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lady-of-tearshed · 1 year ago

Note

Speaking of Bryaxis would you be willing to write something where the Valkyrie are friends with him and find out he's as bad a gossip as the Suriel? He doesn't even need to make an appearance it could just be a combo they're having at training during cool down or stretching about the gossip he's spreading. Of course it would be great if Cassian freaked out. Maybe all of the guys could become a bit more scared of the Valkyrie and or gain respect for them

King of gossip

Summary: The Valkyries are having a book club meeting, but it turns into a conversation about their new friend, Bryaxis, latest gossip. Feyre, trying to rekindle a kind of "sisterhood" with Nesta, joins them and confess she knew about someone who loved to spill the tea, too...

Word count: 1.3K

Warnings: None.

A/N: Well! First request, I hope it doesn't disappoint!

Laughter echoed through Nesta's door. Feyre stood behind it, a tray of freshly baked goods in hands. She bathed in the joyful sounds that her big sister and her new friends made. Nesta was glowing lately. She looked happy, clean, satisfied, and peaceful. Feyre had never seen her sister happier than on the day of her mating ceremony with Cassian. That man truly saved Nesta from her darkness. He had always kept holding out his hand to her despite her snarls and bites, and always will. Feyre would forever be grateful for that man to be part of Nesta’s life. She would also always remind herself of the strength Nesta has, that too helped the eldest to get through all of her difficulties.

Nesta seemed to have finally found her people. The ones that made her whole and happy. Feyre knocked on the door softly before peeking her head in. The laughter in the room ceased progressively when she walked in, the group of Valkyries staring at her. Gwyneth almost squealed in excitement at the sight of the cookie pan in Feyre's hands. Nesta rolled her eyes, trying to look unbothered by her sister's presence, even though deep down, she was glad Feyre was here. She was even more glad that they managed to rekindle their “sisterhood”, as Feyre called it. Maybe one day Nesta would admit it to her little sister, that she forgives her for her clumsiness in trying to help her. She knew her intentions were good.

“I thought you guys might enjoy some snacks for your… reading club, is that it?” Feyre chimed in, trying to hide her nervousness as she entered the room. To her surprise, Nesta didn’t give a snarky response, nor kindly kicked her out. The eldest simply raised her chin and took a cookie off the platter. Nesta grinned slightly at the flavors exploding in her mouth. She murmured a thanks to her younger sister, and then Feyre put the tray down on the sculpted oak coffee table. Gwyneth spoke up then, her pale freckled cheeks already covered in cookie crumbs. “Well, we weren't actually reading. Actually, we were talking about Bryaxis’ latest gossip about the “Lord of bloodshed”...”

At that, another round of laughter erupted in the room. Emerie managed to explain to Feyre what that gossip was about, while the two other Valkyries were still wheezing and holding their bellies. “Well… Bryaxis said that once… He saw Cassian walk into the library to pick up one of Nesta's latest readings… and took notes of the steamy scenes…” Emerie wiped a tear with her finger, trying to steady her breathing from laughing too much about the mental image of the General actually taking notes, as if he would just read them out while having sex with Nesta.

Feyre laughed too, and Nesta scooched over on the couch, offering her an indirect invitation to join them. Feyre smiled, and sat down beside her sister. She wanted to say thank you to her sister, thank you for letting her in. But she knew it would make Nesta uncomfortable and that she would most likely close up on herself and tell her to fuck off. So she didn't, and just enjoyed Nesta’s sweet gesture. The High Lady adjusted herself on the couch, crossing her legs and took a pillow to squeeze between her arms. “I think Bryaxis is really the king of gossip… maybe we should name him that.” Nesta said, a glint of amusement flickering in her eyes as she looked over her sister, sitting beside her. A wry smile appeared on Feyre's face, a smile Nesta knew all too well. A smile that meant “I know something you don't.”. She cooked an eyebrow up and now everyone was staring at the younger Archeron in the room for further explanations.

Feyre chuckled and sighed, leaning further into the couch. She slowly took a bite of the cookies she made with Elain earlier today, before the middle Archeron sister left her to go on a date, no, a walk she insisted it was, with Lucien. The Valkyries fell silent in the room, waiting for Feyre’s explanation. “Well… I knew someone once that truly was the king of gossip…” Feyre bit her lip and smiled at the memory of her old friend. She tried not to let herself sink into the memory of their last meeting, of the sacrifice her friend made to save her life… Instead, she focused on the good memories. Gwyneth pressed then, waiting for further explanations. “Whom?!” “The Suriel…” Feyre purred, her voice filled with suspense. She straightened her posture, knowing she would need to elaborate more than that to satisfy the Valkyries' curiosity.

●°●°●°●

Feyre was now rocking Nyx to sleep in the living room. The fire was gently roaring in the hearth, and the peaceful sounds of Nyx's soft snores were enough to fill Feyre's heart with pure content. She spent the whole evening telling about the gossip she heard from the Suriel, and the Valkyries told the stories they and Bryaxis shared too. The two creatures truly were similar, especially in their taste of spilling the tea. Seeing her sister laughing with her wonderful group of friends AND her letting her in… it meant the world to Feyre. This was a moment she would forever cherish. She might even paint the Valkyries reaction when she told them about all of the tea the Suriel had spilled to her… She wanted to immortalize their reaction with colors on a canva. Gwyneth had even screamed that she was about to pee her pants from laughing too much when Feyre kept telling them her stories, which had aggravated the roar of laughter in the room.

She stood up to carry Nyx to his room and tuck him into the comfort of his crib, hoping that tonight she and Rhys might have a whole night of interrupted sleep. She kissed her son on the forehead and quietly headed out of the nursery. “Ah!” She startled and raised a hand to her chest, sighing in relief when her brain figured out the identity of the man standing into the hallway. She hoped her tiny shriek of surprise didn't wake the little prince up, then whispered to Cassian. “Cass… what are you doing up…” He bit his lip and brushed his hair back, off of his forehead. Lines of worry were forming between his brows as he spoke. “Did you tell Nes about… Um…” He patted the tiny notebook he always had in his pocket, knowing that Feyre knew exactly what he was talking about. Cassian and Feyre told each other everything, Cassian had proudly confessed his little mischief once, on a drunken night. Confessed that he was taking notes off of Nesta's smutty novels.

Feyre shook her head and chuckled, walking away, too tired to deal with the General tonight. Her bed was calling at her urgently, and Rhys mentally made it clear about his intentions about the plans he had for them both tonight in that exact same bed… But Cassian grabbed Feyre softly by the arm, his eyes pleading. “Whom then..?” Feyre shrugged, just wanting to get over with it so she could join her mate in their bed to have some fun before Nyx might wake up. “Bryaxis. Good night now, Cass.” She said as she walked away from Cassian's ghost white figure.

●°●°●°●

Cassian had been more than sweet to Nesta the following days, especially because of his discovery about Nesta's new… ally. What a traitor his mate was… The news about the Valkyries and Bryaxis’s friendship spread as fast as a breeze of fresh air… Soon enough, they realized how no one seemed to bug them about anything anymore… Not only did Bryaxis manage to offer them the best tea and gossip there was, but indirectly it had brought them a deep respect amongst everyone. Probably because of their fear of Bryaxis spilling their every secret to his lovely friends…

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dumb-ster-fire · 5 months ago

Text

Night Incarnate - Part 14

Azriel x OC

warnings: violence, blood, trauma

Summary: A deadly assassin and the elusive leader of Veilforged, Nyra delivers justice from the shadows, wielding starlight and darkness with lethal precision. Operating from Night's Refuge, she rescues the powerless and turns them into warriors. Whispers of her name spread through Prythian, but few know the truth-only that where justice fails, Night Incarnate rises.

Masterlist

a/n: Nyra and Bryaxis have weekly tea sessions, it's cannon in my story by the way. 💅🏻🤭

--------------------------------------------------------------

Rhysand moved through the dimly lit chamber with steady, measured steps, the scent of old parchment and ancient power clinging to the air. The room was deep within the House of Wind, hidden away from even his Inner Circle, accessible only to him.

At the heart of the chamber, resting atop a pedestal of onyx, sat an artifact—one of the oldest in his possession. It was a small, unassuming obsidian sphere, but within it lay knowledge older than even Amren, whispers of power that had long since faded from the world.

He placed a hand upon it, letting his magic seep into the smooth surface.

At first, nothing happened.

Then—a pulse. A flickering of violet light, like a star winking in and out of existence.

The whispers began.

“You seek knowledge of the one who walks in the dark,” the artifact murmured, its voice layered, shifting between male and female tones, old and young.

Rhysand’s jaw tightened. “Nyra.”

A pause. Then—laughter. Soft, knowing.

“You wish to understand her, High Lord of Night?”

His fingers curled against the sphere. “I need to know what she is.”

Another pulse. The room shuddered, as if the very walls recognized the weight of what he was asking.

“You are Death Incarnate, Rhysand. You weave shadows and walk among graves. But she—”

The next words weren’t spoken so much as felt, vibrating through the very marrow of his bones.

“She is Night Incarnate.”

A cold chill slithered down his spine.

Rhysand had expected a comparison to himself—expected something about darkness, about shadows, about death.

But Night?

The artifact pulsed again, as if amused by his silence.

“You are a blade, a quiet executioner in the dark. But she—she is the sky that holds the stars. She is the abyss that watches back. Her power is not a weapon, but a force, ever shifting, ever endless. You wield the night. She is it.”

A slow, terrible understanding settled in his chest.

He had seen glimpses of her power—her ability to disappear into nothingness, the way shadows and starlight bent to her will. The way even Azriel’s own shadows responded to her, as if recognizing something in her that they could not resist.

The artifact was silent for a long moment before speaking again, softer this time.

“You sought to measure her against yourself. To compare. But you were never meant to stand against her, Rhysand. Only beside her…or in her shadow.”

The room suddenly felt too small.

He withdrew his hand, severing the connection, and the violet glow faded into nothing.

Rhysand exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts into order.

Nyra had been a mystery since the moment she had appeared on his radar. And now, he realized, she wasn’t merely a force to be wary of.

She was something far older. Far more dangerous.

And if he wasn’t careful, the Night Court might find itself with more than one ruler of the night.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Rhysand remained motionless in the dim chamber, his hand still hovering over the now-dormant artifact. The silence pressed in around him, yet its absence did nothing to quiet the revelation thrumming in his veins.

Night Incarnate.

It was not just a title whispered in the dark corners of Prythian, not merely a name the Veils had bestowed upon her in reverence or fear.

It was real.

Even magic—that ancient, unknowable force—recognized it. Recognized her.

Rhys had spent five centuries ruling the Night Court, had wielded the darkness like an extension of himself, had shaped it, controlled it, made it his weapon. He had thought himself unmatched in his domain.

But Nyra… she was not a wielder of night. She was the night.

It wasn’t something she commanded. It wasn’t a tool or a force at her disposal. It was as natural to her as breathing. As existing.

A shuddering exhale left his lips, and Rhys pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to make sense of it.

The signs had been there.

The way her presence bent the darkness, how even Azriel’s shadows reacted to her as if drawn to something they had always known. How the air around her was charged with something just beyond mortal comprehension. How she could vanish without a trace, without scent, without sound, without even magic detecting her.

It had unnerved him before, the way she could disappear into nothingness and leave no footprint in the world.

Now he understood why.

She wasn’t merely hiding.

She was returning to where she had always belonged.

Rhys curled his fingers into a fist, grounding himself.

For centuries, he had thought himself the sole master of the night, that no one could understand what it meant to bear such a domain. But Nyra had lived in it, thrived in it, become it. And Prythian had tried to pretend she was a myth, a shadow that would eventually fade.

They had been wrong.

She had carved her title into the world not through words, not through mere reputation, but through power.

She had forged a kingdom of ghosts and outcasts, built something out of the forgotten and discarded, something that could rival his own court in the dark.

And Rhys—despite all his centuries of reigning—was beginning to realize something unsettling.

If Nyra ever decided to claim more than her hidden kingdom…

There would be no stopping her.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blood, the aftermath of a battle fought in the shadows. The Veils moved like specters through the wreckage of the slaver’s hideout—unshackling prisoners, tending to the wounded, and disposing of the filth who had dared traffic in flesh.

Azriel stood at the edge of the chaos, his keen eyes locked on Nyra.

She was terrifying.

Not because of her power—though it was formidable—but because of the calculated ease with which she wielded it.

A lone slaver remained, trembling as he was forced to kneel before her, his face streaked with sweat and blood. The others had met swift, silent deaths, but this one?

She wanted information.

Her shadows twisted around her, writhing in anticipation, feeding off the cold fury in her pale green eyes.

Azriel had interrogated thousands over the years—had extracted secrets from the cruelest, the strongest, the most stubborn of warriors.

And yet, as he watched Nyra work, he realized he had never seen something quite like this.

She didn’t need blades. Didn’t need to break bones or use the torture techniques he had perfected.

Nyra simply was the nightmare in front of this male.

Her power curled around him, inside him, through him. The shadows did not only shroud—they sank into the slaver’s very mind, into the spaces between breath and thought, into the hollow places that made men weak.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was soft.

“Tell me where the others were being taken.”

The male whimpered.

“I—I don’t know—”

Nyra tilted her head, and suddenly, his breath hitched—his body jerking, his eyes widening in horror. As if something unseen had slithered into his mind, wrapped itself around his very soul.

Azriel knew that fear.

He had inflicted that fear.

And yet, watching her, even he felt a shiver race down his spine.

“I asked you a question,” Nyra murmured.

The slaver gasped, clawing at his own throat as though invisible fingers were wrapped around it.

“P-Please—”

Nyra crouched before him, her pale hair ghostly in the moonlight.

“If you lie, I will know.”

Her voice was laced with something unnatural. A promise. A force of will that the universe itself seemed to obey.

Azriel had heard stories of such things—of beings whose words were binding, whose voices could bend reality. But he had never seen it with his own eyes.

He saw it now.

The slaver choked on a sob.

“K-Koschei,” he rasped. “They were for Koschei—”

Azriel stiffened.

Nyra’s expression didn’t change, but Azriel saw the way her fingers curled slightly, the way her magic stilled for half a second before shifting again, darker, sharper.

“Explain,” she ordered.

The slaver rushed to obey, his terror overriding any foolish inclination to resist.

“They weren’t meant to be sold here,” he babbled. “They—they were a special order. High Fae, strong magic, rare gifts—the kind that fetch a fortune, the kind he wants—”

Azriel and Nyra exchanged a glance.

The kind Koschei wanted.

The Deathless One. The sorcerer trapped across the sea.

The last time he had reached into Prythian, he had nearly stolen Elain.

Now it seemed he had not given up on acquiring Fae for whatever dark purpose he intended.

Nyra leaned closer, her presence pressing down on the trembling slaver.

“Who else knows?”

The male shook his head wildly. “Just the handlers—the buyers. I swear, I swear, I don’t know anything else—”

Nyra studied him for a long moment.

Then, with a whisper-soft voice, she said, “Go to sleep.”

The slaver slumped forward, lifeless.

Azriel had seen her kill before. Had witnessed her cut down men in seconds.

But this?

This was something else.

She had simply… commanded it. Ended him.

He let out a slow breath, watching as she rose to her feet, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Their gazes met.

“We have a problem,” she said simply.

Azriel nodded, forcing himself to push past what he had just seen—past the way his shadows still stirred, still recognized something in her that they had never found before.

“Yes,” he agreed. “We do.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, Azriel felt something like dread coiling in his chest.

Because Koschei was reaching for Prythian again.

And Nyra?

Nyra was standing in his way.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Nyra turned away from the slaver’s corpse without a second glance. The weight of what they had just learned hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating, but she had no time to dwell on it.

Her voice was cold, unwavering. “Take the victims to Thesan.”

The Veils immediately snapped to attention, their discipline honed to perfection. They moved swiftly, guiding the shaken survivors toward the hidden paths that would take them to safety.

Nyra had long since established a silent agreement with the Dawn Court’s High Lord. Thesan’s healers would tend to them. He would find them shelter.

She had saved them. Now he would restore them.

Azriel barely heard the quiet shuffle of Veils moving past him—barely registered anything but the female now standing before him.

She was still. Too still.

The shadows still clung to her, whispering against her skin, just as his own shadows coiled around him, mirroring them.

Nyra turned then, those pale green eyes locking onto him with quiet calculation.

“You have questions,” she said smoothly.

It was not an assumption. It was a fact.

Azriel clenched his jaw, but he did not deny it.

His mind was still replaying the moment she had ended that slaver with nothing but her voice. The way the shadows had obeyed her, not just cloaking her in darkness but becoming something more.

Not just tools. Not just a part of her magic.

Something alive.

His own shadows stirred uneasily. As if they, too, had recognized something in her that they could not explain.

“You command them,” he finally said. “Not just wield them. Not just use them as a shield. They listen to you like they would a—”

“A master?” Nyra mused, one silver brow arching in amusement. “No. Not a master. A mirror.”

Azriel stared at her.

“You think they follow me because I force them?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Shadows are not like fire or wind. They cannot be controlled. They can only be understood.”

Azriel knew this. Had always known this.

His own shadows did not listen to him because he ordered them to. They listened because they chose to. Because they trusted him.

And yet, the way Nyra’s shadows reacted to her—

It was different.

She exhaled softly, stepping closer. “And what of you, Shadowsinger? Have they never whispered to you of what I am?”

His throat tightened.

Because they had.

They had not feared her. Had not recoiled from her.

They had reached for her.

Azriel’s voice was quiet, measured. “What are you?”

Nyra’s lips curved into something not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“I could ask the same of you.”

His chest tightened.

Because wasn’t that the truth of it?

For years, he had lived as an anomaly. A bastard with shadows clinging to his skin, whispering to him, a power not even his High Lord could explain.

He had been the only one.

Until her.

Nyra turned her gaze skyward for a moment, as if considering how much to say, before finally speaking.

“I was born with them,” she admitted. “Not learned, not trained. They have always been with me. Always been a part of me.”

Azriel’s heartbeat stuttered.

Born with them. Not gifted. Not stolen. Not learned.

Like him.

Nyra tilted her head slightly. “And you, Shadowsinger? Were you not the same?”

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Because he had never spoken of it—had never explained to anyone that his shadows had been with him since birth, even before he could walk, before he could speak.

The dungeons of his father’s estate had been black.

But he had never truly been alone.

And now—now—he was looking at someone who understood that truth better than anyone ever had.

Azriel swallowed hard, something twisting deep in his chest.

A feeling he did not understand.

Nyra watched him carefully before letting out a small, amused sigh. “You don’t like unanswered questions, do you?”

He only stared.

She took another step closer, their shadows melding between them, dancing in the space that separated them.

“You may be Death’s Shadow,” she murmured, voice smooth as silk.

The darkness hummed between them.

“But I am Night Incarnate.”

Azriel had no words.

Because in that moment, he believed it.

The world recognized her power.

And now, so did he.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The silence stretched between them, thick with the remnants of power, the weight of what they had uncovered about Koschei’s plans—and the ghosts of what they had done in her office.

Azriel felt it.

Like a brand seared into his very bones, a memory not just of touch but of possession.

Because that was what it had felt like.

Like she had taken him apart. Like she had unraveled him thread by thread and remade him with nothing but her mouth, her hands, the devastating command of her presence.

He had never—never—felt anything like that.

And now, standing before her, that memory coiled tight within him, mixing with the hum of their merging shadows and the tension of Koschei’s growing reach… it was unbearable.

She was Night—not just the darkness, but the stars within it. The stillness and the chaos, the cold silence and the burning fire of a thousand distant suns.

And he?

Azriel clenched his jaw.

He was Death’s Shadow, forged in the dark, honed by pain and purpose.

But standing before her, his shadows whispered not of battle, not of violence, but of something else entirely.

Of inevitability.

Nyra’s gaze didn’t waver.

She knew. Of course, she knew.

Her voice was smooth, unreadable. “You are thinking about what we learned tonight.”

It was not a question.

Azriel’s hazel eyes flickered to her mouth—traitorous, treacherous thing that it was—before forcing himself to nod.

But Nyra saw it.

And she let him stew in it, let him choke on it.

She tilted her head, that knowing, taunting smirk playing at her lips. “Or is that not what’s troubling you?”

Azriel hated how easily she could unearth his buried thoughts.

He forced himself to shift his focus. “Koschei is making his move. The fact that they were taking the captives to him means he is—”

“—growing bolder,” Nyra finished, the sharp amusement fading from her voice.

For a moment, she looked past him, her green eyes distant, unreadable.

The weight of it settled between them.

Because Koschei wasn’t just a threat. He was a force. A being of pure malice, older than even the oldest of their kind.

And now, for the first time in centuries, he was reaching toward Prythian.

Azriel knew what that meant. Knew what war could look like.

And yet—

His gaze slid back to Nyra, to the raw, searing power that hummed beneath her skin, to the way the very night seemed to pulse in her presence.

She was not just shadows.

She was starlight, too.

That same power that had burned beneath her skin when she had been on her knees before him, when his hands had tangled in that moon-white hair, when she had pulled him apart with such devastating ease—

Azriel’s fingers twitched at his sides.

His own shadows curled toward her, desperate, aching, as if they were seeking something they had been missing all along.

Nyra arched a delicate brow. “You’re still distracted.”

Azriel exhaled sharply, forcing the thoughts away, shoving them into that deep, locked place in his mind.

“We need to know more,” he said instead. “Koschei’s exact movements, his alliances. This means he has contacts in Prythian willing to smuggle people to him.”

Nyra nodded slowly, eyes dark with contemplation. “I will have my spies investigate further. We’ll see who in this court is bold—or foolish—enough to make a deal with a deathless god.”

Her voice was pure steel, but he caught the flicker in her expression.

Something deeper.

Something personal.

“You’ve encountered him before,” Azriel said, carefully watching her.

A flicker of emotion crossed her face—too fast to decipher.

And then it was gone, buried beneath that unshakable calm. “I know his kind,” she said simply. “He is power unchecked. Power that has festered in the dark for too long.”

Like her.

Azriel knew that was what she wasn’t saying.

And perhaps that was the thing that terrified both of them.

Because if the world saw him as Death’s Shadow, then the world saw her as Night Incarnate.

But Azriel had come to realize something tonight, something that made the tension between them all the more unbearable.

Nyra was not just Night.

She was the balance of it.

She was the cold, endless dark, but she was also the flickering light within it. The hope amidst the abyss.

She was the thing that could swallow him whole—and the only thing that could ever bring him back.

And that was the true danger.

Not Koschei. Not this war brewing on the horizon.

But her.

Because Azriel had never feared the dark.

But he was beginning to fear what would happen if he let himself step fully into her orbit.

And the most dangerous part?

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to resist.

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Azriel stared at Nyra, at the way her starlit power flickered in her gaze, at the way her shadows curled around her like living things. Even now, after everything—the mission, the brutal truth they had uncovered about Koschei’s growing influence, the unspoken tension between them—she stood there, steady and unshaken.

“Go,” she said quietly, her voice laced with something unreadable. “You need to tell Rhysand.”

Azriel didn’t move. Not immediately.

Because for all the orders he had obeyed in his life, all the commands he had carried out without hesitation—this one? Leaving her?

His shadows whispered against hers, unwilling to part.

And Nyra…

Nyra just watched him, something flickering in those pale green eyes.

“Azriel,” she said, softer this time, as if she knew what he was feeling.

And of course, she did.

She always did.

She took a single step closer, tilting her head up to him, their bodies close enough that he could feel her warmth, could inhale the intoxicating scent of dark cherries and lilac.

For a moment, he thought she might say something else.

But she didn’t.

Instead, Nyra leaned in—

And pressed a kiss to his cheek.

A gentle thing. A fleeting, devastating thing.

It was nothing like the hunger that had burned between them before. Nothing like the storm of hands and mouths and shadow-laced pleasure that had left him wrecked and undone.

This?

This was worse.

Because it was soft.

Because it held something else, something more—something that curled deep inside of him and refused to let go.

And then—

She vanished.

Swallowed by darkness. A whisper of shadows and starlight, dissipating into the night.

Azriel stood there, staring at the empty space where she had been.

His cheek burned.

His chest ached.

And the words she had spoken—Go. You need to tell Rhysand.—felt heavier than they should have.

Because he didn’t want to.

Didn’t want to leave.

Didn’t want to return to Velaris, to the inevitable discussions of war and strategy and orders.

Didn’t want to return to a world where he and Nyra weren’t tangled in the same breath, the same dark, consuming pull.

But he had to.

So Azriel forced himself to take a breath, forced himself to turn away, even as his shadows curled toward where she had disappeared—searching, reaching.

And failing.

Because she was gone.

And the only thing she had left behind was the ghost of her lips on his skin.

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Azriel forced his body into motion, slipping into the sky with powerful beats of his wings, but the tension coiling inside him refused to fade. The night air was crisp, the stars above unyielding in their cold beauty, yet he felt none of it.

His mind was a storm—Nyra’s voice, her power, the knowledge they had uncovered about Koschei and his expanding influence. But more than that, more than all of it, was the memory of her lips on his cheek.

A single, fleeting moment that refused to leave him.

That kiss—soft, gentle, entirely unlike the way she had torn him apart the night before.

Azriel clenched his jaw. This was not the time for distraction.

His duty was clear. He had to return to Velaris, tell Rhys what they had learned. Koschei had agents working within Prythian, actively abducting Fae to transport across the sea. This was no longer just a whispered threat—it was happening, right under their noses.

Yet, even with that knowledge driving him forward, his shadows curled and twisted in agitation, as if they, too, felt the absence of Nyra.

She had told him to leave.

Had told him to return to his High Lord and report what they learned.

But she hadn’t said when she would see him again.

Would she?

The thought shouldn’t have unsettled him the way it did.

But it did.

By the time Velaris’ glowing lights appeared in the distance, Azriel had barely managed to leash the frustration simmering beneath his skin. He needed to be composed, rational. He was a spymaster. A warrior.

And yet…

As his boots touched down on the familiar balcony of the River House, as he strode inside and found Rhysand waiting for him in the study, that storm inside him only grew.

Rhys lifted a brow at his entrance, already sensing his mood. Of course he did.

“You’re late,” Rhys said smoothly, pouring himself a glass of wine. He didn’t offer Azriel one.

“I had… complications.”

Rhys looked up then, his violet eyes sharp with curiosity. “Complications?”

Azriel exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Nyra interrogated one of the slavers before killing him.”

Rhys stilled.

Azriel continued, his voice low, edged with the lingering echoes of Nyra’s power. “They weren’t just taking Fae for profit. They were taking them for Koschei.”

Rhys’s entire demeanor shifted.

The lazy, amused High Lord vanished, replaced by the lethal warrior beneath.

“When?” Rhys asked, his voice deathly quiet.

“Tonight. They were meant to be transported across the sea within the week.”

Rhys muttered a curse, pacing behind his desk, his jaw tight. “Koschei is making his move sooner than we thought.”

Azriel nodded, already anticipating the next question.

“And Nyra?” Rhys asked, his tone unreadable.

Azriel’s stomach tightened.

“She sent the victims to Thesan,” he said carefully. “She’s already moving on the next piece of the puzzle.”

Rhys huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Of course she is.” Then, after a pause, he pinned Azriel with a sharp look. “And you? You seem… distracted.”

Azriel stilled.

Rhys’s voice was far too knowing. Too perceptive.

He had already seen the way Azriel’s shadows had shifted in Nyra’s presence. He had sensed it, that strange magnetic pull.

Azriel clenched his jaw. “I’m fine.”

Rhys smirked. “Are you?”

Azriel didn’t respond.

Because if he did, if he so much as let one word slip—

He wasn’t sure if he could stop.

Rhys only laughed under his breath. “I suppose we’ll see.”

Azriel said nothing.

Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, his shadows swirling around him in restless agitation.

Because even now, even here—

Even with war on the horizon—

All he could think about was her.

Nyra.

And the way her darkness had felt like home.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The shadows of the forest stirred. Not with fear. No, the trees here had long since learned that what lurked in their depths was far older, far darker than the mere beasts that roamed the land.

Nyra moved through the quiet night like a whisper, her long coat billowing around her, starlight flickering over her fingertips as she approached the place where Bryaxis usually dwelled.

She didn’t have to look too hard.

It was already watching her.

A presence of ink-black void shifted in the trees, a whispering mass of darkness deeper than any shadow, pulsing like the living embodiment of fear itself.

Nyra only smiled.

“Well, my friend,” she murmured, tilting her head as she stopped a few feet away from where Bryaxis loomed, “I think it’s possible I’ll have to ask for your assistance soon.”

The shadows around her rippled.

A sound—not quite a voice, not quite words—echoed in her mind. A question.

Nyra chuckled, crossing her arms. “Don’t worry,” she assured, her pale green eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I’ve got a good story as payment for that.”

The darkness shivered.

Anticipation. Amusement.

Perhaps even delight.

Bryaxis had long since learned that Nyra never disappointed when it came to her stories.

And tonight, oh… tonight, she had quite the tale to tell.

Because something was shifting.

Something was coming.

And soon, the world would learn what it truly meant to call her Night Incarnate.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The morning light filtered through the massive windows of the River House dining room, casting golden hues over the long wooden table where the Inner Circle had gathered for breakfast. The scent of fresh bread, spiced meats, and strong tea filled the air, but there was an undercurrent of tension lingering beneath the usual morning conversations.

Rhysand sat at the head of the table, his violet eyes sharp despite the easy smirk playing at his lips. He knew what was coming.

Feyre sat beside him, her gaze shifting between her mate and Azriel, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since he arrived. Cassian, already halfway through a plate piled high with food, barely noticed the shift in mood—until Nesta, sitting beside him, nudged his leg under the table.

Across from them, Mor sipped her tea, her golden-brown eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Azriel. Amren merely raised a brow, waiting.

Elain, seated between Feyre and Mor, glanced at Azriel curiously, sensing the tension but unsure of its source.

Rhysand leaned back in his chair and finally spoke, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

“Azriel,” he said smoothly, swirling the tea in his cup, “why don’t you tell everyone what you learned last night?”

Azriel, who had been staring at his untouched plate, slowly lifted his gaze. He could feel all their eyes on him. Some expectant, some curious. Some suspicious.

He knew they didn’t yet realize where he had been.

Who he had been with.

Azriel set down his fork, his voice steady, though his mind still reeled from the events of the night before.

“The mission wasn’t what we thought it was,” he began. “The Fae we were meant to rescue weren’t just prisoners of slavers. They were meant to be transported—sent to the Continent.”

Feyre frowned. “To where?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. “Koschei.”

A ripple of unease swept through the table.

Cassian’s easy demeanor hardened. Nesta’s brows pulled together in thought. Amren’s silver eyes glinted with something sharp.

Mor, however, stiffened, her hand tightening slightly on her cup.

Elain let out a quiet breath, looking down at her plate, as if the mention of Koschei brought his eyes back upon her.

Rhysand’s smirk faded. “You’re certain?”

Azriel nodded once. “One of the slavers confirmed it before he died. The prisoners were not just ordinary captives—they were specifically chosen. Some Fae with rare abilities. Some with magic that Koschei could use. And they were set to be transported soon.”

A silence stretched over the table, heavy, weighted.

Nesta was the first to speak. “And how do we know this information is reliable?”

Azriel met her gaze. “Because I saw her extract it myself.”

Feyre straightened slightly. “Her?”

Azriel hesitated for only a fraction of a second before answering. “Nyra.”

A shift. A realization.

The moment the name left his mouth, the room seemed to still.

Mor froze, her lips parting slightly, as if she hadn’t expected to hear that name from his mouth. Cassian looked between Azriel and Rhysand, brows raised. Nesta and Amren merely observed, unreadable.

Elain blinked, then glanced down at her tea, fingers curling slightly.

Rhysand, the only one unsurprised, merely leaned forward on his elbows, watching.

Feyre cleared her throat, cautiously curious. “You worked with Nyra on this?”

Azriel nodded. “I was there when she and her Veils took the slaver’s operation apart.”

Mor’s tone was sharp. “And you just… let her do her thing?”

Azriel’s hazel eyes flicked to her, steady. “Nyra got the information we needed. Efficiently.”

Mor’s lips pressed together.

Nesta snorted, unimpressed with Mor’s obvious disdain. “Well, if she’s the one who got the information, then I’d say she knows what she’s doing.”

Cassian exhaled, rubbing his face. “Shit. Koschei’s actually making a move, then. This isn’t just some scattered rumor anymore.”

Amren swirled the wine in her goblet, though she hadn’t yet taken a sip. “And yet, I wonder… how did Nyra know about this mission before we did?”

Azriel stilled.

Rhysand’s violet gaze gleamed. “That is a very good question.”

Azriel chose his words carefully. “She has eyes and ears in places we don’t.”

Amren hummed. “Or she is willing to go where we won’t.”

Silence.

Azriel didn’t argue. Because Amren was right.

Rhysand exhaled, sitting back once more. “Regardless, we now have confirmation that Koschei is making moves, and that his reach is extending beyond the Continent.” His eyes flicked to Feyre. “We’ll need to start planning. If he’s targeting Fae for their abilities, we need to find out who else might be in danger.”

Feyre nodded. “And warn them.”

Azriel knew the conversation would shift to strategy, to defenses, to what came next.

But he could still feel the weight of Mor’s gaze on him. The flicker of uncertainty in Feyre’s expression. The calculating look in Amren’s silver eyes.

And Rhysand?

Rhysand was just watching him.

Because they all knew.

Whether or not they wanted to admit it.

Azriel hadn’t just worked with Nyra last night.

He hadn’t just fought alongside her.

He had been in her presence.

And something had shifted.

Something had changed.

And no one—not even Azriel himself—knew what it meant yet.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The golden light of the Dawn Court bathed the grand halls of Thesan’s palace as Nyra stepped through its sunlit corridors, her presence like a shadow cutting through the warmth. The scent of healing herbs and fresh parchment filled the air, a stark contrast to the blood and filth she had waded through the night before.

Thesan was already waiting for her in the vast, open chamber that overlooked the city, his golden-brown eyes sharp with knowing. He always seemed to sense when she was near, as if the light itself whispered of her arrival.

“Nyra,” he greeted, setting aside a scroll on his desk. “I assume this visit isn’t purely social.”

She let out a low, amused breath. “You assume correctly.”

Thesan gestured for her to walk with him, and together they made their way down the marble hallways toward the infirmary.

Nyra didn’t waste time. “Koschei’s reach is growing,” she said. “The slavers we took down last night—they weren’t just selling their victims. They were supplying them. Specifically to Koschei.”

Thesan’s expression darkened, his usual warmth replaced with sharp calculation. “You’re certain?”

Nyra inclined her head. “I made sure before I ended the bastard who confirmed it.”

Thesan sighed, rubbing his temple. “Damn it. If he’s targeting specific individuals, that means he has plans. Larger plans.”

“Which is why I came here.” Nyra turned to him fully. “You need to tighten your security, especially on any Fae in your court with unique abilities. Koschei is choosing his targets carefully. If he wants them, it means they’re valuable—to him, at least.”

Thesan nodded, already slipping into High Lord mode. “I’ll double the guard on those who fit the profile and send word to my scouts to report any unusual activity along our borders. But what about the ones we just saved? Are they at risk?”

They reached the infirmary then, the doors opening to the scent of salves and the soft murmurs of healers tending to the victims they had rescued.

Nyra’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the faces of the freed Fae. Some still bore the shadows of their captivity—haunted eyes, trembling hands. Others looked stronger, as if the moment they had been given a second chance, they clung to it.

As she and Thesan stepped inside, a few heads turned. Recognition flickered in their eyes.

They knew who she was.

Some whispers passed between them. A name was murmured. Veilforged.

Nyra didn’t react outwardly, but she heard it.

A young female, no older than twenty in mortal years, pushed off the cot she had been sitting on. Her dark eyes were filled with something Nyra didn’t expect.

Determination.

“You’re the one who saved us,” the girl said, stepping forward. “You and your Veils.”

Nyra met her gaze evenly. “Yes.”

The girl hesitated only a moment before dropping to one knee—her fist pressed to her heart in an old Illyrian gesture of respect.

“Then let me join you.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. A few others sat up straighter, eyes flicking between Nyra and the kneeling girl.

Nyra tilted her head, watching her carefully. “You just escaped captivity, and now you wish to throw yourself into the shadows?”

The girl lifted her chin. “I saw what you did. What your people did. You didn’t just free us—you eradicated them. The ones who would have sold us. Who would have let us suffer.”

Her voice wavered, but she did not lower her gaze.

“I won’t be a victim again,” she said, her fingers curling into a fist. “If I join you, I can make sure others don’t suffer as I did.”

Nyra’s eyes swept the room. The other victims were watching—listening. Some with the same quiet fire in their eyes.

Thesan, beside her, said nothing. He was letting her decide.

Nyra turned back to the girl. “Veilforged is not a place for revenge,” she said smoothly, her voice calm, measured. “It is a place for justice. For those who wish to fight in the name of the powerless, not for their own vendettas. If you join, you will train. You will bleed. You will work in the shadows and likely never hear a word of gratitude from the people you save.”

The girl didn’t flinch.

“I understand,” she said. “And I still wish to join.”

A pause.

Then Nyra extended a hand, lifting the girl to her feet.

“Then we shall see if you have what it takes.”

A flicker of a smile crossed the girl’s face before she stepped back.

And across the room, Nyra saw others shifting—some exchanging glances. Some considering.

Thesan, watching the scene unfold, murmured under his breath, “I think you just recruited more than one new Veil today.”

Nyra’s lips curled slightly. “So it would seem.”

But beneath her amusement, something colder settled in her chest.

If this many were eager to join the fight…

Then Koschei’s darkness was spreading faster than they realized.

And Veilforged would need to be ready.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Silence settled over the River House dining table like a thick fog after Azriel finished recounting the events of the previous night. The air was heavy—not just with the weight of the information about Koschei’s growing influence, but with something unspoken. Something felt.

Feyre sat back in her chair, brow furrowed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the rim of her teacup. Cassian had gone still beside her, his usual easy smirk absent as he digested what had just been revealed. Nesta, ever unreadable, crossed her arms but remained silent, her steel-colored eyes flickering with something akin to thoughtfulness.

Amren, seated at the head of the table beside Rhysand, was the first to speak. “So, Koschei isn’t just playing his twisted little games from across the sea anymore,” she said flatly. “He’s actively hunting specific fae. Which means he has a plan.”

Rhysand, lounging with calculated ease, tapped a single finger against the armrest of his chair. His violet eyes gleamed with thought. “It would seem so,” he murmured. “And that means we don’t have the luxury of waiting to see what he does next.”

“You think he’s building an army,” Nesta said, voice cool but laced with a dangerous edge.

“Or gathering powerful pawns for something worse,” Mor muttered, swirling the wine in her glass despite the early hour. “He’s smart. Too smart. If he’s been quiet all this time, and now he’s moving? That means he’s already many steps ahead.”

Feyre frowned, looking at Rhys. “We need to figure out exactly what he’s planning. We can’t just prepare for the worst—we need to know.”

Rhys gave her a small, approving nod. Then his gaze flickered back to Azriel. “I assume Nyra shares that sentiment?”

Azriel had been quiet, letting them speak, letting them react. But at that, his hazel eyes lifted. He knew Rhys was asking more than just for a confirmation of Nyra’s plans. He was asking about her.

Azriel’s expression remained unreadable as he said simply, “Yes.”

Rhys didn’t press, but there was something knowing in his gaze.

Cassian, however, leaned forward, brows raised. “Speaking of Nyra—how the hell did you end up going on a mission with her?” He glanced between Azriel and Rhysand. “I thought the plan was to keep our distance.”

Azriel met his brother’s eyes, his voice perfectly level. “She asked.”

Cassian’s brows shot up higher.

Mor nearly choked on her wine. “She asked?”

Nesta, observant as ever, narrowed her gaze. “And you went?”

Azriel merely looked at her.

That was answer enough.

Cassian let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You know, if you weren’t already brooding yourself into the ground, I’d say this is going to be very entertaining to watch.”

Azriel ignored him.

Elain, who had been quiet this whole time, finally spoke, her voice soft but clear. “She’s dangerous.”

It wasn’t a question.

Azriel turned his head toward her, but it was Amren who responded first. “Of course she is, girl.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “The question is, what kind of dangerous? And whether or not she’s someone we should be wary of.”

Silence again.

Rhys, still watching Azriel carefully, tilted his head. “What do you think, Az?”

It was a test. A question weighted with more meaning than it seemed.

Azriel considered for a long moment. The image of Nyra standing in the darkness, her power rolling off her in shadow and starlight, the way her voice had curled with something both beautiful and terrifying as she interrogated that slaver last night—he had seen so many sides of her in such a short time.

And the pull. That damn pull.

But when he spoke, his voice was calm. Certain.

“I think,” Azriel said carefully, “that she is exactly what everyone says she is.”

Rhys arched a brow. “Night Incarnate?”

Azriel didn’t blink. “Yes.”

The words lingered in the air, heavier than before. Because they all knew what that meant now.

She wasn’t just an assassin. She wasn’t just a rebel operating in the shadows. She wasn’t just a mystery wrapped in darkness.

She was something more.

And even the magic of this world recognized it.

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly, as if confirming something to himself.

“We’ll need to discuss our next steps soon,” he said at last. “But for now, let’s keep this between us.” His gaze flickered toward Elain. “That includes you, Elain.”

Elain pursed her lips but gave a small nod.

Cassian huffed, shaking his head. “Mother help us,” he muttered, “I have a feeling things are about to get very interesting.”

And across the table, Azriel simply clenched his jaw.

Because he had the same feeling.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Azriel had just stepped onto the path leading away from the River House when he heard footsteps behind him—light, hesitant. Deliberate.

He didn’t need to turn to know it was Elain.

Still, he stopped, letting out a slow breath before facing her. The morning sun glowed softly against her golden-brown hair, her expression poised, but her fingers twisted together—a nervous tell.

“Elain,” he said, his voice unreadable.

“You’re different,” she said quietly.

Azriel blinked. “What?”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him the way she studied her garden—like she was searching for something beneath the surface.

“You’re…” She hesitated. “There’s something else in your shadows. Something new.”

Azriel’s stomach tightened. Not new. Not really.

It was Nyra. The way his shadows had twined with hers. The way they had lingered in her presence, had seemed to recognize her as something that belonged to them.

The way his own body had responded to her without hesitation.

But Elain couldn’t possibly know that. She wasn’t a shadowsinger. She couldn’t hear them the way he did.

Still, her sharp intuition was undeniable.

“You were with her last night.” It wasn’t a question.

Azriel’s face remained blank. “Yes.”

A flicker of something crossed Elain’s face. “Rhys told me a little about her,” she admitted. “He doesn’t trust her. Not fully.”

Azriel let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Rhys doesn’t trust anyone fully.”

Elain studied him, her throat bobbing slightly before she asked, “And you? Do you trust her?”

He thought of the way Nyra had saved those fae, how she had ordered her Veils to take them to safety instead of keeping them under her command. The way she hadn’t killed that slaver immediately, despite her reputation, despite what he had deserved—because getting information was more important than vengeance.

He thought of how she had let her shadows coil with his in the darkness. Of the pull he had felt since the moment she stepped into his world.

Azriel looked Elain in the eyes and said, “I don’t know.”

She frowned, as if that answer unsettled her more than if he’d said yes or no.

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