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Chapter Text

Azriel arrived first, no shadows to be seen, my sister a pale, golden mass in his arms. He, too, wore his Illyrian armour, Elain’s golden-brown hair snagging in some of the black scales across his chest and shoulders.

He set her down gently on the foyer carpet, having carried her in through the front door.

Elain peered up at his patient, solemn face.

Azriel smiled faintly. ‘Would you like me to show you the garden?’

She seemed so small before him, so fragile compared to the scales of his fighting leathers, the breadth of his shoulders. The wings peeking over them.

But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded—just once.

Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, ‘Beautiful.’

Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks, but he inclined his head in thanks and led my sister toward the back doors into the garden, sunlight bathing them.”

- A Court of Wings and Ruin, SJM.

Elain sat near the window of the bedroom given to her at the House of Wind, staring with unseeing eyes through the glass panes. 

Down the hall, the sound of Nesta’s footsteps came and went. A door shut hard. Then another one. Elain flinched. In this new body, noises were too loud, smells were too strong, lights were too bright. Everything was too much.

You're moving to the townhouse. Right now.

Feyre had said it like an order. Elain felt she had no choice in the matter.

She heard his wings before she saw him: a soft rustle of wind on the other side of the doorway, a presence that was quiet, certain, and steady. After a moment, the one they called the spymaster knocked. 

Elain allowed a moment to pass as she gathered herself. Then another. Finally, she rose and opened the door.

Azriel stood there in his flying leathers, shadows rushing behind him at the sight of her. They curled behind his back like they were shy, but curious to see her. 

His face was classically beautiful. Anyone could see that. But his expression was unreadable. It was not cold. Not harsh. Simply… measured.  “Hello Elain,” he said softly. 

“Is it time?” She asked. 

He nodded once. “When you’re ready.”

She reached for her cloak, which was hung by the door. As she swung it over her shoulders, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror: long golden-brown hair braided down her back, face pale and unfamiliar. Her new, pointed ears marking her as High Fae. 

She swallowed down the nausea that went with seeing her reflection these days.

Her heart beat a little too loudly as she faced him. “I’ve never flown,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

"Will it be frightening?” Elain asked, not quite meeting his eyes.

Azriel was quiet for a breath. His voice, when it came, was low and certain. “I’ll keep you safe.” 

Elain looked up at him then. Something tight in her chest loosened. She didn't mind the way he looked back at her: like she wasn’t fragile, like she didn’t need to be cradled or prodded.

She let him lead her out to the balcony where the others waited. They seemed to be debating something among themselves, but Elain couldn’t hear what they were saying for the beating in her heart.

She paused, looking out over the edge of the balcony, summoning all her courage as she stared down at the dizzying heights. When at last she felt ready, she gave Azriel a nod. He stepped towards her in reply, put one arm behind her back, then scooped her up behind her knees with the other. 

For a moment, her breath hitched, but she let herself settle into his arms, and tried to relax. His hold on her was strong, sure, but not too tight. It felt safe. He carried her to the edge, while the others continued to discuss who would fly whom. The wind tugged at Elain's braid as she peered over the edge. Clouds were drifting low over Velaris, casting silver shadows across the city’s rooftops.

She curled her fingers into the front of Azriel's leathers, trying to anchor herself as her head swam at the height. Azriel didn’t comment on the movement, didn’t smirk or make light. He simply glanced at her with a reassuring nod.

And then he leapt.

The wind swallowed her gasp.

It hit all at once: the lurch of her stomach, the dizzying drop, the sheer wildness of the open air. The ground fell away beneath them, the sky stretching out in every direction. Elain couldn’t tell where the wind ended and the clouds began.

She clung tightly to Azriel’s shoulders. He was steady, solid. The beat of his wings came in powerful, even strokes, and she felt each one reverberate through his chest and into her own.

He didn’t speak. Just flew with a quiet smile on his face. 

After a few moments, she dared to turn her head and look beneath them. Velaris shimmered below: slate rooftops, trailing bougainvillea, bursts of colour in the market squares. She saw the Sidra cutting through the city like a silver ribbon. She saw tiny dots of people going about their lives.

The cold wind rushed past her ears. She pressed her face lightly to Azriel’s shoulder, letting her eyes close as she savoured the feel of it on her cheeks. 

When at last they touched down in front of the townhouse, she expected him to set her on the ground. But he carried her forward, across the threshold of the house and into the foyer where Feyre was waiting with a worried look on her face. 

The front parlour smelled strongly of citrus oil and beeswax, like someone had freshly oiled the bannisters and wood panelling. Azriel lowered Elain to the floor with the kind of gentleness that made her throat ache. His hands did not linger, but their warmth did.

She took a breath, adjusted her cloak, and looked up at him.

He was watching her, patient and still, his eyes the colour of storms waiting to break.

“Would you like me to show you the garden?” He asked softly.

Elain didn’t answer right away.

Her gaze drifted over him. The broad line of his shoulders and the ink-dark wings that peeked over them, the cords of muscle visible beneath his leathers…

She nodded, once.

He offered an arm, and she accepted it. Her fingers brushed the inside of his bicep, and for the first time, she really looked at his hands. Scarred. Calloused. Strong. Yet, steady in a way that surprised her.

“Beautiful,” she said, barely more than a whisper.

He blinked. Colour rose slowly to his cheeks, high along those sharp cheekbones. He inclined his head in thanks, not quite smiling. But something in his eyes, which was usually shadowed and shuttered, seemed to lighten.

Without a word, he led her to a set of tall glass doors at the back of the house. When he opened them, the scent of soil and greenery drifted toward them on the breeze, and together, they stepped outside. 

Sunlight spilled onto a stone veranda, which looked out over the garden. It was a surprisingly large space for a townhouse, trailing back a distance and enclosed on three sides by stone walls. There were wrought iron benches scattered here and there, and a few hardy shrubs were starting to green again with the spring. 

It was not a garden Elain had grown, not her garden. But still… there was soil here. Air.

Azriel walked beside her as they wandered through the paths. 

Elain took a moment to kneel beside a rosebush, her fingertips examining the newly growing buds. “They’ll bloom soon,” she murmured.

Azriel crouched beside her, not close enough to crowd, just near enough for her to feel the quiet attention of him. “We could get you some tools, if you wanted to garden here," he offered. 

She nodded. That sounded nice. 

Elain took a moment to study the rosebush more closely. Its leaves were tired. From the veranda, the garden had looked lovely: well-placed stone paths, ivy climbing the stone walls, hostas beginning to leaf out. But now, kneeling in the dirt, she saw what others might not: The soil had gone dry and was cracked in places, the mulch was brittle and faded—as though it had been scattered long ago. Some of the roses had been pruned incorrectly. Someone had meant well, but they didn’t know. Not really.

There was foxglove in a corner that had been allowed to spread—pretty, yes, but greedy. Its roots were choking out the other flowers beside it. The topiaries were misshapen. Violets had spread through the grass.

It was a garden for people who walked through it without much thought for the careful balance of life around them. It had not been loved in a long time. 

I could fix this.

The thought came unbidden. Soft. Frightening.

She hadn’t thought anything like that since the Cauldron.

Since she'd been poured into this new shape, this strange body. 

Elain exhaled, slow and trembling.

Azriel said gently, “There’s more to see.”

She looked up and caught the focus in his hazel eyes. He offered his hand to her in quiet invitation.

Elain stood slowly, and placed her hand tentatively in his. She followed him down the gravel path, their boots crunching softly beneath them. The breeze smelled of freshly thawed earth.

The deeper they walked, the more she saw how much the garden needed attention. Weeds had begun to creep between the stones, clever things that waited for distraction. A low hedge had grown uneven. Last year's dried hydrangea flowers sagged under their own weight. 

But there were daffodils, too—sun-bright and new. Resilient. Blue bells were scattered through the grass like confetti.

They turned a corner near a sundial and came upon a dilapidated greenhouse. Its glass panes were clouded with condensation and years of dust. Ivy spidered across the frame, its roots digging in wherever it could hold. A fig tree had taken root inside the door, its limbs brushing against the glass, straining for the sunlight.

Elain paused, surveying the scene.

“It needs some tending,” Azriel admitted quietly beside her.

She blinked. “Does no one care for it?"

His shadows stirred, restless. “Gardening fell to the wayside while Rhys was... away," he said carefully. Then he stepped forward, and unlatched the old door before pulling it open with a yank. 

Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of damp loam, of slow decay and something green fighting to grow. Elain stepped over the threshold.

On an old potting table, trays of seedlings had long gone brittle. Terracotta pots of varying sizes were stacked haphazardly in the corner. A rusted watering can. A cracked lantern. 

But there was also life clinging in the corners. Moss across the stones. Shoots rising from cracks. Vines threading across the walls like quiet veins.

She didn’t realize she’d let out a breath until Azriel turned, his brows lifting slightly.

“It’s—” She shook her head. “It’s a mess.”

He only nodded in reply.

When they stepped out of the greenhouse, he led her farther into the garden, toward a stone structure tucked behind an arch of climbing roses that had long gone unruly. It was a folly, designed in the shape of a small temple. It had obviously been charming once, but was now overtaken by the ivy, its stone walls mossy and wind-weathered. 

Inside, they found a space once meant as a refuge had been turned into storage. There were trowels, spades, and shears scattered here and there. Stacked toward the back, half-draped in linen sheets, were comfortable-looking chaise lounges and large wicker chairs. A folded parasol leaned in the corner, its tassels tangled with cobwebs. It was the kind of furniture meant for summer afternoons spent under the sun, sipping lemonade and fanning oneself. But it had all been left neglected through too many seasons.

Elain stepped forward and ran her hand over the back of a dusty chair. 

She saw the potential. This wasn’t just a folly. It was a sanctuary waiting to be used again. 

And for the first time since she'd been Made, Elain felt like she had a purpose. 

Chapter Text

A few evenings later, when all the others had gone their separate ways after dinner at the townhouse, Azriel found himself lingering behind. He paused at the doorway of the sitting room, where he spotted Elain, curled in a high-backed chair by the hearth. She stared aimlessly into the flames, muttering under her breath. 

He hadn’t meant to seek her out, but his shadows had been nagging at him to go and find her. They’d been restless as of late, always nudging him toward her, trying to tell him something he didn't yet know.

“Elain?” he said gently, announcing his presence.

She didn’t look at him. “The birds told me,” she murmured, “but they were lying. Their wings were made of paper and ash. They fall when they burn.”

Azriel froze.

It wasn’t the first time Elain had said something strange. She'd been doing it for weeks now—little murmurs beneath her breath, cryptic statements that made the others look away awkwardly, change the subject, offer her tea and soft words like she was a cracked vase.

But this time, Azriel listened.

He crossed the room slowly, his boots silent on the carpet.

“They fall when they burn,” he repeated.

Elain turned her head toward him at last. Her eyes had misted over.

“It was snowing,” she said softly, “but the snow wasn’t white. It was red. And someone was screaming, but not out loud.”

She blinked, her eyes clearing, then looked down at her hands as if realizing they were real.

Azriel sat on the edge of the chair across from her, elbows on his knees, voice quiet. Steady.

“Elain,” he said, “are you dreaming these things? Or do they just… come to you?”

She hesitated. Then slowly nodded. “Both.”

He nodded in reply. 

“I don’t mean to say them,” she whispered. “They just come out. And sometimes they don’t make sense until later. Sometimes not at all.”

Azriel’s shadows shifted behind him, slow and watchful.

He rose from the chair and turned toward the bookshelf that lined the far wall. His fingers ran over the spines until he found a slim, blank, leather-bound volume.

A journal.

He returned to the couch and held it out to her.

She blinked up at him.

“Maybe…” He cleared his throat. “If you wrote them down, we could look at them. Together.”

Her brows drew in. “You don't think I'm crazy?”

Azriel shook his head. "You're not crazy. I think you might be seeing something. Something that has yet to happen."

Elain took the journal with tentative fingers. Her thumb brushed the spine.

“Do you want me to sit with you while you do it?” He asked, sensing her nerves.

Then she looked at him. Really looked. And nodded.

So Azriel settled back into the chair opposite her, and kept her company while she wrote. And his shadows, content that he was safe with her, disappeared. 

The High Lord's meeting had drained Azriel.

Not the arguing. That he could endure. Not the posturing or threats or sharp barbs traded. No, what weighed on him as he stepped out into the garden wasn’t rage or exhaustion.

It was knowing that war was coming.

The sun dipped low over the rooftops of Velaris, casting the townhouse garden in shades of blue and gold. The scent of the warm earth and burgeoning greenery drifted on the breeze.

He caught a flash of someone in a pale blue dress moving at the far end of the path, near the greenhouse.

Elain.

She was standing knee-deep in overgrowth, her braid half unraveled, while long, discarded tendrils of ivy piled at the hem of her skirts. She was bracing one foot against the stone foundation of the greenhouse. With her hands, she tugged with a quiet fury at a length of vine that had rooted itself between the stones.

Azriel paused by the topiaries, just for a breath, before approaching her.

He could not help but admire her, dirt-smudged and flushed with quiet purpose, sleeves rolled to her elbows, skirts caught in the tangled ivy. The hem of her dress was damp with soil. She hadn't noticed. Or, more likely, she did not care.

There was grace in her, yes. But not the kind people spoke of when they whispered about her beauty. This was something else. A quiet relentlessness. A steadiness that reminded him of the first green shoot pushing through snow.

They don’t see her, he found himself thinking.

He did. Not just at this moment, with her hair coming loose and her fingers scraped raw, but always.

He’d seen it the first time he stepped into that manor in the human lands. Seen her standing on the staircase behind her sister, dressed in blue, her eyes flicking to him like a moth drawn to a flame.

She had been engaged then. To a man who had given her an iron ring.

And yet the sight of her had made something in him go very still, as if he was remembering something he’d forgotten.

And now she had a mate—Lucien.

But still—Azriel couldn't help but appreciate the way she seemed to look at the world.

Like it could be repaired.

Like she could do it.

It warmed something in his chest. 

He should have looked away. Should have turned back. Should have left the garden and let her fight the ivy alone. She was light given body. And with his shadows, with the kinds of things he did, he had no business being around her.

Yet, his feet moved.

Elain didn’t startle as he approached.

“Persistent,” Azriel said quietly, nodding to the vines nonchalantly, as though her mere presence didn't make his heart race.

She glanced sideways at him, breathing hard, but not frustrated. There was something clear-eyed in her expression. Focused.

“They’ve really taken hold,” she said, panting slightly.

Azriel watched her bend forward and slip her fingers inbetween the mortar of the stones befor she grabbed at the tenacious roots. She moved with determination.

“How did the meeting go?” she asked.

Azriel exhaled slowly. “As expected.”

“Poorly, then.” A flicker of something wry, almost amused, passed across her face. It tugged at something in his chest.

He huffed a quiet breath. “Yes.”

Elain adjusted her grip and yanked again. The vines snapped, but the root ball refused to give.

Azriel watched her. 

Everyone thought Elain needed help. It was obvious in the way Rhys and Feyre coddled her, the way Cassian spoke gently like she might break or the way Mor avoided her altogether, like her sorrow was contagious.

But Elain didn’t stop, even with the roots drawing blood from her hands.

Azriel reached for Truth-Teller without thinking. The weight of the blade was familiar to him, grounding. He offered it to her hilt-first. No explanation.

Her eyes flicked up, meeting his. She took the dagger from his hand, examined it for a breath, then turned back to the wall. With one clean slice, the root ball fell free from the crevice.

Azriel blinked, something strange stirring in his ribs.

Elain stared at the severed roots on the ground for a breath, chest rising and falling. Then she turned to him, the dagger still grasped in her hand, pinched its tip and offered it back to him

“Effective,” she said quietly. There was a faint lift to her tone—dry amusement, but real.

Azriel took the dagger gently from her grasp. His blood pulsed as their fingers brushed. "We should get you some proper garden knives."

Elain nodded. "That would be good."

"Would you like some help?" Azriel found himself asking, mostly because he wanted an excuse to spend more time in her calming presence.

“I’m fine," Elain answered. "I'm sure you have more important things to attend to."

"I know you're fine, Elain, but I would like to help."

Her eyes met his, questioning and studying him in a way that he found intoxicating. 

"All right," she agreed. 

Together, they worked side by side. The only sounds were the snap of stems, and the rustle of the vine leaves as they pulled the offending growth from where it had taken root. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Azriel watched her, admiring how she worked with a quiet focus, how her brows and lips occasionally narrowed as she confronted a stubborn root. He found himself itching to brush away the dirt smudged on her cheekbone with his thumb. 

Something intangible seemed to pulled him towards her. 

"I think this one is stuck," Elain said suddenly, wrestling with a thick branch that reached far above her head. 

Azriel stepped behind her before he could think twice, reached up and tore the vine free, dirt raining down on them both. She laughed, brushing the debris from her hair and oh it was such a lovely sound. He didn't think he'd heard her laugh since she'd been Made. 

Azriel didn't step away. Her back was inches from his chest. Too close, and yet, not close enough. 

Elain turned and glanced up at him, her brown eyes gleaming. "Thank you," she smiled. 

He nodded, his throat tight. 

She didn't move. 

Neither did he. 

Then she said, softly, as if not wanting to disturb the moment, "You've been very helpful."

Azriel let out a quiet breath, almost a chuckle. 

A smile tugged at Elain’s lips, and Mother help him, he realized he wanted to kiss that full mouth. 

Instead, he kept his eyes locked on hers as he reached above her and pulled down another branch, more dirt raining down on them. 

A giggle erupted from Elain's mouth as she raised her hands to shelter herself. 

Azriel couldn't help the wry smile that curled at the edges of his mouth. 

Some small, reckless part of him wished that he could hear her laugh like that forever. 

Chapter Text

Elain developed a routine of rising with the sun. After dressing, a cup of tea and small bite to eat, she would head into the garden with her apron secured around her hips and the tools she'd been supplied tucked into its pockets. She always wore her floppy hat to shelter her face from the sun. 

Bit by bit, the garden was starting to look better, but there was still a lot of work to be done. The beds were still half-choked with weeds, and the back corner where the foxglove had overgrown still made her teeth clench.

But she resolved to keep going. 

She kept tearing ivy from the garden walls until her arms ached. She turned the soil with an old trowel until it was no longer cracked and faded. 

Azriel kept appearing.

He never announced himself. Often, she would turn around and find him there. When he had the time, he offered to help. If he was on his way to meet with Rhys, he would lean against one of the stone walls for a moment and watch her, arms crossed, wings half-unfurled to catch the sun. 

One such morning, the light caught in the curve of his wings, and Elain's breath hitched inexplicably.

Azriel only offered her a small smile.

She returned it.

He came regularly. Not every day. Not on a schedule. But enough that she started to expect him—started noticing when the shadows skittered across the garden and she found herself glancing up, knowing he would be there. 

Sometimes he sat on the stone steps to the veranda with reports in hand. Other days he simply sunned his wings, face tilted toward the sky, shadows curling idly nearby.

He never told her what to do, as the others did. He never fretted. Just watched her work with that same mysterious expression. Now and then, he stepped in to help without saying a word. 

Elain hadn’t known silence could feel like companionship until she met Azriel.

When he did speak, it always felt like he was reaching out a hand, quietly trying to make her feel more at home.

“When did you plant this one?” He asked one day, crouching beside a rare blue poppy.

“Yesterday," Elain smiled, pleased that he noticed. "They can be hard to cultivate. They require partial shade, exacting soil. But they do bloom, given the right conditions."

Azriel nodded, captivated by its beauty, and gently touched a petal. 

Another day, as Elain knelt in the dirt clearing wild chamomile, Azriel said quietly, “You look well.”

She blinked at the compliment. “Oh?”

“Yes,” he answered simply. 

She gave him a shy smile as her cheeks warmed. It was true, she'd been feeling a little more like herself lately. Eating more, enjoying the sun. Her arms no longer ached after an hour of work, and her steps no longer dragged. Her eyes, when she met her own reflection in the greenhouse’s dusty glass, no longer looked quite so unfamiliar.

She was grateful that Azriel had shown her the garden. Sometimes she thought about how to tell him how grateful she was, but she could never seem to find the right words. 

The truth was, in his presence, she often found herself distracted. And more and more, her thoughts drifted to him. 

At first it had been the silence. The way he offered her space. The way he didn’t flinch at her grief, didn’t speak over her pain, or presume to know what was best for her. But now…

Now she was beginning to notice the lines of him. The fluid grace beneath the shadows. The way his wings caught the sunlight like obsidian satin. She noticed the way his voice dropped when he said her name. The way his hands—so steady, so scarred—moved with care when he handed her one of her tools, or passed her a cup of tea.

It was ridiculous. She was still grieving the loss of her fiancé, still mourning the loss of her mortality, still adjusting to the strangeness of her new body, and the uncertainty of her future. She had no business noticing anything about him at all.

And yet—

One afternoon, as she knelt to tie up a flush of climbing clematis, she caught Azriel watching her from the veranda. Their eyes met, and as if instinctually, his wings flexed to their full span behind him.

Elain fumbled the twine. It slipped through her fingers and unraveled into the soil.

She swore under her breath. Not loudly. But audible enough.

When she looked up, Azriel’s mouth had curved into the faintest smile.

It wasn’t mocking. It was warm. A smile like dusk settling over water. Soft, fleeting, and meant only for her.

Heat bloomed across her cheeks.

She turned quickly, reached down to pick up the twine and fumbled with it again, her fingers suddenly clumsy. Her heart was beating a little too fast for a moment like this. For a smile like that.

It was foolish, maybe. She barely knew him.

And yet… she felt like she did.

Not from his words, but from the way he looked at her like she wasn’t something broken, but something growing.

There were other things she had started to notice things about him. The way his shadows softened when he was near her. The way he rolled his shoulders after flying, the quiet strain that lingered in his movements. The tiny scar on his jaw that no one else seemed to see. The way he rubbed at his temples when he'd been listening to the others for too long. 

And his wings—Mother, his wings.

She didn’t mean to look at them as often as she did.

But they were beautiful. Vast, elegant, powerful. Unlike anything she’d ever known. He’d stretched them in front of her before, absently, like a cat in the sun. It made her chest twist—something shy and aching and entirely new. But never to their full span. Never like that. 

Elain didn't quite understand why it made her feel the way she did. She tried to focus on twisting the twine into place, but her heart was still pounding in her chest, and her cheeks burned.

And when she finally gathered the courage to glance back at the veranda—

He was gone.

Stupid.

Azriel cursed himself the moment she turned back to the clematis, cheeks pink, strands of hair slipping loose from the braid that hung over her shoulder like a river of honey.

Stupid.

He hadn’t even realized he’d stretched his wings wide until he caught the flicker of her gaze—brief, sharp, then quickly averted. Not in fear. But in… something else.

Admiration.

Worse.

It wasn’t the first time, either. Around her, his wings acted like they had a mind of their own. Stretching, unfurling, shifting to catch the light—subtle but undeniable.

The Illyrian equivalent of preening.

Cauldron-damned territorial nonsense.

He’d trained it out of himself years ago. That instinct to posture. To signal. 

He was better than that. He was disciplined. Shadows obeyed him. Blades obeyed him. His damn wings were supposed to obey him, too.

But not with her.

With her, everything was different.

Azriel glanced out a window and back into the garden, where Elain studied the clematis with more focus than was strictly necessary. Her hands were trembling. 

She was flustered. 

He liked flustered.

An amused muscle ticked in his jaw.

That look she’d given him… that brief flicker of wonder— It was the first time she’d looked at him like that.

Not with politeness. Not with gentle gratitude.

But with interest. Curiosity.

Desire.

He should’ve folded his wings. Should’ve turned away. Should’ve returned to the shadows where he belonged. Not basked like some male in heat hoping she’d notice.

Azriel blew out a slow breath through his nose, and dragged a scarred hand down his face.

Pathetic.

He was pathetic.

She had a mate. And she had, until very recently, been engaged to another—a human, who had given her an iron ring. For whom she longed.

And Azriel—Mother, he was shadow and blood and war. He was the knife people only noticed once it was already in their back. What business did he have even thinking about her?

But she had smiled at him.

He shifted slightly on the step, folding his wings in tight, trying to cool the heat in his chest.

No matter what his instincts said, no matter how much his wings betrayed him, he would not make her uncomfortable. He would not crowd her. He would not want.

But when he turned for the briefest moment and saw her laughing softly to herself, barely more than a breath, he wanted.

And he was damned for it.

Chapter Text

Elain swore the voice had sounded so real. Graysen’s voice, low and roughened by pain, had called to her through the trees, laced with desperation.

Elain, please. Elain, I need you.

It hadn’t mattered how cruel he’d been to her, or that she was supposed to stay within the camp. It hadn’t mattered that the others were asleep, or that Nesta had warned her to be careful. 

Because Graysen had been her fiancé. And when she heard his voice, it was like a tether to something familiar, her human life, and the future she’d envisioned with him. 

Stupidly, she followed the sound like a moth to flame. And now, she sat on the dirt floor inside Hybern’s tent, gagged and bound, wrists chafed raw where the iron shackles dug into her skin. 

Elain had cried until the tears dried into silent streaks down her cheeks and she realized it changed nothing. The chains still held. The Cauldron still loomed just beyond the canvas walls, humming with ancient magic.

And Graysen had not been there.

Only the King of Hybern’s men, leering and grinning as she was dragged inside the camp like a trussed rabbit.

Elain let her head fall back against the pole behind her and closed her eyes.

Stupid. The word whispered again and again in her head.

Stupid for believing it was really him. Stupid for thinking Graysen might still want her, after the way he’d looked at her when he saw her pointed ears, her now unearthly beauty. The revulsion in his eyes had pierced deeper than any blade.

He had once held her hand like it was a treasure. Called her lovely. Spoken of their future together.

Now he looked at her like she was something cursed.

A thing to be pitied. Or worse—feared.

Elain curled in on herself, wishing, for just a heartbeat, that it would all end. That she could disappear, that she had never emerged from the Cauldron, never drawn breath from this new body, never emerged different.

And then she saw him.

Not with her eyes.

It was like a window opened inside her chest.

Azriel.

Not cloaked in shadow or dressed for battle. Just… there. His dark hair a little tousled, his expression unreadable—but his eyes—

His eyes were on her. Focused. Fierce. Devastating in their beauty.

Elain couldn’t tell if it was memory or vision. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

She was only just getting to know him. But in that moment, as he stood before her in her mind, she felt something snap into place, deep inside. As if her soul remembered him, even if the rest of her did not.

A warmth spread through her chest. Grief, sharp and sudden, bloomed beside it.

She would never see him again. That thought curled around her like a serpent. Choked the breath from her lungs.

He would never know that she'd thought of him in these final moments. That he had been her last vision of beauty in a world gone dark.

Not Graysen. Not the man who could not love what she had become.

But Azriel. The male who had not looked away.

Then, suddenly, the curtain of the tent pulled back with a rustle of canvas and shadow.

Elain flinched, and silently prayed. Please don’t be the guards, please don’t be the King.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, already bracing for rough hands, more threats, more sneering questions she didn’t understand.

But it wasn’t Hybern’s men.

Elain blinked, thinking for a moment that she must be hallucinating. For it was Azriel who stood before her, his silhouette a shadow made flesh. But no, it was really him, tall and broad and cloaked in darkness. She’d know him anywhere. His scent—like mist and cedar—hit her like a punch. She gasped then, though her gag muffled the sound.

Then a priestess was there beside him—no, it was Feyre—her face shifting like a dream shedding layers. 

Elain’s eyes went wide. Her breath lodged in her throat. She wanted to cry, to laugh, but all she could do was stare.

They came for me.

The thought broke through the numbness like sunlight after endless rain.

Azriel knelt. That same careful grace she’d come to know these last few weeks. Quiet, steady and lethal. He didn’t hesitate as his hands reached for her gag, undoing it with a gentleness that nearly undid her. The gag fell away, and her first breath was a sob she barely managed to hold back.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, rough, and it shook something loose in her chest.

She could only shake her head.

And then she whispered, the words trembling from her lips like a prayer, “You came for me.”

Azriel inclined his head, a silent promise that he would always come.

Feyre reached for Elain, magic rippling at her fingertips—but nothing happened. Elain felt the iron digging into her wrists, the strange glow of it, and knew it wasn’t over yet. Not even close.

“We don’t have time,” Azriel said sharply. “He’s coming.”

Screams and shouts erupted outside the tent.

The world tipped as Azriel scooped her into his arms. Her bound wrists went around his neck, the chains digging into his skin. She felt the powerful muscles beneath his leathers, the wings that shifted slightly around her. His scent surrounded her, anchored her. Real. He was real.

“Hold tight,” he ordered, “and don’t make a sound.”

She couldn’t speak even if she tried. Her throat was thick with unshed emotion, with everything she hadn’t said—would never have the words to say.

He ran, Feyre just ahead, tearing off the priestess robes, blades appearing in her hands.

Elain stayed silent, just as he’d told her to.

The tremor in the earth came next. 

Azriel’s body went taut just before a beast crashed into them.

The air split with his roar. The impact nearly knocked her senseless as talons raked down his back, tearing flesh and wing. His body arched in pain, blood slick and warm where it spilled.

She screamed in fear and fury.

He held her even as the beast ripped at him. He held her.

And Elain moved.

Twisting in his arms, she lifted her legs, found the monster’s snarling face.

And kicked.

Straight into its eye.

It screeched, rearing back, but she didn’t stop.

Another kick—harder this time. Azriel grunted, his arms tightening to keep her steady, to keep flying, but she could feel his strength faltering.

So she kicked again.

The creature roared, but she roared louder. In her chest. In her soul.

It wasn’t strength she’d known she had. But maybe that didn’t matter.

Her foot slammed into the beast’s face one last time—and it let go.

She could feel Azriel’s breathing hitch, feel the tremor in his hold, the pain he tried to hide even now.

And still—still—he didn’t let her go.

Blood poured down his back. Wings shredded. But still he flew, as Elain held onto him for dear life.

Later, when the healer was finished mending Azriel’s wings, Elain sought him out. The flap of his tent hung open just enough for her to catch the flickering light of a candle burning inside. 

She paused at the opening, trying to dull the sound echoing in her ears of the beast that had leapt onto Azriel's back as he tried to fly them away. 

They were safe now, she was safe. Because of him. And she owed him her gratitude and her apology.

Elain took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

The air inside was warm and smelled like him, mixed with one of the balms the healers used. The scent settled in her lungs and for some reason, she found it hard to breathe. 

Azriel lay on a low cot, his eyes closed, his beautiful face relaxed and softened by sleep.  Soft furs cradled his bare back and supported his wings, which were now bandaged where they'd torn, and hung limply at either side of his bed.

His shadows curled beneath the cot, like they were sleeping, too. But upon noticing her, one of them darted up to curl around his ear, and his eyelids fluttered open. 

Elain froze, unsure what to do as she stared down at his hazel eyes. 

“Hi,” he uttered, his voice rough with exhaustion. 

"Hi," Elain replied, barely more than an exhale of breath. 

He didn't say anything more, just blinked at her expectantly. 

“I—I wanted to see you,” Elain explained. Her voice felt too thin, too fragile. "I was worried.”

"I'm all right," he said.

"You don't look all right," Elain said resolutely, crouching on the fur that lay on the ground beside his cot. 

A wry smile curled at the end of his mouth. "You sure know how to compliment a male."

Elain huffed a bashful laugh. "I didn't mean—I mean, you're very handsome, it's just you've been wounded... and I know you're hurt.”

He grinned then, in a mischievous way she’d never seen before. “You think I’m handsome?”

Elain blinked, blood rushing to her cheeks as she realized her error.

He laughed quietly. It was a beautiful sound.

“I’m trying to apologize,” she said.

“For what?” He played the part of ignorance. 

It was hard to hold his gaze. “For following the voice... the Cauldron. It sounded like Graysen. He was calling my name, begging me to come..."

Azriel's shadows began to stir. 

“I thought that he needed me," Elain went on, “That maybe—” She swallowed hard. “That maybe he still loved me and I fell for it.”

“Elain—”

“I fell for it because I wanted it to be true, and I ran straight into a trap.” She looked away, shame flushing her cheeks. “And you nearly died trying to get me out.”

“You didn’t know it was a trap,” Azriel all but whispered.

“I should have known. Graysen doesn't want anything to do with me." She wrapped her arms around her knees as tears began welling in her eyes.

Azriel began to sit up slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounds. 

“But you—you came for me,” she uttered, her voice breaking as she repeated her earlier disbelief.  “Even after I was so stup—”

“Don't—don’t finish that thought," he interrupted. "I will always come for you."

He stared at her then. So intently that she thought for a moment that he could see right into her very soul. 

She didn't know what she'd done to deserve such a promise.

“I would have understood if you hadn’t,” she replied.

“Elain—”

The tears began to streak hot and fast down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she stuttered, embarrassed by the emotions she couldn't hide. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he reassured her. 

Elain shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

“It just that—I am so lost,” she found herself confessing. She couldn't stop her body from shivering as her tears flowed. “I don’t know what I am anymore. I used to know. I had a life. A path that made sense. But now I’m not human, barely Fae. I’m not a warrior. I can see things, but I don't understand them. I have a mate, but that means nothing to me. I don’t have a say in where my life is headed. I don’t have anything. I feel like I’m unraveling, piece by piece. And everyone just wants me to keep smiling through it.”

The silence that followed was heavy. And when Azriel spoke, his voice was gentler than she’d ever heard it.

“You are not unraveling.”

She let out a choked laugh, wiping her tears. “Then what would you call this?”

"Blooming," he said, with a tender smile.

His answer only caused more tears to fall. She rested her cheek against the side of the cot as she looked up at him, feeling for the first time in a long time that someone had bothered to try and understand her. 

"Do you know what I see?" Azriel asked after a moment.

Elain shook her head every so slightly.

“I see someone who’s trying," he said. "Every damn day. Someone whose body was taken from them, and Made anew without their permission, and yet, who still wakes up and chooses to care, to listen, to be gentle when it would be easier not to be." 

All Elain could do was let out a shaky breath as she listened.

“I see someone who was brave enough to hope," Azriel said, his voice barely a whisper. "Who ran toward that voice out of love.”

"That wasn’t brave," she countered. "It was desperate.”

"It was brave," Azriel countered, shaking his head. “I look at you and I see someone strong. Someone who didn't let those things break her. Someone who is becoming something new.”

They were both quiet for a long time, watching each other tenderly. The candlelight flickered over the lines of his beautiful face, softening his usually unreadable expression. 

Her hand brushed his, just barely, and Azriel didn’t move away.

Elain could feel it between them then—that fragile, unspoken thing that lived in the silence. That hovered just behind their words.

She didn't have a name for it, but she was beginning to understand that something special lay between them.

The battlefield smelled of blood, burning flesh, wet earth and spent magic still sizzling in the air.

Elain was shaking. Her hands were bloodied, her shoulders tight with disbelief. Every nerve in her body vibrated with too much feeling: relief, terror, and something wild humming just beneath her skin.

She had done it.

She had done it.

Hybern was dead.

She could still feel the dagger in her grip, feel the way the blade had slid into him. 

Azriel’s blade.

Truth-Teller.

She looked down at it now, still clenched in her fist. Black as night. Slick with blood. 

She didn’t realize she was moving until the tents came into view. Until her boots crunched over broken stone and churned-up earth. Until she saw him.

Azriel stood with his back to her, speaking in hushed tones with Cassian. His wings were still bandaged, but mended enough for him to be out of his cot. And though he did not face her, Elain would’ve known him from any vantage point. In any state. In any lifetime.

“Azriel,” she called.

He turned.

The moment their eyes met, everything in her stopped.

His gaze swept over her—searching, breathless. 

She halted just in front of him and held out the blade like an offering, as it dripped with the King of Hybern's blood.

“Thank you,” was all she could say as she gently pressed the dagger into his hands.

Azriel stared at her in quiet disbelief. Then he swallowed once, slowly.

Then, carefully, his scarred hands curled around hers—not just to take the blade, but to cover her fingers, still shaking as they wrapped tightly around the hilt.

His voice was an awed whisper. “You killed him.”

She nodded.

Something in his face shifted. Something like reverence.

“You're amazing," he breathed. 

Elain beamed.

Azriel should’ve known it was her.

The whispers had started hours ago—someone had struck the final blow, someone no one had expected, someone wielding a shadow-dagger with unerring aim.

He hadn’t dared believe it. Not until she’d appeared out of the haze of blood and smoke.

Not until she’d said his name.

Not until she placed Truth-Teller in his hand, the hilt still warm from where her fingers gripped it.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She had used his blade.

She had driven it into Hybern’s throat.

And Mother help him, it lit something in him he couldn’t name. Not the solemn pride he felt when Cassian won a battle. Not the quiet satisfaction when Feyre finally came into her powers. Not even the dark thing that stirred in him when Rhys called for someone’s blood.

No. This was different.

This was…

Elain. Shaking and radiant. Eyes wide with disbelief and determination. Elain, who had always been light and blooms and soft hands—had taken his blade and ended Hybern.

And all Azriel could think was—

She had wielded him.

Because Truth-Teller wasn’t just a blade. It was an extension of his will, his soul, his shadows.

And she had driven it home.

His fingers clenched around the hilt now, as he thought of hers wrapped around it. 

He leaned his head back against the tent pole, trying to breathe.

He shouldn’t feel this way.

She had a mate.

She had Lucien.

But Lucien hadn’t given her a blade.

Lucien hadn’t trained her eyes to go for the kill.

Lucien hadn’t watched her walk out of shadow and blood like she belonged to the night.

Azriel shut his eyes, jaw tight.

He wanted—

Cauldron, he wanted.

But want was dangerous.

And Elain had just found her fire.

He would not be the one to smother it. Not even if the heat of it already lived beneath his skin.

So he sat there, in the hush after war, Truth-Teller in his lap, and let the storm inside him burn.

Chapter Text

When things settled down, Azriel felt adrift. It had been so long since there had been any kind of lasting peace in Prythian, that he wasn't sure what to do with himself. 

It was quiet. Too quiet.

He stood on one of the verandas at the House of Wind, wings tucked in tight against the chill of the wee hours, shadows restless like predators with no prey to stalk. Velaris shimmered below him—golden lamplight in the windows, laughter echoing faintly up from the Sidra’s edge, the hum of life moving on. Healing. Celebrating.

He should’ve felt something.

He didn’t.

Or maybe… maybe it was that he felt too much.

You are not needed.

The thought echoed in his mind, a whisper darker than his shadows. No more spies to interrogate, no more enemy camps to infiltrate. No more friends to rescue, no more orders barked in the heat of battle, blood-soaked and desperate.

Peace had come.

And it left him restless.

He clenched the stone railing, then looked as his scarred hands—idle now. And yet every night his instincts woke him hours before dawn, expecting alarms, screams, smoke. The silence that followed was somehow worse.

They don’t need you to protect them anymore.

Cassian had taken to laughing again, booming and loud, as if trying to fill the space left by the fallen. Rhys had Feyre, the city, and a future to rebuild. That was more than he could say.

He had his shadows. His secrets. His silence.

And a bone-deep ache that he could not explain.

Peace was supposed to be a victory.

But every time he walked the streets of Velaris and saw the joy on people’s faces, he felt like a ghost moving among the living. A phantom made of knives and whispers. A weapon with no purpose.

Azriel exhaled and let his eyes close. For a heartbeat, he let himself imagine something else. A garden. A voice like birdsong. Warm fingers brushing his wrist—not in fear, but in invitation.

The image vanished the moment he opened his eyes.

He didn't know how to want that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

His life had been forged in war. In the wounds before it. And now, in the stillness, he was learning that survival was not the same as peace.

His wings flared once to stretch, then gave a strong beat as he launched into the skies. He needed to feel the wind against his face, to feel free for a moment.

As usual, he found himself flying down towards the townhouse. He landed softly in the garden, his boots soundless as he walked up the path. He paused to admire the results of Elain's handiwork. The garden had completely transformed since that first day that he brought her here. He felt comforted, knowing that her presence was all around him in the form of everything growing.

So he was surprised when he turned the corner and found her sitting on a bench, draped in her favourite cloak, sipping a cup of tea and speaking gently to the plants beside her.

The ever raging war inside him stilled.

Elain turned, as if sensing him, and met his eyes. 

"Couldn’t sleep either?" she asked softly.

Azriel only nodded, unsure what words would escape him if he tried.

Elain smiled, small and sad. “The dahlias won’t bloom,” she said, brushing her fingers over the plant beside her. “Perhaps there is not enough sun here.”

He took the seat at her right, and let the silence stretch between them.

“Or maybe,” he murmured, his body leaning over to nudge her with a shoulder, “they’re just not ready yet.”

She’d looked at him, as if seeing through every inch of shadow he wrapped himself in.

They didn’t speak much after that, just enjoyed the quiet companionship of each others' company, until Elain passed her cup of tea to him, expecting him to drink. 

He took it cautiously, and sipped, wondering what she meant by the gesture, if anything at all. 

He looked around the garden, sipping from Elain's tea cup, breathing in the her jasmine and honey scent, and the edge inside him dulled. His thoughts slowed. His hands stopped aching for something to hold.

For a moment, he realized that peace didn’t have to be a battlefield won.

Maybe it could be found in small things. A quiet garden. A stubborn bloom. A woman who saw his scars and didn’t flinch.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there after Elain had gone inside, the warmth of her presence still lingering like a handprint over his heart. 

Just as the glow of dawn began to creep over the horizon, he rose and walked the garden paths alone. Past the lavender and the hydrangeas, past the gate, then up, up into the sky as he flew back to the House of Wind for a few fitful hours of sleep.

By the following afternoon, he was once again inexplicably drawn to the doorway of the greenhouse. He couldn’t explain it, this strange, constant pull. Couldn’t examine it too closely, or he feared he might break. So he paused for a moment in the doorway, content to watch her work, as dust motes floated on golden beams of light, and fell upon her as if she were heaven sent. 

He admired the way she had tied half of her hair back with a pink ribbon, how her hands were stained with soil as she worked at the potting table. He wanted to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and breathe in her jasmine and honey scent. But he knew he shouldn’t. 

“Well?” she asked without turning, her voice light, amused. “Are you going to lurk in the doorway all afternoon, or are you going to help me?”

His boots crunched softly over the gravel floor as he stepped forward. “I didn't want to disturb you.”

“You never disturb me,” she said, glancing sideways with that serene smile that never failed to unravel something in his chest.

Azriel came to a stop beside her. “What are you planting today?”

“Not planting. Arranging.” She reached for two baskets of flowers she had gathered and handed one to him. “Did you know that in the human lands, they send secret messages with flowers?”

He raised a brow, intrigued. “Secret messages?”

“Mhm.” She tucked an errant strand of golden-brown hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of soil on her cheek. 

His hands twitched with the instinct to brush it off, but he held back. 

“Each flower means something," she explained. "A whole language, if you know how to read it. Marigolds," she said, picking up a fire-bright blossom with curling petals. "Can be for good luck, prosperity or passion. On the other hand, they can also symbolize despair, grief or jealously."

"How do you know which message is intended?" Azriel asked curiously.

Elain smiled softly. "Context, of course."

She lifted a soft, grey-green sprig. “Sage. This one’s for wisdom. And memory. We used to burn it at home when someone passed.”

Azriel nodded along in quiet understanding as she spoke.

She held up a burst of small, star-like blue petals. “Borage. It’s for courage.” She offered it to him with a quiet grin. “Appropriate for an Illyrian warrior.”

Azriel huffed a breath, nearly a laugh, as he accepted the flower, and tucked it into a strap near the shoulder of his flying leathers. 

Elain's fingers hesitated over the next stem—a tall flower with pink bell-shaped blossoms. “Foxglove,” she said after a beat. “It means insincerity. Or sometimes... danger masked by sweetness.”

He gave her a wry sidelong glance. “Appropriate for you, then."

Elain laughed, and the sound pulled something taut inside of him. 

The next bloom Elain chose from the basket was tiny and white, delicate as lace. She tucked it behind her ear. “Baby’s breath," she identified. "Innocence.”

The taut feeling snapped, and Azriel's breath caught in his throat as he marvelled at how beautiful she looked with the delicate flowers framing her perfect face. 

Elain didn't seem to notice as she turned back to her collected flowers, and pulled a yellow flower with frilled edges from her basket and held it out to him. “Tansy. ‘I declare war on you.’” Her mouth curled in a mischievous smile as she offered it to him. 

Azriel accepted it without flinching. “How thoughtful,” he grinned. 

His eyes drifted to the basket she'd handed to him earlier. "What about these?" He asked, reaching for a soft cluster of violet-blue petals.

"Bluebells," Elain replied, her cheeks suddenly going pink. "Constancy and everlasting love. In the human lands, legend says that if you pick them, you'll be taken away by the Fae."

"Is that so?" Azriel said slowly. "Did you ever pick them as a girl?"

Elain blinked, her eyes turning glassy. "I did, yes."

Sensing her sorrow, Azriel sorted through his basket and pulled out a sprig of lavender, fragrant and lovely. "And this one?" He asked. 

“Lavender,” she said softly, her eyes not quite meeting his. “Devotion... connection.”

Silence fell between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. 

“You know a lot about secret messages,” Azriel murmured at length.

Elain smiled teasingly. "Takes one to know one."

He laughed then, deeply and truly, in a way that he hadn't in a long while. 

They dined together with the others that evening. Elain had arranged roses in glass vases down the length of the table in the dining room. The scent mingled with the warm, spiced aroma of roasted vegetables, honeyed ham, and freshly baked bread that she, Nuala and Cerridwen had prepared. 

Azriel sat at the far end of the table beside Rhys, as he always did, in the chair with the clearest view of the door. Habit. Instinct.

But tonight, his focus kept drifting.

Elain was seated diagonally across from him, between Mor and Lucien. Her golden-brown curls fell long and loose, soft tendrils curling near her cheeks, flushed from the warmth of the room. 

Her laughter—light and clear—rippled across the table as she said something to Mor. Every now and then, she brushed her finger up and down the stem of her wine glass in that absent, thoughtful way of hers. The gesture lit something low and desperate in his chest.

He shouldn’t be watching her like this. Not here. Not with all of them around. Especially not her mate.

But he couldn’t seem to stop.

The candlelight caught in her eyes, made her lashes cast soft shadows on her cheekbones. Her voice—when she turned to ask Amren a question—was gentle, melodic. 

Elain was so soft. And so lovely. And entirely out of reach.

Azriel picked up his wine glass and threw back a mouthful he didn’t taste. He watched as Lucien passed Elain a bowl of honeyed carrots, and felt his jaw tighten. The male leaned in to murmur something, and she nodded politely, hesitantly and reserved. She didn’t lean back. Didn’t inch closer. Her body, Azriel noticed, remained turned ever so slightly toward the rest of the table. Not toward Lucien. Never toward Lucien.

Still, the mating bond lingered between them like a curse no one dared to name aloud. The stench of it was almost unbearable. 

Azriel’s shadows whispered in displeasure at the corners of the room. Silently, he urged them to settle down, while he scolded himself for remembering about how Elain looked in the greenhouse, the sunlight on her cheek, baby’s breath tucked behind her ear.

He shouldn’t have been thinking about how his fingers had itched to reach out, to tuck that flower in properly, gently, reverently.

He shouldn’t be wondering what it would feel like to sit beside her now. To feel the heat of her thigh resting gently against his, silently and secretly beneath the table.

He shouldn't be pretending that he had the right.

“You’re staring.”

The voice came from his left, low enough that only he could hear it.

Rhys.

Azriel glanced down at his plate. “I’m not.”

“You are.” There was no heat to the High Lord’s tone. Just quiet steel. “It’s not wise.”

That made him glance over.

Rhys’s violet eyes were sharp, unreadable. He didn’t need to say anything else. The warning was clear in the set of his jaw, in the calm authority behind his gaze.

She’s not yours.

The thought came not from Rhys, but from some cruel part of himself that refused to be silenced.

Across the table, Elain laughed again—this time at something Cassian said—and the sound hit him like a blade to the ribs. Not because she was happy. But because he wanted to be the one making her laugh like that. Wanted to be beside her, close enough to touch her hand, to brush his wing against her as they leaned in to share some secret joke.

He wanted—

Gods, he wanted.

She looked at him then, mid-conversation, as if she’d felt the weight of his gaze. Her lips parted slightly. Not in surprise, not quite. Just a soft intake of breath, like a question unspoken.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

And then she smiled—slow and secret, the kind of smile meant only for him—and turned back to her meal.

Azriel’s heart gave a measured beat as he drank deeply from his wine glass, the tart liquid burning in his throat.

Rhys jumped into the conversation to comment on the rebuilding efforts near the riverfront. Cassian answered with a joke. Mor rolled her eyes.

But Azriel couldn’t hear them. All he could hear was the sound of Elain’s quiet breath, the brush of her fingers against the stem of her glass, the echo of her smile still blooming in his chest.

And the echo of Rhys’s words, heavy and unrelenting.

It’s not wise.

Maybe not.

But whatever this was… it was already too late.

By the time Elain retreated to her room for the evening, the townhouse had gone still. She stood before her vanity, brushing her hair with long, slow strokes. The fire in her room had burned low, casting the space in a dim, warm light.

She paused mid-stroke, her heart giving a nervous flutter as she thought of the colour of Azriel's eyes when she'd met his gaze over dinner. Were they grey, green, brown or blue in that moment? She’d been playing a game with herself recently, making silent notes on whatever colour they appeared to be at any given moment. 

He’d barely spoken this evening, but something about his silence felt…intentional. Focused. 

Had she imagined it, or had he been watching her?

Elain set the brush down carefully, trying not to look at herself too closely in the mirror. But even so, she could still see the warmth in her cheeks, from the lingering buzz of the wine, and the growing hope she’d been trying to push down for too long.

Everyone wanted her to try to give the bond with Lucien a chance.

Lucien was kind. Attentive, in his way. He never pushed. But he felt like a guest in her life. She didn’t know how to speak to him without feeling like she was acting, like she had to be some version of herself that fit the role everyone seemed to expect.

With Azriel…it was different.

Being with him didn’t require words. Or effort. Or explanation.

It simply was.

He never looked at her like she was broken. Or like she was precious and delicate and in need of constant tending. When Azriel looked at her, she felt seen. Understood.

And tonight… she could’ve sworn something more was flickering in his gaze. Something warm and wanting.

She crossed to the window and pulled the curtain back. The garden below was quiet. Moonlight silvered the path. The memory of his voice floated through her mind, low and rough, when he’d said maybe they’re just not ready yet.

A smile tugged at her lips as she pictured him.

He was handsome. Devastatingly so, really. The kind of handsome that got you into trouble—the sharp lines of his jaw, the quiet strength in the way he moved, the depth in his eyes that seemed to see far more than he ever said. Even his silence had a weight to it, like a steady hand resting on your back.

What would it be like, she wondered, to kiss him?

Would he be careful? Patient?

Or would he kiss like he did everything else—with purpose, precision, and that deep, quiet intensity that always made her breath catch?

Her heart fluttered, a little too fast.

She touched her lips, as if she might summon the feeling out of thin air. The feel of his hand at her waist. His mouth on hers. The heat of him pressed close, wings blocking out the world.

And maybe—just maybe—the terrifying, wonderful sense of being wanted. Chosen.

Her cheeks flushed at the thought.

She shouldn’t be thinking like this. Not when there was still a bond between her and Lucien. Not when everyone expected her to try harder. To care more. To feel something for the male fate had chosen for her.

But Elain didn’t want fate.

She wanted choice.

And tonight, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way Azriel had looked at her like she was already his.

Even if he never said a word.

Chapter Text

Days passed. Then a week. Maybe more.

Elain lost count deliberately, trying to distract herself from the now inescapable thoughts of Azriel that flooded her mind. 

As the days turned colder, and the garden needed less attention, she began spending more time in the kitchen—far more than was strictly necessary. At first it was just making bread. Then tarts. Then braised meats, soups, fruit preserves, spiced nuts, sugared beets. 

It was easier this way. Easier to lose herself in the exactness of it—in the measurements and motions, the transformation of simple ingredients into something nourishing and good.

And if she kept her hands busy, her thoughts didn’t drift.

Not to the garden.

Not to the tea cup they’d shared.

Not to the way Azriel’s fingers had lingered against hers, warm and rough and grounding.

Not to the way his eyes had hovered on her at dinner the other night.

Nuala and Cerridwen were always there, floating around the space, flitting from task to task with effortless grace. Cerridwen had a gift for tempering chocolate. Nuala had a sharp eye for flavour pairings. Together, the three of them filled the townhouse with the constant scent of cooking and baked goods.

“If I didn’t know better,” Nuala said lightly one afternoon as Elain coaxed a tray of cinnamon buns from the oven, “I’d think you were stress baking.”

“Stress baking?” Elain questioned primly, dusting her hands on her apron.

“Mhm,” Cerridwen hummed in agreement, not looking up from the candied almonds she stirred. “You’re obviously trying to distract yourself from something.”

“Whatever would I need to distract myself from?” Elain deflected, unable to stop her cheeks from flushing. 

It was hard to pull the wool over their eyes. They saw everything. Neither of them had ever mentioned Azriel’s name. Not once. But Elain knew they knew. 

Then, as if the mere thought of him was a summons, the back door opened, and a cool gust of air swept in. Azriel filled the doorway, the late afternoon sun golden at his back, wings tucked tight, shadows curling behind him.

Azriel paused.

Then inhaled.

“Whatever that is,” he said, voice low, “it smells divine.”

Elain looked up, startled. Then smiled.

He blinked. Slowly.

Her smile had always undone him, but this—apron-draped, flour-dusted Elain, cheeks flushed from baking—this undid something deeper.

“Cinnamon buns,” she said, brushing her hands on her apron. “We made plenty.”

“I wasn’t—” He stopped. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “You never do.”

Nuala and Cerridwen exchanged a glance.

Elain lifted a bun from the tray, still warm and dripping with glaze. She held it out, cradling it gently in her dough-smeared fingers.

“Want a taste?”

Azriel stared.

Just for a heartbeat. At her hand, holding something soft and sweet. Holding food. That she made. 

Offering it to him.

His breath caught.

Because that—that was a tradition. A ritual. A gesture as old as the cauldron itself. 

And Mother—he wanted to take.

His body had gone still the moment she held it out to him, the warmth of it spiralling into the space between them. He could smell it—sugar and spice and her—and it tangled in his lungs, made it impossible to breathe properly.

Everything in him screamed at him to lean in. To sink his teeth into the soft, golden spiral and taste everything she'd put into it—flour and sugar and care. To feel her fingers brush against his mouth as she steadied it for him. To savour the sweetness on his tongue and know it had come from her, for him.

He wanted to forget the rules. The logic.

He wanted to forget Lucien Vanserra’s name.

He wanted to forget that this—this—was something he didn’t have a right to want.

Because how could something so small, so simple, feel like the most sacred thing he'd ever been offered?

How could her eyes—soft and expectant—undo him more than any blade?

Because Elain wasn’t thinking when she held it out. She wasn’t playing at anything, wasn’t calculating.

She was just giving.

And somehow, that made it worse.

He didn’t know what she meant by it. Didn’t know if she knew. 

But he knew.

And he couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t take it.

Because if he did—if he let himself taste what she made, what she offered—it would mean something. To him, at least. Maybe more than he could ever walk away from.

And he would have to walk away.

He always had to walk away.

So he didn’t move.

Didn’t let his hunger show in the tightness of his throat, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch.

He stared at the bun, still warm in her hands.

Then at her.

And cauldron help him, she looked so hopeful.

Like she’d made something soft in a hard world and wanted to share it.

And he was about to ruin it.

He forced the words past the gravel in his throat. “I have to meet Rhys.”

Elain’s smile faltered.

Nuala and Cerridwen had stopped pretending not to watch.

Elain’s hand dropped slightly, the bun still resting in her palm.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Azriel brushed past her, shadows sweeping around his shoulders as the door swung shut behind him. “Thank you,” he added, not quite meeting her eyes. “For the offer.”

And then he was gone.

Elain stood there for a long moment, the uneaten bun still in her hand.

Her fingers trembled just a little.

Cerridwen moved first, wordlessly reaching to clear away the remaining tray. Nuala slid closer and offered Elain a clean cloth.

Elain didn’t take it.

“Did I do something wrong?” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

“No, dear,” Nuala murmured under her breath.

Cerridwen’s gave her a gentle, reassuring smile.

Elain said nothing, just stared at the empty hallway where Azriel had disappeared. 

Something warm and blooming in her chest had deflated.

And the cinnamon bun, still warm, sagged in her palm—unclaimed.

Chapter Text

As Solstice approached, snow fell steadily on Velaris. Elain had been gathering gifts for her friends and family: a set of paints for Feyre, cufflinks for Rhysand. She’d knitted a scarf for Nesta, though she was sure it would never see the light of day. For Cassian, she’d made a tin of spiced toffee, and a note telling him not to eat it all at once. For Mor, she’d found a red shawl, for Amren a sparkling bracelet. 

But what, exactly, was one supposed to get the Spymaster of the Night Court for Solstice?

She mulled it over as she brewed a pot of tea in the kitchen, ideas blossoming and wilting just a quickly. 

What did you give someone like him? Someone so reserved. So unknowable and yet… not.

She thought of how he always chose the chair in the corner at family dinners, the one where he could see the room, his eyes constantly moving. Watching. Noticing. The rare, amused quirk of his mouth when Cassian and Mor began bickering. The subtle retreat of his shoulders when Rhys and Feyre slipped into speaking as mates often did, with such saccharine affirmations that even she had trouble listening to it. 

He never asked for anything, never took up space.

And yet, somehow, he had a way of demonstrating that he remembered the things Elain told him, like how he casually brought up her garden plans, or asked her how her recipes were developing.

Elain’s lips pursed. She turned to stare out at the snow.

She’d noticed something else, too.

By the end of every gathering, Azriel had a look about him. A weariness. A slight tightening around his mouth, a crinkle between his brows. Not anger, just… fatigue. The kind she recognized from her own bad days. From the noise. From the overwhelm of being around so many people who never stopped talking.

The only ones who noticed were her and maybe Nuala and Cerridwen.

She remembered once, after a particularly long dinner, finding him in the hall with his fingers pressed to his temple, eyes closed. She’d leaned against the wall beside him, and let the quiet stretch until he offered her a rare smile.

An idea came to mind. Madja could help. The old healer had been generous with her knowledge when Elain had asked about herbs and remedies. Elain had listened. Learned.

There was a blend—mild, herbal, no side effects. Good for tension and strain.

Azriel wouldn’t accept something extravagant. Wouldn’t want attention. But something subtle, something useful, something that said I see you...

Yes. That felt right.

Later that afternoon, she stepped into Madja’s apothecary near the Sidra, scarf wrapped snug around her neck. The bells over the door chimed softly. Madja’s wrinkled face peeked around a curtain, eyes shrewd.

“Hello, Elain,” she croaked. “It’s been a while.”

Elain smiled faintly. “It’s been busy, getting ready for Solstice. I was wondering if you had any more of that willow bark powder. The one that helps with—”

“Headaches,” Madja finished with a knowing look. 

Elain flushed. “Yes, that one.”

“Is it for you?” Madja asked. 

“No,” Elain shook her head. “For a friend.”

Madja nodded then shuffled into the back and returned with a small jar, wrapped in cloth and twine. “Tell your friend one pinch in any drink. With honey, if they mind the bitterness.”

Elain took it carefully, tucking it into her satchel. “Thank you.”

That evening, she wrapped the jar in simple parchment, tying it with blue ribbon. She tucked a tiny sprig of rosemary under the bow.

She left the package on the mantlepiece, nestled behind the others, with a small tag that simply read:

To Azriel

She didn’t sign her name.

She didn’t know why.

Most of the Solstice presents had been unwrapped, and Azriel was beginning to look forward to tucking into bed with a warm belly and a head slightly buzzed from the wine and whisky. 

“There’s one more here,” Mor said, picking up the small parcel from the windowsill. “It’s for you, Az.”

Azriel blinked.

Mor handed him the gift with a curious look, and he took it automatically.

Before he could glance at the tag, a voice carried across the room.

“Oh, that’s from me,” Elain piped up.

He turned slightly, finding her near Nesta, her hair catching the firelight like spun honey. She didn’t look at him directly—only smiled, soft and unsure, and then tucked a curl behind her ear. 

His heart gave a slow, deliberate thud in his chest.

He didn’t smile. Couldn’t. He’d trained every muscle in his body to hold steady under scrutiny.

But inside… something strained.

He peeled back the paper, fingers deft but slow. Brown parchment gave way to a small glass jar wrapped in blue ribbon, a sprig of rosemary tied beneath the bow. 

“I had Madja make it for me,” Elain offered.

His brow furrowed before he could stop it. Madja?

“It’s a powder to mix with any drink.” She shifted her weight in her seat. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.”

A pause stretched—too long, probably. Everyone else had quieted.

Azriel looked up.

Elain bit her lip, then smiled. A little sheepish. A little brave.

It was the kind of gift no one had ever thought to give him before.

Not a weapon. Not a tool. Not something sharp or practical or battle-worn.

It was—thoughtful. Funny, even. 

Which was why the laugh tore from him, unbidden and raw. A full, rich sound that surpried even him.

Cassian and Rhys joined in, until Cassian grabbed the bottle from his hand. “Brilliant,” he said, examining it. 

Rhys was grinning beside Feyre, and Feyre’s eyes were fixed not on the bottle, but on him.

Azriel laughed until his ribs ached. When he finished, a smile still lingering on his lips, he looked at Elain again.

She was ducking her head, but not before he caught the hint of satisfaction in her eyes. And something—warm.

“Thank you,” he said, the words low and steady, but more than sincere. “This will be invaluable.”

And it would. Not just the powder. But the knowing. The seeing.

No one else had ever noticed that about him. Not Rhys, not Cassian. Not even Mor.

But Elain had.

Chapter Text

Elain didn’t remember how she got from the Nesta’s apartment all the way back to the River House. 

One moment she was standing in Nesta’s living room—if you could call it that—and the next she was racing through Velaris, the city blurring around her in cold, stinging wind and disbelief.

She’d made the mistake of walking in without knocking. Nesta never answered the door anyway. Elain had only meant to drop off the fresh bread and maybe convince her sister to sit with her for five minutes. But what she found instead—

Elain swallowed hard against the memory: Nesta, entangled with two males, the discarded clothes, the empty bottles of wine, her sister laughing when she saw.

By the time Elain reached the River House, she could barely feel her fingers from the cold.

The door shut behind her with a click. She stood in the foyer for a heartbeat, her hands clenched at her sides, still faintly shaking. Her eyes stung, but the tears wouldn’t come.

She could hear the fire crackling in the sitting room. Drawn to it, she stepped forward. 

She paused for a moment as she rounded the threshold and saw Azriel sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, one knee bent, elbow propped on it. A slim book lay open in his hand, his eyes fixed in concentration.

Elain stepped closer, eyes drifting to the book in his hand. She was surprised to find that it looked like poetry. 

When he looked up and spotted her, a soft smile flitted across his face. 

“Elain,” He said, taking in her cloak, her wind bitten cheeks and the distressed look upon her face. “Where are you coming from?”

“I was visiting Nesta.” Elain replied, voice thinner than she intended, “Or, trying to.”

Elain stepped forward and took a seat on the couch behind him. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. 

“That bad?” Azriel asked, eyeing her body language.

“She’s… coming apart at the seams,” Elain admitted quietly.

Azriel waited patiently for her to continue, while she blinked hard at the dancing fire. 

“I went to bring her some of the seeded loaves from Lyria’s on the corner of Silver Row. The ones she likes. It’s the only excuse she lets me make. She—” Elain swallowed. “She wasn’t alone.”

Azriel turned his body toward her then, and rested his arm on the seat beside her. 

“There were two males there with her,” she continued, and this time her voice cracked, barely able to get the words out. “And, Mother, Azriel, there were empty wine bottles everywhere.”

Still, Azriel watched her with those shadow-kissed hazel eyes that missed nothing.

“She was sprawled on the floor cushions between them. When she saw me she laughed like it was some joke I’d walked in on. Like it was funny that I looked so horrified.”

Her fingers twisted in her skirts, white-knuckled.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I didn’t belong in her world anymore. And maybe I don’t.”

“She’s hurting,” Azriel said softly.

“I know, I just thought… thought that she might be past the worst of it,” Elain whispered. “After Solstice, I thought maybe she’d turned a corner. I was wrong.”

Azriel’s voice was quiet, but there was something weighty beneath it. "She’s trying to forget. And when the forgetting fails, she reaches for anything that dulls the edge. The drink, the cards, the bodies—they fill the space just long enough to keep her thoughts at bay. I’m sure it’s worst in the silence that creeps in when she’s alone… That’s when your mind starts whispering all the things you don’t want to hear. All the things you think you are."

His gaze drifted toward the fire, as if seeing something far beyond it. "So she fills the room with noise and chaos and people who won’t ask questions. She’s burying herself in a mess until she can't see where it ends and she begins.”

Azriel looked at Elain again, his voice lower. "It’s not about pleasure. It’s about not feeling anything at all. Because anything would be better than facing her own thoughts.”

Elain watched him thoughtfully. It sounded as though he was speaking from experience. She was curious, but she didn’t press. Her throat tightened. “I’m scared for her.”

He nodded once. “I know.”

“I think she needs help,” Elain said, her voice trembling. “I just… I don’t know what to do. Nothing I do seems to reach her anymore.”

“Let’s talk to Rhys,” he said. “To Feyre, too. This can’t go on.”

“She’ll fight us,” Elain murmured.

“Yes,” Azriel said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying to help her.”

They sat there, quiet as the fire faded to embers, planning how to pull Nesta from the wreckage before it claimed her entirely.

By the first stirrings of spring, when Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian had confronted Nesta, Azriel found himself inventing excuses to linger at the River House—to check in on Elain. Quietly, unobtrusively. Just to make sure she was holding on.

The evening after Nesta was moved to the House of Wind, Azriel flew to the River House under the pretense of needing tea, and found Elain already in the kitchen.

He took a seat on a stool across from her at the counter as she put the kettle on. Rain pattered against the windows, the storm outside undecided in its purpose, whether it was lingering, or simply passing through.

The kettle whistled just as Elain set a jar of honey on the counter. Azriel watched as she poured the water into two teacups cradling dried camomile and lemon balm.

Azriel reached forward as she pushed one of the cups toward him. Their hands brushed for a moment as he took it. His blood sang at the touch. 

“How is she?” Elain asked after taking a sip from her cup. Her voice was soft, but steady.

He exhaled through his nose. “Stubborn. As expected. But she’s surrounded by people who can support her. Cassian’s keeping close. The training will help.”

“If you can get her to participate,” Elain said, a sigh threading through the words.

Azriel nodded. “She will. Eventually.”

Elain looked down into her tea, her expression tightening. “I should’ve done more.”

“You tried,” Azriel said gently. “We all did. But she’s... Nesta. We can show her the way, but I think she is going to have to choose to climb out of this hole herself. She won’t let us drag her.”

Silence settled between them, steeping like the tea. They sipped slowly. The storm outside deepened.

“Now that you’re here, will you still tend to the garden at the townhouse?” Azriel asked, wondering for a moment if their quiet visits were over. 

Elain nodded as she took a sip. “I plan to. Everyday. I see it as my occupation.” 

She grinned then, and Azriel returned it. 

“Good,” He said. “I like visiting you there.”

Elain stilled, and he wondered for a moment if he’d said the wrong thing. But then, suddenly, here fingers were clenching around her cup and her gaze was drifting, unfocused. Her posture went tense.

“Elain?” Azriel leaned forward, one hand braced on the counter, ready to lurch forward and catch her if he needed to.

Her eyes clouded. She stared through him, not seeing.

Then, her lips parted, and a voice not quite her own slipped out. It was light and airy, as if the wind itself were speaking through her.

“In molten breath a chain was cast,
by forge that knows no gentle past.
The fox’s flame clings where it lays,
but firebird sings for him through the haze.
When silent blade meets thread unseen,
the fawn shall leap where none have been.
A root runs deep where light won’t dwell—
the heart remembers what the veil won’t tell.”

Azriel stopped breathing.

Elain blinked, disoriented, as her eyes cleared. Her teacup rattled against the counter as she set it down with a trembling hand. “What… what did I say?”

Azriel rose swiftly. “Do you have that journal I gave you?”

She nodded. “In the drawer…” She pointed to the left.

He retrieved it, flipped to the first blank page, and scratched down the riddle in his neat, urgent handwriting.

Elain took the journal from him when he was done. She read the lines once. Then twice. Her fingers rested on the ink like she meant to press the words into the paper. 

“What does it mean?” She asked.

Azriel’s shadows stirred in the corners of the room. His expression gave nothing away, but his heart was pounding in his chest. 

“I’m not sure,” he heard himself saying. He needed time to decipher it. 

Something inside of him twisted. A tight, gnawing sense that the words meant something important, that he had long forgotten. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he said at last.

Elain nodded slowly. She exhaled as she closed the journal. The motion deflated her, as if the trance had siphoned her energy. “I should get to bed,” she said softly.

“Me too,” Azriel admitted, though he dreaded parting. 

When at last he took to the skies, the words of Elain’s vision chased him.

They echoed in his mind like a forgotten song.

“The fox’s flame clings where it lays,
but firebird sings for him through the haze.”

The fox. Lucien. The firebird—Vassa?

But the fawn…

Wasn’t that what the Book of Breathings had once whispered?

The trembling fawn.

Elain.

And the forge—could it mean the Cauldron? Could it be… that the chain was the mating bond between Lucien and Elain?

A foolish hope flickered in his chest, curling around the place where cold logic had constructed its careful walls.

He replayed the words in his head, over and over again. Then, a dangerous thought reared it’s head.

What if… he wondered, What if the Cauldron was wrong? 

The thought frightened him.

Mating bonds weren’t supposed to be wrong.

The Cauldron did not make mistakes.

But—

Elain saw things. Things no one else did.

And there had always been something off about the bond between her and Lucien, hadn’t there? It was like silence where music should have been.

Azriel clenched his jaw.

He’d buried his feelings. He’d watched from the shadows while Lucien lingered around Elain like he had a claim to her.

But now…

“A root runs deep where light won’t dwell—
the heart remembers what veil won’t tell.”

It could mean nothing.

It could mean everything.

Cassian hadn’t returned from the training ring after he’d dismissed the women over an hour ago. Which was odd, since he usually barged in, sweat-slick and starving, demanding food like a bat out of hell.

Azriel sat in the dining room, having just finished dinner. He arranged his cutlery on his plate, readying for the House to take it. Then he pushed back in his chair, prepared to turn in for the evening. 

Just then, a quiet thud echoed from the hallway beyond the stairwell. Followed by a low laugh. A hushed feminine voice. Then a pause.

Silence, thick and humming.

Azriel stilled, reaching for Truth-Teller at his side.

He didn’t move, didn’t need to. His shadows slithered out to investigate. 

They returned a moment later, whispering what he already suspected.

Cassian. And Nesta.  

The hallway. The wall. Hands. Mouths. Heat.

Azriel relaxed his grip on his blade. 

He wasn’t surprised. Not really. He’d seen the way Cassian looked at her. Like she was both a battlefield and the victory waiting at the end of it. And Nesta—she looked back at Cassian like she was daring him to fall.

Azriel rose from his chair silently, intending to retreat to his chambers and allow his brother the space for whatever activities he and Nesta had planned… 

He wasn’t annoyed.

If anything… he was glad.

Cassian, reckless and bleeding-hearted as he was, had finally found someone who could match the ferocity of his spirit. Someone who didn’t flinch from the way he loved—loud and unwavering.

And if what Azriel suspected was true—that Nesta and Cassian were mates—

Azriel exhaled, slow and quiet.

Then what did that mean for him?

His thoughts drifted—unbidden—to Elain. To the soothing presence of her, the gentle way they shared space, how for the rare moments he was with her, he felt truly at peace. 

Then there was the riddle she’d spoken without knowing it, and the words that haunted him still.

The heart remembers what the veil won’t tell.

If Nesta and Cassian were mates… if that thread had finally tugged them to one another… and the Cauldron had bound Rhys and Feyre together, then it hadn’t cast its bonds idly.

But then… why would each of his brothers be bound to an Archeron sister, and the third given to another?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he tried to push it away. But envy, green and monstrous nagged at him. 

What was it that Lucien had that he didn’t have? Why would the Cauldron have passed him over when choosing a bond for Elain? Was he not good enough?

“A root runs deep where light won’t dwell—
the heart remembers what veil won’t tell.”

That fragile seed of hope bloomed in his chest. And again he let himself wonder…

What if the Cauldron was wrong?

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter around his shoulders, restless as he reached his rooms. 

He did not believe in accidents. Not when it came to magic as old and tangled as this.

Still—he would not act. Would not assume. Elain deserved better than presumption.

But a part of him, deep and quiet and long-starved, would not be silent.

What if…?

As he lay down on his bed, and closed his eyes, he let the thought come.

What if she was mine?