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Chapter Text

Gwyn was lying on her bed, with her hand lifted before her face, the delicate golden necklace hanging from her fingers. She had been like that for hours now, watching the light bring out the colors of the rose. It was so flawless, so gorgeous, she could look at it forever.

In other words, she was obsessed.

Clotho said it was a Solstice gift from "a friend" who preferred to remain anonymous, but the High Priestess didn't have to mention names. Azriel's scent was all over the jewel—and also a female's smell, one Gwyn couldn't quite recognize, although it was pretty obvious, according to what Nesta had told her and Emerie.

So... it was probably a Solstice gift for Elain. Right. What had happened, then? Had she refused the piece? Changed her mind about accepting it? Had he changed his mind about giving it to her? Why?

And, most importantly, what had made Azriel decide to give Gwyn the necklace?

If he was trying to stay anonymous, he could have given it to any other woman in Velaris—literally any other one, even a random stranger on the street. He could have returned it to the store or, for the gods’ sake, thrown it out from the fucking sky.

Why her, then? Did the Shadowsinger want her to have it for some specific purpose? Did he think that it would be less awkward because she had no meaningful interactions with Elain? Or perhaps he imagined that Gwyn lacked self-esteem and wouldn’t mind being his second choice.

That was a terrible thought for so, soooo many reasons, and Gwyn didn’t intend to look closer at them. Actually, she didn't intend to even think about them, since it would only open her can of worms.

Dropping the necklace onto the nightstand, she got out of bed and changed into her training clothes. That morning’s training session was obviously cancelled, considering everyone was still too drunk for early activities, so Gwyn would have to practice by herself if she wanted to get exhausted enough to sleep at night. She preferred the group practice, but throwing some punches alone was a better choice than dealing with insomnia or nightmares.

The priestess stopped by the door and looked at the necklace. If she was honest with herself, it would be enlightening to see Azriel’s reaction to her wearing it.

For some reason she couldn’t precisely explain, she didn’t find him to be as mysterious as everybody else seemed to. One single look at his face, and Gwyn was able to read all his thoughts as if they were written on his skin. People were willing to buy that Shadowsinger aura of his, clearly afraid of confronting it and getting hurt in the collision. But Az had taken the mask off the first time he laid eyes on her, at Sangravah, and he had never managed to wear it back. At least not for her.

On impulse, she grabbed the thing from the nightstand. Even though it was more of Elain’s problem than hers, Gwyn was dying to know Azriel’s reasons to give it to her, to see the look in his eyes when he noticed the piece on her neck.

If she ran into him, of course. Which was hardly a possibility, right? After a painful rejection, the first thought of a male was always to drown the sorrows in a glass—or a bottle—of faerie wine. Azriel’s probably blacked out on his own bed right now, she told herself, putting the gift back on the furniture. Sleeping off the alcohol. Or maybe he was in someone else’s bed, using their body to forget his disappointment.

Closing the door behind herself, she stood there in the corridor, her gaze lost in the dim light, her fingers barely touching her own throat. No, that’s not Azriel. He’s going to take it out on the punching bag. If there was something to be taken out, of course. She knew nothing about what happened between him and Elain. Perhaps it wasn’t at all the catastrophe she was imagining.

Fuck, she was going insane, developing an identity disorder, or whatever that back-and-forth could be named. So much pondering for such a small thing.

Well, no one can accuse me of not going deep into a situation, Gwyn thought, opening the door and grabbing the damn necklace again.

Chapter Text

It was icy cold in the training ring atop the House of Wind, but Gwyn had spent the last two hours giving it her all in the exercises, mostly the ones she and the other priestesses had been practicing since the beginning of the week. Her skin was drenched in sweat, even though she had already taken off her jacket and tied her hair up. Although her knuckles were red and sore, she kept punching the bag, trying to improve her footwork—and doing a terrible job.

“Fuck,” she muttered, holding the punching bag still before it hit her face. Gwyn looked at the thing as if it were to blame for her failure.

“You‘re putting all your weight on your right leg, Berdara” a very familiar voice said from behind her back. “It’s affecting your posture and hindering your footwork.” She looked over her shoulder at Azriel’s perfect silhouette as he stepped into the light of the ring, taking that incredible shape of his, contoured by his twirling shadows. “Balance your body weight between both of your legs.” He got closer to her and stopped by her side. "Just like this. You see?"

When he moved his body towards the punching bag—his head slightly lowered, his face serious in concentration, his arms and legs so powerful and precise... Azriel was a work of art, a force of nature, lethal and mesmerizing at the same time. It was spellbinding to watch him, to perceive the centuries of training and the honing of his skills.

He ceased the demonstration and looked at Gwyn, waiting for her to follow suit.

"It will take me years to do something remotely similar, Az", she replied, aligning her feet and pushing her torso forward. The punch came out weaker than it should, and her body swayed a little. "Well, let's be realistic and say decades."

"It's just refinement work, Berdara. You already know how to punch someone or something, right? Time and practice will make your movement feel much more natural. Here, let me help you." Azriel stood right behind her, so close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. "Can I touch you?" For some reason, words got stuck in Gwyn's throat, so she just nodded, but he waited until she verbalized her consent. "Yes, sure. It's ok."

Placing his right knee on the floor, Az rested his right hand on her lower belly and his left one on the thigh of her non-dominant leg. Gwyn's breath stopped for long seconds, the heat of his palms going straight to her core.

"Ok, now do it again," he said, and for a moment she didn't remember what the fuck she was supposed to...

The punch. Ok. Fine.

Lifting her arms, she focused on the punching bag and moved forward, trying to balance her weight, as he had instructed. Just before her fist made contact with the leather, Azriel applied gentle pressure on her belly and thigh, pulling her body slightly backwards. And, just like that, the movement lined up perfectly.

"I got it. Fuck, I got it!" Gwyn couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. After weeks fighting against the footwork, now she knew how to use it to her advantage.

"Yes, you did."

Azriel's hands lingered on her body for a few seconds more than necessary, and she turned to face him as he stood up. Her smile, kinda frozen on her face, faded when she noticed the unusual spark in his eyes, something like... hunger.

And then his gaze went down to her neck.

His shadows got agitated when he noticed the necklace, and Gwyn saw his jaw clenching, but Az said absolutely nothing about the gift. "That's it, Berdara," he concluded, turning his back to her and heading towards the other side of the ring to begin his own training session. "Now you can try by yourself."

Well, given his complete silence on the matter, the priestess couldn't confront him about it... a problem his shadows thankfully solved when they stayed behind instead of following him. Silently, they slid up Gwyn's hands, arms, and shoulders, until they reached her neck and kept twirling around the jewel. Like a smoke signal pointing to the elephant in the room.

"Do you like it, Shadowsinger?", Gwyn teased. When he looked back, over his shoulder, his expression was one of a man betrayed by his best friends. She held the small pendant between her fingers, and the shadows accompanied her gesture. "Some anonymous friend gave it to me as a Solstice gift."

Now Az was the one who turned to face her—arms crossed in front of his chest, upright posture, trying to keep the dignity he'd already lost.

"How did you find out it was mine?", he asked, his voice neutral.

"I would never know if your scent wasn't all over it."

He smiled a little, fixing her with that hungry gaze again.

"Is that how well you know my scent, Berdara?"

You bastard bat, Gwyn thought, feeling her skin flushing under her freckles. Tilting her chin up, she smiled back and answered instead, "I'm a High Fae, Azriel. I could recognize the scent of anyone in the inner circle from miles away. Don't underestimate my senses. And don't overestimate your charm." In the most secluded corner of her mind, she asked herself if it was true; judging by Azriel's widening grin, he was asking himself the same. "Tell me, why did you give it to me after she refused it?"

Hmm... Apparently, one sentence was enough to take that self-confidence off of his face.

She stepped closer to him, until the toe of her shoes touched the tip of his boots. The shadows kept twirling, lightly caressing her skin.

"Why did you think of me when you decided to give the necklace to someone else? Not Mor, not the High Lady, not Nesta. Not someone from the River House or House of Wind staff. Not some stranger you could use to... oblivion. Why me, Azriel?"

Both stayed silent for endless, eternal moments. The Shadowsinger's breath turned heavier, his nostrils flaring as his hazel eyes clouded.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Berdara," he declared, running away from responsibility. Running away from himself. Then, with a flick of surprise, she realized... 

"You mean it... You really don't know, do you?" Gwyn's lips parted a bit at the realization that the Spymaster, the man who could uncover any secret, didn't understand his own mind. Before Az was able to answer, his shadows traveled to the back of her neck and unfastened the clasp of the necklace. The jewel floated to Azriel, caught in the misty strands, until it reached his eye level. Then the shadows simply dropped it, defying him—the sound of the gold piece hitting the ground almost too low to hear. "Well, Shadowsinger", Gwyn stated, following the shadows' cue, just before leaving the training ring. "Good luck figuring it out."

Chapter Text

You really don't know, do you?

Gwyn's question—and the shocked expression on her face—kept coming back to Azriel's mind since the night before, over and over and over again, until it was all he could think about.

If he was being honest with himself, his head was a fucking mess after the Solstice, full of thoughts and ideas he couldn't control. It was like his body had a life of its own, walking, moving, and talking... not exactly against his will, but surely without his full participation. Az's first plan had been to return the necklace to the store, to get rid of the memory that would always surface upon seeing it. And now he could barely remember that moment with Elain, the details of the scene replaced by Gwyn's fingers playing with the pendant, the provocative tone of her voice, his shadows covering her skin and, of course, betraying him in the worst possible way. Fucking backstabbers.

When she left, Azriel picked up the jewel and looked at it for a long time, as if it would tell him what in the world made that conversation turn out so badly. The necklace became a weight in his pocket, reminding him of all the bad choices he'd made so far. However, for some reason, it didn't feel right to keep it anywhere else but there, close to him. The scent of Gwyn's sweat lingered on it, dense, feminine, intensifying his guilt.

Is that how well you know my scent, Berdara? 

It was a motherfucking irony that her scent was driving him insane.

He was so stupid, so full of shit. Five hundred years in love with Mor, who had made it crystal clear that she didn’t want more than friendship from him. After that, a ridiculous obsession with Elain, a mated female, a confused woman looking for an escape from her own feelings—and based on what? His theory about the logical compatibility between three brothers and three sisters. A Cauldron’s mistake. As if he had the authority to call Its decisions mistakes. And then, the icing on the cake, his fucking brilliant idea of taking a gift rejected by a female and giving it to another.

You really don’t know, do you?

Well, Gwyn was a safe, less problematic choice for so many reasons. Any one of them could justify why he decided to go down the steps toward the library, why the piece ended up on her neck. The truth, though, was that an inexplicable, urgent instinct guided him. But, despite his efforts to name it, the answer eluded him.

The only thing Azriel knew was that his actions had hurt Gwyn’s feelings, and that was something he couldn’t ignore. She deserved better, a proper gift, meant for her—instead of someone else’s cast-offs. Actually, it seemed unfair that she and Emerie were not invited to celebrate Solstice with the Inner Circle, since they were Nesta’s best friends and Valkyrie companions.

“If you won’t pay attention to what I’m saying, this meeting is over. My mate’s waiting for me on our bed.”

Azriel looked at Cassian, who was staring at him with a far-too-knowing smile.

“You and your mate are always waiting for each other.”

Waiting wasn’t exactly the right word, but the euphemism would spare people from embarrassment when it came to those two.

“Wrong. I don’t make her wait. At all. Except when she asks for it. Or when I want her to…”

“I don’t need the details, Cass. Let’s get back to the point, please.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “Boring,” he replied, with a sigh. While his brother started to share information about Rhys’s last conversation with Eris, Azriel thought that “boring” wasn’t as bad as it seemed—certainly not as bad as “rejected” or “used”. He wanted calmness. Peace. Maybe some numbness. Even if it meant loneliness.

But first he wanted to make things right.

“The situation is getting pretty ugly in Autumn, Az.”

Azriel kept his face neutral, trying to hide that he was not paying attention at all. Again. Fortunately, that’s what his shadows were for. They whispered in his ears a welcome recap of Cassian’s last five minutes of talking: Beron’s paranoia. Disseminated fear. Riots. Executions.

“The last thing we need now is a civil war,” the Shadowsinger added, forcing his thoughts to return to the matter. “Peace after Hybern is still too fragile.”

“Eris has to do something about his father soon. If he wants to be the High Lord, the time is now. Or there won’t be an Autumn Court for him to lead.”

“I’ll talk to my contacts and see what they can do. Maybe we should follow Feyre’s example and turn Beron’s army against him. And Rhys has to find out what Eris is willing to sacrifice in order to achieve his goals. He can’t just watch others do the dirty work for him and then sit on the throne with a fucking crown on his head.”

“If that’s what the son of a bitch expects, I hope he enjoys disappointment,” Cassian retorted. “Nobody’s going to march to his beat.”

Suddenly, Azriel remembered his conversation with Gwyn at the training ring—not the one from last night, but the previous one, when he helped her cut the ribbon.

Do you sing?

Az got up in a hurry, knowing exactly what he had to do. His mind was already calculating the entire thing, from organizing to scheduling, a huge task in a small amount of time.

“Hey, where are you going, asshole? Could you at least say goodbye or something?”

“I’m going to Velaris. There are some arrangements I have to make.” Turning to Cassian, another idea occurred to him. “In fact, would you do me a favor?”

The general must have seen the seriousness in his face, because all the tell-off and the jokes were immediately gone, and he replied, “Consider it done, brother.”

Chapter Text

Of one thing Gwyn was certain: she had messed up her friendship with Azriel.

That altercation between them had been off-limits enough, with her bringing up Elain's situation into their conversation. But the fact that his shadows had stood up for her when they dropped the necklace—and, worse, that she had used it to make a point—felt like some kind of treason. He was Azriel, after all: the famous Shadowsinger, the Spymaster of the Night Court. It was disrespectful.

Which was fine for her.

He had been disrespectful first, giving her a gift rejected by another female. There was nothing romantic about Gwyn's relationship with Az, yet she had felt like a second choice, a replacement. She was resilient, had already proved so with everything she had been through—Sangravah, the Valkyrie training, the Blood Rite,— and such a tiny, unimportant thing had hurt her more than it should have.

Until that morning, when one of his shadows slipped under the door and handed her a small piece of parchment.

“Oh, thank you,” she said softly, watching it dance around her forearm for a moment.

Gwyn unfolded the note and read it:

Since my shadows seem to like you so much, I assumed that one of them would be a welcome messenger.

If you are kind enough to forgive my terrible mistake, I would be happy to make it up to you. Your admirers will be waiting after your shift at the library, so we can take you to your Solstice gift.

And I promise that this time it is yours and yours only.

A.

Although pissed off to her core, she couldn’t help but smile at the message. Yours and yours only. Something inside Gwyn’s chest tugged at those words.

The Priestess read the content over and over again, dissecting every detail, every sentence, obsessively extracting multiple meanings. Apparently, Azriel had realized—or perhaps admitted—he’d behaved poorly and was willing to make amends. However, what had he meant by “your admirers”? Had he talked exclusively about his shadows? Or had he included himself in that group when he’d stated that “we can take you”?

And, most importantly, had he intended to say those things? Or was she just reading too much into the few lines he’d written?

Which was absurdly ridiculous. First of all, she was acting like they were going on a… rendezvous, or something. Not the case. Azriel wasn’t interested in her that way, and vice versa.

Secondly, Gwyn should be concerned about the “take you” part. Take her where? Some place in the House of Wind? The River House? Or somewhere else in Velaris? The Priestess didn’t feel exactly ready for an experience so overwhelming, although she would probably be willing to give it a chance. For Az.

Focusing on real life, her eyes wandered over the shelves, scrutinizing her own work. There were five books misplaced, two of which belonged in another section. On the fourth floor. There was no point in continuing if her thoughts had drifted away all day long. Giving up, she put the books back on the cart and headed towards her room.

After a quick bath, Gwyn wrapped herself in a towel and stood still in front of her wardrobe for several minutes, trying to decide what to wear based on her assumptions about Azriel’s note. For the gods’ sake, get a grip, Gwyn, she thought to herself. It would possibly be just a moment before dinner for him to give her a different jewel, something like a book pendant instead of a rose one. She had more pressing matters to worry about than what to wear to be given another necklace. 

Yes, her Priestess robe would do. Having put it on, she combed her hair into a single braid that fell over her left shoulder. For a moment, the thought of wearing some makeup crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. That would be such an Archeron sisters’ thing; each one painted their faces in their own unique way, and Gwyn wasn’t them. Especially not Elain.

Leaving the bedroom, she stopped by Clotho’s desk. “I will be out for a while, High Priestess. If you or Merrill need me, I will return in time for dinner.”

Clotho’s feather floated over the parchment. No, you must not. Take your time and enjoy your life, Gwyneth. He is already waiting for you.

Well, Gwyn didn’t know what to say to that, much less to the High Priestess’s restrained smile, so she bowed her head and went towards the library’s exit.

The graceful obsidian door, with its peculiar silver veins, opened at her will, revealing the passageway that led to the stairs. As Clotho had informed her, Azriel was there, leaning against the red stone wall—his arms crossed in front of his chest and his head down, eyes on the floor. There were no packages in his scarred hands or in his leather jacket’s pockets, at least as far as she could see. He looked up at her when the door snapped open, and his shadows immediately escaped from him to reach her. She smiled at them when they twined through her braid.

Azriel didn’t say a word—he only observed her from his position, watching the silky, smoky bands touching her hair, her clothes, her skin. He seemed almost… jealous, although Gwyn wasn’t purposely attracting his precious friends.

“Hi, Shadowsinger,” she whispered, watching him too. The Spymaster of the Night Court was a dark stain by the wall, like a black hole, absorbing all light and creating a center of gravity right in front of her. Nothing evaded his influence.

“Berdara.” Az raised his arm, and the shadows returned reluctantly to him. “Sorry, they’re kind of restless today.”

Gwyn shrugged.

“I don’t mind. Actually, I think they’re… fascinating.”

The word rolled off her tongue, dense and ambiguous. The shadows waved around him, visibly happy about the compliment.

“Since they can’t stay away from you, I’m sure the feeling is mutual.” Azriel came closer, his heavy steps thundering through the empty space. He halted only a few inches from her; with almost no distance between them, she could smell his enthralling scent—cedar wood, dew, and warm skin. “Are you ready to go?”

“It depends. Where are we going?”

His smirk was dangerous. “Do you trust me?” he asked, offering his hand. Gwyn took it without a second thought. And then they were winnowing.

—

Gwyn and Azriel took form in a windy, open space. At first, she couldn’t make sense of her surroundings: from where they were, Velaris was visible from all directions, splendid sights that took her breath away. The gale whipped her robe and loosened a few strands of hair from her braid.

It was the top of some kind of building, a vast, empty space, except for a floor hatch and the parapet. She leaned over it, spotting people walking on the streets, getting in and out of stores and restaurants, talking and laughing out loud. Life happening.

The Priestess’s heart ached at the thought of everything she was missing, but at the same time she couldn’t picture herself among the crowd. She stared at the sunset lights, infinite shades of orange, purple, blue, and pink—the most amazing work of art Gwyn had ever seen. Inside the library, it was easy to lose track of time, so that view was a privilege, a moment of rare, lovely beauty.

“Our entrance won’t be as grandiose as it should.” Azriel said, right behind her. Gwyn looked over her shoulder to see him pointing at the floor hatch with his head. “But I guessed you wouldn’t want to go through so many people to get inside.”

She frowned. “Isn’t it my gift?”

For the first time since they met, she saw Az laugh—not some studied expression, some mask; an honest, wide smile, a low laugh. Such a rich, warm sound. “You deserve more than a pretty view, Gwyn.”

Gwyn. Not Berdara. Not Priestess. Not Valkyrie. Gwyn.

“How much more, Azriel?” Not Spymaster. Not Shadowsinger. Azriel.

The question escaped from her lips, unreflected, unintentional. Real. She wouldn’t take it back, though. Let him read it however he wants.

Az became serious in a heartbeat, the smile giving way for an intense gaze—the kind of look that could make a female do unthinkable things.

“More than anything I can give you,” he replied, and his shadows got agitated, as if they were protesting against the idea. That gaze ran up and down her body, and a strange thought popped into her mind: she should have worn something other than her robe. “But I’m definitely, definitely ready to try.”

Chapter Text

There were few people who would follow Azriel through the black hole of a floor hatch. Shit, he wouldn’t follow himself through the black hole of a floor hatch, especially not knowing where the fuck that place was. However, for the second time that day, Gwyn didn’t hesitate when she took the hand he was offering her.

Such a brave female. Az remembered another floor hatch—the one in that kitchen in Sangravah, where she had managed to hide the children. When he’d found her, the Priestess’s first thought had been about them, about getting the kids out safely. Even after what had been done to her body. Even with her sister dead right in front of her.

Sometimes, Azriel wished the fucking bastards were all alive, so he could hunt them and kill them again. The anger he had felt towards those motherfuckers still burned him inside out, along with the regret for not taking his time to torture them, to make them suffer.

His shadows started to whisper, bothered by Az’s feelings. And they were right. This night wasn’t one for hate. It was about Gwyn’s joy.

The Shadowsinger helped her go down the stairs—not because she needed his help, but because her robe wasn’t the most suitable outfit for such a narrow staircase—leading into an empty, dark space that could be anything. Just when he thought the situation couldn’t be more bizarre, they found themselves in a kind of attic filled with hundreds of boxes piled up haphazardly. He heard her murmuring the words written on the stickers: “ Masks. Costumes. Accessories. Wigs…”.

Mother above, don’t let her think I’m a creepy son of a bitch taking her to some weird dump, Azriel prayed, holding back a curse when they passed by a box labeled as “Rope”. Not that he hadn’t done a lot of freaky stuff in his life, nor that he didn't enjoy that kind of pleasure. But it wasn’t the impression he wanted to leave Gwyn with.

Suddenly, a very unwelcome—although extremely captivating—image came to his mind: a large bed, pale wrists tied to the headboard, a small, freckled body haloed by copper hair, and a pair of teal eyes looking at him with lust…

Az banished the scene as fast as he could when his cock got hard as a rock.

War. Battles. Bloodshed. A drunken Cassian pulling down his own trousers in front of two females in a bar to prove to them he had the perfect ass (spoiler: that shit surprisingly worked). The Spymaster in him collected all the unpleasant thoughts he was able to, in order to dissipate the scent of his arousal before it even rose.

After what seemed to be centuries, Azriel finally spotted a red door and used his free hand to open it—and that was when he realized they were still holding hands, her fingers intertwined with his. However, he didn’t let her go. It was her first time in the outside world after Sangravah, and he wanted her to feel safe, cared for. His shadows kept twirling around their hands, visibly pleased with that arrangement.

“Oh, my gods, Az,” Gwyn breathed, and he knew then they were heading to the real game now. They walked on the burgundy-carpeted corridor, passing by stunning marble sculptures of male and female faes, the balcony boxes’ wooden doors, marked with the coat of arms of Velaris, and bright crystal chandeliers.

The Priestess stared at everything with an amazed expression and a light smile on her face, until they got to the stairway that led down into the auditorium.

“What…” The words died for a moment on her lips as she registered the beauty of the venue. “What is this place?”

“This, Berdara,” Azriel replied, “is the Theater of Velaris.”

Gwyn’s gaze frenetically traveled over the space, as if she couldn’t decide what to observe first: the descending lines of chairs, with seats and backs upholstered in navy-blue velvet; the dozens of balcony boxes and their dark balustrade; the high ceiling, formed by golden arches and a stained-glass dome in all shades of blue and purple; the enormous stage, so well varnished that it shone in the distance; and the elegant black-velvet curtains. 

“Come,” he urged, pulling her hand lightly.

They went down the central aisle. Az guided her to the middle chairs of the fifth row—not so close to the stage that she would have to tilt her head back, but also not too far from it, so she could see everything perfectly.

“What are we doing?”

“Watching.”

Gwyn settled into the seat. “I think we arrived too early. There’s no one here yet.”

Az only smiled. He rested his arm on the armchair, with his palm up, in case she wanted to let his hand go. She didn’t. So he nodded to the fae hidden in a corner of the auditorium and waited while she hurried off to inform the actors that the audience was ready. Any second now. Any second…

The lights faded out. The curtains opened. By his side, Gwyn subtly gasped and squeezed Azriel’s hand. Her eyes widened as she gathered the details of the backdrop, the troupe’s costumes, and the accompanying music that swelled.

The play had seven acts, one for each court of Prythian, and he studied the Priestess’s reactions to all of them.

It started with Spring and its delicate songs about nature, the rain, the fertile soil. An actress walked across a plain, touching flowers with her fingertips and smiling at the birds hovering above her head. 

Without warning, the yellow light on the stage became gray. The joyful melody changed into a somber chorus. Two actors entered the space, both dressed up as nagas, with their dark scales and viperous faces. The actress left the scene in a flash of fear, but soon enough a tall, blonde male wearing a golden mask appeared to bravely defeat the creatures.

Azriel rolled his eyes. This was an itinerant company, so its job consisted of flattering the High Lords of all courts. It seemed, however, that they had forgotten to update the script with Tamlin’s new uncivilized habits.

By a flick of magic, the flowers grew and turned into the entrance of a cave. The fake Tamlin went around the slit in the stone wall and came back carrying a very realistic imitation of a white deer over his shoulders. He no longer wore a shirt, only a leather vest covering his bare chest.

The song descended to a low drumming when the actress returned to the stage. Her dress now looked way more revealing than the previous one. Tamlin put the deer’s carcass on the ground, and the couple engaged in a dance which got more and more intense, provocative, as the rhythm got  faster. Her hands slid down from his chest to his trouser’s waistline; his right palm pressed her lower back, and the left one touched her hair, the side of her breast, her hip, her thigh.

It was a beautiful, sensual, and passionate scene, obviously representing Calanmai’s Great Rite. Az couldn’t help but glance at Gwyn. She was sitting on the very edge of her chair, her free hand barely brushing her neckline, the other one loose on his. The Shadowsinger looked at her lips, slightly parted; at her eyes, whose irises were obscured by their pupils; at her chest, rising and falling a little quicker than it should.

All of a sudden, the Priestess stared at Azriel, capturing his body and mind. He would be locked up in that moment forever, condemned to replay her image in a loop. Gwyn’s fingers ran down to her chest, right in the center, as if she had felt something in there. And, for a few seconds, they didn’t need words to understand that both wanted the same thing.

The loud blare of a trombone broke the connection. It got them so by surprise that Gwyn jumped and retracted her hand from his. The sensation was identical to dipping it in cold water. They applauded awkwardly at the end of the first act, like students who had been caught sleeping in class.

Yet, soon afterward, the troupe kicked off the second act, a series of anthems about the sun, the warmth, and the light of the Summer Court. Tarquin was portrayed as the courageous prince who had selflessly risen to the throne after his cousin’s tragic death.

The same couldn’t be said about Beron, the High Lord who was completely ignored in the play, since he’d never allowed the company to perform in Autumn. The court, on the other hand, was gorgeously pictured in all of its reddish hues, the perfect dry leaves, and the fire that one of the actresses manipulated as she sang. Gwyn covered her mouth to hold back a gasp when the female lit up entirely, like an oil lamp or a fae torch.

After the Winter and Dawn Courts, the time had come to celebrate the indulgent pleasures of Day. Males and females in bold attire, more jewels and precious stones than fabric, staged a slow, lazy dance. Their naked skin reflected with a golden shimmer when caught by the lights; their sluggish movements turned the scene into what could be called a representation of an orgy of gods.

Despite the sexual appeal, precisely emphasized by the actor playing Helion, the highlight of the sixth act was the incredible imitation of Helion’s pegasi. The black stallions rushed over the chairs, flying through the entire auditorium. The magic used to produce those images was so skilled that Az could feel the draft caused by their beautiful wings.

The dazzling vision, though, was Gwyn getting up from her seat, her teal eyes trying to follow all the animals, a delighted laugh escaping her lips. She spun several times, and the fluttering of her robe made it seem as though she might suddenly take flight with them.

And then there was the Night Court. Azriel braced himself, knowing what would come. Darkness fell over the auditorium, the actor who played Rhys stepped onto the stage, the horde of his subjects arrived…

Except they weren’t subjects. No, they were more like monsters, very similar to… the Attor.

Right after Rhysand’s entrance, a female walked proudly towards him. Feyre. They fought side by side, fiercely combating the enemy until none of them were standing. The anguishing song that conducted the battle withered away, vanishing into some sort of lullaby—a sweet melody that the couple started to dance together to, in deep intimacy.

At that moment, faelights left the stage and seemed to multiply. They floated around the auditorium, so low that they could be touched. One of them landed on Gwyn’s palm. It was like she was holding a star. And her smile was the most precious gift in the world.

In a beautiful synchrony, the tiny points of light went up towards the high ceiling and started to rain down: Starfall, the cascade of falling stars celebrated only in the Night Court. It was confirmed when the actress playing Feyre exited, then came back wearing that white dress, crafted with a fabric that looked like starlight. 

In her arms, a little black-haired boy laughed out loud, amazed by the spectacle. They reunited with Rhys, the three of them coming together in an embrace that represented the future of the Night Court, maybe Prythian as a whole. With that, the curtains closed, ending the play and the moments of magic that they had witnessed in the past hour.

Right before the theater company’s curtain call, Gwyn looked at him, teal meeting hazel, her face completely stunned. And he knew he had achieved exactly what he wanted—to see her astonished, speechless… enraptured—when she let out just one single word: “Azriel…”

Chapter Text

“Gods, did you see that, Az? The pegasi? And the stars?”

Azriel couldn’t help but smile as they climbed to the top of the building. He’d never been a guy to show joy, but the bliss in Gwyn’s voice and eyes was contagious, almost addictive. She was thrilled by everything, even the small details of the play, and spared no words in making it clear.

“And the songs, the singing… I felt them in my bones. Mother, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Gwyn stopped to look up at the sky—that impossible sky of Velaris, with stars that shone only there and a moon so close they could see each crater. Against that background, she was a goddess, her copper hair cascading down her back like a mantle. The freckles on her face and body mirrored the constellations, a map to guide a lost male.

“I’m glad you liked it. I could bring you here whenever you want. There are always several plays running.”

She turned around to stare at him. The corner of her lips tilted slightly upward.

“I’d love that, Shadowsinger. Thank you for bringing me here tonight.”

They stayed silent for a moment, then Gwyn walked towards him. The Priestess stopped right in front of Az, but she didn’t say a word.

“Ready to go?”, he asked, offering his hand once more.

“Actually… What if we fly back home?”

Azriel looked at Gwyn as if he could read her. It was an idea, not a request. Luckily, he was always willing to say yes to her.

“If you want us to, sure. Let’s fly.”

Az held her in his arms, and she inebriated him with her scent of cinnamon and seawater, hot and fresh. He took off with some powerful strokes of his wings, leaving the building behind.

“Why was it so empty, Az?”, she questioned him, watching the city under them become smaller. “The theater.”

“I had the ticket sales canceled. Figured you would be more comfortable without a crowd around us.”

“You told them to cancel the sales?”, Gwyn blurted, suddenly looking at him. Azriel shrugged, as if it were nothing. “And they just did?”

“There are some privileges in being the Spymaster of the Night Court. You don’t need to worry, though; they’ve lost no money.”

Which meant Az had bought all the tickets, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

“Have you ever watched that play before?”

Azriel nodded.

“When Rhys was trapped Under the Mountain, we just… nobody felt like celebrating Solstice anymore. So I used to go to Hewn City, since Velaris was still a secret, to watch them perform there. And the script was… different.”

“Different how? Feyre wasn’t in it, I suppose. Neither was Nyx”, Gwyn guessed.

“They were not. And Rhys… he was still seen as the cruel, soulless High Lord of the Night Court. As Amarantha’s whore. So tonight was a surprise for me too.”

Even as he looked ahead, preparing to land, the Shadowsinger could feel the Priestess’s gaze on him.

“I’m really sorry, Az. Rhysand is a good male. He didn’t deserve that.”

After their argument about Elain, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to give his brother credit, but Rhys was indeed a good male. A good mate, father, and High Lord.

“Well, that was a long time ago. Now people know him, know who he is.” A fucking cockblocker. “And tonight is not about him, right? It’s about you.”

Only when they landed on the doorstep of the River House did Gwyn realize…

“We’re not at the House of Wind.”

“Are you ready for the second round of your Solstice gift?” The mix of shock and amazement in her expression, the brightness of her teal eyes, brought a grin to his face. Almost automatically, Az grabbed her hand. For some reason, it seemed as natural as breathing. “Come, they’re waiting for us.”

***

“Happy Solstice!”

Gwyn’s complete astonishment when she saw the whole Inner Circle shouting it together was priceless. For a second, she stared at Azriel with a big, radiant smile, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Hi, sister,” said Nesta, pulling her friend into a hug. Gwyn’s hand slipped from his when she held the Archeron sister close. Behind them, Azriel caught Elain glaring at the Priestess—the dirtiest look he had ever seen on her face. “We’re so glad you’re here with us.”

Rhysand stepped ahead with Nyx in his arms, managing to fulfill the father and the High Lord duties at the same time.

“Azriel brought to our attention that you and Emerie are already a part of our family, so you should’ve been here for our Solstice celebration the other night. We hope you both accept our apologies.”

Emerie was right next to Mor, who had gone to Windhaven to winnow her to the party, and the Illyrian female seemed as surprised as her Valkyrie companion. Beside the decorations, the same ones from the first gathering, Rhys and Feyre had prepared a real feast, with plenty of food and wine.

“I can’t believe you did all of this for us”, Gwyn replied, visibly touched. “Thank you so much. It’s lovely.”

“Don't think too highly of yourself, Priestess. They take every opportunity to get drunk.”

All eyes turned to Elain, shocked and confused. Despite the too friendly tone, the harsh words were out of character for her.

Emerie’s face fell, but Gwyn kept her smile and lifted her chin up. “Well, regardless of the festive spirit of this family, I’m still very grateful for your kindness. Especially yours, Az. Thank you so much.”

“I feel the same way, guys. It’s very considerate of you”, Emerie recovered enough to add. “Thanks a lot.”

“You deserve it, girls”, Feyre declared, then clapped her hands and announced joyfully: “Now let’s get to the good part.”

“The food?”, Cassian suggested.

The High Lady rolled her eyes. “The gifts!”

When Azriel asked Cassian to talk to Rhys about another Solstice party, the females of the Inner Circle decided it would be only fair to buy presents for Gwyn and Emerie. After all, it wasn’t Solstice without shopping. For Em, they got a pretty handcrafted dagger with a ruby stone set into the handle, the new book of that author they loved to read, and a box of herbs for tea.

For Gwyn, they chose an aquamarine bracelet, a book about the last battle of the Valkyries, and an emerald green silk dress… it was impossible for Azriel not to imagine her freckled body inside it.

“I’m flattered and also embarrassed, Az”, she said in a low voice, only for him to hear. “I’ve received so much, but…”

“You don’t have to give us anything in return”, he answered, knowing that it was what Gwyn meant. As everybody took a seat at the table, Azriel pulled a chair for her right beside him. “We just want to see you and Emerie happy.”

“And I am. Overwhelmingly happy. Nothing would’ve been better.”

***

It was past midnight when Rhys called Azriel and Cassian to his office. On his desk were four golden envelopes, which he pointed out with his chin.

“We got invited,” Rhysand told them, sitting down in his chair and crossing his ankles over the desk.

Azriel picked up the one with his name and opened it, immediately regretting the decision. 

“I wish I could go back in time, when I still hadn’t read this fucking thing.”

“What bullshit is this?” Cassian looked at Rhys as if those summons were some kind of joke.

“The exact bullshit you just read. Beron’s going to throw a formal ball and expects us to attend.”

“Why have none of my spies informed me of this?” Az cursed, more to himself than to his brothers.

“I already got in touch with Eris, and not even he had heard about it. Which makes it clear that something is very wrong,” Rhys replied.

Very wrong was putting it mildly. There was no reason for Beron to invite Rhysand and his court to a ball, especially since the last time they’d interacted with one another—the meeting of the High Lords before Hybern’s defeat. Moreover, hiding it from the only son who’d benefit from his trust amounted to a gigantic and dangerous red flag.

“Are we going?” Cassian asked, clearly expecting a “no” in response.

“Of course we are. And it’s not an event to go unaccompanied, as you can see.”

In fact, the envelopes were addressed to the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, Rhysand and Feyre Archeron; the General of the Night Court’s armies, Cassian, and his mate, Nesta Archeron; the Emissary of the Night Court, Lucien Vanserra, and his mate, Elain Archeron; and the Spymaster of the Night Court, Azriel, and accompanying guest.

There was no invitation for Mor, but nobody would presume that she'd receive one, or for Amren, though it could have been sent directly to Varian—the worst offense someone could have committed, undoubtedly.

“It’s time for you to take your gala suits out of the closet, then. Azriel, find yourself a plus one. We have two weeks.”

A gala suit. Az hadn’t worn anything like this in probably a century or so. And a plus one? Excluding Mor, Amren, and Elain? It was a short list, with exactly two names: Gwyn, who hadn’t left the library in years, and Emerie, an Illyrian female, already hated for simply existing—neither of which he wanted to put in this kind of danger.

He did understand Rhys, though. Even knowing it would probably be some sort of trap, there was no way they could refuse this invitation. And at least their presence there could save lives, if it came to that.

“Well, that’s it. Be prepared. And Az? Choose wisely.”

The Spymaster left Rhys’s office feeling like he had to sentence someone to death. Heading to the kitchen, he poured himself a generous dose of faerie wine and chugged it, then did it again. He was totally fine with the idea of throwing himself into the fire, but taking someone else was another story.

“Az.”

He closed his eyes for one second at the soft voice calling his name. Turning around, Azriel braced himself before looking at Elain, doing his best to ignore the beauty of her delicate face and those captivating golden-brown irises.

“Elain.”

Her fingers smoothed the skirt of her light-pink dress, as if she was insecure about herself, but then the Archeron sister held his gaze and spoke out:

“Did it mean something to you?” Elain’s tone wavered, but her voice did not falter. “That moment between us at Solstice. Did it? Or was it just a mistake, like you so easily declared?”

“Of course it meant something, Elain. You mean something to me. And it wasn’t easy to keep myself from doing what I so desperately wanted.” He took another sip of the wine to make his hands stop shaking. “Believe me, I felt like I was ripping a limb.”

His words seemed to give her some courage. Elain got a few steps closer, enough for him to smell her scent of honey, earth and flowers.

“So why did you change your mind? I wanted it as desperately as you.”

Azriel stepped forward too, until their foreheads were touching.

“Because it’s wrong.” It didn’t feel wrong then, but now he had to force himself to hold her waist, to rub the tip of his nose on hers.

“He’s not my choice, Az. The Cauldron selected him to be my mate, not me.”

“So refuse the bond,” he said, following some kind of impulse. “Refuse the bond, and I will fight for you. For us.”

The last word tasted even worse in his mouth. Azriel thought about Lucien and had to swallow the guilt down. He thought about taking Elain for himself, and it seemed clear that would only work under the bedsheets.

“I will. I will, Azriel. Eventually. It’s just…”

Her words got lost as she gulped. However, he knew precisely what was crossing her mind—had always known, since the beginning of that… fragile flirting between them.

Slowly, carefully, he took a step back and let her go.

“It’s just that you feel something for Lucien, and the idea of breaking the bond is painful. You want him to be around, but your head protests against the idea of accepting a mate you didn’t choose yourself. A mate that was somehow responsible for your transformation, even though it wasn’t his intention.”

Right after the hurt she couldn’t hide, Az watched the wall Elain immediately built to keep him out. It was as if his words had broken the spell that entangled them.

“Well, at least I’m not the one who moved on so fast, right? It took you no longer than a couple of days to show up holding hands with another female—probably the first one who batted her eyelashes at you.”

Something ugly snapped inside Az, a rage that had nothing to do with her trying to offend him, and everything to do with her offending Gwyn.

“Don’t you ever talk about her like that again. What I’ve done for her and Emerie was because they deserve it. Both of them. You know nothing about Gwyn’s life, Elain.” Azriel leaned towards her, now in an intimidating way. “Instead of worrying about her, why don’t you look closer at what you want? What you feel? I’m no Prince Charming and I won’t save you from your own emotions. Do yourself a favor and stop running from this new life, even knowing it’s better than the previous one. And stop running from a male who’s willing to love you with all his heart.”

“I’m not running!”

“Oh, but you are. Do you know why the Cauldron matched you with Lucien, Elain?”

“No, I don’t know, Azriel. Please, enlighten me”, she mocked.

“Because he’s not a decision-maker. You keep waiting for people to make all the decisions for you, and it would be so comfortable if Lucien just did it, wouldn’t it? So you’d be able to complain about all the roles you have to play in other people’s lives, including the one of mate, and how unfair it is that you never have a say in them. But he’s giving you time, he’s giving you the chance to choose or reject him, and you don’t know what to do with it. So let me offer you some advice: decide. Take responsibility for your own life, instead of blaming someone else for what goes wrong in it.”

None of them said a word after that. There was nothing more to be said, really. When Azriel left the kitchen, the tears streaming down Elain’s face smelled like a rainy day, but the honesty of their conversation had exposed the truth: nothing good could ever come from the terrible idea of them being together.

Chapter Text

“Ready to go, Cass?” Emerie asked, taking a long sip of cold water.

After the rumors that some discontented Illyrian soldiers had spread in Windhaven, almost causing a rebellion, Cassian had decided to watch his men closer, in order to keep the foxes away from the chicken coop. So it was convenient for him to take Emerie home and make his presence known. But that morning he wasn’t the one who needed to go to the Illyrian camp.

“I have some urgent matters to discuss with Rhys, Em. Sorry. But Az is going to winnow you.”

“Is that ok?” Azriel inquired, taking his brother’s cue.

Emerie looked at him for a second before she shrugged. “If your shadows conclude that I’m worthy of their consideration, yes, it is.”

The female pointed to the left with her head, where Gwyn was stretching after the training session. The smoky little things were all over her, curling around her ankles, her thighs, her arms, and her collarbones. When she moved, they all moved with her in perfect synchrony. 

With one thought, Az commanded them to come back to him, although they obeyed reluctantly. If Gwyn found their behavior strange or inadequate, she didn’t give any indication of it. It was like the shadows belonged to her too, almost an inherent part of her. 

The Valkyrie only seemed to really acknowledge them when they returned to their master. She lifted up her head to meet his gaze, and both stayed like that for just a second…

Or maybe a little bit longer, because suddenly Emerie cleared her throat to get his attention.

“Shall we? Or are you going to take notes on Gwyn’s stretching techniques?”

“Well, she is overextending her right knee.”

Em rolled her eyes. “Ok, sure. At least winnowing is faster than flying, so we have a lot of time to waste here.”

Focusing on the task he had to accomplish, Azriel let Emerie hold his hand, and his shadows took them to Windhaven in the blink of an eye. They reappeared right in front of her store, the place she bravely kept in business, despite the constant hostility against independent Illyrian females.

Sometimes, Azriel only wanted to do the same thing that Cassian had done with the village where his mom died: to enter a blood frenzy and kill every male in sight.

“I love flying, but winnowing has its advantages,” she stated, reaching for the keys in her purse. Emerie opened the door and looked at him, obviously to say goodbye, but Az’s face must have warned her that he needed something else. “Would you like to come in?”

Azriel simply nodded. She led them to the small kitchen in the back of the store and served him a cup of coffee. Illyrian coffee, black and strong. They sat at the table, facing each other.

“So, how can I help you, Shadowsinger?”

Yes, Emerie was an intelligent female. Of course she would know he had something in mind.

“Beron is throwing a ball,” the Spymaster said, bluntly. “We think it’s a trap, but the Night Court has to attend anyway. And the invitation required that I take a plus one, so I would like you to be my accompanying guest. You’re well-trained enough to deal with any threats that we could possibly face there.”

“Hmm.” Em drank a sip of her tea—aniseed, he smelled—before she spoke, “Az, let me ask you something: why did you take Gwyn to the theater, but not me?”

His brow furrowed at the question. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you heard. Why did you take her, but not me?”

From all the courses their conversation could have taken, that wasn’t the one he expected.

“Did you want me to?”

“Oh, my gods, Shadowsinger. For someone who works interrogating people, you are terrible at answering questions.”

That was very true. In fact, Azriel didn’t like to talk at all—except when he was pissed off, like the night before with Elain. He had talked a lot then, perhaps too much.

“I made a mistake with her. She deserved a special apology.”

“The necklace,” Emerie replied, and Az wondered, not for the first time, if there were any secrets between the Valkyries.

“Yes, the necklace.”

“Ok.” The female put her cup on the table and crossed her arms in front of her body. Em’s stare was direct and fearless. “Shadowsinger, I’m going to speak to you like no one else possibly has, and I hope you can forgive me. So, please, don’t ask Rhys to throw me in the Prison, don’t rip my head off of my shoulders nor spend the next three days torturing me to get revenge, but… is your head really that shoved inside your ass?”

Somehow, Azriel managed to not spit the coffee out on Emerie’s face.

“Excuse me?” Truthfully, although his tone had shown some outrage, he was more shocked than offended.

“I asked if your head is really that shoved in your ass.”

For someone who imagined he was going to torture her for revenge, she didn’t seem afraid enough.

“Why would you think that?”

She shrugged.

“Maybe because you drool over Gwyn every time she’s around, and even so, here you are, asking me to go to a party with you.”

“It’s not a party, Em. It’s a fucking trap. I don’t want to put any of you in this kind of danger, but Gwyn hasn’t been out in the world for years now.” He stopped for a while before adding, “And I don’t drool over her.”

“Right. It’s me your shadows are always twirling around. They don’t do that to anyone else. Not even Mor. Not even Elain.”

Fuck. There were no secrets between them indeed.

“I can’t control them.” Azriel countered. She arched her brow. “I mean, I can. The shadows are not conscious. But they respond not only to my intentional commands, they also…” They also respond to my unconscious thoughts, even when I don’t want them to, it was what he meant to say. However, Emerie’s brow remained arched. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Em. Even if I wanted to invite Gwyn, we both know it’s too much for her, and I’d rather rip an arm or a leg off my body than make her feel as she felt back in Sangravah.”

Emerie’s expression softened at his words. “I know you would. That’s why you guided her down through a floor hatch and bought all the tickets to have the theater only for yourselves. And, no, Gwyn didn’t put it together,” she explained, noticing the alarm on his face. “I’m not naive, though, Az. It’s not difficult to see right through your she-deserved-a-special-apology facade.”

“It’s not—” he started, but she interrupted him right away—another thing, alongside the question about his head shoved in his ass, that very few people had ever seemed brave enough to do.

“Azriel.” The Valkyrie stood up from her chair and put her cup in the sink before heading towards the store. Before Emerie left the kitchen, she touched his shoulder briefly, in a sympathetic gesture. “I’ll say it once, and you do whatever you think is best with it: don’t be fucking stupid. Invite Gwyn to go to the ball with you.”

***

Gwyn was looking for some books that Merrill needed when something slightly cold and silky brushed against her nape. The touch brought a sudden and completely out-of-place sound to her lips—partly a moan, partly a sigh—, and she closed her eyes for a moment to regain control over herself.

At that point, Gwyn didn’t have to look to know what had grazed her skin; the sensation of Azriel’s shadows on her body was too familiar by now, although the feelings it awakened in her were not.

To get her attention, the shadow slid slowly down her arm and pulled her hand towards the exit of the library.

“Should I follow you?”, she asked. Another pull, so she did, passing by Clotho’s desk with a discreet wave. And there he was, ridiculously handsome in his leathers, waiting for her as if it were the most important thing in the world.

“It seems that I don’t need words to talk to you, Berdara. I send one shadow, and you already know what I want.”

There are other ways you can tell me what you want .

The thought came from nowhere, uninvited and unexpected. Mother above, she was developing a crush on Azriel—which was, obviously, evidently, clearly a very, very, very bad idea.

“What can I say, I’m just that smart,” the Priestess replied, trying to act as normal as possible. “So, to what do I owe the honor of your visit? Do you like to stand here, leaning on this wall like you are part of the decoration? Or did you just miss me?”

The second the question left her mouth, she regretted it. As normal as possible. Sure.

“What can I say, I’m just that decorative,” he echoed her words back. With a graceful move, Azriel pulled away from the wall and walked towards her, until there were only mere inches between them. Immediately, his other shadows joined the messenger one, covering Gwyn’s skin like a second robe. “But I do have something to discuss with you, actually.”

“Ok. Tell me.” Aaaaand that was how the Spymaster of the Night Court became speechless. He opened his mouth a couple of times, in an unsuccessful attempt to speak, but nothing came out. After a few moments of embarrassing silence, Az just gave up and handed her a golden envelope. “What is this?”

“Read it, please.”

It was, Gwyn finally found out, an invitation for a ball at the Autumn Court in two weeks, addressed to Azriel and an “accompanying guest”.

“Do you want me to go with you?”, she guessed, hoping that it was the case, or else she would look like a fool to him.

“I don’t. I mean, I do, but—” Rubbing his face, Azriel sighed deeply. “It’s not just a ball, Gwyn. It’s obviously a trap. This event is going to be dangerous, and I don’t want to risk your safety or your life. Besides, there will be a lot of guests. So I imagine you will feel uncomfortable, maybe overwhelmed…”

“It sounds like you really don’t want me to go with you, Shadowsinger. Am I your second choice again?”

His hazel eyes stared at her and lingered on her lips. “I tried to change it, I swear I did, but this time you are my first choice. I don’t want you there, and still I want you with me.”

“You’re not making any sense, you know?” Gwyn teased him.

“I know.” Running his fingers through his hair, Az blurted, “So, would you accompany me, Berdara?”

The Valkyrie smiled, wondering if he had ever asked a female out twice in two days. She had a feeling that he hadn’t.

“Yes, Shadowsinger. I’ll go with you.”

Chapter Text

“I didn’t think I would wear it so soon,” Gwyn said, looking at her image in the mirror of the High Lady’s room and admiring her green dress.

They all went to the River House to get ready for the ball, the boys and the girls, although Cassian had already knocked on the door twice to check on the females. Apparently, the brothers and Lucien had been waiting for their mates for half an hour already.

Except for Azriel, who had been waiting for his plus one, since they were not mates. Of course.

“Well, but you will,” Emerie replied with a smirk. “Because a certain Shadowsinger invited you to be his accompanying guest, right?”

Gwyn glanced at Elain, who’d stayed deathly silent all night. None of the females in the room seemed to care, though; all three of them teased Gwyn about Azriel’s invitation, unconcerned whether it would upset the second Archeron sister.

“It’s not like that, for gods’ sake. He’s a friend, and we are all going to our certain deaths,” the Priestess retorted.

“Okay, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t enjoy your friendship with him until then,” Nesta pointed out.

“With him and his beautiful eyes, those tattoos on his chest and shoulders, those shadows always touching your—”

“Emerie! What are you doing here, anyway, if you’re not going to the ball?” For the first time, all Gwyn wanted was to see the Valkyrie very, very far away.

Em shrugged. “I’m making sure you don’t miss the chance to—”

“Girls?” Cassian asked, hesitantly. “We really need to go. Now.”

“We’re ready, baby,” his mate answered. “See you in five, okay?”

And they were actually ready, at least when it came to the clothes-and-makeup part. Nesta and Feyre were as incredible as always in their black dresses, and Elain embodied moonlight in a yellowish-white gown. They all braided their hair in different styles, but Gwyn felt less exposed with her smooth curls falling over her shoulders, covering the too-low neckline and the too-deep V of the back of her dress. To make it less plain, the High Lady tied up a bunch of strands on the top of her head and decorated them with small pearls identical to the ones on her ears, neck, and wrists.

“Let’s get our males, ladies,” Feyre called, grinning at the others.

Right before they left the room, Gwyn heard a soft voice behind her.

“Gwyneth?” She turned around to face Elain, gracefully standing next to the vanity. “You’re gorgeous. I sincerely wish you and Azriel a wonderful time tonight.”

Talk about something unexpected.

Making a curtsy, although without bowing, the Valkyrie smiled at the female. “Thank you, Your Grace. There are no words to describe your beauty. I wish the same for you and Lord Vanserra. And, please, call me Gwyn.”

“I will, if you call me Elain. Also, I’m pretty sure Lucien would collapse if you addressed him as Lord Vanserra.”

***

The boys were in fact waiting for them, so patiently that Gwyn almost felt sorry for them.

Almost.

Because when Rhysand, Cassian, and Lucien laid eyes on their mates, it became clear that they wouldn’t mind being a little bit later, if they could steal ten or twenty minutes with the females in some hidden spot of the house. 

Gwyn braced herself for the moment Azriel would see Elain, swallowing down any tiny hope of getting his attention. So everything inside her lit up when his eyes passed uninterestedly over Nesta’s sister and fixed immediately on her. The male stared at Gwyn as if he could eat her alive, with such hunger and such heat that she looked down at her own body to check if it wasn’t on fire.

“Hi, Shadowsinger.” Mother, was that her voice? Low, husky, needy. “Do I look nice?”

He stepped closer, not touching her, only letting her feel his warmth, his cedar wood scent. “No, Berdara. You don’t look nice. You look absolutely stunning.”

Gwyn smiled and ran her gaze up and down his body. His all-black suit fit perfectly, surely making him the most handsome male of all Prythian—as if he already weren’t. “You don’t look bad yourself.”

“Everything to impress you.” Distantly, they heard Rhysand command everybody to winnow: Lucien would take Elain, Rhysand would take Cassian, and Feyre would take Nesta. Az held Gwyn’s hand, drawing circles in her palm with his thumb. “Ready?”

She nodded, knowing that there were many things to be ready for: the crowd, Beron, the possible trap they were getting into. He winnowed them to Autumn, but not the same place where the others had gone. 

At a distance, the sounds of the party were audible—music, voices, laughter. Around them, however, Gwyn could see only trees and darkness.

“I’ll be with you all the time, Gwyn,” Azriel assured her, and she turned her attention to him. “You won’t be alone for a single moment. I promise you. If you feel uncomfortable or scared, just tell me, and we’ll go to a quieter place. If it overwhelms you, we’ll leave, no questions asked. Okay?”

Gods, he was so, so good under the light of the moon. All dark lines, hard features, and strong tones. For a second, all she could think was about closing the short distance between them, kissing him so deeply, so fiercely, that he would forget his own name. And she could tell, from the way his tongue swept over his lips, that Az was thinking about that too.

Or maybe she was delusional.

“Okay. Thank you, Az.” 

Kiss me, Az.

Instead, he put himself together and guided her out of the circle of the trees. The buzz of movement around them increased instantaneously, unsettlingly, but Azriel’s arm was right there around Gwyn’s back, his hand a firm, solid weight on her waist.

“Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear. 

“Yes, I’m all right.”

The next hour went by in a blur. For everyone’s surprise, Beron wasn’t anywhere around, and even Eris hadn't heard of his father all day. “He may be planning a triumphal entry or waiting for everyone to arrive in order to lock the doors and set fire to this room.”

Both scenarios seemed entirely possible, although Gwyn preferred the first one. In fact, the room was splendidly decorated with chandeliers fixed on the walls, plenty of faelights and crystal pendants that shone all around. The marble floor mirrored the colors of the dresses that swept across it, as well as the precious artwork intertwined with burgundy velvet curtains, large flower arrangements, and golden columns. The reds and yellows and oranges and browns made the space cozy and elegant at the same time.

And then there was the feast. Food and drink from every court, enough to feed a small village for a year or so. Her mouth watered, but Az refused the glasses of fae wine that the waiter offered upon their arrival. “Don’t eat or drink anything.”

She noticed his eyes scanning the ballroom, listing the exits, the potential threats and weapons. The daggers the Valkyrie hid under her dress, in the sheaths attached to her thighs, seemed to become a little heavier. 

“Everybody’s here, except Tamlin. All the High Lords, their mates, their seconds and thirds in command,” Rhysand noted. “If Beron’s planning something, it’s something big. Not only for us, but for the seven courts.”

“Are we going to wait for this something big to happen?” Cassian snapped, obviously uneasy. “Should we just stay here, doing nothing at all?”

“It’s a ball, guys,” said a sexy, bass-toned female voice. “Enjoy it, just like your friend is doing.”

From behind Eris, a gorgeous female approached them. She was tall, almost taller than Gwyn, with beautiful copper-tanned skin and straight, black, shoulder-height hair. There was no deep neckline or slit in her dress, but it was so tight that it didn’t leave much to the imagination.

The friend in question was, of course, Amren, who came from Summer with Varian. She was on the dance floor, holding him close, smiling at something he said in her ear; despite that, anyone who knew her better would be able to see that she was as tense as the other members of the Night Court.

“Now you know my greatest friend here in Autumn,” Eris smiled. His expression remained serious, though, suggesting that friend meant ally. And, well, intelligent as Eris was in his political choices, no one should underestimate a person in that position. “Talia, these are Rhysand and Feyre, High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, and their Inner Circle.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Talia,” Feyre greeted, politely and with evident interest.

“I can say the same, High Lady.” The female bowed a little, then let her amber gaze fall on Azriel. Her tone became even lower with the desire she didn’t try to mask. “Hi, Shadowsinger.”

That’s my line, bitch, Gwyn thought, surprising herself with her own hostility. It was ridiculous to assert a right to a line that Azriel must have heard a million times in his five centuries of life, and even more ridiculous to feel ill-disposed towards a person she didn’t know. Azriel was not Gwyn’s to claim, after all.

“Lady Talia,” he replied with a smirk, holding the hand she offered him and planting a kiss on the back.

In a rush, his shadows jumped from his shoulders to Gwyn’s, as if trying to get away from Talia’s reach. What do you think about that, honey?, the Priestess grinned at the female’s obvious disappointment.

“You are right, Talia,” Rhys intervened. “It’s a ball, so let’s dance.” In other words: act normally.

At his command, the couples headed to the dance floor—even Eris and Talia, who seemed to need a moment to talk in private, probably about strategies or something. With a soft touch on her back, Azriel took Gwyn along, guiding them through the music played by the orchestra. His shadows split between them.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, worried about her well-being, or gods knew what. It was almost ironic that she couldn’t care less about the people around them or the supposed trap that Beron had planned.

“Sure. I’m fine. I’m great.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re pissed.”

“I’m not. I’m splendid,” Gwyn retorted.

She felt more than heard Az’s sigh.

“Please, Berdara. Talk to me.”

It was a huge problem that she couldn’t say no when he asked something with that voice, that tone.

“Were you flirting with her?”

His expression of astonishment would be funny if Gwyn hadn’t been feeling completely humiliated.

“With Eris’ friend? Of course not. Why would you imagine that?”

“I don’t know, perhaps because you smiled at her as if your greatest accomplishment in life would be to take her to your bed.”

“That wasn’t even remotely the case,” Azriel argued, blessedly ignoring the fact that she sounded like a jealous mate. “I only intended to be pleasant.”

“Oh, no, don’t tell me all the ways you intended to please her.”

Az made a low sound deep in his throat.

“That would be very disrespectful to you, Gwyn.”

She looked at him with fake indifference, the words bitter in her mouth. “We are just friends, you don’t owe me anything.”

“But she doesn’t know that. Nobody here knows. Besides,” the Spymaster’s smile became wickedly irresistible, “that’s not how fae flirt, Berdara.”

“Really?”, Gwyn replied, the sarcasm dripping from the question. “And how is it? What techniques do you use to make a move on a female?”

“Well, I compliment her first, then I tell her what her flaws are.”

The Priestess’s laugh came out louder than she expected. “Does it work, though? This approach.”

“Every time.”

Feeling bolder than usual, Gwyn lowered her voice and asked him, “Then show me, Shadowsinger. Show me how fae flirt.”

She saw in Azriel’s face that he was about to get into are-you-sure mode, but something in her must have changed his mind, because he became immediately serious. “If I wanted to flirt with you, Gwyn, I would say that your lips are beautiful.” Without letting go of her hand, the one he was holding during the dance, Az touched her lower lip with his thumb. “But do you know when they feel delicious?”

For the most ephemeral of seconds, she let the tip of her tongue brush against his skin. “I don’t. When?”

“When they’re between my teeth.” With her own knuckles, he went all the way down from her mouth to her chin, then to her neck and to her collarbones. “This dress lets me know that your breasts are attractive. But they’d be incredible against my chest.” With the hand that was resting on her back, Azriel pulled her body closer to his. “And, of course, with nothing covering them.”

At that point, Gwyn was breathing hard, and the breasts in question, now in fact against his chest, were still covered by the silk, but he certainly could feel how her nipples hardened under it.

In a slow movement, he brought her arms up and put them around his neck. His scarred hands, now free, slid down Gwyn’s naked spine until they reached the base of her back. “Your ass, Berdara, is amazing. Anyone who spends one single morning training with you can say that. It would be perfect, though,” he added, turning her in his arms, “against my hips.”

She knew he wanted to say cock—the evidence was pressing her hard enough to confirm. Her legs were trembling so much that he was the only thing keeping her on her feet.

“And your thighs…” One of his palms was on her abdomen, holding her still; the other slid from her waist to her inner thigh through the slit of her dress. “They’re soft, warm, delicate. But they’d be even better around my head.”

The image of his face between her legs made Gwyn’s lower belly ache. She heard him inhale, surely smelling her arousal, although there was nothing she could do to hide it. Her body was beyond her control.

In a sudden move, Az turned her around again, so they were once more facing each other. “That’s how fae flirt, Berdara. So now you know I wasn’t hitting on Talia.”

There was a glimpse of satisfaction in the Shadowsinger’s expression, as if her lust made him proud of his own abilities. That game, however, both of them could play.

“I believe you. And now I know how to flirt like a fae: a compliment and a flaw, right?”

“That’s right,” he murmured.

“Okay. Then I would say that your shadows are so sexy, but they get sexier when they’re all over my skin.” The dark trails started to roll over her body, and she had the impression that he was the one commanding them to. With the tips of her fingers, the Valkyrie traced the exposed part of his tattoos, the black curve peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. “Your tattoos are breathtaking, but they would take your breath away if I traced them with my tongue.”

Azriel’s lips parted and his chest rose. The power she felt at that moment was extraordinary, overwhelming. She knew that he would say, give and do everything she wanted; he would be on his knees in a second, if she asked him to. And that idea was an appealing one.

“And your wings, Az, they are so elegant, so tempting.” The Priestess reached out for one of them, although slowly, to give him time to stop her. He didn’t. Barely touching, she grazed the dark skin with her nails, running over a ridge and descending towards his back. Azriel let his head fall onto her shoulder and moaned. He moaned right in her ear, the most sensual sound she’d ever heard.

“I really, really want to take you home right now,” he whispered, his teeth slightly biting her lobe under her hair. Well, Gwyn couldn’t agree more—actually, she would be satisfied enough if they found some hidden corner around Beron’s manor, somewhere they could be alone for a few minutes. Or hours.

She was about to suggest it out loud, discarding all of her reservations, when the music suddenly stopped.

Chapter Text

When the orchestra stopped playing, Azriel wanted to scream. He had Gwyn in his arms, her hands on his body—his chest, his neck, his wings. Gods, his wings… All he could smell was her arousal, her cinnamon-and-seawater scent intensified; all he could picture was her green dress on the floor of the first room they were able to find, those pearls spread all over the place. But not the ones in her hair, no; these he would allow her to keep, so they would shine as her copper locks billowed with every stroke of his hips.

Well, the Spymaster had started a game he could not win. However, at that moment, he was more than willing to lose, if that fucking bastard hadn’t decided it was the right time for his appearance.

Az slid his hand along Gwyn’s thigh again, feeling the sheath attached to the soft flesh. She let out a sigh that almost killed him. “Keep your blades close.”

For an instant, the Valkyrie seemed utterly lost, as if he had spoken to her in a foreign language. But then she recovered and nodded, ready for whatever might come. And it was sexy as fuck.

At the other end of the ballroom, loud and high, trumpets sounded. Beron Vanserra walked firmly, haughtily through the doors, two steps ahead of his wife. The reddish-orange, furry mantle he had chosen for the occasion looked heavy, as did the golden crown on top of his head, although he didn’t show any signs of it. The strawberry-blonde hair and the blue eyes were still the same, identical to what they had been in the last centuries, even if his expression had changed into something more severe, more punitive than ever.

Everyone stopped to watch. It was a vision, indeed.

Azriel glanced at Eris, whose face remained neutral, a mask as glued to his skin as the ones that Spring once were forced to wear. Lucien, on the other side, seemed to be about to jump on his father, ready to kill the motherfucker with his bare hands. Somehow, Elain apparently had taken Az’s advice, because her arm was around her mate’s waist, half comforting, half holding him back. Or maybe holding him up.

After his endless marching/display of power, Beron reached the dais at the end of the room, the Lady of the Autumn Court following him a few seconds later. They sat on their thrones and waited for everybody to kneel. Beron’s gaze fell on the High Lords and Lady of the other courts and on Lucien, all of them standing still on their feet, bowing to no one, before he commanded, “Rise.”

The movement was so subtle that no untrained eyes would notice, but Azriel did, and so did the others of the Night Court. While the noise of bodies getting up reverberated across the place, the doors were closed. Locked. Beron’s guards got in formation in front of the dais, protecting him. Some of the guests, all red-haired and soldier-postured, moved through the crowd, taking strategic positions.

Az pulled Gwyn against his chest, defending her back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucien pressing Elain against the wall, his body hiding hers. The rest of the Inner Circle remained unaltered, although their hands were now closer to their weapons.

“I am beyond pleased to see so many known faces among you,” Beron went on, choosing his words carefully. Not glad, happy, or delighted. He was pleased. “Known not only by me, but by all the courts of Prythian. I’m proud of myself for being able to reunite all of you tonight.”

Throwing a ball, of course. Because refusing an invitation for a political meeting would be considered intelligence, self-preservation; refusing his summons for a party like this one would be hostility.

“So many of us fought side by side against Hybern, perfect allies in ripping an outsider off of our domains, to stop him from conquering our territory.”

“Hmm, what about the humans, asshole?” Gwyn whispered, so low that he was the only one who could hear it. “Saving them was just luck, I guess.”

“In Beron’s mind? Probably collateral damage,” Az replied.

“Now we live in times of peace, welcoming years of stability and good relations. And aren’t we grateful for that? Yes, I suppose we all are. However, these are not times of prosperity, nor of progress.”

Shit. Nothing good could come from that. Nothing good at all.

“So, what should we do to secure the fortune not of the courts individually, but of all Prythian? How much of our structure, of our divisions, must we change? Shouldn’t we experience our land as one?”

Experience our land? What did he think Prythians were doing after Hybern? Taking vacations?

In his mind, Azriel heard Rhys’s voice. “I just sent a message to Keir. He’s getting Hewn City’s defenses ready. Beron’s walls are up, but I can feel it’s not just here that something is going to happen.”

“Are you going to let the other High Lords know?”

“Already did. If they can communicate with someone and get their armies in position, they’ll do so.”

In fact, all of them seemed concerned, and not exclusively because of Beron’s monologue. Their eyes kept hovering over the crowd, exchanging glances with their seconds and thirds. The mated ones made the same movement as Azriel and Lucien, pulling their mates closer to protect them—except for Thesan, whose lover was the captain of the aerial legion, Peregryn, and an exceptional fighter. Likely, of course, Feyre and Nesta.

Az closed his eyes for an instant. He needed to remember that Gwyn wasn’t his mate and that she was also an exceptional fighter. With months of training, the Valkyrie had survived and won the Blood Rite, which drove him crazy with fear for her and made him so, so fucking proud. She didn’t need his protection. Not anymore, not since Sangravah. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

“I invited you here tonight, my friends,” Beron continued his speech, voice hardening and getting louder with each word, “to celebrate. Because this is the night when Prythian will become unified. This is the night when our superiority will overcome our principles, when we will stop repressing ourselves for the benefit of humans. To be someone, it is necessary to be brave and merciless. It is necessary to understand that the law is not life, but death.”

The last word worked as some sort of code that set everything into motion. Azriel was already prepared, and even then it took him by surprise when an entire army burst into the room from the doors that swung open behind Beron. It appeared to be a horde of men and women, but anyone with the slightest sense of self-preservation could feel the dangerous, evil magic force that commanded them. Not natural, not from this world.

That distraction cost him a few precious seconds. Although at least one third of the guests were, in fact, legitimate guests, the rest of the fae there formed a mass of offenders—two enemies for each of the gathered visitors. Azriel had faced worse, but he couldn’t say the same about the others. If Lucien was to fight his and Elain’s opponents, for example… Well, things wouldn’t be that easy. And that army from Hell took the situation to another level.

They had to winnow, the Shadowsinger thought. There was no way they could defeat those freaking soldiers. He held Gwyn’s hand and felt their presence fading into shadows… only to see Rhys and Feyre trying to do the same and failing.

“They can’t winnow,” Gwyn stated the obvious. Then her right hand, the one Az wasn’t holding, moved brusquely forward, her dagger flying toward Eris. He inclined his head an inch to his left, so her blade cut off one single strand of red hair… and struck someone behind him in the eye. A Hell of an aim.

Eris touched his throat, where a drop of blood stained his golden skin, realizing that the knife of the male whom Gwyn had just blinded was a second away from slitting it. Then the oldest Vanserra smiled and winked at her before he turned to his attacker and slaughtered the guy with visible satisfaction.

“We have to get out of here,” Az blurted, holding her firmly.

“Rhys and Feyre first,” the Valkyrie cut him off. “They are the—“ a pause for a strike that sent a female attacker into Nesta’s sword, Ataraxia, “—priority.”

Of course they were, Azriel knew that. However, while his shadows twirled around the neck of an enemy, breaking it easily, he couldn’t deny the horror caused by the idea of letting her stay behind.

“Gwyn…”

“Go, Azriel. Now.”

He needed to seize the opportunity. They were all in the back of the room, still distant from the worst of the attack. In a minute, though, the butchering would get to them. It was actually painful to let go of her, the kind of feeling he didn’t want to look too closely at.

Cutting his way through the panicked crowd and Beron’s impostor guests, Az winnowed Feyre the moment he put his hands on her. They landed clumsily in the living room of the River House, the High Lady’s knife stabbing the sofa instead of her adversary, staining the fabric with blood.

“Take me back there,” she ordered, as soon as she understood where they were.

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

“Azriel, take me back there. It’s an order. I won’t let my court and my allies be massacred while I hide here—“

“This is the first time I have ever interrupted you, Feyre, and I hope it’s the last one too, but we will not win that fight. We have to take as many people out as possible, and each second of this conversation means another death. So stay here, I’ll be back soon.”

He winnowed before she could say anything else, now outside the ballroom. There was no one out there, not even a soul—the whole action was taking place inside the building. With all his strength, Azriel forced the lock, kicked the wood, channeled his power through his siphons onto the doors, but nothing happened. The magic keeping them shut made his skin burn where it touched him, like some kind of acid or poison.

“Let me help, Az,” Feyre said, showing up at his side. Why had he thought that the High Lady of the Night Court would obey someone? “Go get them. Bring them here. Rhys and I will winnow the others.”

The strategist in him couldn’t ignore that logic. Wasting no time, the Shadowsinger went back inside, now finding a bloodshed in progress. Rhysand was the next one Az pulled out, and it was incredible how stupidly his honor matched his mate’s, because the first thing the High Lord asked, after realizing he’d been winnowed, was to go back inside.

After Feyre and Rhys, Azriel went straight to Elain. Despite the fact that she had killed the king of Hybern, she didn’t know how to fight and would be nothing more than a distraction for Lucien. Yet, what he found once he got to them almost made him change his mind.

“Take him, Azriel,” Elain begged when he tried to winnow her. “Please.”

Lucien obviously had fought many opponents to protect her. But there was no point in leaving her defenseless to save him.

As if reading his thoughts, the other male said, between strikes, “Don’t… you… dare.”

“No, no, no, no, no… Azriel, no, please—“

In an instant, the shadows engulfed and transported them outside, where Feyre immediately took her sister and carried her away.

“The other High Lords,” Rhys said. Or determined. “Eris.”

Of course Azriel knew the political implications of the death of a High Lord or their mate’s. The Spymaster wasn’t stupid. However, he hated to put Gwyn lower on that list of priorities. His only relief when he winnowed Eris out was that somehow the Priestess had managed to find Nesta and Cassian in that mess of blood and corpses, and now the three of them were fighting back to back.

“Talia,” Eris pleaded, holding Az’s arm before he could leave again. “She’s my second. And I have other important people in there too.”

“All of us have important people in there,” Azriel retorted. “I’ll do my best, but our people are not more expendable than yours.”

It took what seemed to be hundreds of years to winnow everybody, each fae weaker and more badly beaten up than the other as the last of them became more and more outnumbered inside, while Beron watched from the dais, looking satisfied. Lucien, Helion and two Summer counselors, Tarquin and Cresseida, Varian and Amren, Kallias and Viviane, Thesan and his lover, and finally Talia. By the time he finished the High Lords’ group, Morrigan was already there, helping with the winnowing, and Helion had thrown himself into the task of breaking the spell that locked the door—unsuccessfully, though.

When Az couldn’t find anybody else but corpses, he knew there was nothing more to be done, not in that room, not in that court. Joining the fight, he made his way to Gwyn, sending everyone and everything impeding him from reaching her to Hell.

Blood covered her from head to toe, and it scared the shit out of Azriel that he couldn’t assess how much of it was hers. He didn’t have time to ask, though; she was standing, she was fighting, and he needed to get her out. The moment Gwyn reached out to him, Az took her hand and winnowed her directly to the River House, not wanting to risk her safety any more than necessary.

Feyre and Rhys’s living room was drowned in chaos, blood, vomit and other bodily fluids. Elain held Lucien so close that his massive body hid hers while she cleaned the ugly wounds across his skin. She kept his head and half of his torso on her lap, caressing his red hair and talking to him in a low voice, softly, uninterruptedly. The other rescued fae arranged themselves as they could, suturing cuts, sending messages, and comforting their loved ones.

“Are you okay?” It was the third time the Shadowsinger asked Gwyn that, but now he hugged her so tight that the Valkyrie could barely breathe.

“Yes… Yes, I’m fine,” she answered, then leaned loosely against him. But something about that demonstration of weakness seemed wrong. Az sat her on an empty chair and started searching her body, until he touched her leg and she whimpered. “It’s ok, Az. Just go…”

The gash on her thigh was so deep that he could see the bone. Azriel had carried an almost-dead Cassian, had held his fucking intestines in his bare hands, but seeing her flesh wounded like that made his hands tremble.

“I’ll take care of her, Az. Go get Cass and Nesta.” When Gwyn let her head fall against the back of the chair, her face was paper-sheet pale. “Azriel. Look at me.” More by habit than by will, he turned his head to face Feyre, who had an already cut hand on Gwyn’s lips, giving the Priestess her blood. “I’ll be here with her the entire time. She’s going to be okay. Go.”

The Shadowsinger stared at the Valkyrie once more, then winnowed to save Cassian and Nesta, leaving his heart behind.

Chapter Text

Gwyn limped across the room and opened the door, creating an expectation that, she knew, wouldn’t be met. The person on the other side was not who she wanted to see, but Nesta, with a cup of tea, cookies, and a Sellyn Drake book.

“Hi, sunshine,” her friend greeted when Gwyn made her way back to the armchair of her temporary alcove in the River House. The bruise on Nesta’s cheek had gotten less purple, and so had her broken pinky. “How’s your leg? Hurting like a bitch and making you grumpy? Or do you just not want me around?”

Well, it was not that the Priestess hated Nesta’s visit. But Gwyn had welcomed and talked to everybody from the Inner Circle. Besides her Valkyrie sisters, she had been visited by Cassian, Rhys and Feyre, even Elain and Lucien—who seemed to be doing worse than her, although happier than ever with her hand in his.

Everyone except, of course, for Azriel.

She felt a silky touch on her ankle, almost imperceptible now, so used she was to it. The shadow slid up to her wounded thigh, caressing it. Its master had left in the morning after the bloody ball, to meet his informants, obviously, and gather information about… everything, actually. He didn’t show up to say goodbye, to ask if she was okay, if she needed anything. However, the Shadowsinger left one of his shadows behind, the thing following Gwyn everywhere, always hovering over her like a worried mom. And she knew how hard it was for him to be apart from them.

It had to count for something, right?

“I’m sorry, Nes. It hurts a little, but not that much anymore. Madja is great.”

“I have to agree, since she once put Cassian’s guts inside his body again.”

Gwyn chuckled, then her expression turned serious. “How did the meeting go?”

Nesta sighed, putting the treats on the table next to her friend and grabbing a cookie before throwing herself on the bed. Yes, stiffy Nesta doing something like that meant that things were bad. “As terrible as you can imagine. Beron’s still in control of Spring, and there are no signs of Tamlin—probably caged somewhere, in his beast form, under Autumn’s power. Which is the worst scenario we could picture, since Spring borders the human lands. Kallias and Viviane are devastated, and Tarquin even more. Summer just recovered from Hybern’s attack, the High Lord can’t get in touch with anyone in there, not to mention that Cresseida is still on the brink of death. Winter is also uncommunicative, which makes Viviane angry, because she kept her court safe for all the time that Kallias had been Under the Mountain, and now… nothing.”

So three courts under Beron’s command. Four, if they counted Autumn, obviously.

“What about the others?” Gwyn asked.

“Dealing with the destruction, but safe for now. Helion put some spell on the...” In a brusque move, Nesta sat up on the bed and looked at Gwyn. “Oh, my gods, you won’t believe what happened. Lucien went crazy about getting in Autumn to rescue his mother, and Helion started to support him, saying that he would do it himself if he had to. Everybody was so confused about his behavior, because that fucking rake suddenly became aggressive and as crazy as Lucien, then he just blurted that he wasn’t leaving his mate there alone with Beron.”

“His mate?” the Priestess repeated, in shock.

“Can you imagine that? He really acted like a mated male, though. And when we looked at Eris and Lucien… well, let’s say that Elain’s mate—”

“—is the spitting image of Helion.” How could anyone not notice that before? Now that she reflected on it, the similarities were pretty evident. “Mother above, I thought this situation couldn’t be more dramatic.”

“You have no idea,” Nesta went on. “Now we are dealing with a hundred High Lord’s problems: one missing, two willing to take back their courts with no army, one mated to Beron’s wife and behaving like a hallucinating male, and the rest of them trying to save what’s left of their lands—including Rhysand and Feyre, because Hewn City has seen better days.”

“And what about Eris? Those are his court and his family, after all.”

Eris also had visited Gwyn to thank her for saving his life with that blade thrown at his adversary’s eye. It was the first time they’d actually had a conversation, but something about him, about his kindness towards her, had made it easy, almost familiar. 

“Eris is… angry, to say the least. He’s furious about everything—his father’s traitorous plans, the people he lost that night, his mother stuck there with that psychopath. His brothers’ deaths, even if they didn’t get along, considering the fact that they were a bunch of motherfuckers. And Beron bargaining with Koschei, which explains that army from the depths of Hell.”

Gwyn remembered the way those soldiers had moved across the ballroom, the evilness of their magic, the excessive strength of their strikes, and the unnatural resistance to fucking dying.

“Wait, how do you know that Eris’s brothers are dead? And that Beron bargained with Koschei?”

Nesta’s brow furrowed. “Azriel told us. In the meeting.”

The Priestess froze, the cup halfway up to her mouth.

“Azriel was in the meeting? He’s already back?”

“He arrived a couple of hours ago. Why?” A couple of hours ago. Long before the meeting. And he didn’t come here to see me. “Gwyneth Berdara, is this about the fact that you were almost jumping at one another at the ball? Gwyn? Gwyn, what are you—“

Nesta tried to reach for her when she got up from the armchair and started limping towards the door. The corridors were the easiest part, Gwyn thought, imagining how she would manage to go down the stairs, but apparently that was her lucky day. Right around the corner, she ran into the Spymaster, who clearly intended to go to his own bedroom.

“Berdara,” he said, his tone flat, unemotional. “How’s your leg?”

The shadow that had been nursing her joined its equals, as if making clear that it was a stupid or hypocritical question, since Az left it behind for a reason, right?

“Healing well, thanks. And you? Are you okay?”

He shrugged, indifferent. “Fine.” They stood awkwardly silent for an instant before Azriel put his scarred hands in his trousers’ pockets and said, “I’ll see you around, then. Bye, Berdara.”

The Shadowsinger turned his back and walked a few steps away as if she was like any other acquaintance, a person who you exchange pleasantries with.

“Are you avoiding me?”

The question left her lips spontaneously, almost accidentally, but she wouldn’t take it back even if she could. Turning around again, to look at her, Azriel kept his expression neutral.

“Why would I do that, Berdara?”

In general, Gwyn liked when he called her by her surname because it was kind of a nickname. However, at that moment, she wished he just dropped it.

“I don’t know, maybe because we were teasing each other at the ball, hands and dirty talk and all that stuff.”

His hazel eyes became darker, nearly black. “It was a game, wasn’t it? I only taught you how to flirt like the fae. Not a big deal.”

Something twisted inside Gwyn’s chest, like a knot being tightened. She smiled, though, letting Azriel know that his nonchalant attitude didn’t affect her. “Right. Okay, then. At least I know how to do it now.”

His lips thinned, exposing his distress. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The Valkyrie leaned against the wall and crossed her arms in front of her chest, keeping the smile on her face. “It means exactly what I just said: that now I can use what you taught me about the matter and flirt like the fae that I am… not with you, of course. It was just a game, right? But with someone else.” Azriel didn’t reply. His jaw tightened, his wings flared a little. “Okay, have a nice day, Az.”

She went ahead, passing him by, pretending that since the beginning of that casual talk her goal had been to go downstairs. Before she could go further, though, he held her hand to stop her. 

They were close. So, so close. It took Gwyn all of her strength to stay still instead of grabbing him by the jacket. Gods, she would love to kiss him against the wall.

“You’re beautiful, Gwyn,” Azriel stated, “Beautiful, intelligent, and so fucking hot. When you were in my arms, all I could think about was getting you naked as soon as possible. But I’m not looking for something serious now. I can’t give you what you want.”

Mother, she was already wet with a few sentences, aching in all the right places. Despite that, yes, Az was being a jerk.

“Who says that I am looking for something serious? Only because I’m inexperienced?"

“You’re not inexperienced, Berdara,” he retorted. “You’re technically a virgin, unless the library is now allowing males for some extracurricular activities. And I’m not the right guy to take this from you.”

I had a lot of things taken from me, especially in the sexual department. And I can assure you that it’s not what I think you would do.

“Hmm.” She stepped closer, leaving only inches between them. “I don’t remember hearing you complain about any of this when you had my ass against your… hips.”

The growl that rose from his throat made Gwyn bite her lower lip. That vibration would be incredible on her—

“You’re not a casual-sex kind of female, we both know that. And, as I said, I’m not the right guy. You deserve a lot better.”

Smiling even wider, she drew near, his breath touching her cheek. “Are you afraid, Az? Hiding behind your assumptions about me? What about this thing between us scares you?”

His gaze lowered to her mouth, in a way that told her he could kiss her in a heartbeat. “I’m not afraid of anything. Anything. If you say that you don’t want a relationship, I’m more than willing to fuck you until your whole body goes numb. You know where to find me, don’t you?”

Gwyn knew what Azriel was doing. That vulgar way of speaking aimed to make her nervous, to dissuade her from that idea. Little did he know that it only made her feel hornier. 

Nonetheless, the implication that she would chase him like a desperate female was laughable.

“Oh, I do, Shadowsinger. But I won’t. If you decide that it’s worth a shot, then you know where to find me.”

Letting go of his hand, Gwyn reached the staircase, determined to not limp. In fact, she even swayed her hips, sensing his gaze at every step.

Chapter Text

Somehow, Azriel had convinced himself that he wouldn’t knock on Gwyn’s door and fuck her in every possible position. It would be a huge mistake. And, despite what he had said to her—about her not being a casual-sex kind of female—the Shadowsinger worried that he would be the one wanting more at the end. So he had gone to bed and closed his eyes, hoping to have a nightmare-free night of sleep.

That had been three hours ago, though.

In the first hour, he’d only tossed and turned, waiting for blessed unconsciousness to come. When it hadn’t worked, Azriel took a cold bath, hoping to freeze the suggestive thoughts in his mind, and ended up jerking off three times.

By the final minutes of the third hour, he had almost lost his mind. Thoughts of Gwyn kept coming back—the way she had looked at him during the play, his arms around her body when they had fled home that night, his hands on her body at the ball, her swaying hips teasing him a few hours before.

She’d said so herself that he was making assumptions about her, hadn’t she? That he was scared of her and hiding behind them. Well, maybe Gwyn was right. Maybe Az shouldn’t spend his life in his room, using his noble behavior as an excuse, thinking about women he couldn’t have and masturbating like a fucking loser.

She’s single and she wants it too. We can have casual sex. It’s not a big deal. That was the mantra to which Azriel clung to as he walked down the hallway towards Gwyn’s room. He stopped in front of her door, gathering courage to knock, but it swung open before he could do so.

His heart came to a halt in his chest. His mouth watered.

Gwyn looked simply delicious in that nightgown, a thin-fabric little thing that was too revealing for his sake. The outlines of her nipples and underwear turned Az into something remotely fae and mostly animal.

His shadows started twirling like crazy, practically ricocheting around.

“Hi, Shadowsinger,” the Priestess said, in that husky voice he had been hearing in his dreams since the ball.

“Still awake, Berdara?”

She stepped aside a bit for him to get inside, and he did so.

“Yes. I was reading. And waiting for you.”

Azriel smiled, very full of himself, when she closed the door. “Do you want me that badly?”

Gwyn didn’t deny it. She shrugged, though, and gave him the answer he deserved, “Actually, I know how badly you want me, so I figured you wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.”

The Spymaster’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkened. “Indeed, I was not. You were undeniably right.”

The Valkyrie took a couple of steps forward, until they were so close he could distinguish every shade of copper of her hair, even in the dim light.

“Since I’m right about your desire,” her nostrils flared, obviously detecting his arousal—as if he couldn’t smell hers—, “what are you going to do to fix it?”

Azriel’s scarred hands grabbed Gwyn’s hips and held her against his body, every inch of her touching every inch of him. But arousal wasn’t the only thing he had noticed in her scent.

“You’re nervous.”

Gwyn straightened her back, showing every bit of confidence she could collect. “Of course I am. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want this, though.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, but he waited for her to say the words. “Yes, I’m sure, Az.”

His hands slid to her ass, although not in a sexual way. It was an affectionate gesture, kind of possessive too. “Any line you draw, I won’t cross it. I promise. However, you have to tell me the truth. For this to work, we can’t lie or hide things from each other. Deal?”

Her hands rested on his chest, feeling Azriel’s heartbeat beneath his flesh. “Deal.”

Suddenly, the skin of his chest burned, the sensation gone as quickly as it came. Something weighed in his stomach. The Shadowsinger didn’t need to lower his gaze to his own torso to know what had happened. On Gwyn’s chest, at the exact same spot where he felt the burning, a tattoo appeared. In a vertical line between her breasts, the moon went through all its phases—from the new, hidden in darkness, to the waning crescent, its light fading away, with its peak at the complete brilliance of the full moon.

“Oh, gods, Azriel. I’m—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Gwyn’s voice became high with tension and guilt when she looked at the patch of her skin. “I’m really sorry.”

That was bad news. As the Spymaster of the Night Court, a person whom he couldn’t lie to or hide things from should not exist. If somehow Rhys were to find out about it, Azriel would be in a lot of trouble. Even knowing that Gwyn wasn’t the kind of person to take advantage of such circumstances, the risks were too high.

But Azriel couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not when that tattoo made her sexier than she already was.

“I’m sorry too. It was not my intention, Gwyn. I just wanted you to feel safe.”

With his pointing finger, Az traced the drawing from one end to the other, and Gwyn’s nipples answered his touch, hardening underneath the fabric. Grabbing the female by her thighs, he lifted her and sat her on the desk placed against the left wall. In that position, they were almost the same size; all he needed to do to press his lips to hers was to lean forward slightly, only a few inches.

As if reading his thoughts, Gwyn looked at his lips and said, “Kiss me, Shadowsinger.”

Chapter Text

There was a kind of boldness that rose in Gwyn when it came to Azriel. All that flirting, teasing, touching—she would never, absolutely never, open herself up to it with another male. Casual sex? Maybe in a century or two. Or ten.

But she longed to explore that territory with the Shadowsinger, the entire thing, the full experience. 

To be on a desk with a male all over her used to be the Priestess’s worst nightmare, the one that woke her up in the middle of the night, that drew screams from her mouth, that made her break out in a cold sweat. Even so, doing that with Azriel, with his massive body between her legs and his gaze on her face, was something she yearned for fiercely, to the point of despair.

Gwyn was safe with him. Safer than ever. He wouldn’t hurt her for anything in this world, of that she was certain.

Kiss me, Shadowsinger, the female whispered. And he did.

She waited for his full power—the intensity that enraptured her whenever she was near him—and braced herself for being properly taken, knowing he would be incredible. Instead, Az placed his lips on Gwyn’s gently, savoring the kiss, savoring her.

His tongue touched the tip of hers, and she opened her mouth, letting him in. With that, he made a low, needy sound, something between a plea and a growl, which melted her inside out. “Fuck, Berdara,” the Shadowsinger whispered against Gwyn’s lips, catching her breath. He tasted like mint, as if he had brushed his teeth before coming to her. One more swipe of his tongue, more rhythmic penetration—in and out, in and out, like she had imagined he would do in other parts of her body… with other parts of his body. “How can it be like this? How are you rattling my entire world with just one kiss?”

Gwyn had the feeling that it was more the tattoo speaking for him than his own will, that he would probably keep those thoughts to himself in other circumstances—even more so for him, who wasn’t much of a talker at all. Yet, it was good to hear it, because her world had been as rattled as Azriel’s. Her body was completely loose, and she was completely lost, while they explored each other’s mouths, learning, knowing.

The Valkyrie let out a hungry moan when he kept his promise from the ball and bit her lower lip, and her hands instantly grabbed him by the hair, pulling him closer. Az lowered his lips to her jaw, her neck, subtly sliding the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder. His fingertips ran over her collarbones, as soft as a feather, until he slowly cupped her breast and caressed her nipple with his thumb. “Make that sound for me again, please.”

She obliged, of course, because how could she not? That kind of pleasure, born from deep trust and intimacy, turned her into a placid lake at night, and each ephemeral touch was like a small rock skipping onto the surface, creating soft ripples under the moonlight.

“Just like that, Gwyn,” he murmured his approval. “That’s the most fascinating, mesmerizing sound I’ve ever heard.”

“You have a way with words, Shadowsinger,” she breathed, arching her torso to get closer.

“I bet you’ll enjoy this even more when I stop talking.”

The second strap received the same treatment as the first one, which made the upper half of her nightgown fall, exposing her breasts, her belly, and that gorgeous new tattoo on her chest.

Azriel stood very, very still, his gaze traveling up and down her body. Which was okay, Gwyn told herself. Totally fine. She hadn’t seen many females naked before, but her knowledge of the feminine anatomy indicated that everything was pretty much normal for her. Nothing to be concerned about. Right?

“Gwyneth Berdara, you’re a revelation.”

“In a good or a bad way?”, the Priestess asked—unnecessarily, though, because the reverent tone of Az’s voice didn’t leave any space for doubts.

His scarred hands rested on her now bare skin, still softly, still unhurried. He placed one delicate kiss on her nipple, then swept his tongue over the peak—so slowly that Gwyn almost cried.

“Good is not a strong enough word to describe you.”

And then the Spymaster did something that she was not expecting: he went down on his knees.

“What are you doing, Shadowsinger?”

He gave her a small smile. “I’m worshipping you, Priestess.”

The first lick, on the arc of her foot, reverberated through her very soul. Gwyn held the edges of the desk with both hands, her knuckles white, fingernails digging into the wood. Patiently, Az followed the path to her calf, leaving a wet trail that made her even wetter herself.

“Oh, gods, Az…” It was so tempting, so alluring, that it ached. And it was before he got to her inner thigh, which brought a ridiculously noisy gasp to her throat.

His palms grabbed her by the ass and pulled her forward, in such a way that she was sitting right on the edge of the desk. With a careful, slow movement, the Shadowsinger lifted the nightgown to Gwyn’s waist and slid her underwear down her legs. “Your scent right now… it’s intoxicating. I could be on my knees for you for the rest of my life. Spread your legs for me, love. Let me taste you.”

For a moment, she hesitated. That was a vulnerable position to be in, the kind of exposure that Gwyn had never put herself into before, especially with a male. But Azriel’s eyes were looking at her with no expectations, no demands, only desire and amazement and lust and understanding. So she did what he asked her to.

Azriel devoured her with his eyes for a second, as if incapable of stopping himself, then leaned forward and did something that could only be described as decadent. He licked his way from Gwyn’s entrance to the top of her sex, collecting her wetness, and used his lips to suck her clit.

The Valkyrie moaned so loud that she swore that the entire house had heard it. Not that the Spymaster seemed worried, though. For someone so silent, he apparently enjoyed her loudness—a male ready to let everybody know that his female was being satisfied.

He kept working on her with total attention, using his nose, lips, tongue, and chin to please Gwyn. An unknown sensation started growing inside her, a heat that became more and more intense each second, each lick. She was close. So close. But to what?

“Have you ever had an orgasm, Gwyn?” the Shadowsinger asked suddenly.

“What?” The Priestess was so lost in that pleasure, so eager to reach a point she didn’t understand, that the concept of speaking momentarily escaped her.

Az gave her a smirk, obviously full of himself for the effect he was having. “An orgasm, love. Do you know what it feels like? Have you ever touched yourself?”

Gwyn felt embarrassment wash over her. Priestesses were encouraged to think and talk naturally about sex, but she kept all of her knowledge on a theoretical basis, before and evidently after the assault in Sangravah. So it wasn’t something that she would willingly discuss, especially with him. 

The bargain wouldn’t let her lie or hide it, though.

“No… I mean, I know what it’s supposed to be like, based on what I’ve read in books.”

“Forget all of it. Don’t try to get there, okay? Just let your body feel. It knows what to do.”

She had to admit that the idea seemed confusing, a little bit counterproductive. How could something like an orgasm be overwhelming and effortless at the same time? But Gwyn trusted him. With her body, mind, and soul. And, honestly, when he started sucking her again, now with a finger inside Gwyn, she lost control over her own thoughts.

“Is this okay?” Azriel questioned, against her sensitive skin.

“Yesssss…” The word went out like a hiss, since he curved that finger exactly when she was answering and then added another one, stretching her. “Gods, I can’t… Az, I just…”

Her mind was beyond logic at that point. She felt raw. Aching. On the edge. “Let it come, love. I’m right here with you.”

The burning sensation in her center became unbearable until it exploded, flowing through Gwyn’s entire body and making her shiver. Her skin felt too tight—nipples that were small pearls on top of her breasts, not enough air in her lungs, inner walls contracting around his fingers, hips moving against his mouth.

Right at the climax of that feeling, the Priestess screamed his name. Twice. Azriel kept touching her, licking her, penetrating her, until her bones were too heavy to hold her up. He only stood up after she leaned on the wall behind her, breathing so hard that her throat dried.

Azriel’s eyes remained on Gwyn, on her semi-naked body, on the nightgown wrapped around her waist, on her completely satiated appearance. “You have no idea how beautiful you look now, just like that. I could eat you all day long to see you so undone.”

She smiled, feeling helplessly languid. “Come here and kiss me again, Shadowsinger.” His lips tasted like her, and Gwyn loved it. She wanted him to remember her flavor and her scent all the time, she wanted to drive him crazy. “Why are you so… covered in fabric? Does it mean that we are done here?”

There was something utterly sexy in being exposed that way while Azriel stayed completely dressed between her legs, in his black tank top and gray sweatpants. Gwyn wrapped her legs around his hips, and he carried her to bed, laying her down on the mattress as if she were the most precious thing in the world. “Not even close, Berdara. I’m definitely not done with you.”

Chapter Text

Azriel wanted Gwyn like he’d never wanted any other female before, to the point of madness, but he certainly wouldn’t take her on a desk.

Putting his mouth on her felt like a religious ritual, a moment of worship that could last forever—Az would spend a lifetime on his knees for her. In the back of his mind, a voice told him that this was a huge problem. That kind of obsession was very unfamiliar to Azriel himself; however, he had seen it a thousand times before, especially in his brothers when it came to their mates.

It was not the moment to give space for a bond to flourish, but the Shadowsinger couldn’t care less about it with her scent on his nose, her taste on his tongue, and her body under his.

“Do you really want this, Gwyn?” The house could be on fire, Velaris could be under attack, his heart could be failing inside his chest, and Azriel would ignore all of it to be with that female. One word from her, though, would stop him immediately—no matter why, no matter when. “We don’t have to go any further than that. It’s fine.”

He would die from the pain in his balls before making her feel unsafe.

“Yes, I really want this.” Her eyes closed for a second, and her scent became even stronger, as if the Priestess was imagining what “this” could be… and looking forward to finding out if the reality would live up to it.

Still, he needed to know for sure. 

“You are aware that the priority here is your comfort, right? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you somehow or—“

Her fingers on Az’s lips were warm and firm. “I can’t lie to you, remember? So I’m going to say it loud and clear: I might die if I don’t feel you inside me right now, Shadowsinger.”

He grinned at Gwyn, proud of himself, about to explode with desire and a little bit relieved. In a single, practical movement, Azriel took off his tank top and exposed his torso to Gwyn’s appreciation. Her gaze touched his skin, lingering on his tattoos—the old ones and the new,— his abdomen, and the V that ended under his sweatpants. 

Figuring out that there was no point in delaying the inevitable, he finished undressing and went very still. Waiting. Gods, his heart was racing. The impassive, stoic Shadowsinger, the implacable Spymaster of the Night Court, was nervous in front of a female. Not because he felt insecure, but because he wanted her to enjoy it with no worries, no fears of any kind. 

Resting on one of her elbows, she slid her free hand from Azriel’s waist and hip to his thigh. The muscles under Gwyn’s fingers contracted in synchrony with her touch.

“You’re so gorgeous, Azriel. When I look at you, it dazzles me every time. There’s so much strength, so much power in your body. I’m entirely capable of protecting myself, but I know I’ll never have to fear anything as long as you’re around. It makes me desire you even more.”

And she said that he had a way with words. After those few sentences, they might as well stay in that room for a while, because the world wasn’t ready for his cockiness.

“That’s undoubtedly true. I’ll never let anything hurt you again, Gwyn. I’d rather die.”

That would be his only mention of Sangravah—first, because it wasn’t the time or the place for that; secondly, because she was victimized, but not a victim herself. Gwyn didn’t need or deserve to be reminded of the worst moment of her life, when she was raped, her sister killed, and her home destroyed.

“I know,” the Priestess replied simply. She was the one who pulled Azriel closer, bringing him to her mouth. In an instant, he was lost. Irrevocably lost. Locked onto that kiss, that freckled, hot skin in friction with his, the wetness of her center as she rode his thigh.

“I think you should be in charge here, love. Would you feel better in control?”

Gwyn seemed curious, relieved, and scared at the same time. She thought for a second. “Maybe. Probably.”

“Come here, then.” Az rolled onto his back, taking her with him, until she was on his lap, her legs around his hips. In that position, with her hair falling around them and her breasts at his eye level, the Valkyrie was the most magnificent female Azriel had ever seen. He lifted his head a little and took her nipple in his mouth again, unable to resist. “Hold my… hold me.” For some reason, using the word dick, or any other vulgar term, around Gwyn felt ridiculously offensive. “Then guide me up to your entrance. Please.”

Tentatively, she wrapped her delicate fingers around his erection, but, instead of directing it towards her body, she caressed it up and down. Experimenting. Discovering. Az hissed, crumpling the sheets in his fists.

“Do you like that?” Gwyn asked with a smirk.

“Very much. You have no idea.”

“Should I keep doing it for a while?”

Mother, the image of her handling him, taking him into her mouth, perhaps, if Az was lucky enough… it was defeated only by the thought of her walls around him, he was sure.

“Not if you want it to last a little longer.” Her chuckle went through Azriel like a thunder strike. Softly, carefully, she straddled him, then lowered herself in a gentle but maddening move—so slowly that it made Azriel curse. “Fuck. It’s perfect, love. You’re so perfect.”

The Shadowsinger’s scarred hands grabbed her ass, urging Gwyn to ride him, and she did. At first, she seemed to be finding out the dynamics of it, understanding how to sway, shift and adjust; after a few hits, however, the Valkyrie had already mastered it, sinking down onto his member with a confidence that would make Azriel dream about that night for the rest of his damn life.

With no need of his guidance, he repositioned his hands—one on her clit, drawing circles that wrung a moan from Gwyn. She leaned over, using his chest to stabilize her body, and he seized the opportunity to touch that tempting lower lip of hers. By instinct, Gwyn sucked his finger and bit the tip of it.

“I want you to come again. Would you like that, love?” She just nodded, not letting go of his digit, which almost tore the orgasm out of him. “Then I’ll give it to you.”

Summoning his shadows, Azriel commanded them to rush over her freckled body—her neck, arms, breasts, nipples, thighs—while he quickened the pace of his movements on her clit and she hardened the strikes of her hips, now deliciously uncoordinated. Suddenly, Gwyn arched her back and cried out. Pleasure, pure pleasure dripped from the sound while she breathed heavily and contracted repeatedly around his cock. Although Az wanted to last longer than that, to make her come once or twice more, it was too much. He reached his own climax right after her, his sight literally going white-blind for a couple of seconds, his cum gushing inside her.

“Are… are you okay?” he asked when the Priestess collapsed onto his chest.

“I… I’m okay. I’m okay. What about you?”

Something in her voice didn’t sound right, though. Gently, Az lifted her chin to look at her face.

“What’s wrong? Please, talk to me.”

A terrible shiver went up his spine when he thought about the possibility of having hurt Gwyn. But her cheeks flushed, and he instantly smelled her arousal again.

“I feel… weird. Exhausted, physically overwhelmed. A little bit scared by the intensity of it all. And yet my body wants… more. I still want you.”

She would never have admitted that willingly, and he felt grateful for that tattoo, despite the fact that it would, sooner than later, become a headache when Rhys found out.

“I still want you too, love. So let me hold you for a minute, then I’ll be ready to satisfy you for another hour. Or two.”

Chapter Text

The scent of cedar wood was all around Gwyn—on her bed, her sheets and also her skin. She felt warmer and more relaxed than normal, despite the heavy weight on her waist and legs… and the satisfying pain in her center.

She suddenly opened her eyes, all the memories from the night before coming back at once.

She had sex with Azriel.

Real sex. Really good and really hot sex.

And not only once.

At some point, she must have fallen asleep, and a part of her expected to wake up alone in her bed at the River House; to Gwyn’s surprise, the Shadowsinger was still there, hugging her from behind, one thigh over hers. His breath, regular and peaceful, grazed the top of her head, and his chest rose and fell against her back.

Maybe he had fallen asleep by accident or something, and would be horrified upon waking up in such a situation…

“Good morning, Berdara.”

For a moment, the Priestess’s body went rigid. Very slowly, she rolled over on the mattress to face him, waiting for his embarrassment, or his indifference, or his hurry to leave the bed and disappear from her sight. Instead… he smiled. Not a smirk, not a provocative twitch of his lips, but a genuine smile, free of restrictions.

It made something glow under her rib cage, a tether that vibrated and filled Gwyn with hope, light, and life. I’ve never been complete until this smile, she thought.

“Good morning, Shadowsinger.”

“How are you today? Did you sleep well?”

Her eyes rolled at the sensual arrogance in Azriel’s voice. “I did, in fact. But I bet you slept even better.”

The teasing came out easily, even when Gwyn’s insecurities started screaming inside her head. After all, she was “technically a virgin”, as he had so obligingly explained to her.

With a sweetness totally out of character for him, Azriel touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “It was the best sleep I’ve ever had, love,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “Last night was almost flawless, except for the fact that it came to an end.”

“Hmm, real life is knocking, right?” The Valkyrie sat at the edge of the bed, holding the sheets around her breasts. “I think I’m well enough to go back to my duties. The training, the library, the service with the other Priestesses. Or at least I will be after a bath.”

His smile faded, replaced by the expression of a puppy that wasn’t allowed inside the house. Az sat up and reclined against the headboard, arms crossed in front of his body, clearly building a shield around his heart. “Sure. Of course. I can fly you home after breakfast.”

“I like flying, especially with you.” Gwyn stood up and walked to the bathroom, now completely naked—no more sheets and no more nightgown, which at some moment of the night Azriel slid up her torso and threw gods knew where. Looking over her shoulder, she arched a brow. “Are you staying there?

The male ran his gaze over her body, noticing her lips slightly swollen from kissing him, her breasts heavy with desire, the glistening of her aching core, and the evidence of what they had done trickling down her thighs.

“Only if I die first,” he stated, following Gwyn to the bathtub.

***

Breakfast had already been served by that point, and they could do nothing to delay the end of that precious night they’d shared. After all, there was a limit to the time that a person could spend combing their hair or making the bed, for example. But Gwyn didn’t want him to go, and it was something she had to be able to admit to herself.

“We can skip breakfast and go to the House of Wind,” she suggested. “I’ll go straight to the library. That way no one will… Well, they would probably find out by our scents. And I don’t want you to feel… I mean, I don’t want to force this kind of thing on you. So we can… yes.”

The Priestess stopped talking, since she was just rambling now. His words echoed in her memory: I’m not looking for something serious now. But he walked towards her until there were only a few inches between them, and then the distance was gone, because he was kissing her like his life depended on it. “I don’t care, let them know. And you don’t have to worry about it either, Gwyn. This… situation between us won’t turn into a relationship just because people know. We’re free to be whatever we choose to.”

That knot under her rib cage hurt a little, losing a bit of its glow. But she wouldn’t let him notice it, of course. Azriel had been very clear about his intentions and expectations, so Gwyn couldn’t blame him for her own feelings. “If it’s okay with you, then we can go,” she said instead.

She expected Az to say that they shouldn’t arrive together at the dining room, that it would be too much exposure, and so on. The only thing he did, though, was walk a few steps behind her, not touching—if it wasn’t for their scents, even after the bath, one could imagine they had just ran into each other in the corridor or on the staircase.

The silent shock around the table would have been funny if Gwyn hadn’t been so self-conscious. Elain, especially, seemed astonished, jealousy, and resigned at the same time, but she managed to mask it well—even if she didn’t exactly have to, since Lucien wasn’t around. Beron’s association with Koschei had taken him to the human lands in order to get Jurian and Vassa’s help, which could take a while.

Elain’s reaction had Gwyn wondering if Azriel’s intention was making the Archeron sister jealous, and something ugly, kind of possessive, twisted in her chest. But Az didn’t even look at the other female as he sat down in the chair right next to hers.

“Good morning, guys,” greeted Nesta, in a deliberately vague tone, although the slight curve at the corner of her lips said otherwise. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m feeling better, thank you,” Gwyn replied, spreading a generous amount of butter on a slice of bread.

“I bet you are,” the other Valkyrie murmured, and Cassian choked on his toast.

“Actually, my leg has recovered enough for me to go home. I do not wish to impose on your hospitality, my Lord and Lady.” Although her words were addressed to Feyre and Rhysand, Gwyn shot a warning look Nesta’s way. 

“You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, Gwyn,” Feyre assured her.

It was a polite and friendly gesture, but the Priestess really missed the training sessions and her duties at the library—except for the part where she was humiliated by Merrill, of course. It was time to go back to the House of Wind. Besides, the River House had been “crowded” for the last few days, she noticed, glancing around the table.

The refugees who had escaped Spring and Dawn after Beron’s attacks were all sheltered in Day, including Thesan and his lover. People from Winter and Autumn, on the other hand, stayed in Night, so Kallias, Viviane, Eris, and Talia were still guests of Rhys and Feyre.

“I appreciate it, Your Grace,” the Priestess said.

It took almost ten minutes for everyone to forget about Azriel and Gwyn’s unexpected arrival and go back to their plates and conversations. She could handle Nesta’s curiosity and the Inner Circle’s nosiness, as long as the others remained focused on their own business.

It was a shame that Azriel didn’t think that way.

At some point during breakfast, he leaned towards her and whispered, “Can you pass me the coffee, love?” Which was useless in a place where everyone present could hear a pin drop in the noisiest room.

The silence returned, but now no one tried to hide their interest. With her face probably as red as a strawberry, the Priestess grabbed the coffee pot and served him, ignoring the loud noise of the liquid filling the cup. And it didn’t help that Az thanked her by holding her hand and caressing the back of it with his thumb, in a quick but affectionate gesture.

Her first reaction would have been to retreat into herself, unable to deal with all that attention. But Gwyn had to admit that she was enjoying his gentleness and was touched by the fact that he didn’t feel ashamed of what had happened between them.

Even knowing, deep down in her soul, that someday Azriel would break her heart.

By the end of the meal, just when Gwyn thought that the day couldn’t get any weirder, Eris approached as she was leaving the room—with the Shadowsinger right on her heels.

“Hello, Gwyneth. Could we talk for a minute, please?” By her side, Az tensed up and let out a low growl. “Unless you are busy, of course.”

“I am not, Your Grace. Please, lead the way.” Turning to Azriel, the female said, “I’ll see you later, so we can make the arrangements to go back home, okay?”

He held Gwyn’s hand and planted a kiss on her palm. “I’ll be waiting for you, love.” And thank the Mother that all the other High Lords and Lady had left, because his next words were offensive as Hell, “Bring her back safe and unharmed, Vanserra. You may have forgotten, but I remember what happened to the last female you asked us to pick up.” 

“Azriel,” Rhysand warned him.

“Don’t worry, Spymaster. Gwyneth is nothing but safe with me,” Eris promised.

“She better be, or else you’ll leave Velaris with your cock nailed to your forehead.”

Mor went pale, and the rest of the Inner Circle… said nothing, because they obviously agreed with the Shadowsinger.

“Azriel! In my office now.” When Rhys used that voice, no one dared to argue, not even Azriel.

“I won’t be far if you need me,” he offered her, then followed his brother down the corridor.

Chapter Text

“Are you insane?” Rhysand scolded the Spymaster of the Night Court when they entered the office. “Have you lost your damn mind?”

“None of the above, although those both sound the same to me,” Azriel replied coldly—which, obviously, wasn’t the cheeky answer that his brother was expecting for a rhetorical question.

“Are you trying to piss me off? Or is it a gift bestowed on you by the gods? Because these are the only explanations for your behavior.”

“It was just a warning. I’m pretty sure that Eris has heard worse.”

“Just a warning. You threatening to nail his cock to his forehead was supposed to be just a warning. Do you have any idea what the political implications of something like that would be? More so now, after his psycho father decided to blow the fuck up?” Rhys paced around the room, in an unsuccessful attempt at calming himself down. “Is this about Gwyn?”

Hearing her name leaving his mouth made Azriel see red, which was ridiculous for more reasons than anyone could count. First of all, Az had never been a jealous male, especially of a female who only wanted sex from him. Secondly, even if he were jealous of Gwyn, Rhysand, his brother and High Lord, had a beautiful family, with a gorgeous mate and an adorable son. And, finally, the Shadowsinger held no rights over Gwyn.

“Why would it be about her?” Azriel asked.

“You tell me, brother. Yesterday, when I last spoke with you, things had been quite normal, but this morning you were being so lovey-dovey that I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“I wasn’t being lovey-dovey,” he protested.

“Oh, really? ‘Can you pass me the coffee, love?’ Do you call that ‘not being lovey-dovey?’”

Azriel crossed his arms over his chest, protecting himself. “It’s called treating a female well, especially after all Gwyn has endured. I’m pretty sure you know what that means, since Feyre didn’t have an easy life either, and you treat her like a queen, as she deserves.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “I treat Feyre well not only because she had a hard life, but because she’s my mate and I love her—which is not your case, unless you’re hiding something.”

“Of course Gwyn’s not my mate,” Az retorted, and a small knot twisted inside his chest in protest.

“What do you mean by ‘of course’, brother? She could be, you know?”

The Shadowsinger let out a humorless laugh. “I was not made for bonding, Rhys. Particularly not with Gwyn. She deserves better.”

“Hmm, and here I was, thinking that the females were the ones who would accept or reject the bond. You know what, Azriel?” Rhysand sat down on his chair and propped his head on his left index finger and thumb, in a sarcastically reflexive pose. “You have a very annoying habit: making decisions on behalf of others. First with Elain, declaring that she was your mate and that the Cauldron had made a mistake. And now entitling yourself to determine what Gwyneth deserves. Which you also did with Elain, since you seemed to think that you were the right male for her.”

“Well, let’s say that I reconsidered when you asked me if I deserved her. Do you remember that? I guess we share the same flaw.”

Azriel didn’t intend to sound that bitter, but apparently Rhys’s words had caught him more off guard than he imagined.

His brother’s expression softened a little. “Az, it’s needless to say that I find you one of the greatest males I’ve ever met. When I said that, I wanted to dissuade you from that stupid idea, and I’m really sorry if I offended you. If you ask me, I still don’t think you deserve Elain. Because, brother, you deserve someone who loves you for who you are, not for what you represent. You deserve better too, and I like Gwyn. Not that it’s any of my business, though.”

Az swallowed the huge lump in his throat. “Thank you, brother. I do appreciate that.”

Gwyn, however, was still off-limits. The fact was that he wouldn’t know what to do with a female like her. At some point, Azriel would screw things up really badly and make her suffer. So, yes, he would keep things entirely casual between them; and if somehow their situation started to escalate… Well, then he would step back and let her make better choices.

Even if he felt his whole body burn with anger at the thought.

“Perfect. And I would appreciate it if you kept that passive-aggressive attitude off the table, all right? I don’t want to handle a diplomatic conflict because you are acting as if you are mated to ‘Gwyn-deserves-better’.”

***

Azriel had been pacing around his room in the River House for almost two hours now. He’d sent his shadows to check on Gwyn and Eris more times than he wanted to admit, but apparently everything was okay between the two of them. According to the shadows, both were emotionally overwhelmed, even if that sounded like a foreign concept when it came to Lucien’s brother; however, she was safe, and that was what mattered most. 

It was almost lunchtime when she stopped in front of his door—which he had already opened after hearing her steps and catching her scent. Az’s voice came out in a snarl when he saw her swollen face and her red eyes. “He hurt you. I’m going to kill him right now.”

She shook her head and rested her hands on his arms as he held her gently. “No, he didn’t. Eris is a kind male, he treated me well. He just… told me things I didn’t know.”

“Come here.” Az sat on the edge of his bed and pulled Gwyn to his lap. “What happened, love? What did he tell you?”

Gwyn sniffed a little and sighed before dropping a massive bomb, “Eris… Eris is my father.”

Chapter Text

The likely soon-to-be High Lord of the Autumn Court didn’t walk ahead of Gwyn, nor keep the silence certainly more adequate between a ruler and a subject. Instead, Eris Vanserra followed her pace and engaged in a polite, pleasant small talk. “Rhysand was really wise in hiding Velaris from the world. It is a precious gem that would have been torn apart by Amarantha’s court. The beauty of it, even in the daylight… It is stunning.”

Gwyn looked around, noticing the bright blue sky, the yellowish glow with which the sun bathed everything its light touched, the reflection of that light on the Sidra—that made the walls of the River House shine like silver. Even the green of the gardens seemed to sparkle a little. It was magnificent without being excessive. “To be able to witness such a spectacle is a privilege, indeed.”

“I have heard that you work in a library, is that correct? Do you spend the hours of the day mostly underground, then?”

She shrugged. “Yes, it is a pity. But we have the training sessions in the morning, and sometimes I train at night, when I cannot sleep. That is enough to enjoy the House of Wind’s view, I guess.”

“Training sessions?” he asked, curious.

“The Valkyrie training sessions.” His expression remained blank, and suddenly Gwyn realized that maybe the existence of the Valkyries wasn’t common knowledge. “I apologize, Your Grace. Perhaps that is a topic that I am not entitled to discuss.”

He raised his hands in surrender, to ease her worries. “Everybody is aware of the three females who achieved the greatest honor for an Illyrian warrior. I did not know about the training sessions, but one should not presume that this kind of ability comes without dedication. After all, I have seen firsthand how skilled you are with a blade.”

They found a white-stone bench with a lovely view of the river and decided to stay there for a while. The only person around was Elain, who started her gardening activities right after breakfast, although she was distant and distracted enough not to hear their conversation.

“Thank you, my Lord. I feel sorry for your assailant, though, who will never be able to see again.”

Eris stared at Gwyn in surprise, then threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Well, you certainly made sure of that.”

“And you finished the job.”

It was nice to laugh about something like that, to take the weight off that tragedy, even if for a moment, because there would still be suffering for a long time.

“I owe you my life, Gwyneth.” The High Lord became serious—actually, solemn. “If someday we defeat Beron and regain control of Autumn, it will be because of you.”

She shook her head and played with a loose thread of her robe. “If that is the reason you wanted to talk to me in private, Your Grace, I appreciate it, but you do not have to bother. It is my duty as a Valkyrie.”

“I do have to bother and show you my gratitude. You deserve it, Gwyneth.” Eris stayed quiet for a minute, then turned to face her. “That is not why I brought you here, though. I do not want to be precipitous, but Rhysand mentioned your Autumnal roots, and I may have… information. About your origins.”

The Priestess’s breath got caught in her chest. Your origins. It could mean anything… including what she most wanted and feared.

“I see. Which kind of information?”

He hesitated. Nothing good could come from that sort of silence, she felt that in her bones.

“Tell me more about yourself, please,” he deflected. “You were born in Sangravah, right?”

It wasn’t a question about her birth, but about her life, family, and history. “Yes. My mother was raised there, actually. Her father was an important general from the Autumn Court, a High Fae who could not stand the wild freedom of her nymph blood, so he sent her to the temple when she was just a child.”

“Has she ever mentioned your father?”

She expected him to attenuate the impact of the matter, to offer her some level of privacy, like “I do not wish to intrude”, “You do not have to answer me if it is too personal”; yet, Eris only waited for her to respond, as if he had all the right to know the most joyful and the most painful details of Gwyn’s existence.

“A few times. She did not know who he was, because she got pregnant during Calanmai. My mother told me that the magic… it overtook her and the male; they couldn't help but be together that night. Somehow, she managed to bring Sangravah up, and he said he would look for her there, but no one ever came.” She shrugged again. “The male probably forgot everything about her immediately after their encounter, or maybe he found out she was pregnant and decided to spare himself from the responsibility of being a father.”

Eris looked down. His hands were shaking a little, Gwyn noticed. “He went there,” the male said, after a few seconds. “Your father. He went to Sangravah after weeks thinking about Calanmai with her. About that night they shared. He planned to… I do not know if she would become his mate if… things had happened differently. But she meant something to him.”

Her heart was beating so fast in her chest that the Priestess thought she could die right there. The air burned her throat and lungs. A cold sweat burst from her skin. Her father. The male who she had resented her whole life… In front of her, saying that her mother mattered. “Did she?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. He wanted to know her better. Every small thing that she had to tell him, from her childhood, her favorite color, and the book she was reading, to her biggest dream and her life plans. Then he went to the temple, only to find out she was pregnant. And, well, you have seen with your own eyes what his father is capable of. So he left without a word, because he would not forgive himself if something bad happened to her and their child.”

“Their children,” said Gwyn, almost unintentionally.

Eris’s head snapped up to face her. His amber eyes were wide, and his face paler than normal. “What?”

“We were twins. Catrin and I. My sister… She was killed during the attack. By the same men that… raped me.”

Gwyn hated those words. Killed. Raped. They felt like labels hung around her and her dead sister’s necks, like some sort of burden they would have to carry until they died, even beyond that. Despite it, the reality couldn’t be changed, could it? It was what it was. Even if her nightmares made her wish otherwise. Even if she missed Catrin so badly that she prayed every night to the Mother, asking Her to bring her twin back and take her instead.

“I… Gods, Gwyneth, I…” There were tears in the Valkyrie’s eyes, but, for her surprise, Eris was crying too. The massive weight of what he had lost seemed to have crashed upon him—a possible mate, a daughter, almost thirty years of affection and companionship with Gwyn. An entire life completely gone. “I did not know. I swear I did not know. When I first heard about Sangravah, my informants told me that the Priestesses were rescued by Night, then the survivors became reclusive, and everything I managed to find out was that there was a red-haired, teal-eyed Priestess among them. I thought about trying to contact you, but it did not feel like the right moment. It would only be another trauma to make you go through. And you were safe here, away from me and from Beron.”

“Safe and alone,” she murmured. Her voice sounded dead even to her own ears. “Entirely alone. No mother, no sister, no home. No father.”

“Gwyneth.” The pain in his voice told Gwyn all she needed to know about what he meant, but she wanted him to say it anyway. “I am truly, deeply sorry. Trying to protect you… and your sister, even if I did not know about her… I made a huge mistake. Unforgivable, although I would be the happiest male alive if you granted me your forgiveness and… let me know you. Like I wished to do with your mother.”

Before the Valkyrie could say anything, Cassian approached them, his goofiness toned down, as if he had sensed the seriousness of their conversation.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Rhys sent me to find you, Eris. He needs to talk to both of us.”

Discreetly, the High Lord dried his tears. “Sure. I will meet you at his office in a minute.” When the Illyrian left, he looked at Gwyn with such hope that it broke her heart. “Have dinner with me tonight, so we can talk more. Please.”

It would be impossible to refuse that invitation. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted to know about her father. Oh, gods, her father. There was a lifetime of stories she needed to tell him, if he was interested in them. About her mother, Catrin, life in Sangravah, life in Velaris… “Right. I… I will be right here, on this bench. We can go somewhere more private then.”

Eris smiled, his eyes still red from the tears. “Perfect.” They stood in an awkward silence for a while, with no clue of what to do. It seemed too early for hugs and affectionate words, but he wasn’t an acquaintance anymore, a male of higher status, someone to whom she should bow and only then look him in the eyes. In the end, he got up and stared at Gwyn. “Right, let’s not keep you away from your mate any longer. See you tonight, Gwyneth.”

At his leaving, her first impulse was to call him back to clarify that Azriel wasn’t her mate, even if Gwyn didn’t know how to refer to the Shadowsinger. She had already opened her mouth when that tether under her rib cage suddenly snapped, like the rubber band of a slingshot. The connection glowed even stronger, an explosion of belonging, attachment, and desire.

For a moment, the feeling became so incapacitating that Gwyn couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Then, as a flower unfolding itself, that one single word came back to her mind.

Mate.

Azriel was her mate.

Chapter Text

Few things could take Azriel by surprise. Eris being Gwyn’s father was one of them.

The Spymaster in him should have immediately thought about the implications of something like that, calculating advantages, risks, and actions to be taken; instead, he placed a gentle kiss on her shoulder and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Gwyn brushed a strand of her copper hair behind her pointed ear and absentmindedly played with one of his shadows, which was twirling around itself in front of her, as if nervous because of the Priestess’s emotional state. “I don’t… want to bother you with that.”

“With the fact that you just found out who your father is—the High Lord of the Autumn Court, by the way, the man whose life you saved less than a week ago? With the fact that you’re now probably thinking about your sister and your mother, about Sangravah and everything you’ve been through there? Or with the fact that you don’t know how to feel, because you’re happy, sad, upset, infuriated, and hopeful at the same time?”

She smiled a little. “How can you read me so well? Are you using your shadows?”

Az touched her cheek. “I don’t need to. All I have to do is look into your pretty eyes.” Gwyn stared at him for a second, and something darkened those teal irises. “You are not rambling about dresses or the last smut book you and the other Valkyries read, love. And, if you were, I would listen as if it was the most important matter in the world.”

“You can’t lie to me, remember?” The Priestess chuckled, touching his tattoo over the fabric of his shirt.

“I wouldn’t be lying.”

Azriel waited for her to assimilate and elaborate things in her mind, knowing that it wasn’t easy to decide where to begin such a story. In the end, Gwyn lowered her eyes to her hands, still on his chest, and simply said, “He told me she mattered. My mom. She mattered to him.”

“Of course she did,” Az whispered, feeling his heart break—the one he thought he didn’t have.

“Eris went to Sangravah after Calanmai, but then he found out she was pregnant and decided she would be safer away from him. Because of Beron.” For once in his existence, he would have to agree with that bastard. She undoubtedly had a healthier and more protected life being several courts away from Beron. “He didn’t know about Catrin. And he couldn’t reach me after the attack at the temple, since I was already in Velaris when he found out about it.”

“I’m so sorry, Gwyn. For everything.” She knew what he meant. For the absence of her father, for the timing of that revelation, for the memories it stirred up again, some she had fought really hard to forget. “And how did he treat you? Was he nice? Does he want to keep… you know, in touch?”

She nodded, and a tear fell down her cheek. The Priestess lifted her hand to dry it, but Azriel did it before she could. “We’ll have dinner together tonight. He wants me to forgive him, Az, and of course that a part of me wants to. I mean, maybe I would have taken him for a liar just a few days ago, before the ball. Now, after everything I saw that night… his reasons became way more plausible.”

“And yet…” He knew she wasn’t telling him the whole story.

“The only thing I can think right now is that Catrin would not have forgiven him. She would have been stronger than me. I feel like I’m hanging desperately onto any sweet thing he said to me, trying to fill a void that he himself created. Like I’m trying to fix his mistake for him, and all because I’m still that little girl longing for a loving father.”

“Hmm.” Azriel caressed her back and kissed one of her tears. “Look, I didn’t know your sister, and maybe she wouldn’t have forgiven him. Or maybe she would. You will never truly know, and, again, I’m very sorry for that. But, even if you’re right about her, it doesn’t mean that she was stronger. It only means you were different. If you want and are willing to give Eris a chance, then you should. It’s not a flaw to be forgiving.”

Slowly, Gwyn raised her head to stare him in the eyes. The blossoming adoration he saw in her face scared the shit out of him… and made him feel as big as a fucking mountain.

Don’t look at me like that. You’ll convince me that I deserve it, and I can’t afford lying to myself.

“Thank you.” The whispered tone of her voice—or perhaps the magic of their bargain—let Az know that Gwyn was still holding information from him. She opened her mouth a couple of times, figuring out how she would say her next words, and ended up with, “I need to tell you something else, but not… now. I can’t handle it after all the emotions of this morning. Please.”

Despite the complications that the bargain would bring them, the Shadowsinger didn’t wish her to feel like a hostage. Because, somewhere deep inside him, he had found beauty in the idea of sharing the truth with Gwyn.

“Take all the time you need, love. You can tell me whatever it is whenever you’re ready. Okay?”

“Okay.”

After that, they laid together on her bed, facing each other, and Az gently stroked her hair until she eventually fell asleep. He kissed her forehead, getting up as silently as possible, and walked to the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he murmured, preparing himself to leave “Azriel” with her and become the Spymaster again.

Chapter Text

Eris was already waiting for Gwyn when she got to the bench. The Priestess wondered if he had spent hours trying to decide what to wear, like she had, but it was impossible to know—everything about him always seemed so effortless and so calculated at the same time that it could be either a refined taste or a persona. The High Lord looked casual in a brown shirt and black pants, his copper hair a little messy, as if he had run his fingers through it several times.

“Hello, Gwyneth,” he said, when she approached him. His smile was reserved. For her benefit? Or had he already regretted telling her the truth? “You look pretty.”

“Thank you… Eris.” It would have been ridiculous to call him “father” or “dad” (gods forbid that), but the preceding formality didn’t feel adequate anymore.

He obviously agreed, since his next words were, “I would have cried on my pillow tonight if my own daughter called me ‘Your Grace’.”

My own daughter. Her heart fluttered in her chest at those words, as if it had wings, and Gwyn hated it. She remembered Azriel’s advice, though, and tried not to be too hard on herself. If that night was the first and the last one to enjoy the happiness of having a father, she would take it.

The female flattened the skirt of her dress, a light-blue gown that Az had patiently helped her choose—as he had said he would.

“So, where are we going?” The change of subject was evident, but Eris didn’t push her. “I’ve taken the liberty of making a reservation at a restaurant. It’s a surprise, though. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes, I am sure I will love it.”

They decided to walk instead of winnowing, to enjoy the pleasant evening and the beauty of Velaris’ night sky. She accepted the arm he offered her, and it didn’t go unnoticed that it was the first time they touched each other. 

“How are you, Gwyneth? I had to deal with a hundred problems today, after our conversation, but my thoughts were with you the entire time.”

Gwyn took a deep breath. It was absurd to feel anxious about being out in Velaris, especially after Beron’s ball and everything that happened there. She couldn’t help it, though. 

I am the rock against which the surf crashes. Nothing can break me.

The street was calm and almost empty, which eased her nerves a little. The Valkyrie held the fabric of Eris’s sleeve more tightly than she intended, trying to focus on the here and now. “It was not the most serene of the days, but I have to admit that the ideia of… of what we discussed this morning didn’t disturb me as much as I imagined it would. I thought a lot about it, and I talked to Azriel…”

For some reason, she blushed. It felt weird talking about Azriel with someone, even more so with her father.

“And he told you to stay very far away from me, because I am a monster who has collected cruelties over the centuries.”

“Actually, he said that I should give you a chance if I wanted to. That it was not a flaw to be forgiving.”

She could see that Eris was surprised, but he managed to quickly wear the mask of neutrality, which was a required skill for being a High Lord. 

“Hmm, really? I wonder if he was feeling forgiving today, when he threatened to change the location of my body parts.”

Completely against her own will, she snorted. Despite his reputation, it was easy to interact with Eris, Gwyn realized, and not just verbally. She felt comfortable around him. Maybe naively trusting. No, Catrin wouldn’t have judged her if it made her happy; but she wouldn’t be willing to give Eris the opportunity to prove himself.

They walked no further than a few blocks until they reached a cozy and charming place called The Amber Lantern. A tall, pretty female came to welcome them. Naturally elegant, in a burgundy sweater and off-white pants. Her red hair was tied up in a sophisticated bun, and some loose strands framed her delicate face, with full lips and whiskey-golden eyes.

“Selina, how wonderful to see you,” Eris greeted, planting a polite kiss on the back of her hand. “Stunning as always.”

The female smiled with evident amusement, as if she knew him well enough not to take his compliments too seriously. “It is an honor to have you here at my restaurant, Your Grace.”

He glanced at the Priestess, then veered his attention back to the owner of the place. “Selina, this is Gwyneth, one of the Priestesses who work at the library here in Velaris. Would you find us a good table for two, please?”

“Our best table will always have your name on it. Follow me, please.”

Selina led them to a booth in the back of the restaurant—a compartment entirely decorated with dry leaves, oak furniture, and tons of cushions, everything in red, yellow, and orange shades. Faelights hung at intervals from vine lines tied to wooden arches, creating a golden, dim illumination all around the place. The wall to the left of her seat was made of glass, and the view was incredible: an extensive lake, like a silver mirror to Velaris’s night sky, reflecting all the shades of dark blue, the dozens of stars shining in different intensities, and the enormous, pale moon, reigning over them like a magnificent queen.

“This is a lovely place, Eris. You did choose well.”

“Selina was one of the best chefs of the Autumn Court. She found her mate fifteen years ago, a female from Night, and moved to Velaris. I thought she was living in Hewn City, of course, so you imagine my surprise when, a couple of days ago, I got an invitation to visit her bistro.” He gave her a smirk; yes, Velaris was a very well-kept secret, even from the Autumn Court’s royalty. “I figured that tonight could be a great opportunity to pay her that visit and show you our cuisine.”

The menu whetted her appetite. With Eris guidance, she tried the butternut squash risotto with roasted vegetables, and pecan pie for dessert. He, in turn, ordered a casserole and carrot cake. And by the end of the meal she’d already decided to move to Autumn—as soon as Beron was dead, obviously—and spend her entire days eating.

“Oh, gods, that was the best meal I have ever had,” she murmured, finishing her pie.

“Here, take a bite,” Eris offered, sliding his plate towards her. Gwyn used her fork to cut a piece of his cake, and Mother above… “Selina is amazing, right?”

“She is. I need to tell her before we leave, please. This chocolate glaze is divine.” The Priestess took a sip of her apple cider. “Catrin loved chocolate. She would have been obsessed with this cake.”

When she realized what she had just said, her mouth went shut. However, that was the whole point of the dinner, wasn’t it? 

Eris’s face became wistful. He stared at Gwyn differently—not with reserved affection, but with a tender, sad smile. “What was she like, Gwyneth? Your sister.”

The Priestess set her fork gently on her own plate. In the years after the attack on Sangravah, she had talked about Catrin only once, during the Blood Rite. It was a catharsis, actually. A moment shared with friends. Other sisters.

That conversation with Eris was a completely different situation.

“Physically, it was like seeing myself. She had webbed fingers, dark hair, pale skin, and yet we looked very much alike. Our personalities, though… Catrin was impetuous. Fierce. Sometimes reckless. She was defiance in fae form. When she argued about something with someone, I tried to make amends. When I decided to stay quiet, she spoke loud and clear for me. I lost a sister and a protector. Catrin was the best part of me.”

“I am so sorry, dear. I wish I had met her. She seems to have been a lot of trouble.” Gwyn chuckled, only then noticing the tears streaming down her face. Eris touched her hand briefly and said, “I wish I were there for you when you lost her. And your mother. But you are wrong when you state that she was the best part of you, because you are a worthy female. Intelligent, brave, sensitive, strong. Everything I see is honorable. Azriel is a lucky male to be your mate.”

“I hope he thinks that way too,” she murmured. At Eris’s look of confusion, the Valkyrie explained, “He doesn’t know yet. The bond snapped only for me.”

He nodded, although clearly caught off guard. “He will. That Illyrian bat has a lot of flaws, but stupidity is not one of them.”

They stayed quiet for a moment, both lost in their own minds. She broke the silence by asking the question that had been unsettling her since their conversation that morning, “Do you really not know if my mother was your mate?”

Eris thought for a very, very long time before he answered her, “I don’t know for sure. I have an inexplicable feeling, though, that she wasn’t.”

“Did you want her to be?”

“Yes,” he didn’t hesitate. “Even if I had to suffer for her for the rest of my existence. Nothing would make me happier than having two beautiful daughters with my mate, Gwyneth.”

The Priestess smiled at him, knowing that giving her father a chance was the best decision she could have made. “You can call me Gwyn.”

Chapter Text

Gwyn had barely finished telling Azriel about her dinner with Eris when the Shadowsinger felt the familiar scratching in his mind.

“Come to my office, brother,” said Rhysand, in his High Lord voice—which pissed Azriel off. He didn’t want to be anywhere else but with his Priestess, and not for sex.

Well, not only for sex.

She needed to talk about her new parental situation, to elaborate on it—and, yes, she had Nesta and Emerie for that, but for some reason he imagined it wasn’t the same thing.

“Right now?” he asked, foolishly, knowing what the answer would be.

“Yes, right now, Azriel. You have two minutes to get here.”

Az sighed and veered his attention back to Gwyn, who silently stared at him, her hips leaning on the desk where he had... “What happened?”

“Rhys wants to see me in his office.” Before leaving her room, he walked towards her and kissed her mouth, then her neck. “I’ll be back soon, so you can tell me more about your dinner, okay?”

“Will you stay?” she shot back, her cheeks turning red under the freckles. “For the night, I mean.”

“If you want me to, nothing would keep me away.”

Gwyn kissed him once more, and Az couldn’t stop himself from holding her closer, pulling her body against his until he felt her in his bones. “I do. Please, stay with me tonight.” Her tongue circled his in a dance, her hips slightly moving in synchrony with her mouth. Under her nightgown, Azriel slid his palms up her thigh to her ass, the tips of his fingers going a little bit under the fabric of Gwyn’s lingerie, meeting her flesh. “But first you’d better go see your High Lord.”

The sound that came out of his throat would scare Rhysand right away if the bastard had been there. “Fuck. I hate him so much right now.”

“I know,” the Valkyrie chuckled. His shadows twirled around her, delighted by the laugh and resistant to leaving her. “But I’ll be here when you come back. Go.”

He went, with his anger burning him inside out and his balls hurting like Hell. If Rhys wanted to talk about something important, it would be better for all involved if it was a very happy topic, or else he would probably rip someone’s head off.

The office was already crowded when Azriel got there. Feyre had taken a seat on the chair behind the desk, and Rhysand stood beside her; Cassian was leaning on the wall adjacent to the large window, his red Siphons barely glowing under the faelights; and Eris was waiting in the center of the room, hands in his pockets.

Looking at him now was an entirely different experience. Knowing he was Gwyn’s father and a male capable of being kind made Az refrain from his hatred—and somehow rethink what had happened centuries ago, when he supposedly had left Mor to die after being terribly beaten by her own kin.

“Good to know that you managed to leave your love nest, brother,” Rhys teased. “Okay, then. It seems that we are all here, since Amren is in Summer and Mor is at the House of Wind with Nesta.”

“Correct,” Cassian confirmed at Rhysand’s inquiring glance.

Because she prefers to be useless and uninformed rather than share the same space with Eris, Azriel thought.

“The matter that brings us here tonight is… complicated,” the High Lord of the Night Court went on. “Half an hour ago, give or take, Eris came to me and told me that he has a daughter, who coincidentally ended up living in Velaris after… the assault on Sangravah. That daughter is Gwyn.”

“Excuse me?” Cassian blurted, the only one shocked by the news, of course. “Gwyn? Like our Gwyn?”

“Yes, Cas. Our Gwyn,” Feyre replied.

“Did you, by any chance, ask her permission to share this information with everybody?” the Shadowsinger snapped at Eris.

“She is in danger, Illyrian,” he snapped back. “And you would know that if you had reflected, for five seconds, on the implications of her being my daughter.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s her personal life and none of their business.”

“Everything that happens in the Night Court is our business, Azriel,” Feyre retorted firmly. “And Eris is right, Gwyn is in danger. His informants have told him that Beron knows about her, so it’s not a secret anymore.”

“What? How?” Azriel’s spies had reported frequently, but none of them had mentioned that.

“We don’t know yet,” she said. “By the way, put your people on the task. Let us know if they find out anything.”

“Sure. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“Great. But the thing is,” Rhys carried on, “that she is now a target, since Beron seems determined to eliminate every single possible heir to his throne. That means she needs protection.”

“You don’t need to worry about it, brother,” Az assured him. “I have it covered. Nothing will happen to her as long as I’m around.”

“I don’t know if you remember, Azriel, that you’re the Spymaster of the Night Court. We can’t afford to assign you a job as a bodyguard when you have other responsibilities to take care of.”

“More important responsibilities than Gwyn’s life? Nothing matters more than that.”

Feyre went to her mate’s rescue. “That’s not what Rhysand meant. We’re saying, Az, that each one of us has our own assignments in this chaotic situation called war. Yours is to be the Spymaster, and that’s why we’re designating the Valkyries to protect Gwyn.”

“I don’t get it,” he insisted. “Gwyn is safe here in Velaris. If she eventually needs to go somewhere else, I can take two or three days off to accompany her.” The silence among the others almost screamed that something was off. He looked at their guilty faces—even Cassian’s, who apparently had figured out the unspoken understanding between them. “What.”

“Amren sent word today,” Rhys explained. “She is reading a book about body and mind control, and by all indications there’s a spell to reverse it. The controller becomes the controlled one, and vice versa. She thinks that we can manipulate Koschei’s fixation on enslaving young women and turn it against him, that Vassa could use the spell to drain his powers.”

“With that done,” Feyre added, “Beron will be abandoned to his fate, so it’s going to be easier to defeat him.”

“And what does it have to do with Gwyn?” Az asked.

“Brother, think as a strategist, as the Spymaster that you are. Not as her lover,” Cassian answered. “Beron’s soldiers are spread all over Prythian, aren’t they? He’s dominating four courts with only one army, and a mutilated one at that. They have suffered as many casualties as us. The only thing making him powerful right now is Koschei; if we take the death lord out of the equation, our chances of defeating Beron increase significantly, even more so if we corner him on our terms—a controlled environment.”

The realization dawned on Azriel like an ice cube sliding down his spine. “You want to use Gwyn as bait? Fuck it. No, it’s not going to happen. Only over my dead body.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Rhys scolded. “If she agrees to the arrangements, then we’ll set up a plan to keep her safe the entire time, I swear on my life. Our goal is to break Vassa’s curse by the Spring Solstice, so we can use the occasion as an excuse to take Gwyn out of Velaris.”

“What do you mean by Spring Solstice?” Azriel interrupted.

“The rituals have to go on, no matter what,” Feyre responded. “Only the Mother knows what Beron is planning to do in Spring Court, but Helion will keep the ceremony on the Day Court’s calendar, although scaled down due to the circumstances. The Inner Circle will join him and celebrate Solstice there—except for Rhysand and I, of course.”

“The Spring Solstice at Day Court is barely better than Calanmai, Feyre. I won’t let Gwyn be alone there, among thousands of males high on heavy magic, especially after Sangravah. And you shouldn’t be considering it either, if you have any kind of affection for her.”

“She won’t be alone. The other Valkyries will be there with her, and there are spells for neutralizing the magic.” Eris added. “You will attend too, but remember that you are a big Illyrian bat who draws a lot of attention with your wings and those shadows all around you. If you stay clung to Gwyn, it will seem like a giant red flag for Beron. After all, you are not her mate, or anything, right?”

The tone of Eris’s voice became curious, almost teasing. His words gave Azriel an idea, though. “Beron doesn’t know that. What if we plant the information that Gwyn and I are mates? It would be a perfectly fair reason for me to be with her at the ceremony.”

Rhys and Feyre looked at each other, certainly talking through their connection. “Is that your condition to stop being a pain in my fucking ass?” his brother inquired, crossing his arms over his chest.

Az mirrored the position. “Yes. And I can’t make any promises. If at some point this plan of yours sounds too dangerous, I’m calling it off.”

“Okay. Let’s spread the word about our Spymaster’s new mate. Tomorrow I’ll have a conversation with the Valkyries, to see what they think about our strategies. Now, everybody pay attention to this: I don’t want Gwyn to know about it before our mission with Vassa, so keep this idea to yourselves.”

Well, if that wasn’t a big, biiiiig problem.

“We shouldn’t hide things from her, Rhys,” Azriel protested. “She has the right to know. For now, Gwyn’s still thrilled about the fact that she has a father, so she hasn’t put the pieces together. But, if she’s a target, then—“

“Then we should not alarm her until it is absolutely necessary,” Eris cut him off. “She has been through a lot already, Illyrian. Let’s give her some peace.”

“You’re underestimating her.”

“We don’t want her to feel terrified all the time,” Feyre argued. “You said it yourself, Gwyn is safe in Velaris.”

“You were also safe here during your pregnancy, but you didn’t enjoy finding out that we were hiding things about your own life from you.”

Feyre paled at Azriel’s words, and Rhysand interfered, “Enough. It’s not your decision to make only because you’re sharing her bed. I’m giving you an order as your High Lord.”

“I can’t follow your order,” Az said simply, hoping that Rhysand would let it be. 

“Are you defying me?” he hissed, his power taking over the room like a thick, dark blanket.

“No, brother. I’m saying I literally can’t follow your orders.” At Rhys’s expression of doubt, Az sighed and lowered his mental shields. “Read my mind.”

He felt Rhysand’s familiar presence in his head, heavy but paradoxally subtle. His face was empty at first, his glassy stare fixed to the memory Azriel had decided to share. It became clear when Rhys got to the part where they made the deal, though, because Az didn’t even have to shut him out. His brother himself got out of his mind, and not in a good mood.

“I want you to tell me right now that it’s not true,” he growled, which would make a weaker male wet his pants.

“I’m not lying to you. It wasn’t intentional, but it’s the truth.”

“My Spymaster, my fucking Spymaster, accidentally made a bargain that doesn’t allow him to lie or hide things from someone?”

Unlike the moment when only Cassian had been caught by surprise at the news about Gwyn’s father, now everyone looked utterly shocked.

“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight when it happened,” Azriel teased—wrong time, wrong place, wrong target, but fuck it. Cassian whistled loudly. “And you are not the most intelligent male in Prythian when it comes to bargains.”

The punch to the desk made everybody jump, and broke the fucking thing in half. The objects on the surface slid down into the crack until Feyre fixed it with a wave of her hand.

“Do. Not. Say. Another. Word.” Azriel was bold, but not dumb. He kept his mouth shut and waited for the High Lord of the Night Court to calm down. “We’ll talk tomorrow; so, please, hold your tongue until then, at least. Now get out of my sight, before I lose my shit.”

Rhys didn’t have to say it twice, and not because Azriel was afraid; everything he wanted at that moment was to go back to Gwyn’s room and make love to her all night long. When he got there, though—after a quick stop at his room for a bath and a change of clothes—she was already asleep.

His first idea was to wake her up with kisses all over her freckled skin, until she got so aroused he would have to slow down to not come in his own trousers. But Az could see the tiredness on her face, even in her sleep, and he knew it was the emotions of the day taking their toll. Lying by her side, he curved his massive body around hers and smelled the scent of her hair, feeling a peace that he had never known before her. She snuggled against him, murmuring something that Azriel didn’t understand.

You are so perfect, he whispered against her neck, and it took him only a few minutes to fall asleep too.

Chapter Text

The next day went by so quickly that Gwyn basically only stopped to eat and relieve herself. She had decided to wait a few more days before taking up the training sessions again, but everything else seemed to have gone crazy without her there at the House of Wind. Her room was a mess; her work at the library had accumulated; Merrill, driven completely insane with no help at all, since no Priestess had the courage to cover Gwyn’s absence.

It was almost midnight when she found herself fed, bathed, and dressed to sleep, although her body felt restless. Azriel had left a shadow with her again, a tiny, cute strand that had followed her everywhere like a puppy, but both had been too busy to take a break and see each other.

As if he could read Gwyn’s mind, the shadow disappeared for a moment, then returned with a small note in his handwriting:

My room is too empty without you.

The Priestess smiled like a silly girl. Before her nerves could make her chicken out, Gwyn brushed her teeth and decided to wear a new lingerie under her nightgown—a gift from Nesta, one she had never thought she’d put to use.

Thankfully, Gwyn didn’t run into anyone on her way—the Priestesses were all already sleeping, and she really didn’t want to imagine what Nesta and Cassian were doing. 

Azriel’s door was open when she got there. The Valkyrie found him leaning on the door jamb, hands in his pockets, a thin-lipped smile on his face. 

“Hi, Berdara,” he said in a voice that immediately made her wet.

“Hi, Shadowsinger.”

Az offered her a hand; when she accepted it, he pulled her to his chest and kissed her lips longer than usual, as if he had missed that thing between them as much as Gwyn did.

“So now I’m allowed in your room, Spymaster,” she teased. “Did you hide all your secrets before I got here?”

“Do you want to know a secret? I was dying to put my hands on you.”

“That’s not exactly a secret.” He walked backwards, taking Gwyn with him, and closed the door behind them. “Well, your room is very… clean.”

Azriel laughed, but there was nothing more to say about his room than that. A bed. A desk. A chair. A closet. The door of the latter was open, and inside it, everything was black, gray or navy blue: jackets, shirts, T-shirts, tank tops, trousers, shoes.

“Glad to know you like it,” Az mocked. “How was your day?”

“Let’s say that Merrill didn’t have a change of personality during the last week.” Gwyn sat on his bed, back against the headboard, legs crossed on the ankles. “What about yours?” Her gaze wandered around the space, curious, trying to know him better based on the few objects occupying it. When Azriel didn’t answer, the Priestess looked back at him, only to find him staring. “What?”

“You look good on my bed,” the Shadowsinger said, with a very masculine hunger in his expression. “You belong right there.”

“Do I?” she breathed, feeling the gold tether pulse inside her chest. The mating bond grew stronger, more solid than the day before.

“I have no doubts. Let me see you, love.” He grabbed the chair, placed it at the foot of the bed, and sat down, facing her. “Put your hands on your ankles.”

“My ankles?” Azriel nodded. Even uncertain of his intentions, she did what he asked. “Good. Now run them up to your knees, but slowly. And slide the skirt of your nightgown along. That’s it. Will you show me a little bit more?”

Gods, he wanted her to undress herself for him. The idea made Gwyn’s center ache with desire, and yet she felt… not ashamed, but insecure. 

It must have become obvious, because the longing in his hazel eyes softened.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you think we should just sleep, that’s what we’re going to do. I just want to appreciate your beauty, love.”

She stared at Az too—wings resting behind the back of the chair, scarred hands on his thighs, legs opened in an unconscious invitation. Painfully handsome, so tempting that it should be a crime. The Valkyrie wanted to experience everything with him.

“House, please, turn the lights down.” The brightness of the faelights diminished to a dim, yellow glow. Azriel’s shadows danced around their master, and the movement reflected on the walls, setting the mood in the room.

Unhurriedly, she lifted her nightgown even more, showing her thighs, then the teal panties that covered almost nothing. To go with your eyes, Nesta had said.

“You’re already wet for me,” he snarled, certainly seeing the soaked spot on the silk.

“Do you like it, Shadowsinger? The lingerie.”

His hips waved slightly on the chair. “I love it.”

“Should I show you the upper part? Maybe, just maybe, they match.” At that point, he seemed one second away from jumping on her.

“Please. Show me.” Deliberately, gradually, Gwyn slid the nightgown off, revealing a lot of skin and the matching bra, through which fabric Azriel could see her peaked nipples. “Did you plan on killing me tonight, Valkyrie?”

“Perhaps,” she grinned at him.

“Let’s do it right, then. Pull down one cup of your bra. Only one.”

So that was the kind of male that the Spymaster of the Night Court was in bed—dominant, controlling. Of course he was. 

Surprisingly, Gwyn loved it—it was like being touched, although not by his hands. But she was going to make him sweat.

“I always end up naked while you are fully dressed. Tonight, you take off your top first.”

“This is not a negotiation, Berdara,” he warned, although his eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Oh, it is now. Take your top off, and I’ll pull down one cup of my bra for you.”

For a moment, Azriel only looked at her; then he lifted his top and pulled it out, using a little bit of his power to help with the wings. Keeping her promise, she exposed one of her breasts, the air in the room cold on her hot skin.

“Put your finger in your mouth and then touch your nipple.” Gwyn hissed when her wet finger made contact with the sensitive peak. “How does it feel, love? Does it feel good?”

“Hmmm,” she managed to moan, and Az let out a low laugh.

“I think it does, right? But we can make it even better. Your other hand, the one you’re using to crumple the sheets.” The Priestess looked down to confirm that he was telling the truth: she really was crumpling the sheets into her fist. “Slide it under your panties and caress that aching spot between your legs.”

“Oh, gods…” Gwyn was already so needy that the slightest friction felt too much, even more so combined with the touch on her nipple. “I guess you’re enjoying this… as much as I am.”

If the animalistic expression in his face wasn’t indication enough, the erection under the fabric of his pants was pretty obvious.

“I’m loving every fucking second of it. And I want you to imagine that I’m taking you now. Instead of touching your breast, put your finger inside you and pretend it’s me.”

“Are you going to take off your trousers too?”

“I’m not wearing anything under them.”

She bit her lower lip. “Good. Let me see you.”

Azriel took off the trousers and sat back down on the chair, now seeming a god made of flesh and skin. Everything in him was perfect—the sexy Illyrian tattoos, the hair on his chest, belly and crotch, the translucent drop of pre-cum on the head of his cock.

Gwyn couldn’t recognize herself, but she wanted to lick it. And she supposed that it was what people called “good sex”, the kind that turned one into another person, that took away all inhibitions.

To reward him, the female inserted her own finger into her body and moaned again. “I don’t want to imagine it’s you, Az. I want it to be you. Why don’t you come here?”

He got up and crawled onto the mattress, but didn’t touch her. They stood like that for a second—Azriel watching her, his nostrils flared, catching her arousal, and Gwyn taking care of herself, ignited by his presence. Then he said, “I need to see you come first, love. Come for me.”

He reclined his body over hers and took a nipple in his mouth. She reached the climax right away, arching her torso to give him better access to her breast.

Gwyn wasn’t really sure, but the orgasm lasted so long that she wondered if it hadn’t been, in fact, two. And even then it was still not enough. The Priestess was dripping with desire for him, burning like she had a fever; which was absurd, since they had been together multiple times the night before.

The mating bond. That was the only explanation. And it seemed to affect Azriel too, even if the bond hadn’t snapped for him, because he didn’t waste any time once she climaxed. With his scarred hands, the Shadowsinger pulled down her panties and got inside her, not bothering to unhook her bra; he simply slid down the other cup and grabbed her breast.

His thrusts became stronger, wilder, within minutes, going deeper and deeper until she could feel it in her soul. “It never felt like this,” Azriel whispered in her ear. Of course it hadn’t, because he had never had a mate before. 

Can you hear it? She thought, placing her hand on his chest, over the new tattoo. Our hearts are beating together.

The guilt hit Gwyn hard, making her lose the pace. For some reason, hiding the bond from Az and enjoying sex with him all the same felt like abuse, which was something that she would never, absolutely never, do to another being.

“Don’t go there,” he reclaimed her back, kissing her mouth with such passion that her eyes burned with tears. “I don’t know where your mind is, but stay here with me. Tonight you’re mine, nothing else matters.”

Gwyn nodded and dove into the moment again, coming at the same time he did and promising to herself that she would tell him as soon as she could.

Chapter Text

“I didn’t even ask how your conversation with Rhysand went last night,” Gwyn said, putting her lingerie back on. “Was everything okay?”

“Hmmm, more than okay. Very, very okay.”

She looked over her shoulder to see Azriel staring at her body, his gaze traveling down from her hair to her feet. The Priestess rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the smile that spread across her face. “I’m serious! I’m not just interested in your perfect body and your skills in bed, you know?”

He grinned at her. “Do you find my body to be perfect?”

Gwyn shrugged. “Let’s say that you are not that bad.”

Az moved towards her like a feline, his shadows making him look bigger and sexier. He pulled her against him by the waist, making sure she could feel how badly he still wanted her. “Should I use my skills in bed to improve your impression of me?”

When his teeth softly bit Gwyn’s earlobe, her legs felt like liquid. “Are you planning to leave this room someday?”

Mother, her voice. How could he make her yearn so much with just a touch and a bite?

“Not exactly planning. I’m being forced to. If you ask me, I think we should stay here for the next six or seven… hmm…”

“Hours?” she suggested.

“Days.” Azriel swallowed her laugh with another deep, ravenous kiss. “But I have to tell you something, love. It’s nothing urgent, and yet I’m feeling…”

“Suffocated,” Gwyn completed, because that was precisely how she had been feeling since the bond snapped for her, like an incessant sensation of breathing smoke. “I also have to tell you something. That ‘something’ from yesterday.”

“Would you like to walk along the Sidra with me tonight? Then we could talk and enjoy the view.”

The Priestess gave him a smile, although it was a sad one. “I would love to, but I think we should do it more privately. Let’s meet at the training ring? Maybe we can go out after that.”

For some reason, Gwyn’s chest ached at her own words. However, she needed to believe that they would have an after, that a mating bond meant something to him. 

Don’t you dare break my heart, Shadowsinger.

“Sounds amazing.”

The House magically transported her robe from her room to Azriel’s, and they got ready for breakfast. He took the seat next to the Priestess’s and started serving her before himself, asking the House for fresh fruit, warm bread, and jars of jam, honey, and syrup. It was early in the morning, and they had the dining area to themselves for a while, until Cassian and Nesta joined them.

“Hi, little sis,” the general said, resting his hands on Gwyn’s shoulder and kissing her cheek. “Glad you decided to have your meals with us.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by… a snarl. Azriel had bared his teeth and curled his lips, and his gaze of visceral rage was now fixed on Cassian.

“Do not touch her,” he growled, his scarred hand dangerously close to Truth-Teller.

Everybody in the room stood really, really still, shocked and frightened by his reaction—even Cassian and Nesta, as unfrightened as they usually were. As slowly as he could, Cassian held his hands up and walked backwards to Nesta, putting his body between her and the imminent threat. “That’s okay, brother. I’m no longer near her. Right? I’m next to my mate—can you see that?”

As if freed from a spell, Az blinked a couple of times and looked around, confused, ashamed. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m so sorry. I… Gods, I just don’t want her to… I don’t want you to feel afraid, that’s all,” the male finished, addressing her.

Gwyn smiled almost mechanically and put her hand on his, bringing it away from his blade. “It’s okay, I’m not afraid. Cassian is my sister’s mate and a dear friend; he doesn’t scare me.”

Recognizing that Azriel was now able to rationalize, Cass took a seat beside Nesta, and as far as possible from Gwyn. “Don’t worry, brother. I shouldn’t have touched her without her consent. It’s not going to happen again, little sis.”

Of course the Priestess wasn’t afraid of Cassian’s affection, and both her friends had a too-knowing look in their eyes, which confirmed what she had already figured out: the mating bond was almost snapping for Azriel too. That was clearly the standard behavior of a recently mated male—the possessiveness, the aggression, the overprotectiveness. And she was really worried about him.

The vulnerability in Az’s posture made her chest burn, right on the spot of their tattoo. Gwyn needed to tell him about the bond, and soon, before he hurt someone he loved.

Chapter Text

Gwyn was already at the training ring when Azriel got there. Rhysand had trapped him in an endless talk about important stuff—Lucien had written a letter, saying that Vassa was willing to help them break the curse that Koschei had put on her; Amren had almost figured out the spell to do that; Cassian would create a strategy to protect the human queen from the Death Lord in the process; and Helion was already organizing the ceremony that would take place at Day Court.

Yet, none of that mattered to him as much as his meeting with his Valkyrie, and not because he missed her like one would miss their own heart outside their chest; Azriel wanted to apologize properly for his behavior that morning—the worst thing that he could possibly imagine was becoming the violent male she had learned to fear, and rightly so.

You already are the violent male she had learned to fear, said a cruel voice inside his head.

Not that kind of violent, Az replied, feeling hopelessly guilty.

“Hi, Shadowsinger,” the Priestess murmured, sounding a little bit nervous. She was sitting on a blanket spread neatly over the tatami, surrounded by cushions, waiting for him with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight, sensing that thing inside his chest, warm and glowing like a lamp. “Would you join me?”

Azriel crossed the ring and sat down in front of Gwyn, kissing her mouth with the urgency of a male who hadn’t seen his female for an entire month, even if it had actually only been a day.

“Hi, Berdara. Did you set this up for us?”

He opened the bottle, the cork popping out with a soft noise. 

“No, I was planning to sit here alone and drink it all by myself. Alternating the glasses, you know? Just to keep it unusual.”

“Then I came in and ruined your plans.”

“As always,” she accepted the glass he offered and toasted, “To ruining plans.”

The fae wine tasted deep and strong, just like her, and suddenly Azriel had completely lost interest in talking about Rhysand’s ideas.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Gwyn warned him, although he could smell her arousal.

“How am I looking at you, Berdara?” he groaned. Instinctively, she squeezed her thighs together, in an unsuccessful attempt to disguise her desire. Fuck, he would be able to catch her cinnamon-and-seawater scent from a thousand miles away.

“As if you could take me right here, on the floor, and drink this wine not from the glass, but from my body.”

Azriel moaned at the image her words conjured. He could see her naked on that blanket, the wine puddling on her stomach, his tongue licking it and going down, and down, and down… “I could, indeed, if you let me.” What left his throat wasn’t something he would categorize as a voice. Shit, it was barely understandable.

“We have to talk, Azriel! Remember? The bargain? The tattoos?” Yes, they did. But they would have to talk really fast, so he could put that wine to good use. “You go first, please.”

Gwyn has the right to know, the Spymaster thought, putting his lust aside for a moment.

“Okay, then. According to Eris, Beron has found out that he’s your father, nobody knows how. My people are on it, but they don’t have anything yet. Now you are a target as well as any other Vanserra, since that son of a bitch is ready to kill each one of the candidates to the throne. And I’m pretty sure you haven’t put the pieces together, but you’re second in the succession line.”

The genuine shock on her face revealed that she hadn’t.

“I’m not… I don’t know what…”

When her words faltered, Az put his glass on the blanket and held her hand. “I’m sorry, love. I know you only wanted a father, not a diplomatic heritage or a target on your back.”

“I didn’t ask for it, indeed. But I’m safe here in Velaris, am I not?” Gwyn’s voice cracked, like that of a child asking if they were safe from the monster under the bed.

“Nothing will hurt you here, don’t worry. And nothing will hurt you as long as I’m around. The thing is, Rhysand thinks that Amren has found a spell to break Vassa’s curse and drain Koschei’s powers, and after that he wants to use you as bait for Beron—for the record, I am totally against it.”

Azriel went through the details of Rhys’s plans, including the celebration of the Spring Solstice in Day Court. 

“Well, it’s just a festival. I guess I can handle it, right? After the ball and everything.”

“That’s not the problem, love. The ceremony there is… lascivious, to say the least. The magic is almost as intense as that of Calanmai. So there will be a bunch of males trying to get to you, all of them taken by that power.” The rage that rose inside of him took Azriel’s balance for a moment. The possibility of someone assaulting her again was enough to make him lose his shit. “There are spells to shield you and the ones defending you. From the magic, I mean. But I strongly advise you to say no to Rhysand, so we can find another way to trap Beron.”

“Would you be there?” she asked, and he felt a chill run down his spine. Gwyn was going to say yes. Of course she was, because her courage and abnegation knew no limits.

“No matter what. Still, I don’t want you there.”

“So I imagine we can give it a shot. I trust you with my life. I don’t think it will work, though, because you won’t let any male get close to me, and Beron’s soldiers will certainly realize it is a trap.”

She was so fucking smart. More than Azriel, who couldn’t think straight when it came to her.

“We have a solution for this specific problem too. The idea is to spread the false information that we are mated. It would explain my being around you all the time.” Gwyn’s mouth fell open at his words. She looked startled and… sad. And Az could not only see it, but somehow feel it. “We would have to pretend that we are romantically involved, of course. I’m really sorry, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about that. At least we don’t have to pretend to be sexually attracted to each other.”

He meant it to be a joke, to make things lighter; instead, Gwyn stared down at her delicate hands holding the practically untouched glass of wine. “We wouldn’t have to pretend to be mates, either.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

The Priestess looked up once more, and he figured she was about to answer. But then he fixed on those teal eyes, those beautiful irises, and something happened to him instead. His hand involuntarily went to his chest, holding it together while his body became another. A glowing tether unfolded from his heart to Gwyn’s, creating a knot that would stay with them until the end of time, before and after they were dead, tying them to each other. Suddenly, nothing in the Shadowsinger’s body or soul belonged to him anymore. He was entirely hers.

And then Azriel said what he immediately realized: “You are my mate.”

Chapter Text

The tattoo stopped burning, the suffocating sensation of not respecting the bargain was gone.

But now Gwyn was choking for another reason.

Despite her expectations, the astonishment on Azriel’s face wasn’t the good kind. He didn’t seem about to jump onto her and declare his love, telling her that she was everything he had always wanted and that he was going to die of happiness. No, he looked like a male who had just received bad news.

“Is this a joke?” Which was a very incoherent question, since he clearly felt the bond snapping into place. “Or some sort of trick you’re using to fool me into a relationship?”

Although Gwyn couldn’t see herself, she knew her expression had hardened, because that was exactly how she felt about his words. “I would never joke about something so important, Azriel, and I’m not fooling you either. You are disrespecting me and the Cauldron with your assumptions. I heard you when you said that you didn’t want anything serious, and I’ve never asked you for more.”

He didn’t apologize, though. “It has to be a mistake. I didn’t choose to create a bond.”

“Nobody chooses a bond. It happens because the Cauldron decides, not us, so don’t talk to me as if I were responsible for it.”

“Oh, right, so let me rephrase it: I didn’t ask for a bond. I didn’t want a bond.”

“Didn’t you?” Gwyn retorted, feeling her anger and her sadness boil inside her chest until she had an urge to spill the words. “Everybody in the Inner Circle knows you’ve been chasing a bond for centuries—first with Morrigan, then with Elain, who already has a mate, by the way.”

“I said it yesterday to Rhysand, and I’m going to say it again now,” Az replied dryly. “I’m not made for bonding, especially not with someone like you.”

“What do you mean by ‘someone like you’?” She thought she could vomit right there, in front of him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a bond; he didn’t want it with her.

“You know what I mean, Gwyn. Someone good. A worthy female, who deserves more than me, a fucking monster whose job is to torture and kill people.”

Azriel said it flatly, with no emotion at all in his voice, but the Priestess felt his sorrow deep down in her own heart. She knew better than to show any kind of pity or compassion for what he’d been through in his long, difficult existence—and, besides, the Shadowsinger was being a fucking asshole. So Gwyn took a deep breath and answered in a serious, firm tone, “You’re not a monster, Azriel. Cassian, Rhysand, Morrigan, Feyre, Nesta… They all have jobs as terrible as yours, and you don’t think they are monsters, torturers, or killers. Your impression of yourself comes not from your actions, but from another place.”

“Really? Enlighten me, please. What place is that? Tell me, so I can know myself better.”

She didn’t mind the sarcasm dripping from his words, because she knew it for what it was: a mechanism of self-defense and self-hatred at the same time. “You’ve been told your whole life that there’s something wrong with you. By your family. By your trainers and colleagues at the Illyrian camp. By Rhysand’s father.” His nostrils flared, the only sign that he was surprised by her knowledge about his life—which had obviously come from Nesta. “At the same time, they convinced you that your worth lay on your torturing and killing abilities, on your cruelty. So you act like it’s your best quality and your greatest flaw, confusing yourself and everybody around you, when all you want is to be loved for who you really are. The problem, though, is that you are afraid of it, of exposing your true self, and that’s why you’re always seeking unavailable women—because you won’t be able to build something real with them, but at least you can say you’re trying, even if you’re not, actually.”

For a moment, Azriel didn’t say a word, too shocked to articulate his own thoughts, she realized. He knew Gwyn was right, maybe he could see himself clearly for the first time; however, the Spymaster of the Night Court was too proud, too stubborn, to admit it out loud. So he went on with saying, “Perfect. It seems you have it all figured out, then.”

The Valkyrie stood up, looking at him from above. That conversation wouldn’t take them anywhere, it was a dead end. Straightening her spine and holding back her tears until she could be alone, Gwyn stated, “Tell Rhysand that I’m willing to help with Beron, and thank you for telling me about that, even if only because of the bargain.” She licked her lips to moisten them, and Azriel followed the movement with his hazel eyes. He still desired her. She still desired him. Even in that horrible situation. “About the bond, take your time to reflect on what you want and tell me when you’re ready. I want to accept it, to be with you, and I’m courageous enough to say it. Still, I won’t refuse it if you decide that you don’t want to be with me. I have no wish to condemn you to madness.”

When Gwyn left the training ring, she felt proud of herself for facing Azriel, for not breaking in front of him, because he didn’t truly deserve it. Yet, for someone who couldn’t be around people, the Priestess really regretted the fact that the walk along the Sidra didn’t happen.

Chapter Text

Azriel didn’t close his eyes that night, not even for a second, his head spinning with the events of the evening.

I have a mate. After five hundred years of loneliness and coldness, I have a mate, and she is everything a male could ever dream of.

It wasn’t a gift from the Cauldron to him, but certainly some kind of punishment for her—even if the Shadowsinger couldn’t imagine why the Mother would want to punish someone as perfect as Gwyn.

Maybe it was a punishment for him, instead—to ruin her life, to stain her very soul with his darkness. That would make sense, at least more sense than anything good happening to him.

Of course, Az had fucked the whole thing up, as he knew he would. Hell, he had accused Gwyn of faking the bond, of trying to drag him into a relationship, as if Azriel were some sort of prize that any female would be eager to put her hands on. But he had, in reality, panicked at the revelation of the bond, at the knowledge that fate had a terrible sense of humor, giving him something he would not be able to keep because he wasn’t a worthy male.

Gwyn had been incredibly mature, brave, generous, yes. She had not once snapped at him, blamed him for anything, demanded an apology or an answer. She had given him time to think and decide, reversing the roles. That was why Azriel knew that something was very wrong with him: because any male would be on his knees to have Gwyn as a mate, and he was making her wait.

Since then, two or three times now, he had almost sent a shadow to her room—or rather, he had almost gone himself to her room, which would have been a huge problem, since no male was allowed in the Priestesses’ wing—knowing she had been awake too, feeling it through the bond. 

He would have taken her. She would have let him.

And both would have regretted that immediately after their orgasms.

In order to avoid turning that complicated situation into something catastrophic, Azriel decided to leave Velaris the next morning, and the gods conspired in his favor when Rhys initiated the arrangements to go to the Human Lands. The task force assembled to complete the mission was formed by Cassian, Nesta, Eris, Talia, all the High Lords and the High Lady, Thesan’s lover, Varian, and Amren, whom Azriel was responsible for picking up at Summer.

That said, Az almost couldn’t winnow to Tarquin’s court, because his shadows were so angry—at him—they wouldn’t cooperate, and Azriel knew exactly why: like the bastard he was, he hadn’t said goodbye to Gwyn.

She deserves better, they would say if they could speak.

Of that I’m positively sure, the Shadowsinger would reply.

But it was either that—leaving without a word—or looking at her for one second and laying his heart at her feet.

“You look like shit, Shadowsinger,” said Amren, by way of greeting. 

“I know.” Adriata was a destroyed version of the city it had once been, thanks to Hybern. The sea remained turquoise, with heat that made the skin sticky, and the pretty half-moon bay, but the stone buildings were at different levels of restoration, with broken towers, hole-ridden bridges, and the now decrepit sea palace. Still a beautiful place, though, in its own way. “Ready to go?”

She turned to Varian, and then one of Azriel’s worst fears came true: they started their see-you-in-two-days, I’m-going-to-miss-you, and other lines that he would never reproduce, all of it punctuated by kisses and enthusiastic caresses. The time he spent there, waiting, looking at the waves and pretending to be invisible, felt like an eternity, until they could finally winnow to Vassa’s manor.

As soon as they got there, Amren went straight for the jugular: “Rhys told me that you and the Priestess are having sex.”

Az stiffened, trying not to roll his eyes. “Of course he did. You’re all a bunch of busybodies.”

“Well, is it true?” she persisted. 

“Yes, but it’s complicated. And none of your business, of course.”

Amren smiled like she used to, showing her teeth, more scary than friendly. “I’m going to say it only once, Shadowsinger, and I don’t care if you listen to me or not: people like you and I are rotten inside, but with people like Varian and the Priestess beside us, we stink less. Don’t be stupid.”

The female didn’t wait for a reply, probably because she wasn’t actually interested in one. She just turned around and got into the manor, leaving Azriel alone with all the confusing thoughts in his fucking head.

Chapter Text

The nights were chaotic at Vassa’s manor. Since the queen was only available after sunset, they would all have dinner and then stay gathered at the table, setting up strategies for the mission that would take place the next day.

Apparently, Amren had found out that they would need Nesta’s death magic to complete the spell with Vassa, so the three of them usually sat together at Greyson’s father's former office to talk about how it was going to work. The males, Morrigan, Feyre, and Talia kept debating and adjusting the tactics they would use—the planned and the improvised moves, the attacks and the counterattacks, the odds and the certainties.

The plan was simple, in theory: first, the spell. Their job was to secure Vassa’s safety while the three females cast the enchantment on Koschei; once it was completed, it would be time to put the Death Lord down—that was the discussion going on inside the manor at that moment. 

Two options lay on the table, both related to Elain’s vision: to kill a post-spell, fragile Koschei and take the onyx box with them to the Day Court, where Helion and his researchers would study or test the fucking thing; or else to destroy the box and see what effect it might have on the son of a bitch.

Each alternative had its pros and cons. In the first scenario, there would be time to find the safer way of opening or destroying the box, since they didn’t know its contents; however, killing Koschei could be harder. In the second case, if it were true that the box was that vital to him, it would be easier to kill him if it were destroyed first, but only the gods knew what would come out of a Death Lord’s possession such as that one.

He had his own opinion, of course: it would be stupid to release whatever the fuck was in that box without putting Helion to work on it first. Some of the High Lords were so desperate to have their courts back that they couldn’t think straight; in their minds, if it would be easier to eliminate Koschei after destroying the box, then it should be done, no matter the consequences—which made Az wonder how they had managed to keep their lands and people safe until then, being so reckless.

At some point, the Spymaster decided that he had made his ideas very clear and left the room to catch some air, his shadows following his lead right away. He needed a moment to breathe. To be alone. Between the chaos at Vassa’s table and his thoughts about Gwyn, Azriel was too close to losing his temper.

But he was in a mansion with twenty other people or so. Solitude was an illusion.

“Hiding in the shadows, Shadowsinger?”

Az rolled his eyes at the teasing.

“Couldn’t you come up with something more original than that, Vanserra?” he retorted, grinning at the other male. “Or should I call you Spell-Cleaver?”

Lucien sat down beside Azriel, on the other end of the small bench he had found in the gardens. The moon was crescent, and yet it made him think about Gwyn at the rooftop of the theater, her delicate but powerful silhouette against the night sky, looking like a goddess.

“Who lacks originality now?”

Azriel couldn’t help but smile at that. He glanced at Lucien’s profile, noticing the lightness in his face, even if the male’s good eye was hidden in the dark. “You are well.”

It wasn’t a question, but Lucien confirmed it anyway. “I am. I really am. You know, I’ve learned over the centuries that changes are bad—the more unchanging, the better, it’s always preferable to stick to the evil you already know, and that kind of bullshit. Now I have a beautiful mate, a caring father, and a whole new future ahead, if we don’t die tomorrow.”

Which was a very real possibility.

“I’m happy for you, little fox,” the Shadowsinger stated. “I mean it. Even if I tried to steal your mate.”

Lucien’s expression became a bit harsh, but he didn’t snap at Az. “Elain told me everything. The Solstice. Your argument in the kitchen of the River House. The stuff you said to her. You shouldn’t have talked to her like that. We had centuries to cope with the things that others have done to us, and still they haunt us in our nightmares every night. Elain had what? Two years? Not even close to enough.”

“I know.” After all, he’d been warned about his bad habit of making decisions for others. “Glad it helped you, though.”

“It did, actually. But you…” Lucien swallowed hard, as if about to say something that tasted awful in his mouth. “You should have… taken her, if that was what she wanted. I would’ve hated you for all eternity, but Elain deserved to experience.”

“If Elain wanted to experience, as you say, she could have done that with other males, not just me. You know what she was trying to do, right? She was running from her feelings for you.”

They sat quietly for a while, both lost in their own thoughts, until Lucien broke the silence. “And you? What are you running from?”

Azriel arched one brow. “Why do you think I’m running from anything?”

“Your hands. They’re so clenched around the edges of the bench that I can’t even see the scars, as if you were forcing yourself to stay here, instead of running away.”

By reflex, he loosened his grip on the wooden seat. “You’re a very perceptive male, Vanserra. But I’m not running away from something; I’m trying not to run to something. Or someone, actually.”

The red-haired fae smiled a little. “Your Priestess.”

Azriel nodded, but for some reason decided to be fully honest with him. “Yes. My Priestess and my mate.”

The news caught Lucien by surprise, although not as much as Az imagined it would—which showed him how blind he’d been about their bond.

“Why the fuck in this completely fucked up world are you fucking stopping yourself from going to your mate?” When Az shrugged and came up with “It’s complicated”, Lucien looked at him as if he had grown another head. “You’re the Spymaster of the Night Court, and nobody ascends to that position by being dumb. So, please, don’t act like an idiot.”

“Careful, Vanserra,” the Shadowsinger warned. “We’re talking, but we’re not friends.”

“Aren’t we friends?” the fox said, with a fake expression of shock. “And here I was, thinking we were forging a friendship.”

“And here I am, now understanding why Tamlin got so messed up after living with you for such a long time.”

“I’m a pain in the ass, Azriel,” the other male grinned at him, “but think of it this way: Rhys and Feyre are going home tonight to be with Nyx, and they will probably have a lot of sex after their son goes to bed; Cassian and Nesta will profane every corner of this manor; Jurian and Vassa, Kallias and Viviane, Thesan and his lover, Amren and Varian, how do you think they are going to spend the night? I’m going to Velaris as soon as this is over, even if I only get to sleep beside Elain. So, the thing is, you and Gwyn don’t have to make decisions right now, but don’t waste what could be the last night of your life.”

“Why are you giving me good advice? Shouldn’t you hate me?”

Lucien laughed and got up, stretching his arms and spine. “I should, indeed. However, I’d rather spend the energy loving my mate.” He headed back into the manor, although not before stopping at the door and saying, “Good night, Shadowsinger. Don’t be dumb.”

Chapter Text

Lucien hesitated before knocking on Elain’s door, but he soon realized she was not in her room. The bond pulled him away from it, towards the first floor again, and he followed the gentle tug to the kitchen.

“Lucien?” His mate left her mug on the counter, steam still rising from what he identified, by smell, as lavender tea. “What happened? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

Of course his appearance at the River House in the middle of the night would be weird—in fact, it would probably look like bad news, like anything out of the ordinary when it came to the Night Court. Still, Lucien was touched by the fact that Elain had worried about him, that she had asked about his well-being first, implying that he was important to her.

“Yes, everything is okay for now. I’m just… We’ll execute the mission tomorrow, and I just wanted to spend tonight with you.” When her eyes widened, Lucien raised his hands to soothe her. “I don’t mean it in a sexual way. I only wish to stay with you. To talk. To see you smile. To hear your voice. To smell your scent. And to taste your lips, if you allow me.”

She stared at him with a sad smile on her face, then went around the table to hug her mate for a while, letting him feel her presence.

It was “I’m here” without words.

And so she kissed him.

It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Lucien actually flinched, afraid that somehow Elain hadn’t meant it, that she would be horrified with herself or with him or… 

“Kiss me back, Lucien,” she whispered against his mouth.

He hesitated. “Elain, I have no expectations. You don’t have to—“

“Kiss me back. Now.” She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him to her.

Elain didn’t need to ask twice. Lucien held her closer, one hand cupping the female’s face, the other resting on the small of her back. He couldn’t help but swipe his tongue over her lips, and she let him in, responding to his kiss, to his touch, as perfect as he had imagined.

“Gods, Elain…” Lucien bit her lower lip. Perfect. That was the only word in his vocabulary, but not because she didn’t deserve others; he just couldn’t think straight with her scent around him and her warmth against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Elain murmured. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting for so long. I’m sorry I’ve been so messed up, so confused. I should’ve known better. I should’ve—“

“No.” He silenced her with his lips. “Elain, you didn’t owe me anything. I was a stranger. You had been thrown so suddenly into a new existence, a new world, one you had been taught to despise. You had an entire life planned, a fiancé, a future, and I was partially responsible for the fact that you lost it. I wouldn’t expect you to run into my arms or to forgive me so soon. Actually, I thought you would make me suffer for the next fifty years, and it would be well-deserved.”

She chuckled and rested her forehead against his. “I didn’t have plans, Lucien. I had a future planned for me. I had people deciding what would make me happy, and I ate every single drop of shit they fed me. It wasn’t my fault, but it wasn’t yours either.” In a rush, she stepped away from him. “I don’t want to plan anything anymore. Never again. Let’s be impulsive.”

The Archeron sister headed towards the counter and lifted a cloche, revealing a gorgeous cake decorated with roses, lavender, hibiscus, and pansies. With her own fingers, she broke a piece and held it in front of his face. “Here. Eat it.”

His mouth fell open—with surprise, though. “Elain, do you have any idea what you’re offering?”

“Yes, I’m accepting our bond.”

Lucien shook his head in disbelief. “You’re accepting an eternal existence tied to me. There’s no coming back, no way out.”

“I know.”

“If you regret it, it can’t be undone.”

“I’m aware.”

“If I die tomorrow, you’ll feel it, it’ll break you.”

“If you die tomorrow, I’ll be broken with or without the bond.”

“But the pain is going to be—“

“Yes, I know.”

“And we’ll get into the frenzy of the bond, and we’ll end up… you know.”

“Making love to each other. Yes.”

“And I’m assuming you haven’t been with anyone, unless you and the Shadowsinger—“

“I have not been with anyone since Greyson, who only laid me down on his mattress and used my body for his own pleasure. You’re nothing like him, Lucien. You’ll take care of me, and respect me, and give me love, and make me feel so good that I’ll cry after each climax. I’ll have so many orgasms that my whole body will ache. You’ll kiss me, lick me, get deep inside me, take me in every position you can imagine.” 

That new, decided, determined, and slightly inconsequent Elain undoubtedly caught Lucien by surprise. His cock was so hard in his pants that it hurt. “How will I leave you in the morning?” he said, in a sad voice.

“You will, because that’s who you are: a loyal male, stupidly loyal, ready to sacrifice yourself for the ones you love. That’s why I don’t want to waste another second with you.” Her pretty brown eyes stared at his—the russet and the golden one. “Any more questions?”

Lucien stared back. His gaze never faltered as he said, “I love you, Elain.”

And, in response to her request, he bit the damn cake.

For the rest of his existence, be it long or short, he would remember the sweet, floral taste of it, the texture of the dough in his mouth, the lightness on his tongue. The feeling of the bond snapping was overwhelming, even painful, like having your heart replaced by someone else’s; the bond settling in, though, felt… incredible wasn’t enough to describe it. It was belonging. Being comfortable in your own skin for the first time ever. Holding a star in your hand, the moon on a string. 

“I’m finally… alive,” she summed up. Then, her expression changed. Elain looked down at his mouth, at his lips moving while he chewed the cake, and Lucien smelled her arousal.

“What are you looking at, mate?” the male growled, noticing how Elain’s gaze stayed on his throat when he swallowed. “What do you need?”

“I need you inside me,” she breathed.

The urge to take her got so strong that he barely stopped himself from lifting her up to the kitchen counter and penetrating her right there, even though anyone would be able to see them. Grabbing his mate by the waist, Lucien winnowed to Elain’s room in the River House, directly to her bed, where they fell in a mess of arms, and legs, and hair, and skin.

He had felt sexual desire before, but that? That was the kind of craziness that would rip his soul off if not soothed. He devoured her mouth with a hunger unknown until then, kissing his way down to the center of her body, sliding off her clothes while doing so.

May I? Lucien thought, intending to ask her permission, but Elain held him by the hair and pulled his face against her, right on the spot he craved the most. She moaned her contentment and waved her hips under his mouth while he licked, sucked, and bit her clit, using every trick he had learned over the centuries to please her.

And, Mother above, nobody had ever told him that the most satisfying sound in the world was the one your mate makes when she reaches orgasm. To hear it again, he would gladly spend his life between her legs.

“Please, Lucien,” Elain begged, trying to pull him up.

“I’ll be there soon, mate. Be patient.”

Despite the rush in his blood, the need to consummate their union, Lucien took his time with Elain, knowing that “fucking” wouldn’t be enough for either of them. He made her come until they lost count, until she had gotten to the limit between need and desperation. Only then did he take his clothes off and guide himself into her.

His more primal instincts were screaming at him to go deep, fast, raw, until Elain was not calling, but sobbing his name, until her eyes were filled with tears of pleasure. However, Lucien was gentle, thoughtful, the most generous lover his mate could have ever asked for. Elain kissed his lips, neck, chest, and earlobe as his thrusts grew stronger, more urgent, more powerful. At some point, she whispered in his ear, “I didn’t know yet, but I’ve loved you since I came out of the Cauldron, Lucien.”

At her words, something shattered in his chest, like a wall being demolished. He came immediately, feeling the wave of excitement going down his spine and spilling out of him into her, knowing that, if he died the next day, then he would die feeling complete for the first time in his life.

Chapter Text

Azriel was close, Gwyn could feel it through the bond. He had probably wanted to spend the night at the House of Wind, to sleep in his own bed, before flying back to the Human Lands in the morning. To sleep all by himself, she figured, because he hadn’t sent her a message or a shadow, inviting her to go to him. Nothing. Not even a word.

She had received two enchanted parchments, though, from Nesta and Eris, essentially saying their goodbyes, and her heart had sunk in her chest. Gwyn had known her best friend, her sister, for less than three years, and her father only for a week. How could it be fair, the possibility of losing them so soon, after her mother, after Catrin and Sangravah?

And then there was her mate. A couple of nights of wonderful sex, a few words of affection, and now she could lose him too.

But who was she trying to fool? She had lost him the moment he had felt the bond snap. Whether Azriel was dead or alive, Gwyn would be alone until the end of her days; she prayed hard, then, for the Mother to bring him home safely, so the Priestess could be the only one to suffer.

Nesta’s letter had informed her that, in the morning, they would start packing and preparing things to fly to Koschei’s lake. Only a day, then. Only a day for them to know if it was the beginning or the end of their journey to free Prythian from Beron’s power. One day to find out how much damage her heart and soul would have to endure. 

Gwyn stayed awake that night, and not because she couldn’t sleep, but because she didn’t want to. The Valkyrie kept her senses tuned, alert to the glowing tether that connected her to Azriel, relishing it while she still could. The idea of their bond being gone had her shaking under the blankets, but she shoved it down, unwilling to accept it. 

He wouldn’t die.

None of them would.

They should be there—Gwyn and Emerie—at Vassa’s manor, getting ready for the mission too, but Feyre and Rhysand had decided that it would be wiser to keep the Valkyries safe for the next step of their plans. Nesta was an exception, since her death magic—which she used to say was gone, until last week—was necessary for Amren’s spell. Nesta was always an exception, though, with her fierceness, her power, her bravery. The General of the Valkyries made herself an exception. An important asset.

Gwyn wished she had that ability, to be more than a Priestess and a bait. However, she wasn’t the kind of female who would challenge an attacker, like Catrin did; no, she was the kind who let her body be used as if it were worthless. She wasn’t the kind of warrior who would hold the line, like Nesta did in the Blood Rite; instead, she was the one who had been put down and carried all the way to the top by Emerie.

So she did what she was born to do: collected all the pain, all the sorrow, all the grief, and prayed.

***

Azriel woke up to a soft light around him, cutting through his shadows. A tall figure stood over his body, the white hood covering their face, broken hands partially hidden by the sleeves of the robe. Az reached immediately for the knife he kept under the pillow, but there was none around—because he had slept on the floor, in front of the library’s doors.

Good morning, Shadowsinger, said a piece of paper right before his eyes. Are you making yourself comfortable? Or is your only intention to scare my Priestesses out?

He stood up in one quick jump and lowered his head like a boy caught stealing cookies from the jar.

“I’m sorry, High Priestess. I was just… you know, just…” Just what? Sleeping on the floor because those doors were the only thing keeping him from going to Gwyn, because he couldn’t stay away from her, not even for a night, if they were in the same place?

Clotho smiled, and that quill of hers wrote again: Would you like me to let Gwyneth know that you are here?

“No, please. It’s not necessary,” Az replied.

Well, you said the same thing when you left that necklace for her at the Solstice, and it wasn’t a good idea.

He remembered those days—his own thoughts about her smile at the sight of the necklace, the way she had rubbed in his face how blind he had been, their night at the theater, her happiness at the River House right after the play. The ball, how gorgeous she was in that green dress, her body in his arms, her hands on his wings. The way she confronted him about his desire for her, the first time they had sex, her touching herself in his bed.

That bad idea had given Azriel all those memories, moments he would treasure forever—lasting a day or centuries from now. And for that he would be forever grateful, even knowing that—

Tell me, Shadowsinger, the parchment floated before him again, dragging him out of that spiral of thoughts. When will you end this cycle of self-punishment for something that is not your fault? Guilt, self-hatred, self-imposed restrictions, suffering, anger… then guilt again. Five hundred years seem long enough for such pain.

“I’m not punishing myself. I’m trying to preserve Gwyn.”

The smile on the High Priestess’s face was a knowing one, almost condescending. Preserve Gwyneth from what? The sadness she is feeling right now? The hurt you are causing with this distance you are putting between you?

He shook his head in denial. “With time, it’s going to be better for her. Gwyn’s strong, she’s going to recover and… and find a male who… who’s more suited for her. And then she’s going to be happy.”

A lot of she’s going tos, a lot of certainties he didn’t have.

Clotho angled her head, as if curious about his line of thought… or his stubbornness. The female turned her back to him and walked inside the library again, but the parchment stayed to show the truth he didn’t want to acknowledge: Well, Shadowsinger, it’s easier to let Gwyneth do the hard work of getting over you than to make an effort to be better for her.

Chapter Text

Koschei’s lake was exactly like Azriel had imagined. The mountain range around them isolated the place from the rest of the world, turning it into a rift out of time and space, almost blocking the view of the sky itself, and the ancient forest at its feet consisted entirely of dry, leafless trees surrounding the shore. There were no stars, no moon, no light. Only a dense fog covering the lake, that reflected nothing at all, as if made of stone instead of water. On the surface, though, he could distinguish white silhouettes sliding from one side to the other, looking like—

“Are those swans?” asked Lucien, his tone as intrigued as Azriel felt. A lonely flame burned on his palm, allowing them to see something beyond the darkness.

“They have been here as long as I have,” Vassa explained, her red curls almost black in that deep nothingness. “Some of them got here even before me.”

“They are not swans,” Amren said, her gray eyes fixed on the animals. Azriel’s shadows, barely visible there, ran over his skin, anxious, angry. “Those are the other prisoners. The females that Koschei has enslaved through the years.”

“I can see it. I can see… their minds.” Feyre had tears in her eyes, and Az could only imagine what she and Rhysand were capturing with their daemati power: young, beautiful, promising females, full of life and plans, being kidnapped and trapped inside that foreign, strange body, forever tied to the Death Lord. 

“He knows we are here. He knows what we intend to do.” Vassa paused, staring at the lake with the concentration of someone who could spot Koschei under the water. “And he is furious. With me.”

“It won’t last long, firebird,” Jurian promised, a fire of his own flaring in his eyes. “Soon the son of a bitch will be too dead to feel anything.”

“Let’s do it,” Cassian commanded. “Let’s kill this motherfucker.”

The General barked instructions with the expertise of someone who had done so countless times, and no one, not even the High Lords, hesitated to obey. All the High Fae winnowed to their positions along the whole length of the shore, covering the perimeter. When they set their power free, Azriel could not only see the wall of magic keeping the lake as a prison, but he could also feel it, the buzzing, the wave of energy touching his skin. Rhysand and Feyre did the same right there, creating a shield to prevent Koschei from escaping and to protect Vassa and Nesta, as well as the rest of them who had stayed to guard the two females—Az, Cassian, Amren, Thesan’s lover, Varian, Morrigan, and Thalia.

“I think we are ready, Nesta,” Feyre indicated the box in her sister’s arms, the one containing their secret weapon. 

Without a word, the General of the Valkyries put the box on the ground and opened it to reveal the Dread Trove.

“What the fuck is that?” Thalia asked, certainly feeling the old, striking power of the three artifacts.

“It’s the rabbit out of our hat,” Amren replied. Without any hesitation, Nesta picked up the Mask and put it on with a precise movement. The air around them became more gelid than it already was as the wind blew through the space in a violent rush.

Then came the Crown, Its golden spikes glowing in that darkness, making Nesta the queen she obviously was born to be. 

Finally, the Harp, Its strings slightly vibrating by themselves, as if calling Nesta to play.

There she was. Lady Death.

Azriel looked at Cassian, who watched Nesta’s body float, his expression a mix of pride, fear, and resignation. He could almost hear his brother saying, I’m fucking terrified of losing her, but what can I do if my mate’s a powerful female, and Nesta would smile, that dangerous, cold smile of hers.

Not Lady Death, though. The silver irises behind the Mask stared at the lake, her face and body as rigid as marble. Then, she said one single word, in a voice that wasn’t Nesta’s—wasn’t even from their world.

“Rise.”

Right after that, the night turned into chaos. The water of the lake started rippling, then crashing into the wall of magic. The swans spread their wings and fled to the shore, caught in the tunnel between the waves and the High Lords’ power.

Everyone stood very still, bodies and weapons at the ready, when Koschei rose from the lake, the light emitted by Nesta deforming around him. That was when Feyre screamed, “Nyx!”

For a moment, Azriel didn’t understand what had happened, because all he could see was a mass of shadows, denser than his ones. But soon enough his own scream got strangled in his throat when the blackness began taking shape and turned into his mate.

It was so real, so horribly real, that Az took some steps forward before his shadows held him in place. He knew it was an illusion; he knew it. Yet, the Shadowsinger couldn’t avert his eyes from the image in front of him: Gwyn’s skin as pale as the moon; her eyes empty, lifeless; the red stain on her white robe, the blood dripping from her slashed throat. He was going to puke.

Behind her, the wall faltered, the High Lords visibly shaken by the sight of their loved ones hurt or dead. “Hold it! It is not real! Hold it up!” The order, almost unheard under the roar of the water, came from Thesan, whose lover was sufficiently alive beside Azriel for him to think straight—at least, straighter than the others.

Gwyn’s face twisted in a grimace of hatred. “How dare you defy your master?”

“You are not my master,” Vassa retorted, knowing that the question was directed at her. “You are my enslaver.”

“Females used to behave better in the old days.” Gwyn’s lips curved in a vicious smile. “But l forgive you, since you set me free and even brought me a gift.” Her eyes focused on Nesta, and Cassian snarled. 

The words, the smile, the voice, the evilness—everything was so out of character for Gwyn that Azriel felt a little bit more centered, capable of rationalizing, although he surely would have nightmares about that illusion for the rest of his condemned life.

“Let the females go, do not resist,” Lady Death offered, “and your end shall be merciful. Otherwise, your existence will be ripped apart and erased from the universe.”

It wasn’t a generous gesture. Mercy, in Lady Death’s vocabulary, didn’t mean the same as it did in all languages of Prythian and beyond. However, mercilessness would be far worse.

Still in Gwyn’s form, Koschei laughed. Lady Death’s head turned to Amren, an abrupt—not human, not fae, not alive—movement, and the female opened the book in her hands before giving it to Vassa, who started reading the spell at the same time that Koschei attacked.

With her fingernail, Nesta played one string of the Harp, the eighth one, and Vassa vanished from sight, reappearing a few feet to the left, still within reach of the ones protecting her. Rhys and Feyre’s shield dissipated the power that the Death Lord threw at his firebird, even though they could feel the painful energy crawling through their bodies.

It was a test, of course. Koschei was testing their defenses, as well as his own capacity, after being imprisoned under the lake for so long. The next strike, to anyone’s surprise, came like a hurricane, partially breaking through the shield, although not towards Vassa. No, Koschei aimed for the forest, taking it down, the dry trunks instantly catching fire while falling on them. 

They could deal with the fire, having Lucien, Eris, Thalia, and Feyre there. The trees, though, were too many. Jurian curled his body over Vassa’s, interrupting the spell, and Azriel used his shadows to protect them. With a touch on another string of the Harp, Nesta redirected a bunch of them to the lake, towards Koschei himself, and it took all of Azriel to keep in mind that it wasn’t Gwyn.

It. Was. Not. Gwyn.

That was a Hell of a self-defense mechanism—not in a million years would Rhysand or Feyre hurt Nyx, or would Cassian hurt Nesta, and Az certainly wouldn’t hurt Gwyn. If they hadn’t planned a coordinated strategy, with multiple people responsible for protecting Vassa at all costs, it wouldn’t have worked. 

Under Jurian’s body, Vassa started reading the spell again. As her words filled the space, her neck began glowing in vivid, ominous red strands of fire curling around that part of her body, engraving the human queen’s skin like heated iron.

“Don’t stop,” Amren demanded, noticing the pauses that Vassa made and the way her hand went to her throat. “You’re taking off your leash, that’s just the mark it will leave.”

Still floating over the water, and still looking exactly like Azriel’s mate, Koschei lifted both his hands. They waited for something to hit them again—maybe the rocks of the lake, maybe his raw power—but no one expected the Death Lord to manipulate death itself. Over Vassa, Jurian grabbed his own throat, as if mimicking her, and gasped for air; behind them, Cassian went to his knees, bleeding from his nose, eyes and ears.

Lady Death’s gaze fell on Azriel’s brother, as if there was still something from Nesta close to the surface. She lowered her head, moving her lips so fast that the Shadowsinger couldn’t read them, but probably reciting a counterspell to neutralize Koschei’s. Her fingers frantically played the strings of the Harp now, a sign of how powerful the Bone Carver’s and the Weaver’s sibling was.

Jurian drew a long, deep breath; Cassian fell on the moistened earth around the lake, unconscious, but not bleeding anymore.

Those few seconds were enough time for Koschei to use his powers upon Nesta.

Azriel saw the movement one second before the Death Lord made it. He sent his shadows to intercept the massive explosion of magic that would have hit her right in the chest, although the intensity of the impact had thrown her several feet away from the fight. The Harp slipped from her hands, and Nesta crawled towards the relic, her fingers digging into the ground, but not fast enough to keep that monster from going after Vassa. 

“Jurian!” Az screamed, trying to be heard even through the complete insanity of that scene. The man looked up at Koschei, probably seeing him as Vassa herself, or gods knew who, just in time. Holding the real Vassa by the waist, he rolled them over the dark soil, and a deep, smoky hole appeared right where they were. 

At that point, tears of pain streamed down Vassa’s cheeks, evaporating as they fell to her neck. Her tanned skin burned so badly that Azriel could see the raw flesh from where he was, almost twenty feet away from her. Yet, she didn’t stop reading, didn’t stop trying to break the leash, as Amren had said.

On the other side of the lake, the High Lords trembled and sweat with the weight of their magic. They were powerful, and they were strong, but Koschei was a force from another world, not easily defeated, even by Lady Death and the Dread Trove.

Suddenly Azriel knew what he needed to do. Rhysand and Feyre were holding the shield, filtering Koschei’s attacks to half of his capacity; Cassian remained unconscious, and only the Mother knew what kind of damage he had suffered; Amren followed Vassa the entire time, making sure that the human queen kept reading and reading and reading; and the rest of them—especially Jurian—had their attention focused on Vassa as well, ready to protect her.

Nobody was protecting Nesta.

Azriel crossed the field, dodging Koschei’s strikes, determined not to look at the lake. The less he could see the motherfucker projecting Gwyn, the better. 

He got to Lady Death exactly when she rose from the ground, the Harp in her hands. His shadows formed a dome around her, leaving just enough room for her own power to cross the space between them and the lake, his dark strands dancing to the song she played and only they could hear.

Vassa’s scream cut through the air. Blood flowed from the burned skin. She looked at Nesta, a plea in her face, in her beautiful eyes.

Help me.

Lady Death faced the woman, again that unnatural movement of her neck, and there was nothing of Nesta there. The Crown glowed more and more in the night when the female commanded, “Read.”

“It’s almost over, firebird,” Jurian whispered in her ear. “I’m right here, always here.”

And Vassa read. One last page, the end of the end. The harder the spell burned her neck, the weaker Koschei visibly became. His attacks got slower, more desperate, nearly random. The Death Lord was done, everybody there could see it—even himself, apparently, because he just stopped fighting, stopped resisting, and let Vassa take what was left of his powers. 

But not all of it. In the last second, Gwyn vanished from sight, to Azriel’s relief, and that stain of darkness returned; as it dissolved into smoke, the water parted itself, and a black box—an onyx box—rose from underneath the lake, revealed in all its terrifying glory.

“No. No, no, no.” Azriel undid the dome around Nesta and sent his shadows towards the remains of Koschei, trying to stop what he knew was about to happen. One of the shadows got to touch the cold surface of the object, but it was already too late.

Before turning into dust, Koschei opened the box.

Chapter Text

In retrospect, the contents of the box were not a surprise at all; yet, that didn’t mean they were good news.

Azriel couldn’t think of a name for that blast of energy: Koschei’s soul? Heart? Essence? Regardless of the word that the history books would someday use to describe it, the Shadowsinger knew that the explosion of dark power coming from the box was Death itself, raw and pure, the end of the world as they knew it.

The Spymaster of the Night Court, one of the most powerful Illyrian males ever, killer, torturer, and merciless warrior, had always been aware that his death wouldn’t be pretty, peaceful or poetic, and that moment was the confirmation. His next breaths would be the last ones before that thing within the lake spread across the entire space and took them all down.

Like toxic smoke, something rose from the depths of Hell, the Death Lord’s vengeance upon the ones who had defeated him, crawling towards the walls around it. By then, Helion was lit up so intensely that Azriel thought the High Lord could burst into flames at any moment. The magic barrier around the lake became visibly stronger, more solid, but not even that seemed enough to stop the horrors that were about to reach them all.

The High Lords were the first ones to face the threat.

The strands of power penetrated the bulwark, little by little, touching their skin like a breeze. Kallias’s scream could be heard a mile away from the place he occupied, beside Tarquin, when his skin started to dissolve, like snow being thrown around by the wind. The cold in the male’s veins succumbed to the heat coming from the somber cloud expanding above the water, although he—although none of them—wouldn’t leave his position and risk letting it escape. The others on the other shore took several steps back, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and that fucking poisonous mist.

“They won’t last much longer keeping the wall up,” said Talia, her eyes fixed on Eris.

They wouldn’t last much longer at all, actually. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

“Let it drop,” someone ordered, behind them. They all looked back to see Nesta walking towards Vassa. She knelt beside the human queen, who was half-laying on the ground, Jurian’s arms around her. “It’s almost finished, my child,” Lady Death said, one hand holding the Harp, the other touching Vassa’s hair. The gesture was completely out of place, for the situation and for the female—for the entity that Nesta had become, so much so that Jurian pulled his woman away from her reach.

“I can’t do that,” Rhysand stated, sweat dripping from his forehead. “It’s too dangerous, and Vassa’s not strong enough to deal with that thing.”

Vassa’s neck was still wounded, the flesh raw and bleeding, revealing a pattern that hadn’t been distinguishable before: large spirals going up from her collarbones to the base of her chin.

“We will handle it. She masters Death now. Together, we can tame that demon.”

“Nesta—”

“Let it drop, High Lord.” Nobody in their right mind spoke like that to Rhys, not even Nesta in her worst days; that wasn’t Nesta, though. She was someone else—more powerful, fearsome, and fascinating than any other female Azriel had known, except for his mate.

When Feyre nodded, Rhys looked at the other High Lords, obviously sending them a message about their new strategy. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, and everyone around prepared themselves for what was coming.

“You know what to do, child,” Lady Death said to Vassa. Not surprisingly, she was the only one to get to her feet; the woman remained on the ground, also on her knees, as if praying. “Now.”

At Rhysand’s command, the High Lords turned the wall into individual shields for themselves. Koschei’s essence erupted towards the sky, reaching the forest canopy and beyond, which made its descent even more sudden and dreadful. 

With the remains of her strength, Vassa lifted her head and breathed, “Come.”

It was like unleashing a beast. 

The dark stain, so similar to Koschei himself, dove into the lake, creating its own wall of water; when it went for Vassa, Jurian tried to put her behind his body, but Nesta pushed him away with one single movement of her head.

The column of power hit the human right in the chest.

Vassa’s eyes became entirely black, no pupils, no irises; the burn marks on her neck radiated a silver light, accentuating the pattern of scars she would certainly have after healing. If the queen survived that invasion.

When she parted her lips, blood leaked from her mouth and down her chin, her throat, the upper part of her dress, obscuring the silver glow. Nesta played the Harp incessantly, the strings slicing her skin, now stained red with her blood. And, although the smoke had slowed down, it wasn’t dissipating—because you could trick death for a while, but never escape it; the only way out was to accept it.

When Nesta’s hands went still, her fingers hovering over the Harp, Azriel knew she had come to the same conclusion. With that deliberate, mechanical grace, Lady Death put the artifact on the ground and reached for Vassa’s shoulder.

That was when the Shadowsinger understood their essential mistake in that mission: they had gathered a group of soldiers, warriors, to fight against the enemy with only brute force, weapons, and military strategy. But there was no army, no opponents, no physical threat to eliminate—the only ones who could defeat an abstract adversary were those two powerful Ladies of Death in front of them.

If they made it through the process. 

As soon as Nesta’s hand touched Vassa’s shoulder, the former’s body arched, the Crown and the Mask shining in response to the power running through the female. Her skin started peeling off—not like Kallias’s and the other High Lords’, even in their cocoons of magic, but with real holes, as if disintegrating. That was death’s role, after all: to destroy. Lives. Minds. Bodies. Matter itself.

Behind them, Cassian began convulsing, even unconscious, the mating bond still absorbed the pain of his mate. Azriel hoped that somehow it could dilute her suffering as well, because his brother would be broken if he woke up to find Nesta dead.

Without warning, Azriel’s shadows threw themselves into the current of power, cutting through the mist and becoming denser at each second, harder to bear and control. The Shadowsinger didn’t exactly comprehend what they were doing, but he knew, at least, that they were helping in their own way; so he endured the effort, the tiredness, and eventually the burning sensation of carrying a mountain over his shoulders.

At some point, Az fell to his knees, the weight of his own body now unbearable. 

You’re not alone.

He lifted his head with the difficulty of a male who had walked nonstop for a week, maybe a month. That voice. That voice was as familiar as his brothers’, their mates’, his nephew’s. 

I’m right here. With you. Just a little longer.

Gwyn was not there—she hadn’t been when Koschei projected her image to scare him, and she wasn’t now, even if he could hear her crystal clear. It was some kind of mechanism that his mind used to keep him from losing consciousness, to make him hold onto the strength that he still had left. And it worked, considering that Az forced his eyes open just because she asked him to do it.

That’s it, Shadowsinger. It’s over.

The silence around them, after the drumming noise inside his head and the chaotic sounds of that death magic, seemed almost oppressive, and yet Azriel yearned for it. His body collapsed onto the cold earth, entirely drained of energy; the last of his forces he used to turn his face towards Nesta and Vassa, whose positions mirrored his own.

They had won. Koschei was gone; his attack, neutralized; his powers, under the control of someone they trusted with their lives. Everything he wanted now was to go home to his mate and to take the others with him, all of them alive and well.

If the gods allowed it.

Chapter Text

“There’s something wrong, Em,” Gwyn said, rubbing the center of her chest. “Something is very, very wrong.”

They were in the living room of the House of Wind—had been there for a while now, probably more hours than they could count—waiting for any kind of news about the group that was on the mission. Clotho had given Gwyn the day off, since the Valkyrie barely remembered her own name, let alone the dozen orders that Merrill usually threw at her every day.

“It’s not a fact, Gwyn,” Emerie replied, softly, although the Illyrian female sounded worried too. “It’s just your fear getting into your mind.”

Gwyn shook her head. “No, I’m serious. I can… feel it.”

“Feel it how? An intuition?” She didn’t like to lie to her friends—besides, she was a terrible liar—so the silence was the only answer the Priestess had to offer. Which, of course, didn’t fool a clever female like her Valkyrie sister. “Gwyneth Berdara, you have five seconds to tell me what’s going on.”

When Gwyn hesitated, Emerie just gave her a look of someone who wouldn’t let the matter die so easily. “I can feel it… through the bond. Azriel is my mate.”

Emerie’s mouth fell open, and the shock in her expression was so genuine that Gwyn would have laughed if the situation weren’t so serious. “Oh, gods, Gwyn! It’s just… Fuck, you’re the Shadowsinger’s mate. Mother above.”

“Please, don’t tell anyone.”

“He doesn’t know yet?” the other asked, her pitch a little higher than usual.

“He does, but we’re still… working on it.” She managed not to let the pain in her heart and soul show through her face at the thought of Azriel’s rejection. “It doesn’t matter now, as long as they all come home safe. But I’m not… I’m terrified, Em. The bond is new, I know that, and we are away from each other now. His exhaustion, though, is unmistakable. He is suffering.”

“Battles always come with consequences, Gwyn, and suffering is one of them. It doesn’t mean that the worst scenarios will come true. We know that, right? We are Valkyries. Carynthian Valkyries.”

“You are. And Nesta should be. I shouldn’t have even survived the Blood Rite. I shouldn’t have survived Sangravah.”

The words came out against her will, as if they had a life of their own. All the spiraling thoughts, all the fears Gwyn had kept to herself, the sadness and the grief, the shame and the anger. Emerie touched her cheek and dried a tear that the Priestess didn’t realize had escaped.

“Let me tell you two things, Gwynnie,” she declared. “First, I am so sorry that you don’t see yourself the way I do. You and Nesta are the most wonderful, intelligent, brave, talented, dedicated, capable, ferocious females I’ve met, and I’m Illyrian, so that says a lot. Secondly, this is not a story where the main female character spends her time crying over her cruel destiny and her lack of power, strength, whatever. I’ll hold your hand and support you, but shut your fucking mouth if you don’t have anything good to say about yourself.”

They stared at each other for a moment, until Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh while still crying. Emerie’s lips curved in a sardonic smile before the two Valkyries hugged each other.

“I love you, Em.”

“And I love you enough to defend you from anyone, even yourself.” Reclining on the arm of the couch, her sister put her bare feet on Gwyn’s lap. “So, since we probably have a few more hours of waiting, I’d like to throw some light on the fact that you still haven’t talked about Azriel’s… abilities.”

“I haven’t and I won’t,” said the Priestess.

“Oh, Gwynnie, come on. Tell me if the Shadowsinger sings well.”

“Why would you want to know that,” Gwyn asked, “if you don’t even like the kind of instrument he plays?”

Emerie shrugged. “Just curious about my roots, you know? I have the historical duty of cataloging the performance of my Illyrian companions.”

“Historical duty, huh? How selfless of you, Emerie.”

“Right? So help me out with this terrible task, sister, please.”

Gwyn rolled her eyes. “You have Nesta to help you out. The Gods know she is hardly shy about her mate’s performance.”

“Nesta is not a reliable narrator! You should know that after reading all those Sellyn Drake’s books!”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I am! It takes at least two Illyrian males to find out if the wingspan rumors are true—”

“Emerie!” she gasped, aware that her easily blushing skin would give away her embarrassment.

“What? Tell me something, one little thing, pleeeeease! I’m dying here!”

Gwyn sat with her legs tucked under her and straightened her shoulders. “Well, Azriel is a good kisser.”

“A good kisser? Are you kidding me?” The other Valkyrie poked Gwyn with her toe. “You’re going to do better than that.”

“He is, though. The way he uses his tongue, moving it in and out of my mouth, with a pace that is meant to drive me insane… And he kisses with his whole body, not just with his lips. It’s the kind of kiss that gets a female ready for whatever comes next.” Coming back to reality, the Priestess blinked and tried to keep a neutral face. “There you have it. Was that detailed enough for you?”

“Not as detailed as I expected, but enough to make it juicy, so I’ll let it pass for now.” Her expression became graver, then, when she asked, “Do you love him? Not because he’s your mate, but because you just do. For who he is.”

The same words Gwyn had said to Azriel when they argued about the bond. And the answer couldn’t be anything except, “Yes, I do. I think I’ve loved him since Sangravah—not because he saved me, but because he was so kind, so thoughtful. I had been abused, my sister was dead right in front of me, and for a second he managed to make me feel safe. Protected. That’s the male he is, Em, even if he doesn’t see it.”

Emerie opened her mouth to reply, but the sound of someone entering the house interrupted her. The High Lady stormed into the room, her clothes stained with blood, although she seemed unharmed. Gwyn knew the smell of that blood, though; she remembered it from Ramiel.

“Oh. Girls, hi. I’m sorry, I don’t…” She just stood there, looking like someone who had just come back from another world and now didn’t know how to deal with reality.

“Nesta… Is she alive?” Emerie questioned, obviously recognizing the scent of their sister as well as Gwyn.

“Barely. She and Vassa absorbed Koschei’s last strike, and they survived only because of the Dread Trove.” Feyre rubbed her face, staining her skin with Nesta’s blood. “Actually, that’s not true. Azriel’s shadows also helped.”

Her heart sank to her stomach, a cold feeling spreading from her chest to her limbs. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, just drained. We all are, but someone had to take clothes and other things for her.”

“Take us there. Please,” Gwyn pleaded. “Sit here and rest for a while, I’ll get Nesta’s things for you.”

“No, you both go to the River House,” Emerie said, heading towards Nesta’s room. “I’ll pack some stuff for her and let you know when I’m ready.”

“Thank you, Emerie. I’ll come back and pick you up, okay?”

Feyre flew out of the House of Wind with Gwyn in her arms, since the wards didn’t allow them to winnow, and it was not the first time the Priestess marveled at how strong the High Lady was. Still, the female seemed a little bit in shock, so she didn’t impose a conversation or ask some of the thousand questions that she had about the battle. Everyone is alive—that’s what matters, the Valkyrie told herself.

Despite the short distance between the two places, the flight to the River House felt like traveling to another court. Gwyn was beyond formalities at that point: when the High Lady put her gently on the ground, she ran to the door and virtually burst it open, only to find that the living room of the manor was even more chaotic than it had been after Beron’s ball: along with the fact that everyone there was wounded at some level, the High Lords were evidently fighting, although she had no interest at all in the matter.

Two things captured her attention: the first one, Eris pulled her into a hug the moment Gwyn’s feet hit the floor of the room, his heart racing against her chest. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

“Gods, are you okay?” the Priestess asked, staring at the burned marks on his face and clothes.

“I was so afraid of dying without seeing you one last time, my daughter,” he answered, unbothered by the fact that every person in there could hear them.

“I’m glad that didn’t happen, dad.”

Eris rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “I love you, Gwyn. I love you so much, sweetheart.” Her father touched her cheek in the most delicate gesture, then pointed to the couch with his head. “Go see your mate, we can talk later.”

The second thing that drew her attention was the massive body laid on the velvet sofa of the High Lord and Lady’s house, wings loose—one hanging over the edge, the other resting on the back of the sofa. She sat on the arm of the furniture and caressed the black strand of hair on Azriel’s forehead. He leaned into her touch, but didn’t seem conscious enough to know what was happening.

“I was so worried,” she confessed, blinking to hold back her tears.

“You were there,” he murmured, and Gwyn noticed that his temperature was higher than usual. “Floating over the lake. And your throat…”

When all he did was mumble something unintelligible, she grabbed Az’s hand and kissed the knuckles. “What about my throat, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel made a sound that was pure agony, then he suddenly changed the subject, eyes still closed. Hallucinating. He was delirious because of the fever. “I slept on the floor yesterday.”

“Did you? Why?”

He took a deep breath, sweat dripping from his temples. “I wanted to see her. To see Gwyn. But I couldn’t. So I slept on the floor. In front of…” Azriel groaned and tried to find a more comfortable position. “In front of the library’s door. I can feel her, you know? She’s perfect, and I’m…”

“She’s not perfect, Az, and you’re a good male.” Tears were freely rolling down her face now, too many to count, and falling onto his shoulders, his wings, his jacket. “Your head is such a mess, yes, but everybody’s head is.”

She kept running her fingers through his hair, inhaling deeply to smell his scent, and whispering senseless words to calm him down.

“The Spymaster will get better, Priestess,” a gentle, feminine voice assured her. Gwyn looked up at the female—Madja, the Night Court’s healer, she recognized. “He needs rest and a few doses of the tonic I brought for him. Your friend, though, may not be so lucky. I suggest that you let him sleep it off and go pray for your General.”

Gwyn nodded, afraid of stepping away from Azriel, but knowing that Nesta needed her more. “Thank you, Madja. For taking care of them.”

“I’ll make sure he takes the tonic, Valkyrie,” Morrigan promised, approaching them and resting a hand on Gwyn’s shoulder. The female still looked pretty, even after battling the Death Lord himself. “Now go and bring Nesta back to us.”

She was ready to say something like “I wish I could”, or “I’m not that powerful “, but a ripple of magic cut through her—the sort of sensation that made everything seem possible, even the most utopian of wishes. So she left Azriel with Mor, very aware that life kept making them leave each other behind.

Chapter Text

Nesta didn’t seem to be doing as bad as everybody had told Gwyn she was.

She seemed worse.

Her body was entirely covered in burn marks, but not the same ones as those on Eris’s skin; no, hers were of the kind that corroded from inside out. After all, the General had not been hit by Koschei’s power: she had absorbed it.

Cassian, in turn, looked like a male who wasn’t alive anymore, but whom the Cauldron had not allowed to die. His bloodshot eyes didn’t leave his mate when Gwyn entered their room and touched his shoulder in a compassionate, supportive gesture—actually, the Illyrian didn’t move at all, and she feared that he had given up on breathing altogether.

The Priestess said nothing. There was nothing to say—the “how are you?”, “how is she?”, and “how can I help?” wouldn’t fix anything, wouldn’t be of any use. So she knelt on the other side of Nesta’s bed and started praying, the words running through her mind, her lips silently moving.

“Do it out loud,” Cassian murmured, his voice ragged with pain and grief. “If you want to pray out loud, please, do it.”

“I do not wish to disturb you,” she whispered back, for his and Nesta’s sake.

“You won’t. It will give me some peace to know that someone’s praying for her, since I’m beyond words now.” 

For hours and hours, Gwyn recited the prayers she knew by heart—for healing, mostly, though also for love, peace, compassion, and comfort. She addressed the Mother, the Cauldron, the ancient magic that ruled their lives and world, letting the cadence of the litany take hold of her mind and soul. 

Emerie arrived and took a seat beside Cassian. The others came and went, asking for news, expressing their solidarity. Elain had divided herself between Vassa’s and Nesta’s headboard. Rhys and Feyre appeared to check on them and ended up giving Emerie a quick report on the battle, although none of them could stay, considering the diplomatic nightmare they had on their plates: apparently, the other High Lords were completely outraged by the fact that the Night Court had kept the Dread Trove secret for so long.

Through it all, Gwyn prayed.

The only moment she paused was when Morrigan showed up to update them on everybody’s health status—no other serious injuries beyond Nesta’s, including Vassa, who seemed partially recovered, despite the wounds to her neck.

“He’s fine, Priestess,” the female informed, staring kindly at Gwyn. “No more fever, just tiredness.”

“Thank you for taking care of him, Morrigan,” she replied, doing her best not to look bothered or jealous—because, yes, she was grateful, but Azriel and Mor had history, and it took all of her effort to ignore it.

Which didn’t make any sense, considering 1. the way Morrigan used to steal glances at Emerie (like she was doing at that exact moment, in fact), and 2. that Az had been much more interested in Elain before their mating bond.

“He was saying your name,” Mor added, with a slightly teasing smile. “During his sleep.”

“It was the fever, I know that. You don’t need to—“

“After the fever was gone. And he asked about you when he woke up for a few minutes. The first person he asked about. The very first thing, actually.” When Gwyn opened her mouth to retort, Morrigan continued, in a soft voice, “Cass, call me if you need me, okay? I’ll be here until Nesta is ready to look at me with that face, you know? The one people usually make when they step in horse shit.”

He gave her a sad smile before she left, then said to Gwyn, “Nesta does look at everyone with that stepped-in-horse-shit kind of face.”

The Priestess chuckled. “Yes, she does.”

“And Azriel really is crazy about you,” the Illyrian went on. “With or without a mating bond.”

***

Three days had passed when Azriel managed to do more than eat and sleep, which was a completely foreign experience to an Illyrian male—especially to a warrior like him. But it was the Death Lord they were talking about, one of the greatest forces of the universe, along with love, hatred, and life.

Gwyn had been there, he knew it because her scent was everywhere in his room. It was time to leave that bed, and of course the first thing Az would do was go to his mate—check on her, see if she was okay, if he could do something, anything, for her.

The walk to Cassian and Nesta’s room, the one where they used to sleep when at the River House, took him twice the time and effort, until he finally got to the door and knocked. Emerie was the one who opened it, and her not-so-friendly expression told him what he already knew: no secrets between the Valkyries.

“You look like shit,” the Illyrian female said, by way of a greeting.

“Not the first time I've heard that.”

Moving aside, she let Azriel enter, and he sighed in relief; for a moment, the Spymaster thought Emerie would kick him out at Gwyn’s request. His mate was kneeling beside Nesta’s bed, looking sad, tired, and hopeless—Az wished he could take all those feelings away, replace them with joy, energy, and hope. The bond had been vibrating with her emotions, but being there, in her presence, made it much more real, like hitting a wall.

She lifted her gaze to find his. They stayed there for a while, just staring at each other, she was probably remembering what an asshole he had been in their last conversation.

“Hi, Berdara,” Azriel broke the silence.

Gwyn smiled a little. “Hi, Shadowsinger.”

“Can we talk for a minute, please?”

Although her face and body language indicated that she wasn’t expecting anything good from him, she nodded. “I’ll wait for you in the corridor.”

His eyes followed her until she was out of sight. Only then did he feel capable of concentrating on something else, even if there was no good news to celebrate. On the bed, Nesta looked as pale as the sheets, the whiteness of her skin contrasting with the wounds over her entire body, and she didn’t seem any better than she was when he had last seen her.

Cassian… his sorrow was indescribable, the kind of emotion that punched a male in the stomach—similar to what Azriel had experienced when he saved Gwyn in Sangravah.

Saved. If he had truly saved her, she would still have a sister, and those fucking monsters wouldn’t have touched her, not even one strand of her hair.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m feeling right now,” Cassian said, clearly reading Az’s expression.

So Azriel did something entirely out of character: he sat beside his brother and put his arms around him. “I’m deeply sorry, Cas. I really am. If there’s anything I can do to help, you name it, and it’s yours. Anything.”

Silently, Emerie got up and went to the bathroom, giving them a moment of privacy. That was when Cassian fell apart, crying with painful sobs and hiding his face in his hands. “I wasn’t there, brother. I wasn’t there to protect her. Koschei just knocked me out, and I… I was fucking unconscious while my mate risked her life to save us. Now she might die because I couldn’t take care of her. Gods, Nesta’s so full of life, so precious. How will the planet keep spinning if she doesn’t make it do so? How will life go on without her?”

“It wasn’t your fault, Cassian. Nesta’s not to be protected, we all know that; you knew that when you first met her. None of the females around us need protection—not even Elain, the one who cut the King of Hybern’s throat. And she’ll make it, trust me on that. It’s Nesta we’re talking about, one of the strongest females we’ve ever known.”

“No strength is enough to beat death, Az,” the General replied. And no despair was so consuming as that of a male losing his mate.

“That’s why she’s called Lady Death, brother,” Azriel assured him, because someone had to. “Nothing is strong enough to beat her.”

***

Gwyn hid her shaking hands in the pockets of her robe when Azriel left the room and walked towards her. Mother, he was handsome. Even after three days of convalescence, that male could still take her breath away, his powerful presence engulfing everything around him, turning the entire space into a mere secondary element.

Stopping in front of the Priestess, he leaned on the wall and put his own hands in the pockets of his trousers, mimicking her position.

“Thank you for taking care of them,” the Shadowsinger said, in a low, reverent voice. “I know you’re praying not only for Nesta.”

“I hope it’s making some difference, but… you saw how she is. At this point, we can say that Madja is living here, and yet she is not getting any better.”

“She will. I have faith in Madja and in you.”

Well, that was a statement to which she didn’t know how to respond. Instead, Gwyn changed the subject. “How are things going in the outside world?”

Azriel shrugged. “I’m not sure. I came here to see you first, before talking to Rhysand.” Another statement that caught her by surprise. This time, though, he added, “But, considering Mor’s report, nothing beyond what we expected. Everybody’s recovering from the mission. Vassa has set the other prisoners of the Death Lord free, and now we have a new group of traumatized women and females under Clotho’s care. Rhys and Feyre are still dealing with the discontent of the High Lords about the Dread Trove, which will become not only a headache, but also a distraction from the goal of defeating Beron.”

“I can talk to Eris. He’ll probably listen to me when it comes to the Night Court. I’ll assure him that Feyre and Rhysand are completely reliable and won’t take advantage of guarding the Trove.”

“Thank you, love. Rhys will appreciate it.” Love. That word again. That affectionate nickname he had given her after they started having sex. As if realizing what had come out of his mouth, Az sighed. “I’m sorry, Gwyn. For what I said that night, when the bond snapped for me. I was totally out of line, in my worst behavior, and there’s no excuse for my disrespect towards you.”

“Apology accepted.” Let the Gods judge her, but Gwyn wouldn’t pretend that it was okay, that the way he had acted was no big deal.

“I panicked. You were right, I’ve always wanted a bond, a relationship like the ones my brothers have, but this concept of being loved is so foreign to me that… Anyway, I would like to try something with you. I don’t know, maybe we could go slow, keep the dynamics of what we had. See if it works.”

“Keep the dynamics of what we had? You mean sex? Because that was what we were having before the bond.”

“It was more than sex.”

“Really? In what sense?” They stayed silent for a few moments, until Gwyn straightened her spine and replied, “Any male can half-love me, Azriel. I don’t need a mate for that. I don’t need you for that. I won’t rush you, but I won’t take crumbs and call it something, either.”

“It’s not crumbs, Gwyn. You know that. I want to give you what I’m not capable of giving to anyone, not even my brothers. I just need… time.”

“And you have it. All the time in the world. Meanwhile, I can’t be friends-with-benefits, though. I’m sorry.” He stared at her, his hazel eyes switching from the Valkyrie’s eyes to her lips. His body became tense, rigid, and his stillness was so visible that she touched her own face. “What?”

She had been crying all day long. Maybe there was something in her eyes or nose.

“You’re so pretty. So sure of yourself, so intelligent. I can’t believe the Cauldron gifted me with the miracle of being your mate.” Azriel touched her cheek for a second, then turned around and walked away.

Since they were being honest, she risked asking, “Is it true? That you slept in front of the library’s doors? On the floor?”

Her mate halted, looking at her over his shoulder. “Who told you that? Clotho?”

“You did. Three days ago, when you were hallucinating because of the fever.” At his lack of answer, she insisted, “Well? Did you?”

The Shadowsinger smiled, that subtle curve of his lips that she loved so much. “I’m telling you, Gwyn: I really want this with you.”

Chapter Text

One week later, in the middle of a regular afternoon, Cassian lifted his dead-eyed gaze from Nesta and looked at Gwyn. “Did you see that?” he asked, suddenly more alert than ever.

She had not seen anything, because her eyes were closed while she prayed, but apparently the male had.

“What happened, Cass?” Emerie questioned.

“Her hand. Nesta moved her hand.” The four of them—Elain was there, since Vassa had totally recovered from her injuries—kept staring at the Valkyrie’s fingers for long, long minutes, until they moved again. “See? She’s awakening. Nes, can you hear me?”

“Cassian, I don’t know if—” the Archeron sister tried, but he had already knelt beside the bed, and was now talking to Nesta as if she were only sleeping.

“Babe, I’m right here, okay? Right here with you.”

The three females looked at each other, sharing the same understanding: that wasn’t Nesta moving; that was her body doing something completely involuntary, like having a spasm. And involuntary movements were never good news.

“I’ll call Madja,” Elain offered.

It took a few minutes for her to get back, the healer on her heels, although it had felt like an hour. When they entered the room, Cassian immediately addressed Madja. “She moved her hand. I saw it. The girls saw it too. Right? Tell her.”

None of them had to, because the movement happened again… and the expression on Madja’s face confirmed their suspicions.

“It is a series of spasms, General. They happen when one absorbs magic from another, especially evil magic, and it starts consuming the host. Gradually, they will become tremors, then convulsions.” The rest of the sentence hung in the air, heavy, horrific, despite the healer’s gentle tone. Until her body ceases to respond, to function, and she dies.

“No. No, you’re wrong. It’s a movement, not a spasm. Nesta’s strong, she’s going to be okay. You hear me? She’s going to be fine.” Cassian’s voice went up and down, shifting from steadiness to desperation, then to anger and back to despair.

At some point, he gave up pretending and leaned over Nesta’s unconscious body, his sobs so loud that they brought Morrigan into the room, then Azriel, and finally Lucien. 

And that was before he started breaking things.

No one tried to stop him, knowing it was useless and that he needed to express his pain somehow; they just left the room, certain that Cassian wouldn’t hurt Nesta, and gathered in the corridor, ignoring the crashing and smashing sounds the best way they could.

“Is there anything that can be done, Madja?” asked Elain, her silent tears as full of sorrow as Cassian’s.

“Maybe, but not by me. My herbs and magic are not working, and I doubt they will. She needs a powerful spell, probably from a High Lord.” Helion had been there every day since his own recovery, but not even he had managed to help the Valkyrie, no matter how hard he’d tried. “Or some other kind of life magic, channeled from the Gods Themselves.”

From the Gods Themselves.

Gwyn stared at Morrigan, who was looking at her with something between hope and trust. Bring Nesta back to us, she said that day, more than a week before, as if the General’s recovery depended on Gwyn. Maybe it did. 

“Are you okay, love?” Azriel caressed her back, like Lucien was doing with Elain—an instinctive gesture that made her heart race for a second, warm, excited. “Do you have an idea?”

He could feel her anticipation through the bond, she realized—and it seemed more intimate and more special than any other thing they’d done before or after the bond.

“I read something once when I was looking for rituals for Merrill. Let me just… You keep Cassian steady, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Please.”

“You got it, love,” he said, simply, before entering the room again and speaking to Cassian in a tone usually used with feral animals.

And Gwyn ran. She ran as if her own life depended on it—which was true, for a part of her would die with Nesta if she didn’t succeed. She got to Feyre when the High Lady was going upstairs to put Nyx to bed. “I need someone to take me to the House of Wind as fast as possible.”

Feyre’s gaze became glassy for a moment, then she looked at Gwyn and said, “Rhys will be waiting for you at the front door.” No doubts, no questions asked—the female trusted Gwyn, and so did the High Lord, who winnowed them as close as he could and then fled with her to the veranda of the House.

When the Priestess got to the library, violently opening doors and skipping steps, she had already calculated the level and the shelf where the book was.

Gwyn skipped the table of contents, knowing exactly the chapter and the page where she would find the ritual. 

Chapter 13

A channel for the Gods: the healing ritual of the Priestesses of Prythian

The first Priestesses were chosen by the Mother Herself at the beginning of time, although Her power and Her graces are not the only ones Invoked by these females. By precisely following the rules of the right rituals and ceremonies, they are able to channel, even incorporate, magic of all Gods—sometimes, more than one at a time for the most powerful Priestesses.

Those rituals, more or less changed over the centuries, are still practiced in every temple located in Prythian, from Spring to Night; however, one of them was rejected and banished by the Priestesses themselves, in order to keep their own safety: the healing ritual.

This practice was one of the most sacred among them, performed only in specific circumstances and reserved for specific people—always for injuries, never diseases, and exclusively those resulting from battles, attacks, violence committed against others, as a way to interfere as little as possible with the fate woven by the Cauldron. Nonetheless, when the ritual became common knowledge, people from various parts of Prythian and beyond started journeying to the temples, seeking a cure for their own afflictions or their loved ones’, sometimes not accepting refusal and invading the sacrosanct places.

Supported by the High Lords, the Priestesses prohibited the performance of the rituals, until they were confined to the books—

 

Gwyn kept her routine of skipping the useless parts, focusing strictly on searching for the information about how to perform the ritual, what the necessary resources were, the prayers, the specifics of the practice… There. A shot in the dark, but still a shot.

The details of the ritual were recorded in the most confidential documents of Prythian, meant for the eyes of the High Priestesses, and only for them—not even the High Lords are allowed to access them. Great scholars in the field have theorized about the matter, although nothing that has been written and debated is more than speculation. The consensus is that the healing rituals were dedicated to Pana, the Goddess of Healing, and that the Priestesses used to channel Her power through the Invoking Stone.

There it was, the piece of information she needed to initiate her plan. 

Her second stop was on the fifth floor, where the Priestesses stored the books of prayers. It consisted in one of the least visited sections of the library, because they all knew the prayers by heart at that point, but not the ones in honor of the forgotten Gods and Goddesses.

Unsurprisingly, there were no books dedicated to Pana. There were, though, anthologies of prayers from all over Prythian, since the beginning of time, written to worship every entity one could imagine—and Gwyn concentrated on them, page after page, chapter after chapter, volume after volume. 

One prayer. One single prayer, only a line that didn’t mean much among those hundreds, maybe thousands, of litanies describing the great powers of the Gods known by everyone in the Fae Lands. 

I shall sing, dance, and celebrate the kindness of Pana, for healing is happiness, not suffering; life, not death; it is the water that washes over the wounds, the air that fills the lungs, the earth that breaks itself for the seeds to sprout, and the fire that brings warmth into the cold body.

A voice sounded in her head, one she knew as well as her own. You are too intelligent not to understand what must be done.

Gwyn lifted her head to meet Clotho’s eyes. The ability to speak into someone’s mind was reserved for the High Priestesses only, and Clotho used it especially with the other Priestesses.

“Yes, I think I comprehend what I have to do,” she replied, putting the book in her robe’s pocket.

Then you are also aware of the consequences of your actions, the female added. The healing rituals are forbidden, Gwyneth. Performing them will result in your expulsion from our Order.

Sadness permeated her tone. Clotho knew that Gwyn would do whatever she needed to in order to save Nesta, even if the effects were disastrous for herself.

“I am aware, yes.”

Very well. I can’t take your Invoking Stone yet, can I? You haven’t committed any transgressions yet. However, it is still my duty to encourage you to give it more thought.

Clotho could have stopped Gwyn from performing the ritual—the only thing the other female needed to do was take her Invoking Stone and the Valkyrie wouldn’t be able to heal her General. Still, she didn’t. It was Clotho’s way of respecting her freedom, her autonomy to decide her own fate.

“Thank you, High Priestess. I really appreciate your concern.”

As soon as Clotho left, Gwyn ran back to Rhys, and he took them to the River House once again. At Cassian and Nesta’s room, the so-called Lord of the Bloodshed had calmed down enough to stop destroying things and allow the others to get inside. Every head turned to look at her, and she didn’t waste time. “We’re going to need everybody capable of manipulating magic.”

***

An hour later, the room was crowded with everyone they could gather together in such a small amount of time. Eris, Lucien, and Talia would be the ones to make use of fire power; the Illyrians—Cassian, Azriel, Rhys, and Emerie—knew the air like no one else; Kallias and Viviane, with their icy, winter magic, would represent water; Gwyn, for her part, would be responsible for channeling all of that to Pana, and then channeling Her power back to Nesta.

There was one problem, though: the earth energy. Mor decided to give it a try, since she was born in the Hewn City, but it was a long shot. If her power was the truth, she would probably do little to help in Nesta’s recovery.

“That’s me, I guess,” Elain admitted, stepping into their circle around Nesta’s bed. “The earth magic.”

With one hand, she touched a plant that had suffered Cassian’s fury, and the wilted leaves started to become whole again, the tendrils curling around the wooden stick fixed in the vase.

“Since when do you know how to do that?” Feyre asked, as shocked as everyone else in the room, except for Lucien.

“Since I was regurgitated from the Cauldron.” She stiffened her shoulders, ending the conversation. “But we don’t have time for this now. Let’s save Nesta, we’ll discuss my powers later.”

When they started to awaken their magic, Gwyn felt something rolling over her skin, like being grazed by a breeze or a small wave on the beach. Some of them closed their eyes, others murmured ancient words in such a low voice that the Priestess couldn’t hear, and others just remained silent, focused on the General of the Valkyries.

With a shaky tone, Gwyn began the prayer she had read in the book—opened to the correct page right in front of her, although she had memorized the line over the last hour.

I shall sing, dance, and celebrate the kindness of Pana, for healing is happiness, not suffering; life, not death; it is the water that washes over the wounds, the air that fills the lungs, the earth that breaks itself for the seeds to sprout, and the fire that brings warmth into the cold body.

Memories of the three of them flooded her mind—Nesta supporting Gwyn in her first training session, them working together in the library, the nights they’d spent making bracelets and reading smut in the House of Wind, the extravagant requests that the House so kindly fulfilled. Healing is happiness, not suffering.

She remembered Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony, the gossip about the females Emerie had taken home after a night of dancing at Rita’s, and pictured the moment when she would tell Nesta about Azriel. The Valkyrie wanted to talk to her friends, to her sisters, about her first time with the Shadowsinger, the fluffy and the sexy moments, the joyful and the sad days, her feelings, her hope, her disappointment. She even wanted to talk about that embarrassing wingspan thing.

A gentle warmth filled the room, but soon it became warmer, then hotter, unbearably hot, like a living Hell. At the same time, the wind that slid under and over the Illyrian wings blew across the space—first like a draft, then turning into a blast, making their hair whip around their faces. A gentle rain started to drizzle inside the room, until Gwyn realized it wasn’t, in fact, rain; thick droplets of water floated over Nesta’s body, and the gale created by the Illyrians was throwing them all around. Yet, the eldest Archeron’s lips didn’t seem as dry as before, and her skin looked less like a sheet of parchment.

In Gwyn’s hands, the Invoking Stone was shining with a blue light, almost like Azriel’s siphons, as if they were made for each other even in that aspect.

“Her wounds…” Cassian whispered, noticing what everyone was too concentrated to see. “They’re healing.”

Thank the Gods. Thank Pana.

Gwyn didn’t dare stop. She kept repeating the prayer, and the group kept using their powers, until every bit of Nesta’s skin became flawless again, until her cheeks weren’t hollow, and her bones were no longer sticking out from under her flesh.

They all paused many hours later, when the night came and the moon bathed the room in a dim light. Each fae in that chamber was willing to stay there to the point of exhaustion, until they passed out from lack of strength; and that would possibly have happened, if Nesta hadn’t opened her eyes and, in a grumpy voice, said: “What the fuck are you doing?”

Chapter Text

Clotho had the decency not to ask her to return the Invoking Stone, but Gwyn knew she had made a choice, and she would honor it. Also, it felt… unnerving to delay the inevitable, an anxiety that was eating her alive. So, three days after Nesta’s comeback from the dead, when the General of the Valkyries decided it was time to go home (despite everyone’s protests), she headed down to the library and stopped by the leader of the Priestess’s table.

“I’m here to answer for my actions, High Priestess. Against your orders and the laws of the Priestesses, I’ve executed a forbidden ritual—and, although I feel sorry about the deception I’ve brought to our sisterhood, I have no regrets whatsoever about saving my friend’s life.”

There it was. The facts and the truth about what had happened at the River House.

Gwyn had to admit that some spark of hope still existed inside her heart, but it was quickly gone when Clotho’s voice sounded in her mind. You are one of the most talented females I have ever met, Gwyneth. Intelligent, dedicated, disciplined, fearless. Always a faithful, devoted Priestess. It is sad to see you leave us. However, we both know that your path has changed in the last year, that your happiness and purpose now lie within another sisterhood.

“Maybe you are right, High Priestess. I haven’t yet taken the time to think about the future.”

One thing Gwyn was sure of, though, was that everything happened for a reason. Fate had put Eris and her mother in the Spring Court that night, almost twenty-seven years ago, so she could be used to attract Beron and end his reign of terror even before it began.

Fate had put her in Sangravah, so she would go through all that pain and loss to understand how strong she was and how many people would still be a part of her life.

Fate had made her a Priestess, so she would be able to heal Nesta after the mission at Koschei’s lake. Fate had made her a Valkyrie, so she would meet her sisters, Cassian, the others in the Inner Circle.

Azriel. Her mate.

And all of that made her the female she was now—not quite sure of herself, but at least resilient, courageous, and strong. She would be okay.

Your Stone stays with me. You can use your room and the library’s facilities for as long as you need them, do not worry about that. And I really hope that your life turns out as beautiful as you deserve, Gwyneth.

Sorrow dug its way into her soul, bringing tears along with the memories of her childhood, adolescence, and adult life among the Priestesses. Gwyn welcomed the pain and smiled at Clotho, even while crying, as she picked the Invoking Stone from her pocket and handed it over to the other female. “It already is, High Priestess. Thanks to the Mother, it already is.”

***

An hour later, with all of her belongings in a single suitcase, Gwyn knocked on the door of the only person she wanted to see at that moment.

“What happened, love?” Azriel asked the second he noticed the tears streaming down her face. The Spymaster absently rubbed his own chest, as if he could feel her sadness—which he probably could. He pulled her into his room, and his gaze traveled up and down her body. “What is that suitcase for? And why aren’t you wearing your robe? Shouldn’t you be at the library right now?”

His shadows twirled so fast around him that they actually made a sound, like an angry wind blowing. Some of them slid up her arms and face, as if trying to comfort her.

She shook her head and took a long breath before answering. “The ritual we performed to bring Nesta back… it was forbidden by the Priestesses themselves centuries ago. By executing it, I brought about my own expulsion from the Order of the Priestesses.”

Saying it out loud felt worse than she had imagined.

“Your what?” Az’s posture changed, loosened up by the surprise, and she realized he had been in an offensive position, as if there was an enemy force that he could fight against for her. “Did you know it was forbidden?” Her lack of response was enough for him to guess. “Of course you did.”

“Yes, I did,” she confirmed.

Gwyn waited for him to lecture her, to be scolded for her recklessness—things people usually did when they couldn’t undo their loved ones’ mistakes. Instead, Azriel took her hand and pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms and wings. “I’m so sorry, love. So sorry. You’re a fucking good Priestess, a brave female, and a fierce warrior. It’s the sisterhood’s loss, you know? They shouldn’t have let you go.”

In his embrace, she shook her head. Gods, he smelled so good, like the fancy soap the House provided and something essentially male. Something that told her You’re mine, I’m right here for you. 

Of course, she knew better than believing he was ready for it. “Rules exist for a reason, Az. I made a decision, and now I have to deal with its consequences. It hurts. A lot. But I’m okay with how things turned out. Nesta is alive, and that's all that matters.”

“She’ll lose it when she finds out,” he whispered, caressing her back and kissing the top of her head.

Gwyn wanted to stay there for the rest of her life, enjoying him—his presence, his warmth, his scent, his protection. Which was dangerous. A heartbreaking kind of danger.

Stepping out of the cocoon of his body, she dried her tears and pointed at her suitcase, which had ended up tossed aside in her urge to be in his arms. “That’s a problem for Future Gwyn. Right now I just need you to help me find a room where I can stay until… I don’t know, but I guess I’ll have to get a job and rent a place in Velaris. Do you know any bookstores that are hiring? Maybe my experience with the library would—”

“What are you talking about?” Azriel seemed so pissed that she wondered if somehow she had offended him. Apparently, yes, she had. “You’re my mate. Of course you’ll stay with me.”

The Valkyrie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you heard. You’re going to stay here with me, in my room. Our room. And, if you want a job, fine. I’ll help you find one. But not because you need money, or something, okay?” Az grabbed her suitcase and put it inside his closet, evidently marking that part of the room as hers. “You can choose your side of the bed, but I would like to get the one closest to the door.”

So he would stay between her and potential invaders, Gwyn realized—even knowing that Rhysand’s properties were the safest ones in Velaris, maybe in Prythian. “Az, I don’t think—”

“You’re going to stay with me. It’s not open for discussion. What kind of male would I be if I let my mate rent some hovel out of pure necessity?”

“You don’t owe me anything just because of the bond. I’m your mate, not your responsibility.”

“You’re everything to me, love. My whole life,” said Azriel, with such an intense expression that he looked almost furious. If I’m everything to you, why don’t you stay with me? “I’m doing this because I want to, not because I have to.”

“It’s a terrible idea, Shadowsinger.” She stared at him significantly, and it became crystal clear when he understood the message; the scent of his arousal took the entire room, eliciting a response from her own body.

Azriel closed his eyes for a long, long second. “I’m not a savage, love. Nothing would please me more than to put you on your stomach in my bed and take you from behind, with your hair in my nose and your back against my chest.” Gwyn bit her lower lip to hold a moan. Gods, it was one of the saddest days of her existence, and even then he managed to… turn her on. “But I know that it’s not the right time to think about it. Also, we have to… work on our situation first, right? As we agreed to do so.”

Well, what a terrible moment for Azriel to be the mature one.

“Besides,” he went on, “tomorrow morning I’ll leave on a mission for Rhysand, and I should only be back in a few weeks—probably by the Spring Solstice. So you’ll have the room entirely for yourself until then.”

For some reason, she felt utter disappointment at the information. Actually, not for some reason, if Gwyn was honest with herself, but because she would have to sleep alone after the prospect of spending the next weeks sharing a bed with her mate.

“Okay. Sure. Thank you, Az.” For Gods’ sake, Gwyneth, don’t sound so depressed.

“It’s my pleasure, Berdara.” The Spymaster smiled slightly at her and went towards a door inside the room—possibly a bathroom, if she had to guess. “Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

When Azriel left her alone, Gwyn looked around for the first time since he pulled her into his private chambers. She had been in his room in the River House, but it was a temporary place to rest, bathe, and change. That space, where the Valkyrie stood right in the middle, was completely his. And he had called it ours—as if he, in fact, wanted to share more than his body with her. It was his emotionally inapt way of saying “I’m trying”.

Maybe Gwyn was overthinking that mating bond thing. Maybe it should be as natural as this: an affectionate nickname, a shared space, their belongings joined in the closet. Not some big decision made out of a sudden, uncontrollable love.

Maybe.

“Nothing better to offer,” Azriel said, coming from the bathroom and finding her looking around.

Again, there was a bed, a closet, a desk. Curtains. A rug. Black, white, gray, functional. Though she caught a few glimpses of him hidden in all of that impersonality: a shirt hung on the back of a chair, a book, seemingly a thriller suggestively called Lost in the dark, a set of small paintings on a shelf—the Bat Boys outside in the snow, presumably in one of their annual competitions; him with a grumpy Nyx in his lap, trying to feed his nephew with a clearly unwanted apple purée; the Inner Circle around the table in the River House. 

A playbill in his nightstand, the one from the play they’d watched months ago, in the Solstice, after Gwyn had told him off about regifting her with a necklace he bought for another female.

“You still have it,” the Valkyrie stated, in a low voice.

Az shrugged. “It was a beautiful night. Almost as beautiful as you. I like to keep it close, so I can remember your face at every act of the play.”

No words. She had no words to describe how touched, how moved she was by that—by the knowledge that, of all things, he treasured that night they’d spent together.

“Come, love,” the Shadowsinger called her. “Let me take care of you.”

In the bathroom, the bathtub waited for her, full of hot water and the fragrant bubbles from bath salts. Azriel slid the sleeves of her dress off her shoulders, then took her lingerie off, leaving her naked in the middle of the chamber. He held her hand and helped her enter the tub, never touching her inappropriately or looking at her body with less than complete reverence.

Submerging up to her breasts, Gwyn sighed in relief as the warmth of the water relaxed her. Delicately, Az started to wash her hair with some lavish product, massaging her scalp and detangling the strands. “Gods,” Gwyn murmured, closing her eyes in delight.

“Good?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Perfect.”

A second round of perfumed bathing product and massaging, then he washed off the foam and went for the soap. Starting on the back of her neck, Az softly rubbed Gwyn’s skin—her shoulders, arms, and legs—always careful not to let his arousal become even more evident than it already was, worried about keeping that moment as one of peace.

“You can finish your bath now,” the Shadowsinger handed her the soap and got up. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

He came back, indeed, with a towel—that he used to dry her hair and skin—and one of his shirts, which were basically dresses for Gwyn. In the room, the House had prepared a delicious dinner of seasoned potatoes, bread, roasted vegetables, cheese, and olives, and Azriel made a point of serving her a plate with the best portions of food. While she ate, he combed her hair so gently, so patiently, that the Valkyrie’s heart ached. Half an hour later, at last, after Gwyn had brushed her teeth, he took her to bed and nestled her in his arms as he kissed her head, caressed tense muscles and breathed in her scent.

“What?” Az asked when he caught her glancing at him.

“Nothing. I’m just…” I’m just seeing you in a whole new light. “I’m just surprised. You’d never strike me as a male who… takes care.”

“Actually, I’ve never been this kind of male. I’m not even sure if I did it right. I just wanted you to feel better.”

The insecurity in his tone was lovely, in a way, and made her feel… special. Seen. Loved. “You did. It was perfect, Az. Thank you.”

He smiled against her hair. “Everything for you, Berdara.”

It seems that you have something better to offer, Shadowsinger, Gwyn thought, cuddling with him and letting sleep take her away.

***

The Valkyrie woke up alone the next morning, and the next one, and the next one too—until weeks had passed with no news of Azriel. He had told her about the mission Rhysand had sent him on: spying on Beron and his forces, tracking his movements after Koschei’s defeat.

You’re not the only one who needs him, she said to herself. Your mate is the Spymaster of the Night Court. Certainly his skills are more useful out there than in your bed.

But sometimes she doubted it, given the intensity of her desire for him, especially considering it had been so, so long since they had gotten… physical. She wanted him so badly that even his smell in the sheets drove her crazy, to the point where she couldn’t help but touch herself to get some relief. With Nesta out of danger, apparently there was nothing else to keep her mind busy besides her biological and emotional needs.

“Yesterday you didn’t seem to think that I needed rest,” the General of the Valkyries was saying to her mate, her voice even colder than usual. “We’ve been not resting for days now, Cassian.”

“Sex is not the same as getting into a situation of potential conflict.”

“How many times have we fucked harder than any fight? That is not an excuse!” She turned around and finished the discussion just like that. “Good thing we both have our Day Court attire, right?”

Gwyn knew better than to stay there to witness whatever was about to happen between those two, so she excused herself and headed back to hers and Azriel’s room to get ready for the celebration. Her attire, as Nesta had said, was in a pearl-white box on the bed, and for a moment she thought about not attending the event, since it was such a skimpy piece of clothing.

The suit consisted of a cropped top with no fabric on the back, only strands made of blue gems interspersed with white opals, and a long skirt with a thigh-high slit—the kind of thing that required very gorgeous underwear, because it would definitely come into sight with each of her steps.

Gwyn chose cobalt lingerie, only the bottom part, to match the color of the outfit… which was of the exact same shade as Azriel’s siphons. There were no shoes, but Feyre had already warned her about the fact that the ceremony would happen at the beach, so they would not be necessary. Jewelry, however… Helion had sent plenty to spare—rings, bracelets, necklaces, armlets, anklets, a very extravagant belt and also a tiara.

There was no way that Beron would miss her, even in the crowd.

And the makeup… Gods, the High Lord had added to the set an illustration of how to wear it according to Day fashion: a lot of kohl lining the eyes and glittering powder all over the body.

She had just finished the winged eyeliner when Azriel entered the room, still in his fighting leathers, looking tired and a little disheveled, until he spotted her and came to a halt. The way his stare went up and down her body sent a wave of arousal right to her center.

“If I knew you would be waiting for me like this,” he growled, his shadows curling around his arms as if they were holding him back, “I’d have told Rhys that he could go to Hell with his mission.”

The Valkyrie stood up and walked to her mate, not resisting the temptation of teasing him back. “What makes you think that I was waiting for you?”

His hand grabbed her by the waist and pulled her body closer to his. “Because you are mine.”

Azriel kissed her not like someone who had missed their lover, but like a mated male who wanted to claim his female, to leave a mark. His tongue went deep into her mouth, circling hers, teeth nipping at her lips, erection grinding against her stomach.

In a sudden twist, he sat her down on the edge of the bed and spread her legs open for him. Underwear aside, his mouth was immediately on her, licking her clit, sucking it hard, inserting two fingers into her, then three. No games, no softness, only raw desire. Straight to the point.

Mother bless this slit, she thought. The skirt’s, of course.

When Az looked up at her from her center, Gwyn came so hard that her vision went white, and she wondered if she had passed out for a second or two. The Shadowsinger stayed there with her, never stopping fucking her with his tongue and fingers until her sensitive skin couldn’t handle his touch anymore.

Gods, she was ready. So ready for him that it hurt. Except that Azriel got to his feet and went towards the closet to pick up a box identical to the one in which she had found her clothes.

“Where are you going?” Hell, her voice was needy, hoarse; in a minute, Gwyn would be begging for him to take her.

He paused at the door, and only then she realized they’d never closed it before he went down on her. “If I stay here, I’m going to fuck you in every position you can imagine, and it would be a terrible idea.”

“Why did you start something you couldn’t finish, Shadowsinger?” Please. Please, get inside me now.

His smile was so smug, so full of himself. Bastard. “Oh, I didn’t finish, but you did. That’s enough to refresh your memory.”

“My memory is perfectly fine,” she replied, running her own fingers up her inner thigh to emphasize that her memory wasn’t the only fine thing about her.

“Now it is,” Az retorted, one of his shadows following her hand. “I want you to remember that no other male will make you feel this way.”

He left the room with the face and posture of someone who felt taller than a mountain, and the fact that he was right made her even angrier: no, there was no male in this world that could compare to her mate.

But Gwyn smiled anyway, because that wouldn’t prevent her from teaching him a lesson: no one was more determined than a female willing to prove her point.