their joined hands, and before he could reign in the urge, he started rubbing his thumb in a soothing line along her knuckles. She was here, she was real. It tethered and grounded him, to finally touch her skin instead of his own tattoo in comfort.

He couldn’t see it, too focused on the constellations of freckles in the back of her hand, but she was smiling, a soft blush settling on her face over their small contact. The shadows, busybodies as they were, noticed right away, and were more than happy to witness in silence. They knew not to say anything and ruin the moment.

Gwyn shifted in her seat and placed her other hand over his. He froze his movements, searching her eyes for anything amiss. But she only wanted to draw his attention before speaking.

“While I was there, inside that horrible place…” She started. “I thought about a lot of things, and came to a decision. There’s something I want to do. Many things, actually.” She stared intently in his eyes, as if waiting for him to confirm he was listening.

“Should I be concerned?” He quipped, the corner of his lip turning up.

She let out a strangled laugh, but promptly answered. “Perhaps you should, Shadowsinger, since I’m about to ask for your help to achieve them.”

“You have it, Priestess.” Azriel didn’t need to think twice, didn’t even blink.

She raised a brow. “Just like that? You won’t even ask me what this is about? I could say we’re off to kill some fairies, you know.” She said teasingly.

He scoffed. 

“Say how many, and I’ll set an order to carve out their gravestones.” He answered not-so-jokingly. Perhaps she didn’t understand the urge he had to fly to that mountain and be by her side, but he needed to make sure she knew he wanted to. “I would’ve slaughtered all the males in that damned Rite if I could, Gwyn. If I weren’t the Spymaster, I would’ve done so.” 

She didn’t seem surprised by his violent answer. She just nodded, her face neutral. “I appreciate the sentiment, Shadowsinger. Unfortunately for you, what I want has nothing to do with murder.”

Azriel grinned. “Pity.”

She smiled briefly, but scolded her features to a more serious state before speaking again. “I was alone for almost three days in the Rite, and the only thing that kept me alive was the training you and Cassian gave us. I barely managed to survive, and I would for sure be very much dead if it weren’t for Nesta and Emerie.” Her eyes were glossy while speaking of them, but she pushed on. “I don’t want to be scared anymore, Azriel. I don’t want to feel like I’m wasting the life that was given to me by my sister's sacrifice. To come this close to dying and keep hiding afterwards.”

She paused, locking their eyes with a charged stare. “I want to leave the Library. I want to experience Velaris and actually live, instead of surviving within stone walls. I want to walk into a bookstore and leave with my own books, not just borrow them. I want to wake up in the morning and buy a pastry in a bakery down the street. I want to hear people sing.” Her words were measured, but full of emotion, and each sentence that she spoke filled Azriel with insurmountable happiness.

“Those are all wonderful wishes, Gwyn.” He placed his other hand over hers gently, and now they both faced each other on the sofa. “And I will help you in whatever way I can.”

She nodded, looking down to their piled hands, and he suddenly realized how close they were. Her intoxicating smell had only turned stronger around him, the blood on his veins heating profusely, a slight blush covering his tanned cheeks. He made to back away, to give them both some space, but she held him firmly, looking back to his eyes.

He didn’t know what she’d seen, but it made her give one of her shining smiles, so he didn’t care.

“There’s one more thing I want, too” She whispered, her teal eyes half-lidded.

His shadows stilled at her words. Azriel’s heartbeat started thundering so loudly in his chest, he was certain she could hear it. 

He swallowed. “And what is that, Priestess?” His words were hoarse, down a few octaves from his natural tone.

Gwyn inclined forward a fraction, and a totally different kind of panic ravaged the Shadowsinger.

Her smile turned mischievous, as beautiful as it was infuriating. “Don’t you dare think it’s going to be that easy to extract my secrets, Shadowsinger.”

It took him a couple of paralyzed seconds to notice that was all she was sharing. He sighed, leaning back against the sofa, his heartbeat gradually returning to healthy standards. He was going to actually die one of these days.

She roved her thumb over his mottled knuckles just like he’d done before, her playful smile never fading. “This feels nice.” She stated, and he couldn’t help being acutely aware of the contact between their opposite skins. Light and dark, freckled and scarred, clean and stained.

Azriel relaxed, the fear of overstepping leaving him with his breathing. He agreed with her, just not with the same intensity. Having her hands on his wasn’t just nice. It was life-changing. But perhaps it wasn’t appropriate for her to hear that, so he settled on a simple, “It does.” 

She caressed his hands one more time before untangling them and rising from the cushioned seat. “Well, I guess we might as well start our tour today.” She said, stretching her arms above her head and letting out a content sigh. “Point me to the nearest bath, Shadowsinger, and grab me some clean clothes.” She waved a lazy hand at him, speaking with a mocking royal tone. “Rejoice, for you shall be my escort for this afternoon, and many more to come!”

Azriel let out a deep laugh and rose as well. “Your wish is my command, Priestess.” He gave the smiling Priestess a mock bow and sent his shadows to find her the items she requested. 

This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

The Little Hooligans were thrilled to be of use to their Lovely Priestess. Azriel guided her to one of the many, many empty guest rooms in the Riverhouse, where the shadows had scoured the wardrobes and found a multitude of clothes for her to choose from. Their steps were unhurried along the corridors, the silence amicable as they walked side by side.

The Shadowsinger’s hand itched for her calloused skin, but he refrained himself from giving in to temptation. He’d respect her space, and would not touch her without her permission or initiative. He survived five centuries without holding hands, surely he could do without it.

If only It was that simple.

The moment came and passed, but it left its mark on him. Now that he’d felt the exhilarating feeling of the Priestess gentle touch, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t get enough.

Which was fucking absurd.

He was a five centuries old male, not a blushing teenage boy in the Illyrian camps. And yet his mind replayed their proximity in loops, and every time he could feel his heart pick up the pace, the sensation of Gwyn’s hands engraved on him like a holy brand.

The Shadowsinger wasn’t a saint. He knew his ways around pleasure and had plenty of sexual adventures over the years, with males and females alike. But those had been just that. Sex, without compromise or connection, simply two fae looking for release and a few hours of distraction. It hadn’t meant anything for him. Ordinary contact was uncommon, but not impossible, and it was something he’d grown accustomed over time. He’d just hugged Nesta and walked arm-in-arm with Elain without feeling anything special about it. But this had been different. There was something else between him and the Priestess. A charged energy, an anticipation in the air. It wasn’t sexual in the slightest, but it had been special, and it scared him. His shadows had been clear when they said she didn’t want to be just friends, and now that he realized the feeling was mutual, even if he knew he should keep his distance…

Azriel was fucked.

He couldn’t step away from her if he wanted to. Which he really didn’t, despite what he’d tried to convince himself. Her absence had left a gaping wound in his life, and now that she was close to him again, he couldn’t ignore the stubborn feelings that took root in his withered heart. He felt ridiculous and inadequate. Simply being near her made him lose his train of thought. He didn’t know how to act, how to get around these feelings of wanting to be close to her, but dreading to make her uncomfortable. All he knew was that he needed to be careful. He didn’t want to make the same mistakes he’d done before, jumping at the first opportunity to show his interest like the bastard starved for affection he was.

In that moment he made an important decision. If courting was a dance, as many courtiers would preach, he would let her lead them and only take what she offered, whatever that happened to be. She could decide what she really wanted, and he would be there for her, matching her steps. He knew not to let himself expect it to work. Knew that she deserved much better than him. But he only hoped to be left with some pieces of his heart after she realized this as well.

---

The Shadowsinger waited on the outside of the guest bedroom for what felt like an eternity. His shadows played with his hair and spun around his wings, content in the knowledge the Lovely Priestess was two doors away.

“We must plan something special, Singer. Our Priestess wishes to know the City of Starlight! It needs to be perfect!”

Azriel chuckled internally at their eagerness. You can settle down. I already have some places in mind.

“We are being serious, Singer! You can’t hope to just walk her out of here without a care in the world!”

I can, and I will. You need to remember she hasn’t left the Library in over two years. The last thing I want is to overwhelm her.

His shadows stilled, considering his words. “You are not totally wrong, for a change. Though we will not be left out of this matter.”

His shadows started wavering in place like they did when they were seeing things out of his reach. Azriel didn’t doubt they were turning the city upside down in search of the perfect activity. As endearing as it was, he knew he should reign them in, lest they decide to make a festival out of it.

Drop it, Little Ones. I know where we’re going, and that’s not changing.

His shadows ignored him, and he audibly sighed. They could be pretty stubborn when it came to her.

“We would not trust you to entertain a sleeping dog, Singer, let alone our Lovely Priestess! This is important, it needs to be flawless!”

Azriel tried to reason with them again. You’re overthinking it. She hasn’t seen any of the things the city has to offer. Everything will be new, and anything can quickly become too much. We’ll start small and test the waters from there.

The shadows seethed. “Have you not learnt your lesson, Singer? The Lovely Priestess has already told you she is not made of glass! She survived the Blood Rite and became Carinthyan. She will not be pleased with your coddling!”

Then I will take my chances with her wrath! He barked internally, finally losing his temper. His thoughts were clear, and he was not willing to give up ground on this, not even to the Stubborn Ones. She may be one of the bravest fae I know, but the enemy in the mirror is the hardest one to face. I know that too damn well, and so do you. I’d rather she get mad at my coddling than hurt by my lack of consideration.

His shadows absorbed his thoughts and didn’t comment further, finally relenting to their Singer’s will.

As if on cue, he heard the soft steps of the Priestess behind the wooden door.

At last, Gwyn emerged. She wore a simple white summer dress, long and with a high neckline, modest by most fae standards, but so fitting for her. The slightly damp hair was unbound around her head like a fiery crown, and all her natural features were brought out by the piece, with her constellations of freckles creating a beautiful contrast against the light fabric. It was the first time he’d ever seen her in casual clothing, and now he was convinced she would be stunning wearing a burlap sack.

She eyed him curiously, but it quickly gained a teasing spark. “Pick your jaw up the floor, Shadowsinger. You’re staring.”

He snapped out of his admiring session. “Forgive me, my lady. I just have never seen you so at ease before, and it made me forget my manners.” He mimicked the voice of the loyal escort, bowing to his waist, straightening up after a courtly pause. He couldn’t help drinking in the sight of her on his way up.

“You look adorable.” The compliment slipped from his lips without a drop of mockery.

Gwyn smiled brightly, her cheeks staining with color. “Well, thank you, my loyal escort. It seems your eloquence is not such a lost cause, after all.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I happen to know a certain Priestess dead set on making me an adequate conversationalist. Or a good parrot, depending on how you see it.” 

She giggled, a sound as sweet as any honeybun he’d ever tasted. “And she happens to be doing a wonderful job.” She stepped to his side and locked their arms in a fluid motion, right before assuming her mock patronizing tone. “Now, lead the way, Brooding Parrot. Let us see what Velaris has to offer.”

The small contact between them sent a kaleidoscope of butterflies swarming in his stomach. As the Shadowsinger guided them through the corridors and stairway of the River House, a secretive smile tugged on the corner of his lips. 

He stopped just short of the threshold to the front yard and beyond. “If at any moment you become uncomfortable or simply want to return, I’ll winnow us away, no question asked. Just say the word, and we’ll go straight back here or to the House of Wind.” He made sure to keep his voice gentle. He hoped she would understand there would be no judgment from him. Never from him.

She squeezed his forearm. “I will. Thank you, Azriel. I would’ve gone out on my own sooner or later, but… It’s much better to be in good company.” Her smile was warm and reassuring, stirring the small light inside of him.

“It is my pleasure, Gwyn.” He answered with honesty, opening the left door and crossing them into the morning spring air. The street was still fairly empty, and the sky was sparsely decorated with fluffy clouds. A beautiful day for most, even if the Shadowsinger preferred them heavily clouded and rainy. “We’ll take a short walk to a nearby bakery. It’s a nice view of the Sidra and the city, and there shouldn’t be too many fae buzzing around this early.”

She nodded, following his lead. 

They walked across the well kept lawn and into the street proper. As Azriel had said, only a few citizens were up this early, mostly merchants and shopkeepers setting up their stalls. The pair walked through the outskirts of the district, on the elevated sidewalk that followed the riverbank. Clear waters reflected the sun gently, inviting a calm and relaxing atmosphere over their stroll. 

Azriel had never cared to admire the small wonders of the place he lived most of his life. Engraved swirls and arabesques filled the railings that contoured the river, with flowing patterns on the stones that made up the pavement. The countless shops and houses weaved together like a patchwork quilt, full of different colors and styles. The whole city was a monumental manifest to art, one the Shadowsinger had always taken for granted. Now, guiding the priestess over the nearly empty streets, he could feel the awe that pulsed from her in waves at the several architectural statements they passed by.

“I never knew how beautiful the city could be down here. There’s tiny artwork everywhere!” She said in a giddy voice, pointing at several engravings and mosaics in quick succession. “I’ve seen depictions of some of those styles in books, but never imagined I’d see them in person. They’re so detailed!”

Her happiness was contagious, and the Brooding Parrot soon caught himself grinning from ear to ear. “I’d never stopped to look too closely at them, but you’re right. The fae who built this clearly poured a lot of love into their work.” 

She beamed at him and nodded enthusiastically. “That’s exactly what I was thinking! Look at these fillings on the handgrips of the railings! It must have taken an eternity to carve them!”

After a few minutes of walking and listening closely to Gwyn’s retelling about the local architectural history, the sidewalk gave way to a rounded plaza, the pattern on the pavement circling around the open space. Twisted wrought iron and cherry wood benches were sided with several trimmed bushes of small flowers. But that wasn’t what really caught the eye.

In the center of the square stood a majestic weeping willow, taller than any of the surrounding buildings. Every inch of its bark was covered by countless vines of blooming wisterias. The drooping purple flowers and green leaves wound around each other like lovers in a tender embrace, almost touching the pavement in their ethereal dance. Some seatings were placed underneath its swaying branches, a perfect cocoon to hide away for when the world felt like too much. Azriel could remember the times when he came here in the middle of the night, plagued by his nightmares, unable to fight against his own festering mind. It helped, then. This was a place of peace and contemplation, and something so utterly beautiful he could think of nothing better to introduce the Lovely Priestess. 

Her words died in her throat as Gwyn stopped dead on her tracks and stared at the wondrous tree, covering her mouth with her free hand, her eyes shining ever brighter. 

They took slow, deliberate steps towards it, admiring the flowing grace of its movements. They reached the edge of its tendrils, breaking through the intertwined vines and letting the clusters of flowers and leaves wash over them like a living waterfall. They tickled Azriel’s wings and some flowers stuck in Gwyn’s hair. She didn’t care to remove them. The innermost branches sloped upwards, leaving a cocoon of space where they could just be, unbothered. The air inside was filled with the rustling greenery, the outer world suddenly turning a lot more quiet. Sunlight barely pierced the veil of foliage, making the interior drowned in a comfortable penumbra.

They sat side by side on a darkened wood bench placed among giant roots. The Shadowsinger looked expectantly at Gwyn's stunned expression. Her eyes shone with marveled light, not unlike how they were during Starfall. He could stare at her like this for hours, letting the gentle euphoria of her joy stir within him. It was exactly the kind of reaction he hoped she’d have. After all, not only the shadows wanted this to be perfect.

“It’s beautiful…” She whispered, her voice betraying a wistfulness that hadn't surfaced until then.

Her gaze was fixed on the waltzing leaves hanging over them, but her eyes were slowly losing focus, as if she wasn’t really staring at the tree any longer, and his apprehension grew with her silence, as he could only imagine where her mind had wandered back to. His shadows stirred lightly against his ears, watching their Lovely Priestess with sympathy.

“This is one of my favorite places in Velaris.” He figured talking with her was the best he could do to help, to try and anchor her to the here and now, in this magical place. “I spent many nights under this tree, enjoying the silence it brought around me.” Their still locked arms rested on the bench between them, and he stared into the tiny dark note on her wrist. “Eventually it silenced my thoughts as well, and I could really be at peace, even if it was only for a few minutes.” He raised his stare back to her face, finding her round eyes already fixated at him, bearing into his soul. “I hope it can help you the same way it does me, Priestess.”

Her expression softened at his words, and she scanned his face with an inquiring gaze before speaking in a low voice. “I've made the right choice asking you to be my guide, Shadowsinger.”

If only he could tell her how much those words meant to him. But he promised he would not get ahead of himself, and the Shadowsinger was nothing but a patient male. So he settled on spurring her to their final destination of the morning.

“Don’t make hasty conclusions, my lady. You have yet to see, or rather taste, the last attraction of our itinerary.” He gave her a mischievous little smile with his knightley impression.

She narrowed her eyes, her neverending curiosity sparking once again. “Is that so? Well, what are we waiting for, then? Let us continue, my dear escort.”

---

They arrived a few minutes later on the doorstep of a cozy building. It stood on the corner of a city block facing the river, with walls of red bricks and lovely stained windows. A colorful metal sign that read ‘Honeyside Bakery’ was hanging above the opened door. A little chimney released a steady column of thin white smoke while a few faeries carried out brown paper bags full of steaming baked goods, the smell of fresh bread wafting pleasantly in the air. 

It was the closest they'd ever gotten to other people on their stroll, and Azriel could feel the increasing apprehension from Gwyn, if her tightening grip on his forearm was any indication. After they left the soothing safety of the weeping willow, more and more fae went about on the streets, making her happy comments and insightful takes became less frequent, until they stopped entirely. This was a bad sign. Azriel placed a gentle scarred hand over her arm while they stood on the outside of the little shop, trying to offer her any support he could.

She smiled meekly at him before closing her eyes and inhaling. “I am the rock against which the surf crashes.” She paused and exhaled slowly. “Nothing can break me.” 

She repeated the exercise until the grip on his arm relaxed and the small frown on her face diminished. She opened her eyes, nodding to herself more than him, and they walked through the threshold together.

The bakery was as organized as he remembered. It had been months, perhaps more than a year since he’d visited this particular establishment. It was an unassuming shop, as he generally preferred, but the sweet and savory smells betrayed the mastery of the owner. A tall, ebony skinned female by the name of Monica, who quickly pounced between the kitchen and the counter, tending to clients and dough with equal grace. He knew she enchanted most of the utensils she used so that they worked half-autonomously, but it still took a great deal of skill to go about all of her activities by herself. The dark wood of the tables and the warm faelights that floated near the rafters gave the place an inviting and relaxed atmosphere. Several different treats and breads lined the showcases, from lemon tarts and small cakes to cheesy garlic breads and sausage rolls. 

A small line of High Fae and Lesser Fairies crowded the counter, so Azriel gently guided the Priestess to a table on the far corner. She was still visibly nervous, her hand slipping from his forearm to his calloused palm, holding firmly. He pulled a chair for her, with its back to the wall, so she could see the exit and the other customers from her seat. He sat facing her, not letting go of her hand for a single second. His scarred thumb traced soothing lines on her knuckles and she flashed him a little grateful smile.

“You needn’t fret, my lady. Monica will take our orders soon.” She glanced back to the female, who was already gathering items on a silver tray. “She is hauntingly competent at her work.” his knightly impression was improving by the hour.

Gwyn snickered, some of the tension of her shoulders lifting. “I’m not worried about that, dear parrot. From the glimpses I’ve had of that showcase, I’ll not be disappointed. It’s just going to take me forever to choose, with so many good options.”

He let out a deep chuckle. “Why choose at all?”

Her brows scrunched in a rather adorable, yet confused expression. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” He answered nonchalantly.

Her brows furrowed further. “What you said is absurd.”

“Absurdity is a point of view.” he wondered how much teasing he could get away with before she threw a chair in his face. He made a mental note to find that out in the near future.

The Valkyrie opened her rosy lips to retort, but Monica arrived by their table like a summer storm, setting up glasses and placing little menus in front of them. “Welcome to the Honeyside Bakery. Oh, what a pleasant surprise Master Azriel! It’s been quite some time since you visited. And what lovely company you brought! Hello, my name is Monica, miss…?” The tall female asked, tilting her head full of thick dark curls.

“Gwyneth.” The Priestess answered, a little more of her hesitation slipping off at the stunning owner’s charisma. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The female made a small curtsy, her dark eyes with golden irises full of inviting charm she always bore. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Gwyneth. What a pretty name you have. Since it’s your first time here, I recommend picking up our buttered brioches. They are positively stuffed today!” She half turned to the Shadowsinger, her midnight locks bouncing around with the movement. “Will it be the usual, Master Azriel?”

Azriel looked at Gwyn, a slow smile spreading across his features. Monica’s brows shot up in surprise, as she’d never seen him making such an expression even after decades of patronage. 

“Actually, I would like to order the whole menu, Monica.” His deep voice rumbled, amusement dripping from his tone. “If it's not too much trouble, of course.” He didn’t take his eyes off of the Priestess as he spoke, watching with immense satisfaction as her eyes widened in disbelief.

His shadows wavered furiously around his shoulders, muttering snarky comments that ranged from ‘Gluttonous Singer’ to ‘Irresponsible Bat’, probably unsettling any customer that glanced their way. Azriel ignored them, as he usually did when they were being insufferable.

Monica, on the other hand, was more than thrilled with his request. “Oh, I can most certainly arrange that.” She turned to Gwyn, smiling with perfect white teeth. “And what about you, Gwyneth? Anything to drink? Our special blended coffee is the most delicious this time of the year.”

“I will trust you on that one, then. Thank you.” Gwyn answered politely, and the ebony female carried away the small menus even faster than she arrived.

As soon as Monica left Gwyn inclined over the table with an indignant expression. “Are you kidding me, Shadowsinger? The whole menu!? I get that you tend to pass by meals, but this is certainly not the way to compensate for that!”

He snickered. “You're sounding just like some busybodies I know.” He looked pointedly over his shoulder at the gathering of agitated shadows.

She narrowed her eyes. “They must be way wiser than you are.” 

“That’s the funny part, Priestess.” He answered, his teasing smile turning up. “They are a part of me, and so are as wise as I can be. I know better, just like they do. I simply choose to ignore my wisdom at my own convenience.” 

She lifted a defiant brow at him. “So you enjoy making poor life decisions, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel let the implications linger on the back of his mind. He was nothing but a cacophony of poor life decisions. But now wasn’t the time for self-loathing. It was the time to rile the Priestess and distract her from her surroundings. 

“It’s enticing to be unwise, my lady. You should give it a try, sometime.” 

Gwyn straightened up in her chair, looking all the more challenging, her cheeks blooming with a hint of color. “Perhaps I will, my dear escort.”

He bowed his head. “I’ll be glad to see it happen.”

She relaxed a bit more, finally taking her time to properly look at the place around them. The walls were of the same red bricks from the exterior, but each side was painted with colorful murals of minor deities, matching their neighboring stained windows. There was a female in blue robes surrounded by the sea, a circlet of shells on her forehead and the setting sun at her back. A warrior male clad in steel and bearing a silver sword and shield. A female beside a waterfall, her orange robes drenched in the river rocks below. A male in red, with a blindfold over his eyes and a scale in his right hand. None of them meant anything for Azriel, but Gwyneth seemed mesmerized by the intricate depictions.

“Do you know them?” Azriel asked, eager to have any information Gwyn would share with him. Eager to hear her voice.

She shook her head, her eyes still glued to the murals. “In the temples we are only taught to worship the Mother, so I’m not well versed in other religions. But I’ve seen some mentions of them in the Library. They each embody a different concept. The sea. The rivers and crossroads. War and bravery. Justice. It seemed like a really beautiful creed. The images certainly are.”

Azriel seconded that. After his first visits the images became background for him, but he sometimes caught glimpses of Monica looking fondly at the ebony deities and touching her forehead with reverence. Faith had always been scarce for him, but seeing small gestures like these brought some strange comfort to his restless mind. Knowing that some people still believed they were being watched with care gave him some semblance of hope.

They heard some commotion as the female in question took quick steps towards them, four trays filled to the brim with sweet and salty pastries of all shapes and colors floating behind her. The little plates quickly floated down to the table, that now seemed comically small for an order of such size. Monica snapped her fingers and another table appeared. She set everything up faster than they could blink and left to tend to more clients with a shining smile and a heartfelt ‘Enjoy your meal’.

Gwyn didn’t know where to look first. There were four slices of cake in different flavors, a butter brioche bigger than Azriel’s hand, three types of custards and two other puff pastries, a loaf of cheesy garlic bread topped with chopped chives and a hefty sausage roll, what seemed to be a deep fried breaded of ham and bacon, a slice of cinnamon apple pie and a small tray with a whole lemon tart. Six steaming cups of different coffee drinks and two other iced beverages were scattered between the plates. To top it all up, a dark chocolate glazed honeybun that looked terribly appetizing was laid in the middle of it all. The table had turned into a small feast of guilty pleasures, and there was absolutely no way they could eat that much food all by themselves in one sitting.

Azriel picked up a knife and started portioning all the little plates in halves with surgical precision. “There’s only one rule when we indulge like this, my lady. It is as sacred as any oath, and it cannot, under any circumstances, be broken.” He raised his eyes from his task, and found the Priestess already smiling, with a single eyebrow raised his way.

He took on the most grave tone he could muster, and uttered the words…

“We do not tell Cassian.” He winked at her and proceeded to shove half the lemon tart into his mouth with a single bite.

Gwyn’s answering laugh was a thing of dreams, clear as a temple bell and utterly contagious. He started laughing too, but the lemon tart was still half-chewed in his mouth. He choked, which only made them laugh harder, sending both into a downward spiral of utter madness. 

The shadows saw Monica stare at them from the other side of the counter by the entrance, flabbergasted at the ever serious Shadowsinger laughing out loud. The sound was rich and heavy, but full of honest satisfaction. A private smile of her own bloomed on her face, and she turned back to the remaining clients with renewed lightness in her heart. The Little Ones did not comment, also overjoyed to see their two favorite people happy in one another’s company.

It took Azriel and Gwyn a good minute to recover their wits and catch their breaths, until they could finally resume eating.

Everything was delicious. The salty and savory snacks opened their palettes to the sweet and tart treats that congested the two tables. Every drink was special in its own way, too, with some being bitter and rich, or soft and sweet, hot and spicy or cold and minty. They devoured the small plates with gusto, but the sheer amount of pastries was enough to leave them full and still not eat everything. In the end, they asked Monica for some paper bags of their own to take the leftovers back to the House of the Wind.

--- 

It was almost noon when Azriel landed on the training ring, the Priestess arm comfortably draped over his own, their hands still intertwined as they walked through the shadows. Azriel didn’t offer to fly her. Firstly because he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by being too close to him. And secondly, the consequences of being airborne stuffed as they were would be catastrophic, even more so for the unsuspecting Fae down below. Not that winnowing was that much better, but at least they didn’t risk ruining someone else’s day. 

They walked inside the House with dragged, satisfied steps, each carrying a bag of leftover delicacies they couldn’t finish back at Honeyside. Cassian and Nesta were nowhere to be seen, probably still lingering by the River House. Which was a good thing, he thought. He really didn’t want Cassian giving him shit for this copious amount of food.

They made their way into the kitchen, carefully storing the precious leftovers in cabinets for later. Gwyn turned to him after placing her bag in a hidden spot, her face filled with gratitude, but with an obvious dose of worry mixed in her features.

“Thank you for everything, Azriel. I can’t even begin to fathom how I’m going to repay you.”

His lips twitched, as the very concept of needing to compensate him for how much fun he’d just had was wholly amusing. “Who said you needed to repay me a thing? You asked me to guide you through Velaris, and that is my way of showing you the best places in the city.” He gave her a crooked little smile, hoping to diffuse lingering thoughts that she owed anything to him. “Don’t worry, we’re just getting started, Priestess.” 

She smiled back, but it lacked her usual confidence, and Azriel's own smile faded at the sight.

“Is everything alright?” A pang of dread crawled his way into his anxious mind. He could’ve fucked it all up without even realizing it. “Did I do something to upset you?”

“No, of course not!” She shook her head, startled by his question, but he wasn’t convinced. She kept on speaking at his skeptical expression. “It was incredible. The stroll, The Willow, the bakery, everything was perfect! I actually managed to leave the Library and enjoy sitting somewhere in public and eating some of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted, like a normal female. I haven’t felt normal in years, and you did nothing but help me through it, and I’m really, really grateful for that.” Her face turned pained, and Azriel would do anything to make it go away. He just needed to know what was plaguing her, first. So he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, waiting for her to continue.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you, Azriel.” She finally said, sounding almost heartbroken at the prospect. “I’m glad you were there with me, and I enjoyed myself a lot. But you spent so much time and effort and money to indulge me, and I… I asked you to guide me on an impulse, but you did much more than that, and I just…” She paused, lifting her unsure eyes to meet his own.

… I just think it’s really selfish of me to make you do all those things, while I’ve done nothing for you in return.” She dropped her eyes, not being able to hold his gaze. “I don’t deserve it.”

Azriel shook his head, not believing the absurdity of what he was hearing. “I should be the one thanking you, Gwyn.” Every single time he was with her was like a breath of fresh air, refreshing and fulfilling. If anything, he was the one taking advantage of her light. “Most of my days are filled with things far more unpleasant than how our morning went. Being able to be there for you for something as important as this was a privilege, not a burden. I enjoyed myself just as much as you did, and I don’t need anything in return. Seeing you laughing and devouring those pastries was enough of a reward.” He tried giving her a reassuring smile, but as much as his words were truthful, they seemed to have little effect over her worries. 

“Why?” She asked, her voice weak.

The Shadowsinger stared into her hesitant teal pools, so many doubts swirling within them. Seeing her this unsure, this vulnerable… He could do nothing but tell her the raw truth, one he was terrified to admit, even to himself.

“I thought I would never see you again, and it ruined me.” 

His voice was low but clear, the affirmation carrying a small fragment of his bleeding heart between the lines. He didn’t stop to think if it was a good idea being this vulnerable. Didn’t stop to think about all the selfish reasons he had to be with her at this moment. He just let the words flow. “I spent the entire week of the Blood Rite going mad, wondering if you were safe. The only thing that left me with a sliver of my sanity was a little blotch of ink and the promise behind it.”  The words started pouring out of him faster than he could contain them. “You’re not taking advantage of me, Gwyneth, not by a long shot. You didn’t ask me to do any of that, but I wanted to treat you to a nice breakfast in one of my favorite bakeries in the city. I wanted to take my time and show you some of the things I love about this place, like The Willow Tree.” He could feel his voice getting heavier with emotion as he spoke, but it didn’t deter him. “I want to see you achieving every dream you told me about. I want to see you breathing in the wonders of this city, and all the other places this world has to offer, because you deserve them. There’s no one I know more deserving of that freedom.”

Azriel didn’t know where the bold words that spilled from him came from, other than deep within himself. This was a female who deserved the world, let alone a fucking breakfast, and he wanted her to know that. He needed her to know that. A dumbfounded Gwyn stared at him like it was the first time she actually saw him, probably taken aback by the most emotional he’d ever been with her.

“Don’t you ever assume I am doing something for you out of obligation or some twisted sense of pity, because that will never be true.” He stared into her eyes, searching for the aftermath of his words. They were blown wide with surprise, but she didn’t say a thing. 

“Have I been eloquent enough, Priestess?” He asked, still in a serious tone, somehow managing to keep himself half-composed.

Gwyn blinked, and the surprise was gone, slowly being replaced with a shy smile. “You are the most incorrigible parrot I have ever had the pleasure of being accompanied by, Shadowsinger.”

He grinned slightly, letting out a tight breath, relieved to be able to get through her. “I’m going to start taking some pride in that.”

She giggled, the tension on her features almost entirely evaporated. “Please don’t. You’re insufferable enough already.”

He placed a scarred hand over his chest, feigning desolation. “You wound me, my lady.”

She was still smiling at him, but her brows were a little furrowed, and he could tell there was something on her mind that she was still mulling over. He didn’t pressure her, patiently waiting for her to speak, if she wished to.

She seemed to come to a decision, her features smoothing over once again. She looked back to his hazel eyes, her expression no longer clouded by doubt or other negative feelings. Openness filled her mesmerizing gaze, and something more he couldn’t quite decipher. 

“I'm glad to be here, Azriel.” She said, her words filled with certainty. “And I'm glad you're here with me.”

He felt the warm light within him glow a little brighter. No, he definitely wouldn’t survive being just friends.

“So am I, Gwyneth. So am I.”

Chapter Text

The afternoon creeped by at a languid pace as the Shadowsinger sat silently in the private library of the House, a positively stuffed Priestess in a recliner opposite of him. She was enraptured by a novel provided by the sentient residence, while he pretended to go over some forgotten book of his own shelves, secretly watching her instead of reading. He turned the pages every now and then, if only to be somewhat convincing on his act. 

Her hair was unbound and fanned around her head, giving off the impression she was resting on a flaming cushion. A page turn. Her legs were tucked underneath her body, her white dress skeeted up and revealing her toned calves. A page turn. Even there her creamy skin was populated by the pointillistic artwork of countless little freckles. A page turn. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and not only because she was the most beautiful female he’d ever looked upon, now that he was allowing himself to see her in that light. He was also reveling in the fact that she was there with him, reading a not-so-innocent romance in a comfortable seat, and not fighting for her life in the snowy forest. They’d just wandered around Velaris on a peaceful spring morning, without the looming threat of him not hearing her irreverent voice ever again. Most of the weight that piled up inside of him had faded into an unpleasant memory, leaving behind only half portions of baked goods. 

The corner of his lip tilted up involuntarily. Perhaps life wasn’t so miserable, after all.

We would like to apologize, Friend. His shadows cooed in his ear, much more docile and relaxed than they were by morning. We underestimated your ability to bring joy to the Lovely Priestess. We will try not to doubt your judgement again.

There’s no harm done, Little Ones. I would’ve doubted me as well.

They wavered happily on his shoulders before joining their Singer on observing the mesmerizing Priestess. It was becoming harder to tell who was the most entranced by her presence.

Azriel was dragged out of his staring by the obnoxious steps and booming laughter of his Loud Brother, followed closely by softer giggles. He was surprised it took this long before their peaceful silence was disturbed.

Cassian and Nesta opened the library doors, staggering slightly on the threshold at the sight of the Shadowsinger and the Priestess lounging there. Gwyn raised her eyes from her book and beamed at the Elder Archeron, abandoning the hardcover to the low table and barreling towards the surprised female, surrounding her in a tight hug. Nesta was bathed and wearing a silver dress in her preferred sleek style, with most of her wounds and bruises healed. She hugged Gwyn back, more in reflex than anything else.

“I did it, Nesta!” The Priestess said with a giddy voice. She retreated a step to face a confused Lady Life. “I went into Velaris!” 

Nesta's expression turned into one of the purest glee, and she hugged Gwyn back even more fiercely. “I’m so proud of you, Gwyn!” She grabbed the poor Priestess by the shoulders and practically dragged her to a settee on the far wall of the room, near the unkindled hearth. “Tell me everything.” 

Cassian was smiling openly at their enthusiastic voices as he dropped his weight on the cushioned seat beside his brother. “I need a vacation.” The General grunted. “A few years might do the trick after all the shit that just went down.”

Azriel chuckled. “You’ll need to get in line. Our High Lord just went on father’s leave, and I haven’t gotten a day off since I got this job.”

Cassian snorted. “As if you would know what to do with a day off if it hit you in the head.” He looked back to the pair of Valkyries, an excited Gwyn going over the details of their stroll. “But perhaps you do know how to spend your free time. Took Gwyn sightseeing?” He turned back to Azriel, his face slowly shifting into a grin. Bastard.

Azriel almost groaned out loud. He had a feeling his brother would not let it slide. His cool mask slipped over his face, and his dry humor all but vanished.

“Makes me wonder, Az-”

“Whatever you’re wondering, I suggest you keep it to yourself.” Azriel cut him short, his voice low with threat.

Cassian’s grin only grew wider, if that was even possible. “What? I was just going to ask-”

The shadows all froze their usual mild wavering, turning into little dark spears pointed to the General’s face. Azriel stare would have sent most fae running on the opposite direction, the message to shut the fuck up being silent, but very clear.

Cassian, the prick, didn’t even flinch. He winked at the Shadowsinger, but kept his large mouth closed for a change.

Azriel didn’t really mind his antics. He’d dealt with them plenty over the centuries, and he wasn’t ashamed in the slightest of the time well spent with the Priestess, either. But he didn’t know how Gwyn would feel about Cassian’s relentless teasing, and wasn’t willing to risk her overhearing it. Whatever his brother wanted to pester him about would have to wait.

He turned his attention back to the chatting Valkyries. Gwyn’s eyes sparkled as she retold their little adventure to Nesta, who was smiling broadly and throwing the occasional glance in his direction. He imagined he was in for a questioning on her end as well, but was actually looking forward to it. Nesta was perhaps the closest fae to understand some of his struggles, and Mother knew he needed help from someone with more brains than his useless brothers.

He heard the Priestess start describing The Willow Plaza, and that was his cue to drag Cassian out of earshot before she got to the part of their ravaging of an entire bakery’s menu. 

He silently got up from his chair, motioning his head for Cassian to follow him and addressing his shadows at the same time. Some of you can stay here. Tell me when she and Nesta finish talking.

"It shall be done, Singer. Before you leave, are you not forgetting anything?”

Azriel huffed an annoyed breath. What’s the point of asking me if I’m forgetting something If can’t remember what I just fucking forgot?

He could hear the echo of their laughter in his mind. “We always hope you are not so clueless, Singer, though we do not know why we still bother.

He sighed internally. Enlighten me then.

“You are leaving without saying goodbye to the Lovely Priestess, Rude Bat.”

Azriel clicked his tongue. Taming the habit of simply disappearing from functions would not be an easy task. 

He turned back to the females and found Gwyn already facing him, her tale paused and her head inclined in silent questioning.

He smiled apologetically. “I have some matters to attend to that require the General’s assistance, my lady.” He mimicked the courtly knight one last time, and the small laugh it got out of Gwyn was worth the extensive prying Cassian would do later. “I bid you farewell, for now.”

A hint of disappointment crossed her eyes, but quickly vanished in favor of a sweet smile. “Very well then, my loyal escort.” She quipped, her imperious voice still gentle. “Take care not to keep the Lord of Bloodshed for long, lest his Lady goes searching.” 

“Duly noted, Priestess.” He nodded and left, dragging Cassian out the private library and closing the doors gently, so as to not upset the House. He started walking down the corridor to the stairs that led to the training ring, his brother close behind.

“Matters to attend, huh?” The General’s amusement was becoming painful to hear. “I hope your lady is not the jealous type.” Very funny.

Azriel hoped that Cassian ended up with facial cramps for a week with how much he was smiling. “There’s still work to be done.” The Shadowsinger answered.

“Work? What are you even talking about, Az?” Cassian asked, frowning. “Briallyn is dead, the Valkyries are back and Feyre is fine! We can finally rest a little, for a change.” 

Azriel stopped dead on his tracks, spinning on his heels and nearly smacking his wings on his Loud Brother. “What work? Are you seriously asking me that, Cassian? Do you want a list in chronological order or sorted by relevance?” He raised a gnarly fist in front of the taller male’s face, with only his little finger up. “There’s an Autumn Prince under house arrest in the Court of Nightmares, probably waiting for an audience with our High Lord that isn’t happening anytime soon.” He raised his ring finger next. “That little Autumn Prince has a conniving fuck of a father that knows exactly whats coming for him, and I have the inkling suspicion he won’t be going down nicely.” He raised his middle finger. “There’s dozens of Illyrian camps that need surveillance and investigation after the shitshow they just pulled with the Rite.” And his index. “There’s still three Mortal Queens left alive who will soon know of Briallyn’s untimely demise.” He raised his thumb for last. “Oh, and there's a fucking Death God on top of all of that, whose powers we now jack shit about, just for good measure.” The Shadowsinger could almost taste the venomous sarcasm dripping from his mouth. “Is that work enough for you, or should I go and blow up a building in the Summer Court for funsies?” The last jab was completely unnecessary, but Azriel was pissed that his brother’s lack of tact forced him to leave the Priestess’ side.

Cassian planted his feet firmly on the floorboards and flared his wings in challenge.“Stop being so paranoid. I’m not leaving my mate’s side over nothing. Never again, if I have any say in it. We just spent an entire week away, during which she almost died multiple times, and now you want us to start getting shit done the day after? Fuck you." He half-spoke, half-growled.

“I’m not asking you that.” Azriel stated coldly. “We do have a lot of work left, but that’s not why I dragged you out.” he glanced back to the closed doors down the corridor, the sweet voice of the Priestess now nearly unrecognizable.

Cassian followed his gaze, and the slight aggression that took his posture relaxed.

He looked back to Cassian, some of his bitterness melting as well. “If you want to give me shit, spare it for when Gwyn is not around.”

“Don’t want me to tease the Priestess? I always had you for a gentlemale, you know.”  

Cassian joked, but Azriel wasn’t having it. He snarled, flaring his wings, even bigger than his brother’s. “If you say anything to embarrass her I’m going to impale you with a sword where the sun doesn’t shine.” 

His brother raised his hands in surrender. “She won’t be hearing anything from me, I promise.”  Cassian threw a bulky arm around his shoulders, his shit eating grin returning in full force. “You, on the other hand… I’m going to have the time of my life with.”

Azriel couldn’t hold back his defeated groan.

---

They sat on the ground of the training ring, panting and beaten, their bruises already healing after their sparring session. Cassian had thrown comments about the Priestess to try and distract him mid fight, but Azriel didn’t bite. He planted his brother face first into the dirt, and would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little bit better after that.

“So, what’s the deal with you two?” Cassian finally asked, after he’d just teased him for half an hour.

“There’s no deal. She asked me to take her to Velaris, and so I did.” It was a half-truth.

Cassian chuckled. “Yeah, right. And I’m the new High Lord of Spring. Come on, Az. Spill.” It was unusual for the General to press him for answers, but he did so nonetheless.

Azriel creased his brows. There wasn’t much to spill, really. He wouldn’t share the insights his shadows gave him about the Priestess intentions, so the only thing left to talk about were his own feelings. Which he sucked at sharing, and had just begun to accept and understand himself. But, if he wanted to be able to be transparent to Gwyn sometime in the future, he needed to start somewhere. He took a deep breath before answering.

“I’m falling for her, Cass.” His voice was collected, but firm. Certain. “She is admirable in so many ways. And I’m scared. I’m scared I’m going to fuck things up.”

“Oh, I have no doubts you will.” His brother quipped, a sly smile on his face.

It was Azriel’s turn to chuckle. “Real reassuring, brother.”

Cassian put a steady hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s a good thing to be scared, Az. It means you care, and I’m really glad for you. Just do me a favor, yeah?”

He sideyed his brother. “What?”

Cassian poked his temple. “Don’t let your mind get in the way of your heart. You both deserve better than that.”

Azriel stared back at Cassian’s intense gaze. The words were simple, but carried a lot of meaning. Not so useless after all. 

He managed a puny smile. “I’ll try.”

Cassian patted his shoulder. “That’s all we can ever do, brother.”

His shadows interrupted his thoughts. Lady Life has finished hearing the Lovely Priestess’ tale, Singer. She is searching for you.

Can you show her the way here? It’s a good place to talk. 

What about Loud Brother?

Azriel huffed an amused breath. She can handle him.

His shadows rushed inside the House and down the stairs, no doubt eager to hear what Nesta had to say to him, too.

“When are you planning on visiting Eris?” Azriel asked, taking Cassian by surprise at the sudden change of topic.

“I’m not dealing with that flaming idiot.” Cassian spat.

 A dry laugh left Azriel’s lips. “You’re the designated courtier, brother. He’s your mess to deal with while I manage all the rest. Make sure he doesn’t get himself killed when he goes back to Autumn.”

Cassian hummed with distaste. “If I go to speak with him now I might kill the prick myself.”

Azriel understood the sentiment. “Give it a day or two, if you must. But don’t delay too long. We don’t want to give Beron reason to execute him on the spot.”

The General acquiesced. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Azriel nodded. “Your Lady is looking for you.” A small lie. It would be easier to shoo him away if he was already standing.

Cassian smiled broadly and rose, oblivious to his deception. “Better not to keep her waiting.” He paused, looking down at Azriel one final time. “Don’t keep yourself from being happy, brother. If there’s anyone I know that deserves it, it's you.” And with that, he left in search of his mate.

A few minutes went by, and Azriel heard the faint dismissal Nesta gave Cassian when she passed by him on her way up. 

Her steps were unhurried as she entered the ring, crossing the dirty ground and taking a seat beside him with her legs tucked close. Her braided coronet was impeccable over her head. It almost looked like everything that had transpired was just a bad dream.

“Azriel.” She greeted him.

“Nesta.” He returned.

She didn’t speak further, only staring at him with inquisitive grey eyes, like she was searching for something. For what, he didn’t know, but he let her see him, not allowing his instincts of covering up with shadows to take over.

Finally she hummed, seemingly satisfied. “Do you care about her?” She asked.

Azriel didn’t need to think of an answer. “I do.”

“How much?”

“Too much.” He paused. “Not nearly enough.”

Her eyes turned more gentle.

“And what do you plan to do about that?” 

It was a valid concern. She probably didn’t want him to silently pin after the Priestess like he’d done for other females the past centuries. He didn’t intend to do that either.

“I’m still figuring that out myself.” There was no point in lying about that. He didn’t really know how he should proceed, or where things would go from there. But if their morning stroll was any indication, it was a path more than worth exploring. “All I know is that I want to try. To be there for her, if she’ll have me.”

Nesta squeezed his forearm in sympathy. “Then you should go all in.” A threatening smile appeared on her face and her voice took a deadly tone. “And don’t you dare give up halfway, or I’m going to have your balls served on a silver plate.” 

Azriel laughed out loud. “I wouldn’t expect any less, Nesta.”

Nesta squeezed his arm once more, turning to look at the city below them. “I’ve talked with Gwyn about her leaving the Library. She mentioned it while we were still on the Rite, and I’m really glad she has decided to do that. She was wondering what she’d do for a job, since she had always worked as a Priestess…” She turned back to him. “It so happens that Rhysand and I had a long talk a couple of hours ago, and I had to actively stop him from showering me with riches beyond imagination for saving my own sister.” She rolled her eyes, earning a chuckle from Azriel. That did sound like his extravagant brother. 

“She being alive was the only thing I wanted, but there’s one gift in particular that I didn’t mind accepting.”

Azriel lifted a brow. How exactly did those two things relate?

“By his and Feyre’s order, I’m now the proud owner of the House of Wind, and my first act as such was to officially invite Gwyn to move into the House.” She declared nonchalantly, as if that wasn’t one of the greatest piece of news he could’ve heard leaving her mouth.

Azriel felt his heart stutter at her words. The prospect of having the Priestess living just across his door…

He swallowed. “And what did she say?”

Nesta beamed. “She accepted. Rather enthusiastically, I must add.”

He let out a shaky breath. It filled him with such joy to see the Priestess taking the first steps towards her freedom. He was happy enough to even tease the Elder Archeron over it.

“No invitation for me? Should I pack my shit and leave, Nes?” He asked with a small smile adorning his face.

Nesta punched his arm, hard enough to bruise. “Of course you can stay, you overgrown bat. It will always be your home, too.” Her gaze turned back to the river, where the River House stood. “I extended the invitation to Emerie as well, since Windhaven probably won’t be the most welcoming place for her after what happened…” Her tone was sad, despite the perspective of having her Chosen Sister so close by. Azriel understood why. It wasn’t a change brought by choice, but by necessity. By unfairness.

“I’ll make sure it’s safe for her to return there, should she wish to.” That Azriel would do, even if he had to slaughter half the males of that cursed camp in their sleep.

Nesta only nodded, hearing the implied violence of his vow. “I know you will.”

They sat in amicable silence for a long time before Nesta excused herself to go find Cassian. Azriel watched her go, wondering how he could make up to her for all the blessings she’d just showered his family with. He would have to figure that out as he went, just like his relationship with Gwyn.

He rose as well, eager to return to the Priestess side. The walk back to the private library was a peaceful one, and he couldn’t deny how fitting it was that the House Made sentient by Nesta now belonged to her. He doubted it would want anything else.

The Priestess was laying in the cushioned settee, sleeping soundly, her breath blissfully even. Him and Nesta probably took more time than he realized staring at the city below. The afternoon was nearly done, and soon evening would settle. He sat on an open-backed sofa beside her and let his head rest on the cushions. Perhaps Cassian wasn’t so out of line for wanting to take some time off. He could get used to this kind of lethargy. 

Her sweet and spicy aroma floated towards him in the cozy space, and he felt his body relaxing in her presence. His eyelids became more and more heavy, until sleep took him as well.

---

He woke up to his shadows speaking loudly in his mind, the smell of fear cloyingly heavy in the air.

“The Lovely Priestess is having a nightmare, Singer!”

Azriel leapt from his seat, turning immediately to the settee the Priestess still slept. She was mumbling incoherently and twitching in place, a sheen of cold sweat covering her forehead. His mind ran through countless possibilities of how to intervene, as he doubted his unnanounced touch would be of any help. He wanted to do something, anything, to soothe her, until his racing thoughts stumbled upon one of the only things that had ever brought him some comfort.

His mother’s singing.

He didn’t know if it would work, but he had to try. His deep voice started humming a somber lullaby she used to sing during the few hours they spent together each week. The chanting was timid at first, but gaining substance with each note, vibrating through his chest and filling the dark room. The melody was melancholic, but it had always brought an inexplicable feeling of safety over him, just like his shadows.

Help me ground her, Little Ones.

They moved at once, covering her shivering arms with gentle darkness and tender motions, taking care not to be too blunt and disturb her even further. Gwyn flinched slightly at their contact, but her shivers started diminishing after the shadows spread through her bare skin and the melody of his song took form. 

Eventually her twitching stopped entirely, her brows relaxing once more and her breathing evening out.

Azriel sat on the floor beside her, crossing his arms over the head of the fitment and humming softly for the Lovely Priestess.

He didn’t stop or leave her side until sunrise.

Chapter Text

As much as it pained the Shadowsinger, he couldn’t stay to see the Priestess wake.

He wasn’t exaggerating when he ranted to his brother about how much work they still had left to do. With Feyre and Rhysand out of commission for the foreseeable future, it fell upon the remaining Inner Circle to make sure things were running smoothly. He trusted Mor could deal with any immediate problems in the Court of Nightmares, just like Amren could deal with bureaucratics in Velaris.

Azriel pondered the best course of action. What Nuala and Cerridwen shared about Beron worried him, but he doubted the male would attempt anything so soon now that his ally to the east was dead. The Queens would take some time to mobilize any retaliation, so he wasn't concerned about them, either. Koschei was a distant threat, bound to his lake as he was. And the Autumn Prince wasn’t his problem to deal with, thank the Mother.

That only left the Illyrian Camps, which he was probably going to hate even more than the rest. 

“As if your job was ever pleasant, Friend.” 

Azriel suppressed a chuckle.

The sky had begun shifting its dark hue to the gentle colors of the sunrise, and the camps were probably already in full swing.

Standing up from the carpeted ground where he sat beside the slumbering Priestess, he looked down on her one last time before departing. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythmic, slow pace, and even during her sleep her breath sounded melodical to his ears. He felt the urge to put a coppery lock away from the curtain of hair that covered her face, but wouldn’t touch her while she was unconscious. He settled for lending her some company instead.

Make sure she stays safe while I’m gone, Little Ones.

He didn't need to ask them twice. A small mass of his shadowy friends unbound themselves from his shoulders, weaving around Gwyn's wrist, right over her bargain tattoo. Azriel was still considering what song he could play for her. It felt like a really important decision, even if he didn't understand why.

He would find the perfect one, eventually. For now, the freezing winds and even colder hearts of his people awaited.

---

Windhaven hadn't changed much since his last visit, not counting their brief council after the Valkyries kidnapping. The few permanent buildings were as grey and lifeless as ever, Emerie’s shop included, now that she had been absent for a week. The camp itself was oddly quiet, their numbers diminished after the war. Some widows passed by hurriedly, clad in black robes and dresses and carrying buckets of water and food, most of them throwing nervous glances around and behind, as if they feared someone might be following. It happened thrice in the few minutes he stood in the shadows, observing. 

Azriel frowned. They couldn’t have felt my presence here. What are they afraid of?

"We do not know, Singer. But we can find out."

He reluctantly nodded. Stick to them. Tell me if anything unusual happens, but try not to pry too much.

Some wisps darted through the camp, fusing with the shadows of the frightened females.

He turned to the main building, where the Camp Lord resided. He hadn’t announced his arrival or demanded any satisfactions from Devlon, as that would be the General’s job in a few days. What he was searching for was something entirely different.

Keeping to the shadows of the stone buildings near the forest edge and observing the bonfires and tents that populated the rocky mountain, he slowly crept closer to the stone house. 

Cassian briefed him of Nesta’s trajectory through the Rite during their spar, and how Bellius smuggled real steel weapons inside, resulting in what was likely the most brutal slaughter since its conception. Even with his loathing for the Illyrians and their customs, Azriel couldn’t help but be saddened by the outcome. Many mothers would never hold their sons again because of this. It was a good thing Nesta left him rotting in the rocky ground. 

Despite this, he knew the male had been only just a pawn. Briallyn was the mind behind it, and he doubted her plan resumed to a single prideful juvenile. She must have had more inside help from the Illyrians, and the Spymaster would not let that go unpunished. He had to scout the camps, identify who was involved, and get answers out of them. The ones who were known for being particularly cruel fighters or proud keepers of his kind’s twisted traditions were the main suspects, though it was almost laughable how little that criteria narrowed it down. 

Any of these damned males could have aided the Queen in messing with the Rite, even without the Crown’s influence. Many despised Rhysand for his rule, especially after his return from Under the Mountain, where they had fifty years of careless anarchy, the clippings returning in full force, only to be smothered again by his brother. All it would take was some promises to the right ambitious bastards.

So, with very few leads to follow, the most powerful males were always a good start.

Sending his shadows inside Devlon’s stone house, they informed that the Camp Lord himself was nowhere to be found, and Azriel took the opportunity to ‘winnow’ into his sparsely decorated office. The male was wealthy for Illyrian standards, but didn’t seem to care much for luxury. The gray walls were as dull and weathered inwards as they were outwards, and the furniture was simple but sturdy. The hearth was cold, so Devlon hadn’t come up there yet.

The Shadowsinger searched the large desk and wooden cabinets for any incriminating letters, but found nothing beyond ordinary paperwork. Sneaking his shadows inside dark crevices and corners, they searched under rugs and between cracks in the stone flooring, but found no hidden compartments or secret passages.

Frustrated, Azriel shadowalked back to the treeline. If Devlon was involved, he was burning any evidence or discussing everything personally. Which begged the question, where was he now, if not in his quarters?

Find him, Little Ones.

The remainder of his friends scattered to the winds, only a small bundle left in case he needed to hide. It took several minutes before they returned, where the Shadowsinger stood still, barely breathing while he listened to any movement in the lower floors. Finally, the shadows returned, without a single trace of the Camp Lord to report.

“He is not here, Singer. Perhaps in another Camp?”

Camp Lords are a prideful bunch, they don’t usually mingle. Azriel clicked his tongue. Unless…

“Unless there are unusual reasons for them to meet.” His shadows concluded his thoughts.

His mind immediately went to the Ironcrest Camp Leader, Arctus. The male had seen firsthand what the Valkyries were capable of with barely a year of training, and it wasn’t too much of a reach to imagine he felt threatened by the females and decided to cooperate with Briallyn. A spark of guilt hit his chest at the memory. His arrogance had been the cause of the Priestess kidnapping, and even if she made it out, he knew the Rite would only add to her pile of nightmare fuel. The best he could do to make up for his failure was to find anyone responsible. 

The Ironcrest Camp Lord was his best guess on fae that could have been part of the ploy, and if Devlon and he were meeting, it was a good thing to be aware of. Azriel called over his shadows, leaving behind only the ones attached to the fearful widows, and disappeared away.

---

Barren soil smeared his boots, the dirt permeated by the red hue of metal reserves that gave the camp its name, painting a stark contrast with the snowy trees of the forest downhill. Just like in Windhaven, Ironcrest was sorted in a conglomeration of tents and fire pits, built over mud and stone. However, unlike Devlon, its Camp Lord was not a male for simplicity. His residence was more manor than house, built on the rusty mountainside and giving a privileged view of the whole camp. It wasn’t nearly as opulent or big as the House of Wind, but it was hard not to see the uncanny resemblance. 

Azriel swore under his breath. Normally the training grounds were kept opposite of the Camp Lord’s lodgings, but that wasn’t the case here. The chaos of early training was in full swing underneath the manor’s balconies, with hundreds of Illyrians fighting and screaming. There was no way he could sneak by them unnoticed. He couldn’t risk winnowing straight inside the manor either, lest he stumbled over a resident or servant.

I’ll stay hidden. Go inside and see if you can find them.

“Be safe, Friend.” Most of his shadows disappeared from sight, leaving him with only enough company to blend with his surroundings, should he need to.

The ‘safe’ option was to sit tight and wait for their report, but the distressed widows had left him feeling anxious and hard pressed for answers. There was something going on, and the itch to find out what plagued his Court was too strong to remain acting like a male that cared for his own well being.

Using the few remaining shadows and the coverage of the nearby forest, the Spymaster made his way around the edge of the camp, listening for any commotion or conversation he could.

The small bundle of shadows stirred with the motion. “You should stay put, Singer. We will not take long to find the Camp Lords if they are here.”

Might as well use my time productively, no?

He swore he heard them sight. “As you wish, Stubborn Bat.”

Males were gone for training during the day, leaving only females and children to take care of domestic chores. There was no sound of laughter or running feet of the younglings, put to work since the moment they could stand. Only hushed voices and the clanking of wood and iron passed over the loud roaring of the fire pits.

Azriel was nearing the foremost edge of the camp, conforming to his pointless incursion, when a faint cry reached his ears. He froze on his tracks, the sound hauntingly familiar. 

He heard similar screams from his mother during the years he was stuck inside his cell.

***

His feet moved of their own accord, the Spymaster calling out to his shadows at the manor as he barreled deep into the woods. Tapping the siphon on his chest, his scaled armor covered his body along the seven cobalt gems, all semblance of stealth abandoned.

Whoever screamed was far away from Ironcrest. There was no chance anyone inside the busy camp could’ve heard it.

He ran like the wind that fueled his wings, dodging trees and roots with feline grace. There was no time to plan, only to act. 

Finally he burst into a snowy clearing, and the scene before his eyes filled him with uncontrollable rage.

Three males surrounded a petite female bound between two pine trees, and Azriel's heart froze inside his chest. She was practically a child. Her wings were tightly wound with rope and outstretched behind her, her clothes half torn in multiple places. 

They were laughing.

He didn’t need to ask any more questions.

The first one fell like a sack of bones before they realized who was upon them, Truth-teller’s handle sticking out of his skull and Azriel appearing from the shadows where the male once stood.

The second Illyrian turned to his dead friend, only to be met with a sword swing to the neck, his head tumbling in frozen shock.

The third one tried to run. Azriel flashed his siphons, and the male was blown to smithereens before he had the time to shout, splattering blood and gore all over the white covered soil. His leathery wings fell useless to the ground without a body attached.

What had been a group of tormentors was reduced to red stains on the snow in the span of mere seconds, a vengeful Azriel standing in their place, still trembling with violence.

Dealing with the bodies would come later. He turned to the bound female, his mind focused on checking her wings for open wounds, only to be met with an even more scared face than before he’d appeared.

She was trembling head to toe, her black hair sticking to her tanned face and her big brown eyes drowning with tears. The air was heavy with the smell of terror and blood, her tattered robes stained from her own wounds and the carnage he’d just created. 

She was too young to be witnessing this.

Bloodsoaked, surrounded by shadows and standing like death incarnate, of course she would be afraid of him. Azriel moved slowly, dropping his sword and closing his wings tightly, hunching his body to appear as small as he could and making conscious effort to keep his siphons unlit and his hands where she could see them.

The girl shook her head, tears falling faster. “Please." Her voice was torn and rasped, probably already strained from screaming. It broke Azriel’s heart to hear it. "Please, don’t clip them.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His deep voice was gentle, soothing her as he took one step forward.

Her eyes bulged, and she started thrashing against the ropes, tearing her skin. “No no NO! Leave me ALONE!” Even with all her might, the bindings barely budged. She needed healing, and if he left her here the beasts of the mountain would smell the carnage in no time. She wouldn’t make it back to camp.

He tried speaking again. “I’m not going to clip your wings.” He stared into her eyes, trying to pass on security, but the blood splattered on his face wasn't of any help. “I only want to free you.”

She shook her head with vigor, or as much vigor she could muster. Her body was cut and bleeding in several places, and the wounds were not closing like they should. 

“She must be malnourished for her healing to fail like this, Singer.” 

Azriel took another step. “I’m sorry they did this to you. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

She tried to free her arms, but her limbs were frail and thin. Staring into his hazel eyes, her tremors were diminishing, even though she didn’t seem any less alarmed. The blood loss was leaving her body too weak to even shake.

“If I don't get you to a healer you'll bleed out. There's not much time.” Taking another step, he extended his hand to one of the ropes that bound her left wing and arm. “I'm going to cut the ropes now.”

She didn't answer, closing her eyes tightly as he approached. 

The Shadowsinger did his best to be fast without scaring her further. Using his shadows to retrieve his weapons, he swiftly cut the ropes attached to the tree, the blades as far away from her body as he could keep them.

Her knees buckled under her weight without the bindings keeping her upright, her body dropping in the cold ground with a sickening crack and an even more nauseating cry of pain.

Azriel cursed silently. He reached for her out of reflex, but she flinched away. “Don't touch me!”

“I'm sorry.” He raised his arms. “I just want to get you out of these ropes.”

“WHY?!” She screeched. “So they drag me away again after you leave?” Her voice came out full of spite, uncharacteristic for the age she looked. “You might as well kill me now and spare them the effort! That's if you don’t want a piece of me first.” She faced him with her tear-stained cheeks, the fear behind her eyes turning into fury as she spat in his direction.

Azriel didn’t budge. She didn’t want his help, but her death would be on his hands if he just left.

She turned her head and tried to pull at the rope that still bound her right side, but came face to face with the pile of flesh of the third Illyrian warrior. Her face twisted in disgust, and she collapsed again, dry heaving on the snow. Nothing came out, not even bile. Her arm trembled to keep her body from completely crumbling, a crimson pool forming around her.

Whatever he did, he needed to do it fast.

Any ideas, Little Ones.

“She cannot stay here, Singer. They will do much worse than killing her."

Azriel couldn’t waste time trying to convince her he meant no harm. He steeled himself, walking towards her with caution, but purpose. She didn’t register his approach as he kneeled by her, cutting her right side free and using his shadows to prevent her from collapsing into her own blood.

He passed a gentle arm under her knees and the joining of her wings. “I’ll winnow us to a healer. You won’t be in pain for much longer.”

She was barely listening, her eyes turning unfocused as she whimpered weakly on his arms.

The Spymaster shadowstepped away, leaving the bodies of the wretched males as food for the beasts.

***

He appeared in the middle of the healer’s clinic, some fae with minor sickness startling away from his mass of shadows. 

“Madja! Emergency!” The Shadowsinger wasted no time with pleasantries, marching inside the well lit space with the female in his arms now barely alive.

His shadows opened the door to find the healer bent over a fae child with green skin and deep black eyes. The boy as his mother both screamed at Azriel, covered in blood and carrying a half dead Illyrian. 

Madja, used to the horrors of war, quickly dismissed the kid and the distressed parent. 

“Lay her there.” She pointed to a cot with white sheets in the center of the room, her hands already lighting up with her cool healing magic.

“What happened?”

“They tried clipping her, but I think they tortured her first.” The words tasted bitter in his tongue, but that was the simple truth. There was no other explanation for how many injuries she had sustained.

Madja was always professional, but even the wisened fae furrowed her brows at his answer. 

“Poor girl. There’s several cuts and bruises along her torso. Broken ribs and fractured knees. At least her wings are still intact.” She bent over the lethargic girl’s unfocused eyes. “She's not responding well. Her body should be able to heal most of these injuries.” She unceremoniously lifted the soaked shirt over her stomach, and the shadows guess was more than confirmed. The Illyrian girl was thin as paper, barely anything over her frail bones. “She needs energy, or she won’t make it.” Madja pointed to a cabinet behind herself without looking away from the patient. “There’s dried liver and honey in there. Get a handful for me.” 

Azriel nodded and began helping.

---

They spent hours tending to the broken female, feeding her little bites of food and tonics while keeping her under Madja’s cool healing light. She was half conscious through the entire process, but finally fell asleep after the healer mended the most painful injuries.

She and Azriel left her resting in the cot, walking back to the front of the clinic. The fae that had been waiting for treatment were gone, tiring of waiting for the healer.

Azriel wore his stoic mask, but inside the turmoil raged. “I’m sorry for bringing her in without warning.”

Madja raised her knotted hand, shaking her head. “Don’t you dare apologize, Shadowsinger. You saved her life bringing her here. Those patients were searching for herbs and salves to treat minor diseases, not hanging by a thread like the girl.” She turned away from him, walking back inside the treatment room. “You can go now, I’ll send word if she wakes up or her condition changes.”

Azriel nodded, thanking the healer once again for her service, stepping out of her clinic with the gears in his head already in overdrive.

The Shadowsinger knew his work was still incomplete. He learned nothing from the Camp Lords and did little to better the situation in Illyria, aside from disposing of some trash. He should get back to it, but his mind was too distracted, too shaken from what had just transpired. A clipping happening in broad daylight. And they would’ve gotten away with it, if not for him hearing her plea by sheer luck.

He needed to talk with Rhysand. Setting the law was not enough. They had to enforce it and deal with the whiplash it would cause.

But first, Azriel needed some reprieve. Needed to know that those he cared about were still safe and sound.

---

The valley sat to the far southwest of Illyria, in a place where the seasons followed closely the temperate climate of Velaris, in spite of the typical harsh coldness of the land. The Shadowsinger always came by during the Winter Solstice, so he never truly saw it while it wasn’t frozen like the rest of the mountains. A calm stream descended from the peaks on the north side, with rolling hills to the east and lush forests all around. It was beautiful, handpicked by his mother when he first offered to build her a home.

Azriel had the decency of winnowing to the stream first to clean the blood off himself, and from the riverbank he admired the several large cabins that sprouted on Rosehall. The place had grown from a solitary refuge to a sprawling community over the centuries. Lillianna had never been happier, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of what had been achieved here.

Walking slowly towards the cabin set on top of a soft sloped hill to the far west of the village, he glimpsed his little sister training her aim with a shortbow in the backyard, and stopped to witness it.

Evellyn’s wings seeped the light of the setting sun, their purple hue like the deepest amethyst and the brightest nebula. Azriel clenched his fists, the image of the bound girl flashing through his mind. She was safe now, and so was his sister.

She was finally entering her teenhood, and her rebellious attitude was focused on defying her own limits every single day. She had so much energy it was almost dizzying to be near her for too long, a fine contrast with the calm demeanor of his mother. 

The little sister steadied her arms, inspiring deeply before taking the shot. A moment of silence passed, and the arrow set loose, ripping the air with a thin hiss.

Bullseye.

She squealed with joy, jumping and flapping her wings several feet in the air.

The Shadowsinger could not contain his proud smile. He resumed his walk towards the cabin, his steps silent against the turf.

“Looks like you won’t be needing my training after all.”

She turned to his voice, hovering in the air for a mere second before snapping her wings closed and dropping like an anchor upon him, the biggest smile of Prythian on her face. 

“Big Brother!” She crash landed on the poor Singer, sending them both tumbling to the soft ground.

They laughed out loud the whole way downhill. 

At last stopping near the edge of the stream, Azriel picked her up like one would a toddler. “I won’t be the big brother for too long if you keep growing like this. I swear you were a foot shorter on Solstice.”

Her smile full of teeth got even bigger. “Did you see that? I’m going to become the best archer in the world!” She threw her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug, which the Shadowsinger promptly returned.

This was one of the few places where he wasn’t the Spymaster, and could pretend the blood that coated his hands didn’t damn him to a life of misery. Here he was just a brother, a son, a decent male. 

Here he could just be Azriel and not fear to be the monster he was expected to always be.

She released his neck and shot back to the house, her braided blond hair waving with the wind behind her, screaming at the top of her lungs. “MOM! AZY IS HERE!”

Azriel could do nothing but chuckle and follow.

The cabin brought warmth to his chest as he passed the threshold and the smell of broth and roasted meat hit him like a punch to the empty gut. His little sister talked excitedly to their mother, who listened intently while preparing dinner. The female spotted him standing at the entrance and beamed softly.

“Azriel, come here child.” She opened her arms, and the Shdaowsinger walked to her, melting in her embrace.

“Hello, Mama.” 

She ran a sweet hand along his back. “Am I to expect you will finally start visiting me often, my boy?”

Azriel smiled. “Perhaps.” Most likely not.

“You should not lie to Dear Mother, Singer.”

I should not upset her with the truth, either.

Lillianna huffed a not-so-annoyed breath. “The day I get a straight answer from you will be made into a local festival.” She backed up a step, grabbing his face between her calloused, mistreated hands. “Will you at least stay for dinner? You look deathly pale, have you eaten at all today?”

He had not, but she didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll stay.” Was all he answered.

His Dear Mother sighed, but didn’t press him, only turning back to the fire stove and resuming her cooking. 

“Do you need help with anything, Mama?”

She waved him off, not bothering to answer. Azriel didn’t fail to notice the sweet smile that shone on her face.

Evellyn pulled on his arm, urging him away from the kitchen. “Let’s play a game, Azy! We can play Piles! Or Trios! OR HALT!” His sister started bombarding him with suggestions, each one from a game he taught her along the years, and some from what was most likely Galgar's fault. He needed to have a talk with the male about teaching games of chance to a teenager.

“Piles it is, Eve. Get the pieces and I’ll set-.” He didn’t get to finish his sentence, the girl thundering upstairs in the blink of an eye.

The Shadowsinger only shook his head and smiled, turning to the low table in the corner of the cozy room and sitting on his usual couch adapted for wings.

“Little Star is ecstatic from seeing you, Singer. You really should visit more often.”

Azriel sighed internally. There’s a lot of things I should be doing, Little Ones, and yet, here we are, lounging instead of working.

“You were just given your whole family back from certain doom, Singer. There is no harm in wanting a break.”

He didn’t agree in the slightest. There are females still being clipped.

“Yes, but you cannot hope to save every single one of them. You need your brothers’ help. In the meantime, leave your worries out that door, Singer."

He didn't answer them. Instead he tried relaxing against the cushioned seat, but Eve was already flying down the stairs, carrying a bucket of stackable pieces of wood.

She stopped a few feet away from the table, a mischievous smile on her face. He raised a single brow at her.

“Why don’t we make this interesting, Big Brother?”

Damnit, Galgar. “I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you are.”

“Are you going to chicken out?” She retorted, some of her attitude finally showing.

Azriel smiled. Time to teach his little sister a very important lesson.

---

Azriel had won. Every. Single. Game.

Obviously he cheated, but she could never prove it, so it didn’t make a difference.

By the end of their playing session he would’ve cheated her out of all her meager life savings, if she had any to wager with. That being said, she owed him about three favors and a promise never to gamble again.

“It's not FAIR! MOM, He’s cheating! Make him stop!” She tried begging for the highest authority on the room, to no avail. His mother knew exactly what he was doing, and only held in a laugh.

“Sore loser.” Azriel quipped, earning a furious glare from Eve.

She opened her mouth to give what he imagined was going to be a particularly nasty answer, when a knock sounded on the door.

“Can someone-” Before his mother finished the request, Eve was already throwing open the door.

“Gal!” She buried her face in the burly Illyrian standing in the doorway. 

Galgar was as big as Cassian, perhaps bigger, barely fitting through the doorway even with the absence of his wings. The male would be a fearsome force in the battlefield, were he not one of the most docile fae Azriel had ever known. 

“Greetings, little Eve. Was that your arrow I saw right in the center of the target? You’re a better shot than me already!” The male tapped gently on the girl's back.

“It was! Azy saw it! And he was cheating at Pile, Gal! He won four times in a row!”

Galgar's eyes bulged slightly, and his gaze immediately darted to the couch Azriel sat, not hiding his surprise. “Azriel! I’ve never seen you around here this season.” His smile was warm, even if Azriel knew that deep down he made the male a little nervous. “Are you bullying poor Evellyn?”

“Someone has to teach her not to bet what she can’t back up.” His smile was nothing short of predatory.

Galgar cleaned his throat, having the decency to be a little embarrassed. “Yes, indeed. It’s a really valuable lesson. Duly noted.” Galgar looked back down to the still clinging Eve, and his features softened. “Come on, girl, help me set the table for your mother.”

She nodded enthusiastically, darting back to the kitchen and gathering a bunch of plates and cutlery.

Galgar dropped his weight on a settee beside the Shadowsinger. “Sorry. I may have mentioned some card games from back in the day, and she wouldn’t let me off the hook until I taught her how to play.”

Azriel nodded. “I can imagine.” 

He stared intently at the male. They were polar opposites, one whose job was to maim for information, while the other was denied of the skies for choosing not to do harm. It made Azriel have deep respect for him, even if he would never admit that. 

Galgar brushed a giant hand through his short hair. “She’s a fast learner. Had me beat in every single game I knew within a month. It was the same with the shortbow and the traps.”

The Shadowsinger let his gaze wander back to his blond little sister, now discussing something completely futile with their mother. She was growing faster every year he visited. It probably wouldn’t take long for her to outgrow this place altogether.

The Little Star hopped back to the main table, her arms full with porcelain and silver.

“Are you going to just sit there?!”

Azriel smirked. “Yes, actually.”

“We could help her, Singer.” His shadows suggested.

Denied.

They hissed “You are a very petty male, Singer.”

I know.

“Give me a hand here!” His sister tried again.

“I’m cashing in my first favor.” He simply answered.

She stuck out her tongue at him with a furious expression. “Can’t spell LAZY without AZY!”

The bastard made a show of reclining even further on his couch, crossing his arms behind his head. “Whine away, little loser.”

And hearing Evellyn complaining the whole time as she set the table, a warm thought crossed his mind.

I really should visit more often.

---

They ate his mother's exquisite cuisine, the broth rich and the ribs, succulent. Azriel told them of Nesta miraculously saving Feyre, and everything that had happened in between the months since the Solstice. Except for his recent adventure with the Priestess, of course.

There was such comfort to be had in this place, it was almost unbearable for the singer to sit there and listen to their light banter. 

He was truly glad to be there, but couldn’t help the gnawing of his own mind of how he didn’t deserve to sit at this table and enjoy a hearty meal.

He did so anyways.

They were just finished with their food, Azriel simply listening while Evellyn told him of all her prowess as a huntress. He felt his chest swell with pride with every little detail she shared.

She stopped mid sentence, whirling her head to the corner of the sitting room fast enough to give her whiplash. She was looking at the upright piano, probably the only expensive piece of furniture in the whole village. “Azy, play something for us!”

She turned back to him, her eyes full of hope. “Pretty please? I will forgive you for cheating if you play!”

How could he refuse when she looked at him with those puppy eyes?

Azriel chuckled softly, rising from his seat. “Of course, Eve. Want to hear anything in particular?”

“Something fast! And happy!”

“Something like you, then?” He threw a smile over his shoulder, approaching the shining black wood. It was a beautiful instrument, made in Dawn and enchanted to never lose it’s tuning.

He opened the cover for the keys, running his mottled fingers over them. It had been quite some time since he played, but the knowledge never left him.

Truth was, he loved music. Had loved it since he was a young male learning his first keystrokes in secret. 

He took a seat at the bench and started playing, tentatively at first, but gradually picking up speed.

The melody was light, an ode to happier times and amenable weathers, composed in Spring if his memory served right. Fitting for his little sister.

His fingers jumped happily from base to melody, and soon his deep voice followed. It wasn’t the most adequate for this kind of song, but he sang with with his heart nonetheless. 

The song grew with a frenzy, his shadows flowing suit, dancing around his body as he played and sang, something chained deep within him finally letting loose. This was true bliss.

He played and sang as if his own soul translated to the music.

His sister giggled and jumped around with the chords, her laughter adding to the joy of the moment.

He switched to the next song without missing a beat, this one instrumental only. His hands darted around the keys with such precision it sounded like several fae were playing simultaneously. 

The song came to a steady growth, with interchangeable melodies of varying intensity, and then sudden slow, more contained notes. Followed by more explosions of melody. This went on in circles, until the music came to a final crescendo, raising the hairs at the base of his neck.

As the crescendo reached its peak he switched to the final song of the night, immediately letting his deep voice flow once more. It filled the space of the cabin and beyond, but the Shadowsinger didn’t care.

In that moment he wasn’t defined by his shadows, only by his music.

His voice caressed the sweet tones that spoke o flowers and forests, of greens and grace. He let the volume go down with the speed of his keystrokes, with gentle remarks of the melody, to them exploding in a final verse of joy.

He stopped playing as the third song ended, his fingers cramping slightly form the unusual exercise. But he didn’t care one bit. He was smiling ear to ear, the applause from his audience of three beaming fae more than enough of a reward.

“That was beautiful, Azy! So so beautiful! Will you teach me to play like you?” She grabbed him by the shoulder, hopping in excitement.

He gave her a playful smirk. “Perhaps one day, Eve. For now I must go. It’s been a wonderful evening.”

Evellyn immediately frowned, transitioning from one mood to another almost as fast as she ran. “But you just got here! Why must you always leave?”

“I have work-”

“You always have work to do! It’s not fair!” She hit him on his chest, the force barely enough to distort his leathers.

He placed a gentle hand on her head, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry, Eve. Next time.”

She huffed and pouted, but finally hugged him in farewell.

He bode his farewell to his mother and Galgar next, winnowing back to the House of Wind and all the responsibilities that followed.

Chapter Text

The House remained silent as the Shadowsinger landed softly on the training ring, mentally readying himself for one more sleepless night.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the Lovely Priestess standing near the arch of the entrance.

Strangely enough, Gwyn didn’t look much like a priestess any longer. Her grey robes had been abandoned in favor of simple leather pants and a breezy white shirt, something more akin to what Feyre typically used. Azriel’s thought that it suited her immensely.

“Greetings, Shadowsinger.” She gave him a curt nod, and no smile graced her lips.

He answered with a skeptical nod of his own. “Good evening, Priestess.”

She glanced around the ring, her heavy gaze lingering on weapon racks and training wooden beams. “It feels like an eternity since we’ve spent time up here, doesn’t it?”

Azriel nodded slowly, curious as to where her thought would lead. “It does.”

She stepped towards one of the racks, retrieving a sword with her typical flowing grace. “You promised to teach us single combat, and yet there hasn’t been any training since I returned.” She pointed the steel blade towards him, assuming a fighting stance with her feet set far apart on the ground, her face furrowed tight. “We have a lot of time to make up for.”

He gave her an amused huff, unsheathing one of the swords strapped on his back and mimicking her posture. “That we do.”

She lunged, barely waiting for him to finish his sentence.

The Shadowsinger deflected her thrust with a flick of the wrist, aiming to send her tumbling forward.

The Priestess overstepped, but didn’t trip. She pivoted after him, her thrust turned into a powerful slash.

He blocked, pushing her blade away and assuming a defensive stance.

She went after him again and again, her movements fluid and savage as he met her blow for blow. 

She spun with violent grace, her blade a mere flash of moonlight in the night air as her darkened teal eyes narrowed not with challenge, but with anger.

He parried a diagonal slash, sending the tip of her sword straight to the ground, his heel locking it in place as the flat side of his blade met her neck with deadly, gentle precision.

“You’re distracted today, Priestess.” He stated calmly. “Something on your mind?”

She scoffed, pulling on her sword and spinning out of reach. “Let’s keep going.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t give him the chance to, rushing him with fierce consecutive strikes. She was lashing out like a tidal wave, her anger weaponized into heavy slashes and quick movement, something he’d never truly witnessed from her.

He tried to trip her again, but she didn’t fall for it a second time, feinting a thrust into a pommel strike to his forearm.

He dodged, but barely. 

“The Lovely Priestess is deeply distressed, Singer.” The Little Ones stated.

Oh, really? I couldn’t tell. Something had riled her up, but he was not going to make it easy for her. No opponent ever would.

He changed the tides of the blows, deflecting the first one of her attack and engaging in an onslaught of quick strikes. High and low, left and right. She parried them all, but started retreating step after step, losing her footing against the unrelenting assault.

Finally, he broke the chaotic pattern, brandishing the sword with might against her crossguard, rattling her bones. Her hand opened in reflex, and she didn’t have time to blink before he’d kicked her blade out of reach and laid the flat side of his own on her shoulder.

She grunted with frustration, swatting away his sword like a bug and marching furiously after her’s. “Again!”

He watched as she retrieved the blade, turning back towards him and assuming a fighting stance once more.

“No.” Azriel replied coldly.

“Singer…” His shadows started speaking.

Quiet. He ordered.

Gwyn’s eyes turned a shade darker as she glared at him with renewed fury. “Square up, Shadowsinger.” Her voice was dangerously low.

He didn’t budge. “I’m not going to fight you like this.”

“Why not?” She demanded, snapping. “You and Cassian beat each other to a pulp almost daily, but when I ask for a duel you refuse? Am I that pitiful of an opponent? Am I that fragile in your eyes?” She practically screamed the last sentence.

He shook his head. “No, Priestess, you’re the opposite of both. But when Cassian and I trade blows outside of training, we’re willing to get hurt, and to hurt each other in the process.” 

She only stared at him, still poised to strike.

“And I am not willing to hurt you, Gwyn.” He added, sheathing his sword.

A long moment passed, but she finally let out a heavy sigh and a silent curse, marching to the weapon rack and shoving the sword back in its spot. She didn’t move away or turn back to face him.

He took careful, deliberate steps towards her, stopping far enough as to not crowd her space. His shadows reached tentatively between them, but also didn’t touch her.

“The stars are beautiful tonight.” Azriel spoke in a low rumble. “Will you sit with me?”

He didn’t know if talking could have the same mind numbing effect for her as the pain had for him, but he hoped it did. She’d taken him out of his own head and worries many times before, and he was dying to do the same for her.

Gwyn looked at him over her shoulder, her expression still lingering with anger. She gave another curt nod, walking towards the far ledge of the ring that faced the city and sitting on the stone floor, her shoulders tense. At least she didn’t flat out refuse, so it was a promising start.

He took measured steps to her side, sitting within arm’s reach.

They gazed at the flickering lights in silence, the bustling City of Starlight below standing no chance against the starry sky above. It would be a breathtaking sight, if not for the clearly perturbed Gwyn by his side. 

His shadows were turned to the furious Priestess from behind his shoulders, like children peeking at something they shouldn’t behind their mother’s skirt.

You were supposed to watch over her. He mentally scolded them. What happened?

“Nothing of particular note, Friend. She had breakfast with Lady Life, Loud Brother and the Carinthian Clothier, and then descended to the Library, where she worked all day with her Chosen Sisters. We did not listen to their conversation, for we knew you would not be pleased if we did. She had just come up the stairs when you arrived.”

He considered the information, trying to process what could have enraged her like this. Perhaps the unfairness of Emerie’s situation, or something with Merryl, the insufferable scholar.

They didn’t speak for minutes on end, the silence stretching into a heavy clot between them. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.

He was used to silence, but it was never this loaded with her. For the first time in his life, he was finding it unbearable. 

Finally, he caved, asking her in a gentle voice. “How is Emerie faring?”

Her expression turned even darker, and she didn’t answer immediately. The wind swayed her hair in his direction, her spiced aroma carrying an acrid undertone of rage he’d never scented from her before.

“She’s strong.” Gwyn said, her voice clipped. “But she’s suffering. That shop was everything she had. It was her home, and now it’s not safe to return to.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, for there was nothing to be said. He only hoped his mission in Illyria would bring some light into this mess and make things safe for the female warrior again.

“And the worst part?” She carried on, her voice rasped with disgust. “He won. Nesta gutted that bastard of a cousin and left his body to rot in that mountain, but he still won in the end, and I can’t make him pay for it anymore. It drives me mad.” She was grinding her teeth as she spoke, her nails digging in her palms strongly enough to break skin.

His shadows darted to her fingers, circling them and trying to pry them apart. She visibly relaxed under their touch, letting her hands open. The small bloody indents of her nails were already closing.

“I wish he was still alive…” She said, her voice so low he would’ve swore he imagined it, if not for her finishing the thought. “... so that I could kill him all over again.” She looked down at the city, her face strangely devoid of emotion. “Quite unbecoming of me, don’t you think?”

Azriel understood that, at least. The impulse for violence, and the guilt that came from it. “He hurt the ones you love the most, Gwyn. Nobody would blame you for feeling vengeful.”

She finally faced him, her eyes slightly unfocused, face still frowned. “I hate feeling like this. And I hate myself for being weak like that. It should be easy. I say these things about making him pay, because I know he was a terrible male, and yet I’m certain that if he was standing right in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to kill him. I was useless then, and I’m useless now.”

Azriel almost bristled at the insinuation. “You’re far from useless. You won the most brutal trial anyone could ever take part in. You not only survived, but thrived, Priestess.”

“Don’t call me that!” She snapped his way once more, but it left him more confused than anything.

“It never bothered you before.” He said slowly.

She took a second to retort. “I’m not deserving of that title.” 

It was a considerate effort not to immediately spill dozens of reasons for the absurdity of her claim, but he wanted to hear it from her first. He needed to understand it. 

So he asked something that had bothered him for a long time. “Is that why you don’t wear your invoking stone?” 

Again she sat in a long, contemplative silence before answering. Her expression went from pained, to irritated, to sorrowful, and back to full of rage. Still, the Shadowsinger waited.

“You weren’t there.” Finally she spoke again, her voice dripping with contempt. “You didn’t see how much of a burden I was to them. I didn’t kill a single fae that came charging. I wounded them, and I distracted them, but I didn’t strike any of them down.” She let out a strangled sob, her frustration and sadness overflowing. “My hesitation almost cost all of our lives. I had to be carried up that mountain, but I was already being carried way before that. I was incapable of protecting those I love, first in Sangravah, and again at the Rite.” She finished her thought with a defeated voice, her face now twisted with anguish.

She scoffed bitterly, drying the tears that already leaked and swallowing the rest like a bitter tonic. “So no, I’m not worthy of any title. Not that of Carinthian or Priestess, and certainly not of my invoking stone.”

The realization hit him like a knife to the heart. She still blamed herself for surviving the attack on the temple, while her sister didn’t. Azriel had never asked about the female beyond what Gwyn had told him, but he distinctly remembered the headless corpse of a priestess that had almost the same smell as her. 

But she hadn’t been useless, of that he was certain. He needed her to understand that.

“Gwyn, look at me.” He asked, his voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument.

She glanced at him sideways, her expression still devastated.

“You saved those children. If not for you, they would’ve been massacred, or worse. Just like you saved Nesta and Emerie when you led the tatzelwurms to where they were being held captive.”

She looked at him then, truly looked at him.

“I may not have been there, but there were others who were, and they were grateful for your presence. You were never a burden, Gwyn.”

He looked at the stars above, trying to search for the words that he knew mattered the most. It was hard. There were some he tried telling himself at every opportunity, but was forced not to believe. How could he make herself believe it, then?

Fortunately, the Priestess was making good progress at turning him into a more eloquent male.

“You should never hate yourself for not being heartless, Gwyn. Your strength is not defined by your cruelty, but by your compassion. You befriended Nesta, whom almost every fae in this Court scorned, and you befriended me, whom almost every fae in every Court scorns. And I believe there’s something very special to be said about that.” A warm smile naturally bloomed at his face, and even if she didn’t return it, her anguish visibly subsided.

She looked away from him, her eyes now focused on the constellations, as if searching for the right answer, like he’d just done. 

“You’re wrong.” She replied. “I didn’t save anyone. I just did what I wasn’t paralyzed enough to botch.” 

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Priestess.” She glanced back his way at the use of the title. His face was full of warmth and understanding.

“You save me from myself a little bit every single day, since that night on Solstice.” 

He paused, glancing to the arch that led to the stairs. “And if I were to march inside the House, which I’m pretty sure must reek of sex…” She snickered at that, which he counted as an absolute victory “...I bet my wings Nesta would say something very similar.” He stared into her eyes again, letting her see how truthful he was being. “You constantly heal us. Not our bodies, but our spirits. And if that is not worthy of your invoking stone, Priestess, I don’t know what is.”

She stared at him for a long time, her darkened teal pools slowly creeping back to their usual bright shade.

“It wasn’t any effort befriending you, Shadowsinger. You and Nesta are both insufferable, so I felt right at home.” Her voice still sounded a bit hollow, but the dry humour was a big improvement.

His smile broadened. “It’s my pleasure to annoy you.”

She glanced back to the arch too, seeing beyond it. “The priestesses are getting restless without the training. You and Cassian should stop slacking out soon.”

He chuckled. “Is it really that bad?”

She nodded. “It is. They’re all getting antsy with nothing to do during the morning.” She scoffed. “I doubt it will take much longer before we’re using books and chairs as weights and shields.”

Azriel grin turned amused. “That is something I’d pay good gold to see.”

“Of course you would.” She replied flatly, but quickly amended. “I’m sorry about the tantrum.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m not one to judge, Priestess. I’m happy to help in any way I can, even if I’m to be your training dummy.”

She turned a sour look his way. “Training equipment doesn't strike back.”

He let out a low laugh. “You completed the Qualifiers, so you know that statement is not entirely true.”

She gave him a small smile, and he was overjoyed to see it, even if he remained composed on the outside.

“Tatzelwurms? Is that how those beasts are called?” She asked, some of her curiosity finally making itself known.

He nodded, rummaging his mind for information about the dreadful things. “They dig burrows to sleep during the day, waiting for unsuspecting victims to disturb the earth. The serpent bottom is scaly, almost impenetrable, and the feline upper body has one of the thickest hides you can get. Really vicious creatures. They are especially territorial during the Rite. It coincides with the start of their mating season, I believe.”

Gwyn let out a satisfied hum at his answer, but he didn’t doubt she would look them up with more depth later. She had a whole Library at her daily disposal, after all.

Another question sprung to his mind, and he was already talking before he could stop himself. “What pushed you to come up here?”

She shrugged, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“And what made you unable to sleep?” He pressed.

She wasn’t amused. “Is this an interrogation, Shadowsinger?”

It was his turn to shrug, and he made sure to do it in the most mockingly offensive way possible. “I’m only making up conversation. Isn’t that why you strive to make me an eloquent male in the first place?” He answered with a crooked tug on his lips.

She made a disgusted noise. “I’m thoroughly regretting my decision, don’t you worry.”

He made a humming sound. “Pity, there was so much I wanted to talk about.”

“Is that so?” She didn’t sound excited at the prospect, but raising a brow in question. “Like what, exactly?”

He couldn’t tell if it was a rhetorical question or not, so he answered sincerely. “Like how your eyes go a darker shade of teal when you’re mad.” 

Her face went from apathetic, to surprised, to furiously blushing in less than a second, but she managed to scold it back to neutral and give him a deceivingly nonchalant answer. “That’s hardly something of note, Shadowsinger.” 

“I beg to differ.” He quipped, satisfied to get a reaction out of her. “It’s a nice detail to notice in the future, in case you start feeling murderous again.”

She narrowed her eyes back at him, probably feeling a little murderous right then and there, but it only made his smile grow. She was beautiful, even then.

His contemplation was interrupted as she stood up.

“You gave me a lot of food for thought, Shadowsinger.” She spoke, her tone restrained. “Thank you for your patience.” She made to turn away from him, but he stood as well. 

“Let me see you inside.” He promptly suggested. She hesitated, but acquiesced.

They made their way back to the rooms in silence, but one that was no longer heavy and uncomfortable, but simply quiet. Contemplative.

“I hope we have an early start tomorrow with training.” She spoke as they neared their hall, keeping her voice low so as to not wake the other residents.

“I’ll be sure to make you regret those words, Priestess.” His snide grin was enough to earn him an elbow to the ribs. He winced, but didn’t make a sound.

He threw her an indignant look, but any complaints died in his throat at her smile. A true, genuine smile. He just stood there, stunned, hand frozen over his already dimming bruise and with a slightly open mouth.

“Who’s distracted now?” It was her turn to give him a snide grin as she strode past him, opening the door to her room. 

“See you tomorrow, Shadowsinger.” She tossed over her shoulder, ending their little bout as quickly as it started, and leaving a highly amused Azriel behind. The familiar comment wasn’t lost on him.

That night he slept soundly, a small bundle of his shadows leaving to join the Priestess without the need for a request.

Chapter Text

The Shadowsinger woke up at what he estimated to be two hours before sunrise, and the first thing he did was to get a report from every remote shadow he’d stationed. His family and the Inner Circle were all well, and there were no updates on the Illyrian widows and the sleeping injured female.

He readied himself for the day, before leisurely walking towards the door of his brother's bedroom, where he could smell Nesta from down the corridor. They were probably passed out from a night well lived, even if he didn’t have the displeasure of hearing it this time around. He almost felt guilty for waking them up, but all the nights they had kept him awake were more than enough to conclude he didn’t really care for their beauty sleep.

The silent shadow slipped under the door, a small note and specific orders to poke Cassian at sunrise until he rose, letting Nesta decide if she’d accompany him or not. He also sent a shadow with a note to Clotho’s desk, so she could inform the priestesses about training, and another one under Emerie’s door. They would probably come in a little late, since nobody had warned them the previous night, if they came at all. But he wouldn’t waste any time worrying about that.

He made his way down the hall, his shadows roving playfully over his hair as they whispered a heartful “Let us eat, Singer.”

He wasn’t hungry, but he did feel like he could actually enjoy the food, instead of forcing the nutrients down to keep his body functional. Mother knows how long it had been since he lost his appetite for anything beyond sweets.

Let us eat, Little Ones. 

He stalked to the kitchen and took his seat away from the roaring hearth, the House providing him with a healthy, bountiful, and tasty breakfast, including a slice of lemon tart as a treat. He made sure to thank it before making his way up the training ring, earning a soft glow from the faelights. 

The morning air was chilled, the sky still populated by stars and nebulae. The soft pink that forebode sunrise had yet to show its face, so he had at least an hour to kill before the others could start making their way up. 

He began going through his routine of exercises, allowing his mind to be swept away by the workout.

---

The gentle light scarcely graced the valley when he first heard her soft steps making their way up the stairs.

He rose from his planked position on the ground, a thin layer of sweat shimmering over the tanned skin of his bare torso. With the training ring all by himself, he’d taken the liberty to remove his upper armor, as there were few things more uncomfortable than damp leathers. He just hadn’t accounted for the early interruption.

Gwyn was frozen under the archway, staring at him with… surprise? Curiosity? He couldn’t really tell. It was most likely the first time she was seeing him shirtless. The wind picked up her smell and carried it over to him, her typical cinnamon and water lily aroma tinged with more heat than usual.

“We told you, Dumb Singer, but you were too stubborn to listen.” His shadows quipped, unsolicited. “The Lovely Priestess enjoys what she sees.”

He must have had a reaction to her smell or the shadows comment, because the Priestess immediately recomposed herself, albeit a deep blush still stained her freckled cheeks as she made her way to the other side of the ring, promptly falling into a routine of stretches with a barely audible ‘good morning’.

The Shadowsinger was no stranger to his own allure as a male, but he had never dared to look at any of the priestesses beyond what was strictly necessary for the training, nor entertained the idea they looked at him in any way other than as an instructor. Correcting their posture, paying attention to wrists and foot placement, to centers of balance and stiffness of movement, was all that ever crossed his mind while inside tutoring them.

His eyes wandered on their own to Gwyn’s back, which started to show lean muscle under the contours of the snug leather vest. He’d seen her in adorable outfits, and in disheveled robes and hair, and always found her breathtakingly beautiful regardless of her state. But it had always been chaste and innocent, like observing a marble sculpture made flesh. It was different this time. As Gwyn’s arousal hit his nose something inside his brain clicked out of place, and he couldn’t stop a less rational side of him from taking hold of his senses. 

The Priestess had lowered herself to the ground with her back turned to him, the training leathers hugging her slim figure and muscular legs. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering. 

She was devastating.

He turned away from her with a sharp movement, desperately trying to gather his wits like the half-sane male he pretended to be, feeling the rush of desire run down his neck and cursing himself silently. Thankfully the wind was in his favor, driving away the heat of his own scent before the Priestess could smell it.

His shadows, the Little Bastards, lost no time teasing him about it.

“Why so flustered, Singer?” He could hear the faint amusement from their ghostly voices. “There is no shame in admitting the Lovely Priestess is attractive.”

She is not a piece of meat to be drooled upon. His thoughts were more of a reprehension to himself than an answer to them.

“She is most definitely not, but you are not blind, and neither are we. There is no use denying the obvious.”

Go pester Cass like I told you, and leave me alone.

“As if we were not the ones that taught you to multitask, Singer.” He could hear their infuriating giggles in the back of his mind. 

If his shadows were already giving him shit for being flustered around Gwyn, he couldn’t imagine what his damn loudmouth of a brother would do with the information. Knowing Cassian, he wouldn’t spare the Priestess from any of his teasing, even after their previous talk .

For both his and Gwyn’s sakes, he hoped they could maintain their desire for each other hidden, at least while in company of others. That’s what the Shadowsinger repeated inside his head like a mantra as he made a conscious effort to keep his eyes away from her, the pang of his spiked desire slowly subsiding to more manageable levels, but still present. He dried himself up and quickly buckled his upper leathers in place. 

It seemed like a torturous long time had passed, but it couldn't have been more than half an hour before Emerie, Nesta and his Loud Brother made their way to the training ring, too. Cassian found him taking inventory of all the training equipment, which they both knew was completely unnecessary. Still, the Shadowsinger needed movement, anything to not feel too tight inside his own skin.

“Morning, Az.” Cassian greeted, studying him closely.

He answered in his typical emotionless fashion. “Morning.”

“Care to explain why you had to get me removed from my bed without previous notice?” The General asked, sounding more curious than annoyed.

Azriel moved an archery target past him, catching a glimpse of Nesta and Emerie talking with Gwyn on the other side of the ring, the priestess doing light exercises to keep her body warmed up while the others took their stretching positions.

“Can’t afford to lose the progress we made thus far, can we?” He retorted, hoping that would be enough of an answer for his brother

Cassian hummed, seemingly unimpressed, but didn’t argue. The hulking Illyrian silently took a sword from the rack and assumed his position on one of the squares they had marked on the ground for single combat training.

Azriel didn’t need to be asked twice. 

Grabbing a sword and taking the other side of the ring, they both nodded at the same time before lunging at each other without restraint. Their blades clashed with power, the sound of tempered steel reverberating throughout the mountain. Azriel thought he would be on a slight advantage, but his brother wasn’t swinging like a male who had just woken up.

He kicked his brother in the shin, earning a quick hiss and a backstep from him. “Ready to warm up, Cass?” He provoked.

Cassian recovered in a split second, descending his sword in a diagonal feint and catching Azriel off guard as he tackled him with his shoulder, almost ripping away the Shadowsinger’s balance. “I get all the warm up that I need from my mate, Az.”

Of course he pulled that. Azriel almost groaned out loud at the innuendo, his mind still trying to get rid of Gwyn’s smell, and failing spectacularly. He didn’t want to envy his brother for his happiness, but if the prick would make a point of rubbing it in his face…

The Spymaster pounced, thrusting his blade with blinding speed, the General reacting just on time. Azriel let his blade slide out of reach, elbowing his brother right in his solar plexus with all of his momentum, the middle of Cassian’s torso caving in slightly at the force of impact.

The air was forced out of his body with a pained gasp, and Azriel took the second of dizziness to swipe his legs from underneath him and lock a knee between his wings, subduing the male.

Azriel sprung from the ground with feline grace, reaching a hand to his defeated brother, who took it without complaint. Cassian dusted off his face and leathers before murmuring a breathless, “I probably deserved that.”

The ladies had finished their stretches and were paying close attention to their duel. Emerie seemed curious, while Nesta was openly smiling at his brother’s frustrated expression. Gwyn was still avoiding his eyes, which only worked to nag at him further. He needed to talk to her. He feared he had made her uncomfortable, and the last thing he wanted was to-

“Do not even start, Singer.”

Azriel would probably have devolved into one of his usual mental arguments with the Little Ones, if not for the sound of many hurried steps making their way up. A small wave of priestesses passed through the archway, all seemingly euphoric to finally be back on track.

He locked away his doubts for the time being, promptly starting their lesson.

---

Training had been relentless, and the priestesses were even more drained than usual. The first few hours were concentrated in regiment tactics and fighting as a cohesive group, something the females were already pretty used to, and excelled at. But the last ones were solely dedicated to separating them in pairs and supervising their sparring. They started with wooden swords, as there was no need to risk any heavy injuries. 

They performed well, even for something they were not used with, but as the spars continued on through the late morning, he and Cassian both noticed a concerning pattern. Something they agreed would have to be addressed directly on the next training session.

Returning to the library, they were sweating and beaten, but unequivocally excited.

Gwyn stayed behind with her Chosen Sisters, the trio splayed on the ground and breathing heavily. They exchanged some words he didn’t get, but the Spymaster didn’t miss how Nesta and Emerie stole glances his way every couple of seconds. He was more than a little tempted to ask his shadows to listen closely, but decided to hold on to what little decency was left of him.

It seemed like the Shadowsinger wouldn’t get some time alone with Gwyn to apologize for any embarrassment or discomfort he’d caused, so it was better off if he just went about his duties and stopped sneaking glances at the female like a dejected puppy.

He suppressed a sigh and approached Cassian near the water station.

“I’m off to the Illyrian camps.” His voice was even colder than it normally sounded. “I want to find out if any other males are involved in what happened during the Rite.”

Cassian's carefree expression turned grave, and he answered with a curt nod. “I’ll go ask the Camp Lords nicely sometime soon, but I doubt the fuckers are going to be too helpful.”

“I know. Let it rest, at least while I figure some details out. We don’t want to announce we’re onto them.” He paused, considering how much of his findings were conclusive enough to share. “I rescued a female from clipping yesterday.” His brother’s expression darkened even further at the words. “She was dragged out of camp and tortured in broad daylight. Was barely able to move when I arrived. Madja thinks she’ll recover but…”

Azriel shook his head. It was so fucking wrong that this shit was still going down. His brother seemed to mirror the sentiment. “Give Rhysand a briefing, and tell him I’m going to pass by his office later to discuss the next steps.” The Shadowsinger finished, stretching his wings.

Cassian nodded, his characteristic sly smile completely absent. “Will do. Take care out there, Az.” He gestured with his head towards Truth-teller. “And don’t leave any of those monsters breathing.”

“Don’t plan to.” With that the Shadowsinger took to the skies without looking back.

---

“She is awake and demanding explanations, Singer. The Old Healer is trying to quell her doubts, but she is not complying.”

Azriel hadn’t made any progress with his investigation in the camps, spending the entire afternoon eavesdropping on the premises of the training field in Ironcrest, to absolutely no success.

It was nearing the evening when his shadows alerted him from Madja’s clinic, and he winnowed away from his frigid homeland immediately after receiving the news.

The Shadowsinger landed outside the cream colored building, startling some passersby as he made no ceremony to enter the immaculate interior, the heavy smell of herbs hitting him in earnest. The carnage he was covered with when he appeared last time had prevented him from noticing the aroma altogether. The brightness of the faelights was blinding white, stinging his eyes, but he ignored the discomfort as he marched towards the patient room, already hearing a high pitched and distressed voice arguing with the elder fae.

He came face to face with the healer giving a stern look to the agitated female, who seemed ready to leap out one of the windows at any second. At least her wounds were all healed, even if her frame remained malnourished.

“Madja.” He greeted, hoping to diffuse some of the tension in the room.

“Spymaster.” She answered, without averting her eyes.

The Illyrian snapped her head in his direction. “Spymaster?” Her face twisted in a half-grimace, half-snarl. “I guess that’s why you kept me alive then. Corpses don’t talk an awful lot, do they?”

Azriel kept his cold mask unfazed even as the insinuation made his skin crawl. “I have no reason to interrogate you.”

“Fancy word for torture you’ve got there. Does it make you feel better about the fae you skin alive?” She took a step away from him.

He forced the bile that threatened to rise back down his throat. “My job is to protect the people of this Court, not hurt them.”

She shook her head. “Your cruelty precedes you.” Her face contorted in what could only be profound disgust. “And unfortunately, I witnessed it first hand. There’s very little you could say to prove it otherwise.”

“I didn’t kill those males out of my own satisfaction. I killed them to free you.” It was hard to face her after what she’d just said. He had not hesitated wiping those shitstains without any mercy, even if he was careless in doing so. Usually he left at least two alive for questioning, but his rage got the better of him, and the blood of the males had coated her body too.

She hissed his way, unimpressed. “You had no reason to rescue me in the first place, so what’s the catch?”

“It was the right thing to do.” He stated simply. “If that is not enough of a motivation, consider it enforcement of the law, since clippings are long banned.”

She snickered, a dry and humorless thing. “Tell that to the countless drooping wings in my camp.” She straightened up, no more ready to bolt, but with as defiant of a posture as she could manage. “I’m glad it was convenient for you to save me, Spymaster. You can drop me off back into that miserable place now that you feel a little better about yourself.”

Madja watched the altercation in grave silence, but the hostility aimed at the Shadowsinger prompet her into speaking. “He brought you here out of his own free will, child. You would do better to be a little more grateful.”

“Grateful?” Her voice now filled with sudden venom. “Why should I be grateful to the lap dog of a High Lord that does not care about my kind in the slightest? I am not so much of a child as you claim, healer, and I understand perfectly how little this has to do with my well being.”

Azriel's expression remained stony, even while his mind raced. “Why do you believe that?”

She turned back to him, eyes blazing. “How could I believe otherwise? You claim to care while we fear for our lives every waking moment. The most powerful High Lord in history, unable to protect his people from themselves.” She scoffed. “Perhaps unwilling is a better term.”

His eyebrows creased at her claim, the accusation stoking the fire to defend his brother. “Rhysand did everything in his reach to protect you, and still does so now. As powerful as he is, he still has limits.”

“That he does. Countless limitations, including how many of his subjects he can give a fuck about.” She spat in his direction. “He hid his precious city under lock and key, leaving the hybern bitch and the animals of my kind to unleash themselves upon us. There was not a single female left unclipped after those fifty years, but all of you already knew that, didn’t you? Tell me, how many males have been punished for taking what wasn’t theirs?”

Azriel furrow deepened. He knew the answer, but didn’t say it out loud.

“That 's correct. Fucking none. Because your High Lord couldn’t afford slaughtering half of his pet warmongers, could he now?” The contempt in her voice was thick, and to Azriel’s displeasure, completely justified.

“He was forced into a split second decision. He-”

“And yet.” She cut him short. “He still made his choice.”

There was no arguing against the truth. Rhysand had done everything in his power to protect those who mattered to him, but that extended very little beyond the City of Starlight. Even Madja had averted her gaze.

The shadows tried comforting him. “You were locked away, Singer. There was nothing you could have done.”

His guts twisted, and he felt his chest burning with shame. Had he been more incisive to Rhysand over dealing with the Illyrians or more throughout with his vigilance. Perhaps he couldn’t have stopped the clipping during Amarantha’s reign, but that didn’t absolve him from his posterior inaction.

“What is your name?” He asked, his tone clipped.

“Why does it matter?” She retorted. “I’ll be rotting in a ditch by the end of the week, so don’t waste your breath.”

His jaw clenched against his will, but his voice remained composed. “I would still like to know your name.”

She hesitated, the fury in her eyes tinged with skepticism. “Pleiadine.”

“Pleiadine.” He repeated it back, engraving the unusual name in his mind. “You are free to go wherever you wish in Velaris, and I will take you back to Ironcrest if you desire. Your concerns and situation will be taken to Rhysand, and we’ll ensure that you remain safe.”

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Spymaster .” Her eyes glossed over for a moment, no longer focused on him. “The pigs you butchered weren’t the only ones in the pen.”

He’d suspected that was the case, and as much as he hated having to ask her for anything after what she’d been through, it was his best shot at fixing things. 

“Could you help me identify them?” He paused, considering the best way to go about her mistrust. “You are right. The Court has been extremely neglectful, and I want that reality to change. I could use your help doing that.”

She wasn’t convinced, her expression floating between disgust and confusion while he waited for her answer.

“I don’t care what happens to me.” Raising her eyes, she spoke again. “Take my mother to safety, and I’ll tell you everything I know about them.”

He could work with that. “Of course. What’s your mother’s name, and where can I find her?”

“Her name’s Medarine. She lives in a tent to the far east of Ironside, but spends most of her time inside the Camp Lord’s manor. She’s a servant there.” She hesitated for a second. “Tell her Pleia sent you. She’ll go willingly.”

He nodded and summoned his shadows, but she rushed towards him before he could disappear, and he froze on the spot. Madja looked with worried eyes, but didn’t interrupt.

Pleiadine halted a small gap away from him, extending a thin arm. Of course she would want reassurance. He wordlessly complied, grabbing her tiny hand with his own. She shivered from the contact, her eyes darting over his scars.

His deep voice interrupted her staring. “I’ll take your mother somewhere safe, and you will tell me everything you know about the males who tried clipping you, and anyone who might be involved.” These terms seemed closed enough, and he didn’t want to waste one more second thinking about loose ends.

“It’s a bargain.” She stated, backing away as quickly as she’d approached, after the magic had done its work.

Azriel didn’t bother to check the drawing that etched itself on his left ankle, stepping into the shadows without another word.