#father: azriel

[welcometomeloxia]

[surielstea]

A Warriors Heart

Based on a request.

Pairing: Virgin!Azriel x Virgin!Reader

Summary: Azriel and Reader have been mated for a long time but have yet to act on it. What happens when alone in a house together?

Warnings: Smut | Minors DNI | tender | loss of virginity | fingering | praise kink | creampie

A.Note: Sooo the original request asked for an Experienced!Reader but I was struggling writing a dynamic like that so here’s this, hopefully it’s okay. Also, Rhys and Reader are half-siblings!

6.2k word count.

The house was silent. A rare occurrence. Even when the three Illyrians weren't crowding it with their banter and heavy footsteps, Rhysand's mother's soft humming usually drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the clatter of pots and pans. That noise, that life, filled every corner of our home, like a heartbeat.

But tonight, the silence felt heavier. My brother and Cassian were away on an overnight expedition to another war camp, and Rhysand's mother had been summoned to the Night Court by my father. It was just Azriel and me. Alone.

I had known Azriel was my mate since I was eight years old, the bond threading between us as easily as a ribbon slipping through fingers. I had accidentally accepted it when I was fifteen, too young to understand the weight of what I'd done. We'd made a pact soon after, two awkward teenagers fumbling to make sense of the unshakable connection between us. Friends could be soulmates, we told ourselves. We swore to keep the bond platonic, to navigate it without letting it define us.

But no matter how much I tried to ignore it, the bond shimmered between us like sunlight on a blade, sharp and undeniable. Azriel's protective nature—his tendency to linger closer than necessary, to bristle when someone dared flirt with me—had always been my undoing. And while he could command a room with a single glance, I had no doubt he saw me as nothing more than the sister of his closest friend.

It was why I'd spent the last seven years pulling away, trying to temper the ache that came from unrequited feelings. Even now, with all the years and distance between us, I didn't know how to act when it was just the two of us.

I didn't hear his footsteps. I never did. But his voice, soft and steady, broke the silence as I stirred the stew on the stove.

"Smells good."

I jumped, whirling to find Azriel leaning casually against the doorway, his hazel eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

"Gods," I exhaled, clutching the wooden spoon to my chest like a lifeline. "You have to stop sneaking up on me."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a rare, fleeting thing that made my heart skip. "Can't help it," he replied, shrugging one broad shoulder. "Your reaction is worth it every time."

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stove, determined to ignore the warmth creeping up my neck.

Azriel moved closer, his steps silent, until I could feel the faint heat of him behind me. He leaned in, just enough for his breath to brush the back of my neck as he peered over my shoulder.

"Stop looming," I muttered, swatting at him half-heartedly with the spoon.

He pulled back with a low chuckle, the sound curling in my chest and settling there, stubborn and unrelenting.

As he retreated to the sitting room, I focused on the stew, determined not to let my racing heart betray me. But even with his back turned, I could feel him—his gaze like a tether, steady and unyielding.

I hummed a tune under my breath, one my mother always sang while cooking. The melody was soft and familiar, a distraction from the weight of the quiet house and the man watching me from across the room.

By the time I ladled the stew into bowls, the tension in my chest had coiled tight. I turned, the bowls in hand, and froze.

Azriel was leaning back on the couch, his legs stretched out before him, wings draped lazily over the sides of the cushions. But his eyes were locked on me, dark and burning, as though he could see straight through me.

"Ready," I murmured, more to break the silence than anything, nudging a drawer closed with my hip as I grabbed two sets of silverware.

I set the bowls on the table and slid into my chair, pretending not to notice the way Azriel settled into the seat beside me instead of the one across. The scent of him—night-chilled mist and cedar—washed over me, and I busied myself arranging the utensils just to keep my hands from shaking.

He started eating without a word, and I followed suit, though each bite felt like a struggle under the weight of his presence.

It was almost odd watching him eat food I made, so reminiscent of how mates accept the bond. Even if the tether between us was always at the back of my mind, nights like these brought them front and center as if laid out on the table in front of me.

"Thank you," he said after a few minutes, his voice low. Almost shy.

I glanced at him, startled. "It's no bother," I replied quickly, brushing off the gratitude. "I know you've been training all day. You needed it."

Azriel tilted his head, studying me with a look that made my stomach flip. For a moment, I thought he might argue, but he only nodded and returned to his meal.

"I'll make you breakfast in the morning," he said finally, the promise simple but weighted.

I blinked at him, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "Deal."

We ate in silence after that, though it wasn't uncomfortable. The sound of silverware against bowls filled the space, grounding us. But I couldn't ignore the way his gaze kept flicking toward me like he was holding back something he didn't know how to say.

Finally, I set my spoon down and looked at him directly. "What?"

His lips curved into a faint smirk, the kind that always made my pulse stutter. "Nothing."

"Az," I warned, dragging his name out like a thread.

His smirk deepened, but his eyes softened, the light in them catching like a spark in the dim kitchen. "I missed this. Just the two of us."

Heat crawled up my neck. "Is it so different than when Rhys and Cass are here?"

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "You tell me." He smirks. "You don't usually stare at me so much when they're around."

The words struck something deep, a soft ache I hadn't realized was there. I looked away, focusing on my bowl. "Maybe you just haven't been paying attention."

His wings shifted slightly, a rustle of leather against wood. "I always pay attention." The quiet conviction in his voice made me pause, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. "You seem so busy avoiding me that you don't realize how often I'm watching you."

I dared a glance at him, and the way he was looking at me—like I was something worth watching, worth knowing—stole the breath from my lungs. "Now you just sound obsessed with me," I replied, attempting to keep my tone light.

"And if I am?"

I quickly dropped my gaze, grabbing my spoon like it could anchor me. But the tension in the air didn't ease, and I knew—no matter how many years we'd spent pretending otherwise—that the bond was still there, pulling us closer with every passing moment. "Then I'd tell you to find someone else," I say, my pulse fluttering.

"No," he added casually, "you'd miss me if I wasn't here to keep you company."

I snorted, rolling my eyes to mask the sudden skipping in my chest. "You mean to annoy me, right?"

"Same thing." He grinned, his rare smile brightening his usually stoic face, dimples softening his features and making my stomach knot.

I shook my head, trying not to laugh as I resumed eating. "You're unbelievable."

"C'mon, admit it. You'd be so lonely in this house without me as entertainment." His voice was softer now, and when I glanced at him, his expression had shifted. The teasing was still there, but beneath it was something warm, something real.

I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening again. "I hate to ruin your fantasy but you're not exactly a great source of entertainment."

"Do you want me to be?" he said, and the way his voice dipped sent a shiver down my spine.

We fell back into silence after that, but it wasn't the same quiet as before. This time, the air between us felt charged, every glance and shift of movement loaded with something unspoken.

As we finished our meal, Azriel leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied me. "So, what's for dessert?"

I scoffed at him. "Dessert?"

"Yes, dessert," he said, as though it were obvious. "You cooked dinner, so dessert is next. That's how it works, isn't it?"

I gave him a flat look. "You're awfully demanding for someone who just promised to make me breakfast."

"I like to think of it as balancing the scales," he replied smoothly. "Besides, I'm in the mood for something sweet."

The way he said it made my stomach flip, though I tried to keep my expression neutral. "Well, unless you're planning to bake something yourself, you're out of luck."

He sighed dramatically, resting his chin in his hand. "What a shame. Guess I'll have to settle for your company instead."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," I said, standing to clear the dishes, though I couldn't keep the grin off my face.

"Who said I was flattering you?" he called after me, his voice laced with amusement.

"You can clean up dinner then, I'm going to go read," I say with a taunting smile.

"So I can't have dessert or your company?" He argued as I began retreating down the hall.

"I'll be in my room if you need me, shadow singer."

"Yes, ma'am." But his tone was anything but obedient. I reached my door, and when I glanced back at him, his smirk was firmly in place, his gaze following me like one of his shadows. I entered my room and closed my door with a finalizing shut.

I leaned against the door, letting out a shaky breath. My chest felt tight, the warmth of Azriel's gaze still lingering on my skin. It was always like this with him—subtle, unspoken, charged. And yet, neither of us ever dared to cross that invisible line.

Until tonight, maybe.

The sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen echoed faintly through the house, proof that he had actually listened to me. I smirked to myself, shaking my head as I moved toward my bed.

I plucked my book from my nightstand, letting his gaze and words fizzle away, forcing myself to focus on the story in my hands.

It was hard not to think of him, he was technically a part of me after all. The tether between us was dusty and untouched, but somehow pulsing with life. I hadn't meant to, but I tugged on that bond, and the noise in the kitchen halted entirely.

Before I could weigh the fallout of my actions there was a knock on my door, soft and hesitant.

I slipped from the bed, still clutching my book just for something for my hands to do. I opened the door before I could second guess myself, revealing Azriel leaning against the frame of it. "You finished with the dishes already?" I say with a tilt of my head.

"No, I—you called me in here," He said with a crease in his brow.

"I didn't say anything?" I mutter.

"But you did, the bond," He attempts to explain and I cringe, hating to watch him fumble around this.

"I didn't mean to," I confess with a slight smile.

I stepped back instinctively, letting him into my room before the vulnerability of the moment could choke me. Azriel hesitated at the threshold, his broad frame nearly filling the doorway. His shadows coiled restlessly around his shoulders, mirroring the tension in his jaw. Finally, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

"You didn't mean to," he echoed, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

I shook my head, gripping the book tighter. "I've been doing well, haven't I? Not tugging on it? Not pulling you into something you didn't ask for?"

Azriel's gaze snapped to mine, sharp and unyielding. "Something I didn't ask for?" His wings shifted slightly, the leather whispering in the quiet. "You think I don't feel it, too? That I haven't felt it every day since I was sixteen?"

I blinked, his words striking me like a lightning bolt. He took a step closer, and the air between us charged, crackling with everything we'd been avoiding for years. "You think you're the only one pretending this doesn't exist? That it doesn't rip me apart every time I'm near you?"

The rawness in his tone stole the breath from my lungs. "Az... I didn't know. You—" I swallowed hard. "You've always seemed so controlled, indifferent to it."

He let out a low, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the room. "Because I had to be. Because if I wasn't, I'd—" He stopped himself, dragging a hand through his dark hair. His wings flared slightly as if he was fighting the urge to pace. "You have no idea what you've done to me. And when you pulled on the bond just now, well it's a shock I can even find words despite the aching in my heart."

My heart thundered in my chest, the bond between us humming, alive and insistent. "Azriel," I murmured, barely able to meet his gaze. "I didn't mean to—"

"Stop apologizing," he interrupted, stepping closer again, his hazel eyes burning into mine. "Don't you understand? I want you to pull on it. I want to feel you. To be near you."

My lips parted, but no words came out. He was so close now, his heat wrapping around me like a second skin. The scent of him—cedar and night-chilled mist—was intoxicating, pulling me under, but I was far from drowning.

"I thought you wanted me to ignore it, and I tried my best," he continued, his voice quieter now, trembling with restraint. "But then you went out of your way to keep your distance. And it drove me insane. Do you know how hard it is to love who doesn't feel the same?"

My breath hitched, his confession settling over me like a second bond. "You—what?"

He smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. "Don't make me say it again."

My knees felt weak, my grip on the book tightening to keep from falling. "I thought..." I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping me. "I thought you only tolerated me because of my brother."

Azriel's wings flared again, a sudden, restless movement. "Rhys has nothing to do with this. He never has."

I stared at him, my heart racing, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and hope. "Azriel," I whispered his name a prayer, a plea.

He reached for me then, his hand hesitating before brushing my cheek. His touch was warm, grounding, and the bond between us thrummed in response, a living thing that refused to be ignored.

"I'm done pretending," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "If you don't want this that's fine, I'll distance myself. But if you do—"

I didn't let him finish. I dropped the book, my hands finding the soft material of his shirt as I yanked him closer, crashing my lips to his.

Azriel let out a surprised noise, a deep, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in my stomach. His wings flared wide, his shadows scattering as he kissed me back with a ferocity that stole my breath. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I melted into his warmth, into the strength of him.

I gasped when his lips left mine, trailing down my jaw to the sensitive spot just below my ear. "Just us," he whispered the words sacred, a vow.

"Us," I breathed, threading my fingers into his hair, tugging gently. "Always."

He lifted me then, his hands firm on my thighs as he carried me to the bed. He laid me down gently, his body pressing against mine as he kissed me again, slower this time, reverent.

My hands roamed over him, tracing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his muscles. He shuddered under my touch, his wings trembling as they curled protectively around us.

"I've never—" he murmured against my lips, his voice ragged as I cut him off.

"Neither have I," I whispered, arching into him. "I trust you, Az."

Something in his eyes softened at that, the love and need in them so intense it made my chest ache. Then he kissed me again, and there was no more room for words.

Just us. Just this.

We were a fumbling mess, equally awkward as we were clueless. But I wouldn't have changed anything about it. Because I finally had him, his lips were on mine and his hands held me.

I wrapped my arms around the back of his neck, pulling at the back of his shirt, yanking it up, needing my hands on his bare skin. He pulled away from the kiss to get it over his head, discarding it on my bedroom floor.

His body hovered over mine, his wings curling inward like a shelter, cocooning us in a space where only we existed. My hands roamed the expanse of his bare chest, marveling at the strength there, the warmth that radiated from him. His muscles tensed and relaxed under my touch, a shiver rippling through him as my fingers explored.

He dipped his head, brushing his lips over mine again, this kiss softer, slower. "Are you sure?" he murmured, his voice a low rasp against my mouth. The vulnerability in his hazel eyes made my chest ache.

I cupped his face, smoothing my thumbs over his sharp cheekbones. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life." My voice trembled, but it carried the weight of truth. "It's always been you, Az."

Something in him broke at my words. His forehead dropped to mine, his breath shuddering as he let out a soft laugh, tinged with disbelief. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"I think I've got some idea," I whispered, my hands slipping to the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair.

His lips found mine again, but this time, there was no hesitation, no restraint. His kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against mine as his hands began to explore, sliding down my sides, tentative but firm. Each touch sent a jolt of heat through me, my body arching into him instinctively.

When his hand skimmed under the hem of my nightgown, his fingers tracing the bare skin of my waist, I gasped against his lips. He stilled, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. "Tell me if I—if you need me to stop," he said, his voice a strained whisper.

I shook my head, a soft smile tugging at my lips. "Don't stop. Please, Az."

He exhaled shakily, his hands more confident now as he lifted my nightgown. I helped him pull it off, and he paused to take me in, his gaze sweeping over me like a caress. "You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice filled with awe, as though he couldn't believe this moment was real. His fingers brushed over my collarbone, down to my ribs, and I trembled under his touch.

"You're allowed to touch me," I said softly, my cheeks warming under his intense gaze. "I want you to."

His shadows curled around my wrists, feather-light, as though they couldn't resist the temptation of me either. "You're, soft," he murmured, an uneasiness in his eyes that made me realize why he was so hesitant. I took his hand in mine, running my thumb over a scar.

"Touch me, Az." My voice was a breathless plea as I guided his scarred hand to my covered breast, craving the feel of him everywhere. His breath hitched, but the hesitation in his eyes melted away as his hands explored my sides, fingertips trailing heat over my waist. His thumbs brushed against the underside of my bra, and my breath faltered. He froze, his gaze meeting mine, searching for any sign of doubt.

When he found none, his lips tilted in a barely-there smile, reverence written across his features. He reached behind me, his fingers fumbling with the clasp, his brow furrowing in concentration. When the garment finally slipped free, I flushed, exposed under his gaze.

His wings trembled, his eyes darkening with barely restrained desire. "You're perfect," he whispered, the words soft, as though they were meant for no one but himself.

I swallowed, my heart thundering as I reached for him, pulling him down until our bodies met. The heat of his skin burned against mine, a delicious contrast that sent sparks through every nerve. His lips found my neck, pressing kisses along my skin that grew wetter and hotter as he made his way down. My head fell back as he trailed lower, his mouth closing over my breast.

A soft cry escaped me, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly. He froze, pulling back just enough to look at me, concern flickering across his features. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," I whispered, my voice shaky but insistent. "It—it feels good, Az."

Relief flooded his expression, and his lips curved into a small, teasing smirk. "Good," he murmured before returning to his task, his tongue flicking experimentally, his teeth grazing gently as he learned what made me gasp and arch into him.

My hands explored the expanse of his back, the muscles beneath his skin flexing and rippling under my touch. I dragged my fingers lower, to the base of his wings, earning a low groan from him that vibrated through my chest.

"You're sensitive there," I noted, a teasing lilt to my voice.

He let out a shaky laugh, his breath fanning across my skin. "You have no idea."

I grinned but left the spot alone for now, my hands sliding to his shoulders to pull him back up. Our lips met again, his tongue brushing against mine, tasting me, exploring me. His kiss was consuming, and I let myself sink into it, reveling in the way he took control, how he kissed as though he'd waited lifetimes for this.

I trailed my hands down his chest, my fingers mapping every ridge and dip of muscle until I reached the waistband of his pants. My hand slipped beneath the fabric, but his scarred fingers covered mine, halting my movements.

"Are you sure?" His voice was hoarse, his forehead pressed against mine, his breathing uneven.

"Yes," I murmured, one hand tugging gently on his hair to pull him closer. "I want all of you, Azriel. I've always wanted you."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his eyes stealing my breath. "It'll hurt," he warned softly, his voice laced with worry.

"I know," I said, cupping his cheek with one hand, my thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw. "But every time after this will be perfect," I added, a quiet promise in my voice.

His eyes softened, a flicker of something unspoken passing between us. He exhaled deeply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Every time after this," he echoed, his tone laced with awe.

Still, his hand didn't release mine. "We have to get you ready first," he said, his voice gentler now, the determination in his gaze sending a thrill through me.

My face burned, but I nodded, moving my hand to his shoulder and digging my nails into his back as he slid my panties down my thighs. The cool air kissed my heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of his touch.

He started slow, his fingers sliding through my folds, teasing, testing. My hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more, but he gripped my thigh with his free hand, holding me in place.

"Azriel," I breathed, his name leaving my lips like a prayer.

"Here?" His voice was dark, teasing, as his thumb circled my clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through me.

"Yes—there," I gasped, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, desperate to stifle the noises spilling from me, but his shadows coiled around my wrist, pulling my hand away and pinning it above my head.

"No, love," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "I'm done imagining what you sound like screaming my name." His breath ghosted over my skin as he pressed a kiss to my neck, finding the sensitive spot that made my body tremble. "Let me hear you," he uttered, his voice rough with desire.

A shaky exhale escaped me, and when he slipped a finger inside me, crossing a line that sent a burst of pleasure through my body, I did exactly as he'd imagined.

"Azriel," I moaned, my head tilting back into the pillows.

"That's my girl," he praised, the words making me clench around him.

His scarred fingers moved in a slow rhythm, in and out, each stroke deliberate, teasing. I could feel myself unraveling, the tension building in my core threatening to snap.

"I—I'm close," I whimpered, my voice barely audible.

"I know," he whispered against my neck, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin.

His shadows tightened their hold, pinning me further into the mattress as he placed his thumb on my clit, circling it hard. His mouth returned to my breast, his tongue working in tandem with his fingers.

Pleasure surged through me, and I cried out his name again, my legs trembling as he pushed me closer to the edge.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice like velvet, thick with want. "Let go for me, love."

And I did.

The tension snapped, and I shattered beneath him, pleasure crashing over me in waves. My body arched into his touch, and his name spilled from my lips in a breathless chant. He slowed his movements, coaxing me through it, his lips pressing gentle kisses to my skin.

When I finally came down, my chest heaving, I opened my eyes to find him watching me, his expression raw, reverent.

"My girl," he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion.

I reached for him, pulling him down until his forehead pressed against mine. "Azriel," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I'm ready."

His jaw tightened, eyes flicking over me once more but he nodded. His eyes didn't leave mine as he removed his pants and everything beneath it.

He hovered above me, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths as he shed the last of his clothing. My gaze followed the lines of his body, drinking in the powerful, carved planes of him. Shadows danced across his golden skin, softening the hard edges, but nothing could diminish the raw, unyielding strength that he carried.

"I've waited for this," he said finally, his voice hoarse. "For you."

Emotion swelled in my chest, tangling with the heat that still coursed through me. I placed my hand over his, pressing his palm more firmly against my face. "Then take me, Azriel. I'm yours."

Something broke in him then, the raw vulnerability in his gaze giving way to a feral hunger. He lowered himself onto his elbows, caging me beneath him. His wings flared slightly, a protective shroud as his forehead pressed to mine.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, his voice softening as his lips brushed mine. "I'll stop if you ask me to."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. He kissed me then, slow and tender, as though sealing a promise.

When he positioned himself at my entrance, his gaze found mine again. His wings quivered as he asked one last, silent question. I answered by wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

The first press of him was exquisite—a stretch that burned but didn't break. My breath hitched, and Azriel froze, his hand gripping my hip as though anchoring himself.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Yes," I said, my hands finding the base of his wings, the sensitive area so soft beneath my touch. I stroked gently, hoping to soothe the tension coiling in his body. "Keep going."

He nodded, his jaw clenched as he eased into me, inch by torturous inch. My body adjusted to him, the burn fading into a fullness that made my breath catch. Azriel buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

"Gods," he groaned, his voice breaking. "So fuckin' good."

I tightened my hold on him, my fingers slipping into his hair as I whispered, "Please, more."

He sunk in further, and once I was certain I couldn't take anymore he pushed in another inch. I moaned into his shoulder, relishing the burn of it, the pleasurable pain that sent me spiraling. Deeper, so deep. I lost words as he finally bottomed out, his hips meeting mine.

Tears shone in my eyes but I didn't tell him to stop, didn't want him to. It took me a moment to adjust, to so much as catch my breath. He lifted one of my legs up, shadows tethering it there, allowing the foreign stretch to lessen.

"Okay," I say shakily. "Mm, you can move." I nod, placing my hands on his shoulders.

He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, telling me he was here if I wanted him to stop. Then, he began to move, slow and steady, his hips rolling in a rhythm that built a delicious friction between us. Each thrust was deliberate, controlled, as though he was determined to make me feel every moment of my very insides molding to him, fitting around him and only him.

The pain faded entirely, replaced by waves of pleasure that built with every movement. I moaned his name, my nails digging into his back as he drove deeper, his wings trembling on either side of us.

"Look at me," he rasped, lifting his head. His eyes burned, molten with desire and something deeper, something that made my heart ache. "I want to see you."

I met his gaze, unable to look away as he moved inside me, his name spilling from my lips like a prayer. The connection between us deepened, an unspoken bond that seemed to tighten with every thrust, every shared breath.

Azriel's hips maintained their slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending a delicious ripple of heat through my body. His wings trembled above us, shadows curling and twisting around my raised leg, holding me in place. The stretch still burned faintly, but it was a sweet ache, one that was quickly drowned out by the mounting pleasure.

“You're so tight," Azriel groaned, his voice hoarse, breaking on the words. His hand came up to cradle my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lips. "So perfect for me."

I whimpered, my chest heaving as I struggled to keep my eyes locked on his. It was hard—gods, it was so hard when he was staring at me like that, his hazel gaze molten, filled with a hunger that set me ablaze.

"Az," I breathed, his name a plea I didn't fully understand myself.

"What do you need, love?" he rasped, lowering his forehead to mine. His breath mingled with mine, his lips brushing against my mouth but never pressing fully. "Tell me. I'll give you anything."

I couldn't find the words, so I arched into him, my nails dragging down his back, the feeling of his muscles tensing beneath my hands enough to make me shiver. He groaned low in his throat, his hips stuttering before he caught himself, slowing once again.

"Careful," he murmured, his lips ghosting over my jaw. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," I managed, my voice trembling as his next thrust hit something deeper, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through me. I gasped, my fingers tightening in his hair.

Azriel's smirk was dark, dangerous. "There?"

I nodded, unable to do much more than whimper as he shifted his angle slightly, rolling his hips in a way that made my entire body arch off the mattress. The pleasure was overwhelming, a slow, torturous build that had me teetering on the edge without ever quite falling over. "Faster," I begged, needing him to abuse the spot.

He did as told, quickening his pace, learning what made me gasp, what made my nails bite into his skin. His shadows curled around me, their cool touch a stark contrast to the heat of our bodies. They skimmed my sides, my thighs, whispering over my skin like a lover's caress.

"So beautiful," Azriel murmured, his voice filled with reverence. He dipped his head, his lips brushing over my collarbone, then lower, until his mouth closed over my breast yet again.

I cried out, my back arching as his tongue flicked over my sensitive peak. He lavished attention on me, his hand coming up to knead the other breast, his thumb teasing the hardened peak.

"Azriel," I moaned, my hands roaming over his back, his shoulders, desperate to anchor myself as he continued his slow, torturous rhythm.

"Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough as he nipped at the delicate skin of my chest.

"Azriel," I whimpered, my voice breaking on his name.

He groaned, his hips snapping harder against mine. The sudden force sent a shockwave through me, pleasure and pain twining together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"Good girl," he murmured, his lips trailing back up to my neck, finding that sensitive spot beneath my ear that made me shiver. "You take me so well."

I couldn't respond, couldn't think past the way he filled me, the way his body moved against mine. My free leg tightened around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

Azriel's pace quickened further, just slightly, enough to make my breath catch. His wings flared, the powerful appendages framing us, blocking out the world until there was nothing but him.

"Gods," he groaned, his voice breaking as he buried himself deeper, his hands gripping my hips so tightly I was sure there would be bruises. "You're going to ruin me, love."

I cupped his face, bringing his lips to mine in a searing kiss. He kissed me harder, his movements growing more desperate.

His pace grew more erratic, his hips snapping into mine with an urgency that sent waves of pleasure crashing through me. His ministrations worked me mercilessly, every thrust pushing me higher until I felt like I might break apart entirely.

"Azriel," I gasped, my voice trembling as my nails raked down his back, desperate to ground myself against the storm building inside me.

His lips brushed my ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Let go, love," he rasped. "I've got you."

His words were my undoing. The coil inside me snapped, and I shattered, my body arching off the bed as the pleasure tore through me. I cried out his name, gripping his shoulders as the waves rippled over me, again and again.

"Fuck," Azriel groaned, his thrusts faltering as my body clenched tightly around him. I felt him tremble above me, his restraint slipping with every broken sound that left his lips.

Through the haze of pleasure, I reached for his wings, running my fingers along the sensitive ridges where they flared above us. His reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, his entire body shuddering.

"Gods," he ground out, his head dropping to my shoulder as I stroked the base of his wings, teasing the place I knew would unravel him completely. His hips snapped forward, deeper this time, and the broken groan that spilled from him sent another thrill through me.

"Az," I whispered, pulling him closer, my lips brushing his ear. "Inside.."

His head shot up, his molten gaze locking with mine as he searched my face. His jaw clenched, his restraint hanging by a thread as he rasped, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I breathed, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him down to me. "I want all of you, Azriel."

The last thread of his control snapped. With a low growl, he buried himself inside me to the hilt, his wings flaring wide as his release took him. His body tensed, a shuddering groan spilling from his lips as he gave me everything. I held him tightly, my hands stroking the base of his wings as he rode out his climax, his hips jerking with the aftershocks.

"Gods," he whispered hoarsely, his forehead pressing against mine as he struggled to catch his breath. "You're everything, love."

I smiled softly, brushing a strand of dark hair from his damp forehead. "And you're mine," I whispered, my voice steady despite the emotion swelling in my chest.

Azriel's lips found mine in a kiss so tender, so reverent, that it stole the breath from my lungs. He stayed inside me, his body pressed tightly to mine, as though he couldn't bear to let go just yet. And I didn't want him to.

Not now. Not ever.

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[alicenchanted]

My request is set during the first century of the batboys' lives. The High Lord at the time is mad at some anonymous author who had gotten extremely popular under her pen name (gender ambiguous) and her stories were being performed across courts but in her latest story she introduced a character who was a caricature of the high lord and it criticized his politics in a satirical manner so he asked Azriel to hunt the person down and bring them to him. He does find her and she charms him, she already was fond of her works and now he has a full-on crush and desperately wants to save her.

Court of Scandal

Part 1 | An Introduction | Azriel X Illyrian!F!Reader

Summary: Anonymously printed papers have begun circulating through the Night Court, poking fun at the Lords who rule it, and their families. Early in their training and their long fae lives, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel are tasked with finding this Author and snuffing them out before irreparable damage is done to society. But what happens when the writer turns out to be one of the most beautiful women Azriel has has ever met? Love or loyalty is the final question, Dearest Reader.

Word Count: 2,216 words

AN: This request will be broken into multiple parts, likely three. I had so much fun starting it, and I hope you guys love it. I took some liberties with the prompt since I am currently obsessed with Bridgerton. Thank you lovely Anon who submitted it, if there's anything you're not liking please let me know and I'll do my best to fix it in future parts!!

Warnings: There is one gay joke that might be a bit distasteful, but I myself am bisexual and I found it too funny not to include.

Read on Ao3

After Dark, the Velaris Papers

Dearest Readers, allow me to make a first introduction. 

You may call me Thorne, for even Velaris’s most stunning roses have them hidden beneath their petals. 

You may not know me, but as we approach our Great Court’s annual Blood Rite and Socialite Season, you can be certain that I know you.

I would like to inform you of a most interesting update in our Court’s dealings. A new Lord has been appointed to rule the Hewn City. 

Keir, the High Lord’s brother, seems to have earned this title through familial relation alone. The land certainly would not have chosen a Fae so physically disinclined. One must question what qualities, exactly, constitute such a label as ‘High Fae.’ It is this Author’s belief that Keir’s struggle to to keep his flaccid blond hair perfectly coiffed should discriminate him from the species. It is a wonder indeed that such a male could sire a female as beautiful as Morrigan. 

Morrigan has yet to be seen outside of the Hewn City since her father’s coronation, causing all of Velaris to wonder why, exactly, our most wise and cunning Lords have hidden her away. Perhaps Morrigan hides a secret much too hideous for even the leaders of the Night Court to accept. Even so, a fate such as Morrigan’s is a nightmare.

This Author wonders whether or not the whole of Hewn City might come to be called a ‘Court of Nightmares’ under Keir’s rule. Only time will tell.

Yours Truly,

Thorne N. Yrside

~~~

“Yrside… that doesn’t sound like a Night Court name…”

“It’s a fake name you twat.” Morrigan rolled up the thick parchment, smacking Rhysand flat on the head with it. “A pen name. Your-side. ”

“Ohhh.”

“My father is… he is enraged.”

“Sounds about right.”

“No, Rhys,” Morrigan huffed. Her pretty face was warped with worry, frown lines etching into her cheeks. “This isn’t just some little thing that ticked him off. This could be really bad. This isn’t all, whoever this person is has been releasing… I don’t even know what to call them. Plays?”

“Plays?”

“Like the skits the minstrels perform, out in the square. They’re out there in wigs pretending to be ‘Lord Mirror.’ My father is vain yes, but…”

“I guess that sort of rhymes with Keir. There are worse words… Fear, quee-”

“Hush, Rhysand!” Morrigan ducked a blonde head around the corner of the rocky alcove she and Rhys were hidden in, checking for eavesdroppers. “This kind of embarrassment is horrible for my family’s reputation. You have to do something, get Tyrn involved.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, gliding up his forehead and all the way to his fine dark hair. “You want me to talk to the High Lord?”

Morrigan crossed her arms. “Is he not your father?”

“He’s even worse than yours.”

“I doubt it,” she hissed. The words bit off at the end as footsteps echoed through the cavernous hall. 

Rhysand summoned his magic. He dove into the deep recesses of power within himself. Power that would only grow with time. He threw his hand forward, and a thin wall of shadow sealed their little corner. The shield warbled, threatened to dissipate, but it held until the servant passed.

“Whew…” Rhys smiled with pride at the successful show of magic. Morrigan did not smile back. "I'll- I’ll try Mor. For you,” he added.

“You better.” She looked both ways beside the alcove, then hurried out, leaving Rhysand behind.

~~~

“Rhys, you have to see this!” Cassian practically jumped Rhysand as he wandered into his mother’s cabin. “His hair really does look like that!”

Rhys stumbled back out of Cassian’s chokehold, but he peered out the open window. Morrigan was right. A few Illyrians, males that were not allowed in the training ring for their lack of strength, were being chased out from the town square. They laughed, toupees of fake hair falling down to dirty in the street. 

In Cassian’s hand was a pamphlet as well, thick and crisp like the one Morrigan had shown him. Rhysand snatched it from his sweaty palms.

He must have finished training early. With Cassian, they had to keep him in the ring until he was exhausted, or he would be up to no good. It seemed he had enough energy to go snooping around today. 

Rhysand crumpled up the pamphlet, shoving it into a wastebasket.

“Hey!”

“Where did you even get that?”

“They were delivered to Windhaven today,” Cassian said with a shrug. “I gave the kid a coin.”

“What’s wrong?” Azriel asked Rhys, eyes narrowing in concern.

Rhys sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It’s nothing. I guess Mor thinks these pamphlets, these… plays, could be bad news.”

“I doubt it.” Cassian ushered into the kitchen, filling a small bowl up with seconds of whatever Lady Selene had been cooking. It smelled good, but Rhysand had no appetite right now. “It’s just some harmless fun,” Cassian drawled, forcing bowls in front of both his brothers. “Keir deserves it anyways.”

“It’s all harmless fun until it’s not about Keir anymore.” At least Azriel understood. He gave Rhysand a contemplative look. “Have you told your mom? The High Lord?”

“Told me what?” Lady Selene came striding into the kitchen, a bashful looking Eira clinging to her black skirts. 

“Nothing,” Rhysand said quickly. He wasn’t ready to approach this beast quite yet.

The Lady of Night’s eyes narrowed, searching her son’s face, but Rhys kept it a solid mask, blank and apathetic. 

When Rhys did not crack under the pressure of her stare, she turned to a different Illyrian. “Cassian?”

“Don’t look at me,” Cassian said through a mouth full of food.

Her eyes narrowed further, turning to the other. “Azriel?”

Azriel’s shadows froze at her strict attention, his shoulders raising like a disgruntled cat’s.

“Azriel, what should you three be telling me?” Selene questioned more firmly.

Rhysand glared at his brother. He watched Az’s shadows curl and uncurl, nervously fidgeting as he tried to keep his eyes pinned to the floor. Selene’s gaze turned threatening, and Rhys could tell Azriel was about to crack. He reached out to Azriel in his mind, slipping past his meager defenses easily. Shut the fuck up, Az.

Azriel tensed, but it all came pouring out. “Someone handed out anonymous papers in the town square making fun of Keir and his leadership and now the street performers are mocking him.” He took a deep breath, relaxing slightly.

The Lady turned to her son. “Rhys,” Selene snapped. “Don’t you think this is something for me to know? Your father…” she gripped her temples tightly and turned away. 

Rhysand watched her bustle to the stove, stirring the pot of root soup and spooning some into a bowl for his little sister. Eira still hid behind their mom’s skirts, shy around the Illyrian boys. 

“What do we do?” Rhys asked quietly.

“For now,” Selene said, “we wait, and we see what we can hear.”

~~~

Flex up, flex down. 

Now out, and back in. 

Curl, now straight.

Rowena repeated the mantra to herself over and over, flexing her wings in the mirror until her back ached. The skin of her clipped and torn wings had healed over the years, of course, but the weight in her mind had not gone away. Picking up a pen was sometimes the only relief she could find.

A week had passed since visiting the printers in downtown Velaris, and Rowena was still reveling in her success. Windhaven had turned temperate and lovely with the arrival of summer, and through her breezy open window she could hear the anxious chatter of Illyrians down in the dark square. 

Do you think another pamphlet will come tomorrow?

The writer must be from the Hewn City if they dislike Keir.

I haven’t seen a show this riotous since… I don’t even know when.

After Dark seemed a pot of gold waiting to be struck. 

Rowena slipped free a delicate key from around her neck, disentangling it from her black hair and inserting it into the locked drawer beneath her desk. Smooth paper, lightly indented with the friction of a quill, met her fingers. She would need to be fast tonight, and ‘only interested in new community works,’ lest her winnower think her suspicious. At times like these, she longed for the use of her wings. Paying a Fae to winnow her from the mountains into Velaris was not cheap. 

A knock sounded at the landing to her cabin on the hill, and she carefully tucked tonight’s final draft into a small bag. Aeron greeted her with a smile. “Where to today, Miss?”

“Velaris, the Artist’s Quarter.” 

“Oh no, Miss, Velaris is flooded with Darkbringers.”

Rowena cocked her head. Keir had sent soldiers, then. Foolish, now she knew exactly what strings to play when it came to getting under his skin. “Can you leave me by the Sidra? I’ll find my own way in.”

Aeron’s mouth thinned into a line, but he nodded. “Very well… but I’ll require a little extra.”

She dropped his dues, and an extra silver, into his hand, rolling her eyes at his polite smile. 

Wind flooded her ears as he led her into a shadowed portal. She gripped his arm tightly, and Aeron smiled as though he might laugh. She was an Illyrian, built for much harsher methods of travel, yet winnowing still made her sick every time.

They stepped out onto a wide brick walkway, the sparkling bend of the Sidra scenting the air with fresh mist. Aeron bid her goodbye, leaving her to venture through shadow.

Between alleyways and beneath awnings, Rowena scuttled through the heart of the city where Darkbringers indeed patrolled the streets. Their black eyed gazes lingered on male and female alike, even children, searching for the dirty rat they had been ordered to kill. 

Metaphorically kill, she hoped.

Further away from the river. Closer to the print shop. From the main artery to quiet veins. It took several blocks for Rowena to realize that she could still smell mist in the air, despite her growing distance from the Sidra's watery banks. 

The shadows around her seemed tainted with the smell, in fact. And something else, too. Something woodsy. Rowena turned her head, lowering her wings to peer behind her. Nothing. No Darkbringer, no Bloodhound.

She quickened her pace anyway. Rowena cursed herself for not thinking to bring an oil lamp, but then again, it would have brought unwanted attention to her. Not many fae dared to wander the streets right now. The ones who did were drunk out of their minds, and not a threat to Keir’s soldiers. 

Rowena may have been without flight, and not particularly strong, but a writer could be just as much of a danger to the Court as any brute.

“Where are you going?”said a low, quiet voice behind her.

Rowena stopped, drawing in a breath as she willed herself into calm.

“The paint shop,” she said, turning around. “I’m out of oil-sss.” Her words slipped. No Darkbringer stood behind her, no. It was instead the most beautiful male she had ever seen. He was Illyrian, which had her hesitating in her mental compliment, but she could not deny that his face was… quite perfect. 

“The paint shop is the other way,” he said. 

Then he was on to her. His words were a test, to see if she might act a lost fool. But she knew her way around Velaris, every inch of the city, and its people. Except maybe this male. But she would wrack her brain over him later. “I get my paints from Ressina.”

The Illyrian stood up straighter. Four blue siphons glittered along his arm leathers. It took work to earn those, she knew. Four was pretty good. “I didn’t know there were two shops.”

“Well, you don’t seem like the type to concern yourself with such things.”

He bristled, eyes narrowing for a moment, and she felt something cool and spindly brush her arm. The darkness around her had grown… dense. 

“Azriel, where did you go?” A voice called. Rowena recognized it, having heard Cassian’s shouts all across Windhaven. Azriel, the Illyrian was called then. She would do some digging in town. 

“Az, there you are.” Rowena froze as the High Lord’s son approached, instinctively clutching her bag tighter. Tonight’s drafts… no, he wouldn’t possibly know what she carried with her.

But her movements seemed to trigger the interest of the strange, living shadows that had coalesced in the alley. They dipped into her bag, and she pinched it tighter. Azriel watched the movement, noting it. 

“Azriel?” Rhysand asked as he and Cassian caught up with their friend. 

“Who’s she?” Cassian drawled. Even in the stifling darkness, Rowena could see the approving glint in his amber eyes as he surveyed her figure.

“You don’t- ah- need anything then?” Azriel asked, forcing his deep tone into something light and… conversational.

“No,” she wracked her brain in a pause, looking for the least suspicious thing to say. “Thank you for your help, I won’t stay out long.”

The Illyrian nodded, much to the confusion of his friends. As they turned to leave the alley, Rowena glimpsed their wings. Three pairs, all perfectly intact and breathtakingly wide. Hmm. Perhaps tonight’s issue required one more re-write.

Part 2

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Bonus Part — Fin x Reader.

Summary: A reimagining of how things would have gone if Reader had decided she wanted Fin — despite him being her friend’s father.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Heavy on the smut. 18+, minors dni. Some jealous and possessiveness. Mentions of forbidden relationships/affairs. If the choices Reader makes in this are something you’re against, I urge you not to read! 🫶🏻

Rita’s is like no other place you’ve been — or seen — before.

Is this what you’ve missed out on, trapped within the frozen maw of Windhaven? There is no place like this there, of such vibrancy and euphoria. The music, the coloured faelights, the energy — it all makes you feel…on top of the world.

Like there’s life outside the misery you’ve known.

Mor knocks a shot back, grimacing as she slams the empty glass onto the bar. A sudden burst of giggles leaves her as she says, “My father would have my head if he could see me right now. Literally.”

You don’t doubt that for a second, because Mor looks resplendent, not just in her natural beauty, but her joy. She has danced and drank and kissed and danced some more. And seeing her like this…it makes you glad that she convinced you to come out with her tonight.

“My father would have my head, too,” you tell her over the music. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

At that, she rolls her eyes, and she reaches for two more shots. “Here’s to saying fuck the males,” she knocks her glass against yours. “May they all perish.”

You’ll happily drink to that. With the alcohol that has you in its grip, you’re buzzed on thoughts of storming back to Windhaven and confronting all your demons. Confronting anyone and everyone who has ever hurt you and made you feel less than you are. Your father. Lord Devlon. Azriel—

You banish that thought as the liquid slides down your throat with a satisfying burn. You are in Velaris, not Windhaven. A new place with new people, where anything feels possible. The thought is heady and dizzying.

Someone calls Mor’s name, and she glances over her shoulder, her beautiful eyes lighting up again. You truly don’t know how often she’s able to escape the Hewn City and get away to Velaris, but judging by the amount of friends she’s introduced you to tonight, she’s certainly made her mark here.

“Let’s go dance with them!” Mor yells over the music, grabbing your hand.

You think that dancing might be the answer to everything you’ve never known, and so you gladly follow; gladly throw yourself into the thrall of the busy floor.

But that’s when you see him.

Something…some deep power…compels you to look up. Coaxes your eyes to that area a level above, where the city’s VIP guests spend copious amounts of money on copious amounts of alcohol and drink it from their cushy velvet booths. They’re reserved for associates of the High Lord, a not-so-formal place to meet to discuss not-so-casual things.

But none of that matters. There could be an entire circus up there right now, and still all you would notice is — him.

He notices you, too.

The High Lord’s eyes zero in on you from up above. You watch, rooted to the spot, as he takes in the sight of you, from your braided back hair, to your painted face, your dress and the legs exposed by them. He looks like…like he’s finally setting his sights upon an image that was merely fantasy up until now.

He braces his arms on the balustrade. And he just stares.

You want to know what he’s doing here. Whether he’s at Rita’s for business or…or for pleasure. You’ve heard that there are rooms upstairs for people willing to pay the price. Perhaps there’s a lover up there with him somewhere, waiting to explore every last inch of that glorious, sculpted body—

The bleating jealousy that makes your heart twist is…unexpected. And not ideal; not one bit.

He is Rhysand’s father. Things may have been fucked up royally with Azriel, and you may have been burned by the experience — but Fin is Rhysand’s father.

Your friend’s father.

Your friend’s father who has just so happened to help keep you feeling alive these past weeks. With his layers-deep allure, the sweet, sweet words that roll off his tongue. His hospitality, his generosity. His kindness. All of it, you’d attributed to him being a natural charmer, a High Lord who knows precisely what to say, what to do.

It strikes you in that moment — just how much it’s all sunk its way into your bones and made you feel…dangerous.

He watches you like a cat with a mouse. Watches as somebody grabs your hand and yanks you into the tightly knit dancing bodies. The music pulses through you from head to toe, a frenzied tune of strings and keys that somehow come together to create the feeling of being borne aloft. Being on top of the world.

As you become lost to the sensation of dance, you’re glad to forget all your thoughts about Fin. You don’t want to wonder what he’s doing here. You don’t want to imagine what those strong, rough hands might get up to, where they might venture.

You become sandwiched between two males who dance with you in a way that makes you forget your wings were ever stolen. They touch you and touch each other, and you welcome it all, happy to be someone, somewhere, else. At least for a while.

But there’s suddenly a foreign touch to your shoulder. That of a cold, meaty hand that stills your movements and draws your attention. The two males happily slink away and begin grinding on each other, and you spin on the spot to find a tall, stocky male who looks like he punches people in the face for the hell of it.

“Y/N?” He checks, and you nod. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you. Upstairs.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyes searching for Mor and finding her just as she’s following a male and female to a cloaked-off area at the back. That’ll be her occupied for the remainder of the night. You’re officially going solo.

But not for long. Not as the bouncer juts his chin in the direction of the staircase and begins to lead you there. Perhaps it makes you a fool, but you follow without a word.

He pulls back a rope and gestures for you to go on up, and then he’s refastening it behind you and turning back to train a keen eye on the dance floor. It’s purely the alcohol that hits you with enough of an ego to climb those stairs like you belong amongst the chandeliers and velvet booths.

But you look good — amazing, even. You know you do. And looking like this, things like scars and other insecurities seem so trivial. You’ve taken back the right to feel as beautiful as you are. You wear your Illyrian features proudly, and you’re pretty and lithe and graceful—

And your heel catches on the top step of the staircase, almost sending you sprawling to the floor — if not for the warm hand that catches your elbow.

“Easy.” Fin rasps into your ear, setting you steady on your feet.

Your numbed, inebriated senses are not immune to the effect of his voice, it would seem. The deep baritone, rough as jagged rock, pushes its way into your skin, your veins, and spreads far faster than any alcohol could.

“Pardon me, my Lord,” you answer, and you’re unable to shove down the hysterical giggle that claws up your throat. “Fuck, you’re the High Lord.”

He cocks a dark eyebrow. “And you are drunk.”

“The whiskey they serve here is immense.”

“I’ll be sure to extend your compliments to Rita herself.”

Is that, you wonder, who he’s up here meeting? Perhaps the elusive Rita is a close associate of his. Perhaps they do deals in both business and pleasure.

And taking in your fill of the High Lord right now, in a dark button-up shirt and fitted breeches of a slate grey, you would not blame Rita one little bit.

Gods, he’s exquisite. Rhysand may resemble Roza more than he does Fin, but…with two parents of such stunning beauty, it’s no wonder your friend is as handsome as he is.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you make no secret of the way your eyes linger on him. Tonight is dangerous, and you’re enjoying it.

“Nor I, you,” he narrows his gaze down at you. “Imagine my surprise, considering that when I left the palace earlier this evening, you were curled up in the library with a book. And yet, here you are. Wearing…” mahogany eyes take in the short cut of your dress, “…that.”

“Mor surprised me with a visit.”

“My niece ought to be more careful not to press her father’s buttons too much,” a muscle in his chiselled jaw ticks. “And I think you ought to be more careful not to push mine.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Bold. So foolishly bold of you. You’ll regret it once sober, you’re sure. “Was there a particular reason you summoned me up here, my Lord? I was rather enjoying dancing.”

“I noticed. And I’m taking you home.”

“What—”

Before you can even finish the word, Fin’s gripping your elbow again, and darkness sweeps you away.

Being winnowed while drunk is not a fun experience.

You feel the cosmic, air-light step from one place to another. Your stomach lurches, your head spinning. You can barely get a hold of yourself as you cling to Fin and prepare your feet to touch solid ground.

And then the darkness is gone, and you’re back in the toasty, warm glow of the palace’s library. Your knees buckle, trying to drag you to the floor, but Fin keeps you upright.

“What the…” you gawp up at him. “Why did you bring me home?”

He ensures you’re able to stand on your feet before pushing away from you. Doesn’t even look at you as he commands, “Get to bed.”

“I was enjoying myself.”

“Just as those males were enjoying you, too. You’re drunk and you need to sleep it off. Get to bed.”

He strides towards the door, his knuckles white from how hard he grips the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. But sword or no, you refuse to give up so easily.

“No,” you say simply. “I will not.”

Fin stops. Goes still. And then he turns back to you.

His temper is clear on his face, but he doesn’t storm back over like you’re half expecting him to. Instead, his eyes shutter, and he seems to take a deep, soothing breath. When he’s looking at you once more, he flicks his wrist in your direction.

And immediately, gone is the haze of the alcohol.

Immediately, you’re completely lucid, completely steady on your feet. Not a lick of inebriation remains, as if you had, indeed, slept it off.

“Did you just sober me up?” you’re outraged by the mere idea.

“Yes.” Fin admits shamelessly. “Now you won’t fall victim to a hangover in the morning — a favour from me, to you, and I ask you in return to get to bed. And don’t even think about trying to venture back out. I’ll know.”

Your blood boils. And the anger isn’t simply because of your ruined fun, but because…because it stings, the way Fin is treating you with such contempt. Scolding you like you’re little more than a petulant child. He’s been nothing but wonderful since you came to Velaris, and yet now, he speaks to you like…like most of the males back in Windhaven do.

It makes you see red.

“What right have you to dictate how I spend my evening?” you snap. “I was under the impression that my free time is my own, and if I wish to go and get drunk and dance like a fool, that is up to me.”

Cold, beautiful anger hardens Fin’s face. He stalks closer, squeezing the hilt of that sword so, so tightly. “What right have I? This is my home. My city. My court. I am your High Lord, and you choose to behave in such a way when I’ve opened my home to you and offered you refuge? When I’ve given you a place to run to and left my resources at your disposal?”

You rock back on the heels of your feet, staring at him. Every word lands a hit — as good as if he’d nocked them in a bow and fired them right at your heart. It stings. Gods, it stings. You want the careless oblivion of the alcohol back.

Because you grapple daily with the pain, the anxiety, of feeling unwanted. And you…you had begun to think that Fin actually cared for you. Actually enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his.

You’d begun to care about his thoughts and feelings where you were concerned. And begun to believe that it wasn’t just the hospitality and courtesy that he would dole out to any runt on the street.

His eyes seem to track the way your expression changes, your shoulders slump. You swallow. The anger is replaced, simply, by hurt.

“If I am a burden, my Lord, I apologise,” you rasp. “I don’t intend to be one. I appreciate your generosity, and I…I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”

You hope you can keep your tears at bay long enough to escape to your room. You’re pelted with shame, embarrassment, hurt. You step forward and hurry past the High Lord, desperate to book it out of there, to get to bed.

But his hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to a stop. And he says, quietly, “wait.”

That hand on your wrist holds the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

You pin your gaze to the ground, unable to look at Fin. You hear him swallow.

“That isn’t—” his voice is gravelly. “I didn’t mean that.”

You don’t think you can speak. You remain a statue beneath his touch.

But so gently — such a contrast to the whirlwind of his actions before — he’s walking you backwards. Slow and careful. You feel your back hit the wall, and he lets go of your wrist and seems to curl his fists at his sides. There’s a desperation to the action that only then coaxes you to look up at him.

His expression is…pleading. For what, you’re not sure.

“You are the furthest thing from a burden,” he says, quietly, on an exhale. “Your presence here is very much welcomed, I assure you.”

You don’t dare breathe a word. Every last bit of your very sober courage is being thrown into maintaining eye contact. There’s none to spare for speaking.

But your lack of response seems to trouble Fin. His eyes rake over your face, searching for something. He swallows again.

And then his eyes shutter, and he whispers, “Mother above, what are you doing to me?”

You don’t know how to answer him — whether he’s even talking to you at all. He takes in a very slow, very deep breath, as though it’s the only thing that’s stopping him from…doing something. What, you’re not sure.

But you can feel it, sense it — the ferocity with which he’s swallowing down words and holding himself back. Like he wants so badly to say something, but can’t.

His eyes open, clearer than they were seconds before, and he says in a far gentler tone, “Get to bed, Y/N,” he inclines his head. “Sleep well.”

With tense, squared shoulders, he turns — and it’s you, this time, that stops him. You halt him with a hand on his arm, and you could swear you feel the muscles flex under his touch.

“Wait,” you say, not ready to let him go, not prepared to leave things between you like this. “Stay and talk with me for a while.”

His jaw clenches like he’s gritting his teeth. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“Why? We talk all the time, you and I. And there are clearly things you’re holding back from saying—”

Your words are cut short as he suddenly meets your gaze with the intensity of a blazing fire. You think it might burn you. You hope it will.

“It’s a bad idea,” he grounds out, gutturally, “not because of what I want to say. But because of what I want to do.”

“What—”

“You are my son’s close friend. You are Roza’s guest,” he tugs his arm out from under your hand. “You are far younger than I am. I am trying my hardest — I have been trying my hardest — to be a good male. And right now, a good male would take his leave and go to bed, so I bid you goodnight, Y/N.”

“Fin—”

“I hope you sleep well.”

“Fin,” you grab for him again. “What if I don’t want you to be a good male?”

Beneath your touch, he stops. Goes preternaturally still.

Words punch out of you with terrifying gall — and truth. “What if I want you to do those things—”

Quick as a flash, he’s pivoting, and he has the upper hand. Has you pressed so tightly up against the wall, his body boxing you in.

And gods, the feel of it might set you on fire. A brush of your hands, a kiss on the backs of your fingers — they’re nothing compared to the weight and press of his muscles against your body. You want your clothes to melt away, and his, too. You want your hands on his bare, hot skin.

“I don’t think you realise what you’re saying,” he growls.

“I do,” you breathe. “I am completely sober. Completely clear of mind. And I am telling you, Fin, I want you—”

A strangled noise is the only warning you get before the High Lord’s mouth is on yours.

The kiss is pure power. It passes from him, into you, roils through your veins and makes you feel like somebody remarkable. It’s the cloak of darkness and the kiss of sin. Of somebody capable of very, very bad things.

And it’s immediately addicting. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get enough.

You claw at his shirt, tugging him closer, closer, and his broad hands cup your face as his mouth devours yours.

This kiss…it’s been building. The need for it has been working its way beneath your skin for a while. All the heated glances, the late-night conversations. All the thoughts, in the dead of night, of what Fin might be doing in his own bed. Wondering whether he was thinking of you.

It’s so, so forbidden. So wrong. But it feels so godsdamn right.

And the way Fin’s tongue slides between your lips and strokes into your mouth — it tells you that he feels it, too.

Your hands glide from his waist, round to his back, and you yank him harder against you. So desperate are you to feel him. Feel what you think you do to him.

He makes another low noise. And then he’s tearing his mouth from yours. But he lingers close, your foreheads touching.

“Better than I’ve been imagining,” he pants, his hands still clutching your face. “Much better.”

“You’ve imagined kissing me?” You know he has.

“I have imagined,” his thumbs sweep your cheeks, “doing all sorts of things with you, Y/N. Things that would make even the most salacious of a person blush.”

Such a relief — to know that it’s not all just some wild fantasy you’ve cooked up in your mind. That you’re not just some wayward, longing young female who craves the affections of an older male to patch her deep wounds.

No, it’s not that. It’s desire. It’s need. And it burns inside your veins until you think you might erupt into flames.

“I’ve imagined them, too,” you say, without a lick of shame.

Once again, his eyes are shuttering. Once again, he takes that slow, steadying breath. And as you watch him do so, you can’t bear the thought of him still grappling with right and wrong. You can’t bear the thought of him squaring his shoulders and walking out of here, leaving your lips bruised, your body aching, your heart hurting. You can’t bear it—

“I want you to do those things,” you lift your chin, gaze unflinching. “I want you to touch me.”

Fin’s eyes reopen.

He stares at you.

His throat bobs.

You have never seen somebody look so wild, so ravenous. There is heat everywhere, in his stare and in his taut body. His eyes flick down to your lips.

That mere glance at them is the deciding factor, it would seem.

He growls, the sound not at all one you’ve ever heard from a person, and he yanks you up into his arms and kisses you again.

So naturally, your arms twine around his neck, your legs locking around his waist. You can feel the strength of him against you, in the way he holds you. You can taste his crackling power.

He doesn’t falter in the kiss nor his steps as he carries you away from the wall, and you’re suddenly being placed down on the library’s desk, sending books and parchment and pens and ink pots flying. They all clatter loudly to the floor, and neither of you care.

But Fin does pull away to look at you, and there’s wicked, boyish charm in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitch up. He merely says, “Oops.”

You surge up and kiss him again.

He sighs into it, like your mouth is the answer to all his questions. And when heated hands land on your thighs, you part them, allow him to slot his body in between. The mere feel of it has you pushing up against him, finding him hard—

But again, he pulls away. He scans your face and rasps, “Tell me you’re sure.”

You do not balk from his intensity. From the fact that this is the fucking High Lord of your court, who was changing this world and building a reputation long before you were a mere thought in your parents’ minds. You do not balk from the fact that there are a million different reasons that this is wrong.

You think only about the fact that it feels right.

And that translates into your voice as you say, firmly, “I’m sure.”

You think you see the words course through his body. They change something — forever.

“This isn’t about Roza,” he breathes — breathes heavily, like it’s taking everything to tamp down on the desire to devour you then and there. To say what needs to be said.

You shake your head, “No.”

“Nor is it about Rhysand.”

“No.”

“It’s about me and you.” He destroys what little gap exists between your bodies, his hardness pushing through his breeches, right up against your centre. His hands brace on the desk, either side of you. “And gods, I want you, Y/N. I want you so much, I can scarcely bear it.”

“Have me,” is all you manage — before he strikes.

You think, hope, that his mouth might find yours again — but he’s barely brushing it before his lips settle on your jaw. His hands travel up your legs, fingers biting into the flesh. They find your hips, thumbs delivering explorative sweeps. They tug your dress up as they climb, exposing more of you to the warmth of the room. Exposing more skin that you know he wants to lay claim to.

And when the hem of your dress is ruched around your waist, you smile — at your little wildcard exposed. That he finds no underwear hiding what sits between your legs.

Your choice to forgo a pair seems almost foretelling, now — like some part of you knew the night would end like this, and you wanted to be ready.

Fin’s eyes dip to your slick, exposed cunt. The hunger in them is almost intimidating. You open your legs just a little wider—

But his rough hand is gripping your chin, almost hard enough to hurt. And he snarls deeply, “It drove me to madness — seeing those two males dancing with you. Touching you.”

Pleasure bolts down your spine, and from the way his nostrils flare, you know the scent of your arousal is consuming him.

“Did it?” you stare back at him, welcoming the discomfort of his brutal grip.

“I wanted them dead. I wanted to draw my sword and gut them for even looking your way. For touching what I want to be mine.”

That pleasure again — skittering over your skin. His words do something to you. You bite down on a moan.

“It is yours,” you tilt your chin up to him, smiling when he immediately glances to your lips. “Take it.”

“I warn you,” he lowers his face to yours, “I don’t like to share.”

“And I warn you, High Lord,” you watch as your words land, drawing a deep, raw scent from him. “Neither do I.”

With a growl, he snaps. The kiss he gives you is not slow or sweet. His hand continues to grip your face, and his mouth attacks yours, his tongue sliding between your lips. You can’t help your moan, this time, as his taste overpowers you — a taste that you can only describe as pure thunder.

But it ends too soon, as he begins to leave a trail of heated kisses and bites and sucks along your jaw, down your neck, your collarbones. Your head falls back, and the touches are like little zips of lightning — lightning cleaving through the night sky.

“Pretty dress,” he hums against your skin — and that’s all the warning you get before that dress is ripped apart. Torn to ribbons.

No part of you is left to Fin’s imagination.

He tears his mouth from you and steps back to drink you in.

Instinct roars at you to curl in on yourself and hide. To remember that you are scarred, and flawed, and not to the liking of many — including yourself, a lot of the time.

But something about Fin’s weighty, scorching stare stops you from moving a muscle.

You lift your chin and hide nothing as he takes his fill. His eyes travel a journey from the top of your head and down — down your face, your neck, your breasts. Down your stomach, your waist, your hips. Down to that fine dusting of hair on your pelvis that tracks a thin path to—

Fin drops to his knees with a low noise. His hands wrap around your legs and prise them further apart.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he levels his face with the very centre of you, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight.

The sight of the High Lord on his knees before you — on his knees for you.

As though he senses the direction of your thoughts, his eyes flick up, and he smiles.

And then he dives in.

His tongue wastes no time in sinking between your folds, licking a broad stripe right up the centre of you. At the first stroke, your head falls back, your arms wobbling where they’re braced on the desk.

“Look at me,” Fin growls. “Only me.”

His voice of pure High Lord power drags your eyes back to him. And thank the fucking Mother it does.

You see everything in the way he feasts on you. His tongue laps at your wetness, and it coats his lips, his chin, coats him in you. The damp heat of his tongue is liquid fire. It promises to scorch you, end you, and rise you anew like a phoenix from the ashes.

Your fingers sink into the strands of Fin’s hair and tug. Judging by the noise he makes, the way his pace picks up, you think he likes it.

He utterly fucking devours you, like he’s fought a centuries-long wait to do so. And whatever magic commands his mouth — you know you cannot possibly last against it.

“Oh, gods,” your moan breaks from you, hips bucking up. You think your voice might be loud, but you don’t care. “Fuck—Fin.”

It all happens at once — his name falling from your lips, the growl rumbling in his throat, the flicking of his tongue against your clit and the finger he plunges into you, curls inside you. Every part of it is lightning strikes to your veins, and you come apart, utterly break.

Your climax slams into you and steals your breath. You’re nothing but a gasping, panting, trembling shell. Your mind is somewhere else entirely.

With your head falling back, eyes pinned to the ceiling, chest heaving, you don’t catch the swiftness with which Fin stands, licking your wetness from his lips. With which his clothes are gone in a blink of an eye.

But then he commands, “Look at me.”

It’s the second time he’s said it. Your head lolls forward once more.

You swallow the breaths you’re still trying to get down. Try to stop your body fucking shaking.

But it’s no wonder it does, as you look at him.

Your High Lord is nothing short of exquisite. He is art. Your fantasies have done him no justice.

That golden skin of his seems to attract the glowing light of the room. It bathes him, but it does not steal the attention. It outlines every fine plane of his body, the sculpted muscles on show, the nicks of injuries that have scarred and silvered over time.

There is not a single part of him that isn’t pure, refined power. And when your gaze drops to below his waist…a shudder wracks through you.

His cock stands hard and leaking at the head. You watch, your mouth watering, as he wraps a hand around its length and gives a long stroke.

“Fin—”

“When you look at me like that,” he prowls closer, “there is no way I can consider this forbidden.”

He’s within reach. Your fingers inch towards him. You want to touch him, taste him—

But he curls a hand around yours and stops you in your tracks.

“Not tonight,” he says. Pure promise is laced within the words. “No playing tonight.”

As if he hadn’t just played with you. You want to protest, to get your fucking mouth around that considerable length, but his hand tightens around yours.

And then he’s flipping you over, so fast that you don’t have time to even register it. You land on your front, your belly and breasts pressed against the desk. Fin lays his palm against your back and drags it slowly down. And in the wake of his touch, he leaves kisses. Kisses to your shoulder, your back. They’re…soft. Tender.

“Have I disappointed you?” he murmurs against your shoulder, folding his body over yours. You don’t think it’s an accident that the head of his cock nudges that sweet area between your legs.

It’s all you can do to breathe, “I wanted to taste you.”

“And you will,” he drops the brush of a kiss to your skin. “But now is not time for that.”

You don’t need him to tell you what now is the time for. Not as his hands find the flesh of your hips, and he yanks you to the very edge of the desk, moving with you. The feel of him so close to where you want him is downright cruel.

“Have you thought about me fucking you?” he asks, those hands travelling to rove your ass.

Your nails bite into the desk as you answer, “Yes.”

“Did I make you scream?”

You bite down on your lip at the feeling of him spreading you apart, opening you up to him. “Yes.”

You feel it — his cock sliding between your folds. Not pushing in, but dragging torturously against your sex. From your entrance, up to your clit. The head of his cock pushes against it.

And the moan that rips from you is downright filth, as he rolls his hips and allows your wetness to slicken his length. It feels so fucking good. To you, and to him.

A breath shudders out of him, and he purrs, “Are you going to scream for me now?”

“Fuck yes,” the words tumble from your lips. “I want you, Fin.”

Just like that, his restraint snaps. The High Lord strikes.

He drags his length through your folds and enters you with a single, powerful thrust.

A shout leaves you, and you’re clawing at the desk, trying to keep your grip against the pleasure that courses through you. Fin fills you and stretches you. He pulls out and slams back in to the hilt.

“Fuck me, you’re tight,” he growls, his hands sinking back into your hips. He begins a steady thrusting, sliding in and out of you with a drag that makes you feel every glorious inch of him. “Gods.”

“So good,” you pant. “Want you harder.”

The plea seems to make him groan, and he wastes no time in picking up the pace. His hands bite into your skin as he fucks you faster, harder, your moans and pleas and curses falling from your lips without any nudging from you. The pleasure is all-consuming. In seconds, it’s buried within your veins.

“You like that?” The grit in his voice has you clenching around him. He’s so fucking filthy, so fucking sultry, as he snarls, “you going to be a good girl and come for me?”

Gods, yes, you are. Already, release is coiling tightly within you, and it’s a force entirely of its own right, inching closer and cresting the hill, ready to sink its claws into you. Fin’s cock hits deep, and out of nowhere, his palm is flying through the air and making contact with your ass cheek. That is all it takes.

The pleasure of it all is too much — the sting of the slap, the depth and thrall of his thrusts, the way he growls and grunts as he lays claim to your body, your pleasure.

You cry out, your orgasm blasting through you with unstoppable force. The long strokes of Fin’s cock fuck you through it, through earth-shattering pleasure, through what feels like a mind-altering experience.

“My filthy girl,” he pulls out of you suddenly, and though your cunt still clenches and twitches, desperate for more, more, more, he flips your trembling body onto its back once more and tugs you up, slipping back between your legs. “Fuck, I can’t tell you how relentlessly I’ve thought about making you scream for me like that.”

Past words, you can only reach up and pull his head down to yours to capture him in a kiss. Your taste still coats the tongue that he slides between your lips. It spurs you on to deepen it, luxuriate in the feel of it. And you become so lost in it that you tug hard at the strands of his hair when he enters you again in one great, sweeping thrust.

His arm folds around your back, hand grasping at your shoulder, and it seems to afford him perfect purchase to pound into you. Sounds fill the air of his skin slapping against yours, of the breaths and moans you huff into each other’s mouths. You think the two of you, together, might be loud enough, forceful enough, to bring the City of Starlight to rubble around you.

Fin’s lips tear away from yours, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are growing quicker, sloppier, reaching a feverous pinnacle that will surely break.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me come, Y/N,” his sweat-slick brow presses against your neck. “Taking me so well like this. Squeezing me like this. You’re going to make me fucking blow.”

You want that — more than anything. To feel the power of him spilling into you.

You squeeze your thighs against his, dragging your free hand — the one not sunken in his hair — down the muscles of his shoulders, his back, his waist — to his ass, where you dig your nails into the tight, toned flesh and encourage him to pump into you harder, faster. The feel of it makes Fin shout.

“Come for me,” you choke around your pleasure. “Please, Fin…want you to come.”

An animalistic growl rips from him, and he slams into you one, two, three more times, and then stills, throwing his head back with a roar that shakes the library. Hot, thick ropes of his seed seem endless as they’re unleashed inside you.

The force of it shatters you both, you think. With his trembling as thorough as yours, your nails are still raking over his skin as his brow presses to the crook of your neck. Strands of hair stick to the back of his. Your fingertips smooth over them tenderly.

It feels like eons that you stay there like that, holding each other up from collapsing under the weight of your mutual release. You want to hold him like this, always. You don’t care what others may have to say about it, what they may deem to be wrong about it. You want him.

He pulls back, as though sensing the thought. Meets your eyes. For a beat or two, he simply studies your face, something like clarity on his own.

And then he dips down and drops a kiss to your brow. Such a tender act, in the wake of such passion.

 No words are needed. Not as he scoops you up into his arms, leaving behind the mess the two of you have created. There’s a flash, and he’s winnowed you to your bedroom. A fire roars to life immediately. Fin places you down on the bed.

You watch through hooded eyes as he makes his way into the bathroom. Moments later, he’s returning with a warm, damp washcloth, and he perches beside you.

“Open your legs for me,” he whispers, and you do.

The High Lord of the Night Court is gentle as air as he takes care of you, wiping between your thighs and delivering soft, soothing strokes to your skin. A pleasant soreness sits in your lower belly. He leans down and presses a kiss there like he knows just that.

And then he’s sitting up, and it frightens you — the thought of him walking away, of this ending here and now.

So you lay a hand on his arm, breathing, “Stay with me.”

He pauses, eyes roaming your face like he’s assuring himself you mean it. And then he dips his chin.

“I would be honoured,” he rasps.

And thus, the affair begins.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The need you and Fin have for each other is…insatiable.

Every moment he’s away, you’re thinking of him, longing for the moment he’ll appear in your room and rip your clothes off. If anyone else in the palace — staff, servants, associates — are aware of what’s going on, they don’t give it away. And that suits you just fine.

You can’t get enough. You’re giddy with it. Giddy from the multiple, interesting circumstances you’ve landed yourself in.

Like when you lured him out of a meeting and dropped to your knees in a fucking broom closet, taking his cock into your mouth until he was canting his hips forward and spilling down your throat. Or when he fucked you on the balcony of his personal quarters, your body pressed up against the balustrade, the two of you open to the elements and your moans loud enough to reach the stars above you and the city below you. Or when he took you to watch the ballet, and up in the cushy surrounds of your private viewing box, you watched the performance with him deep inside you, his fingers indolently playing with your clit, his low voice in your ear reminding you to keep quiet.

It’s…exciting. Enthralling. It changes everything.

And as he pulls out of you now, sweaty and panting, and collapses beside you in his bed, you’re not sure you could ever tire of this feeling.

He wants you. He wants you so ferociously, like nobody has ever wanted you before.

As you catch your breaths, he props his head up with his hand and stares at you through hooded eyes, glazed with lust. He leans down and grazes a kiss to your mouth.

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he ponders as he pulls back, moving a hand to brush his fingers over your breast. “All this need — wanting you constantly.”

You lean up on your elbows, tilting your head, “Do you want it to stop?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Never.”

Never. Never is a very long time. It makes your stomach flip — the enormity of it.

Fin circles the tip of his forefinger around your pebbled nipple, watching with predatory fascination as he adds, “But this will, inevitably, blow up in our faces at some point. We haven’t exactly been secretive — not that I want to be. But people will talk.”

You lean up to brush your mouth over his. “Let them talk,” you say, and kiss him.

Immediately, he melts into the kiss. Your mouth seems to have an effect on him that you never thought yourself capable of. Always draws a long, pleasured sigh from him as he sinks into it, welcomes it.

He kisses you and kisses you, so greedily, so desperately. His hand snakes up to cup your cheek. He’s already hardening against your leg.

But he pulls away, dropping his forehead against yours. And he breathes, “Make a bargain with me.”

You trace a thumb over his bottom lip. You’ve never made a Night Court bargain before; never had reason to. “What bargain?”

“When this blows up in our faces,” he grips your hand, folding his own over it, “we face it together. You and I.”

“You and I?”

“You and I” he kisses your hand. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I don’t try to be. I can be brutal and callous, and I can lie and play games,” another kiss. “But not with you. Never with you. I will look after you. Take care of you. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

Words that you’ve always longed for someone to say to you. Words that should not be taken lightly, should not be said without meaning.

But you know he means them. You can tell he does.

You watch closely as your fingers interlace with his. And you whisper, “Together?”

Fin’s thumb sweeps over yours. “Together. We’ll face it together.”

“Then it’s a bargain.”

A flash of splintering pain zips around your midriff. You glance down to find the tattoo now inked there. The black line that draws a perfect circle around your waist, like a trail of night-kissed lightning.

You look up at Fin to find a roguish smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, I like that,” he hums.

And then he’s leaning down and pressing kisses to that circlet signifying your promise to one another. Kisses the entirety of it, flipping you on your front in the process.

And kisses lower, until you’re screaming for him again.

pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-a-girlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl

[betss1256]

What if after Nyx, Rhys and Feyre have a daughter and she’s just a weird little fuck. What if she grows up, and makes it her job to just creep the hell out of Rhys Elain-style, speaking end of the world prophecies and just staring at him creepily when no one’s watching

[honeybeefae]

Happy Father’s Day to

The Dads: Rhysand, Tarquin, Thesan, Tamlin

The Daddies: Lucien, Kallias, Cassian, Varian

The Daddiest: Helion, Eris, Lucien, Azriel, Suriel

[dippedinmelancholy]

Something about both Nesta and Elain having dreams of the continent and of travel in some capacity. The freedom and utter fucking dream of a woman in the era the human realms (and honestly the fae realms too) having the funds and freedom to do so, how rare it is as women have very little place outside of homemakers and wives. Nesta and Elain both having dreams of finding themselves and happiness after a childhood of trauma of watching their mother die horribly, their father broken, and losing everything they ever had with truly their only hope of escape being marriage. Nesta and Elain finally on the cusp of reaching for their dreams, of having the space to find themselves and their dreams without the terror of starvation and endlessly cold winters that brought the threat of death every year. Nesta and Elain, taken from their beds by cruel soldiers who mocked and abused them. Nesta and Elain, nothing more than pawns in Hybern’s attempt to get allies in the human realms. Nesta and Elain watching their dreams shatter into nothingness as they are violated, boiled alive, reshaped into a thing that once enslaved their entire race of people. Nesta and Elain, shoved into a home high reaching into the skies with no escape, no contact with their sister, surrounded by the monstrous race that enslaved them, both victims to this new, horrible alien power in their veins. Nesta and Elain, pawns to their sister and her new “family”, only welcome as long as they play nicely. Nesta and Elain, stripped of their dreams, watching everything they once wanted ripped away. Nesta and Elain, beautiful and immortal, but nothing more than pawns against the men they never asked to be connected to. Nesta and Elain, who’s stomachs don’t tremble in hunger, but a new starvation settled deep in the marrow of their bones, a hunger that will never be sated, because they will forever be pawns to these fae monsters. Forever trapped. Forever indebted.

There’s no freedom for those the cauldron reshapes. Only death and a place in a game they never wanted to play. There are no dreams now, only hunger for what they will never have again. They will never see the world, they will never know what freedom tastes like. There is no escape from the sins of their childhood, no escape from the men or court a monstrous entity tied them to without permission. There is only expectation and the death of all they were.

[daughter-of-lethe]

Just two Carynthian playing with a ribbon...

Sorry for interrupting guys🤭

[jollyinmadness]

Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 1, Lolium temulentum | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Minor Azriel x Elain. References to sexual thoughts. Very vague references to a genocide. Cursing.

Summary:

When an unknown curse starts spreading through the Night Court's lands, the Inner Circle is forced to seek help in the wisdom of Day's vast libraries. Among the dusty tomes, they are met with a mysterious female who wields magic that may yet be the key to their problem.

Kira, one of the few surviving Purifiers, will have to leave her reclusiveness on the shores of the Continent and learn what her ancestor's vow really means.

Azriel will be forced to reconcile his follies, step out from his shadows and push against his shortcoming with nothing but the scarred skin of his hands.

After years of lucky breaks, will the Inner Circle succeed one last time? Or will their fate rest in the hands of an outsider who has more to lose than gain in helping them?

Then again, the Cauldron is forever being stirred by the Mother and no one escapes the yarn on the embroidery of their lives.

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Azriel’s hands were hidden under his armpits as he walked the empty streets of Velaris. The faelights in the Palace of Thread and Jewels still shone brightly, though many of the shops had their doors shut and signs turned to say ‘closed.’ 

He had just left a seamstress’s shop and regretted not accepting a jacket for the suit Rhysand ordered on his behalf. Despite having many in his closet, Rhysand noted that he only owned outdated ones and needed to, quote, freshen up. After a few adjustments, the seamstress had ushered him into the cold street with a smile, saying she was celebrating tonight and needed to get ready too. 

During the longest night of the year, even this part of the town closed down, its habitants retiring to dining rooms with their families. As Azriel passed by houses that hadn’t closed their blinds, he dared to peek in if even for the smallest moment. More often than not, he saw children running around a table while the adults prepared utensils and plates, scolding the little ones for not being careful enough. It caused the corners of his mouth to lift, seeing these people so free of worry that they didn’t even care to draw their curtains. 

His feet moved on their own accord, walking the familiar paths. Something unsettled and grew restless inside his bones as he thought of the estate he was heading to. This year, his own family was meeting in the River House to celebrate the Winter Solstice and the attendance was bound to be plentiful. 

He had already helped Feyre decorate, while Rhysand looked after little Nyx. This year would mark his first Solstice and everyone was eager to make it the most memorable one. Nyx put up the first decoration on the tree but when he was handed a garland from paper, he had torn it in half which elicited a laugh from Azriel and a gentle scolding from both his parents.

Considering he was Rhysand’s son, he was surely going to be a handful once he learned how to talk back and run away.

During it all, Azriel had noted Cassian’s lack of presence, though his brother was most likely hunting down some last-minute gifts before the shops closed for the evening. And last he heard, his mate was up in the House of Wind, preparing with Emerie and Gwyn. Emerie had been spending the last few days with her and Azriel could tell the Illyrian female felt out of place here even after months of daily training. The priestess, on the other hand, had promised Nesta she would spend the dinner with her, before returning to the Library for the evening service. 

Gwyn had shown so much growth since her arrival to Velaris and after the Rite, after she cut the ribbon, Azriel noted how she looked to the sky with a renowned longing. Some of the fear and reluctance had fallen off and in its place had grown courage and curiosity. Perhaps her trip to the River House was a stepping stone.

His mind shifted to the rest that were bound to be present and Azriel wondered what Elain was up to. Whether she was trying on dresses and picking out the ones Azriel would love to see on the ground of his private quarters. 

He hadn’t seen her since a few days ago when he had walked past the kitchen in the River House and beared witness to her gentle chuckles. Her hands were covered in flour and his two trusted shadow wraiths talked in hushed voices to her. Not even his shadows were quick enough to catch onto what was being said because when the three had noticed him, their words died down just like their laughter. 

Cerridwen and Nuala had sketched a quick bow to Azriel, much to his dismay but Elain only stared at him with those wide, doe-like eyes. It had made the air in the kitchen warmer and as she offered him a soft smile. He had disappeared into the shadows after nodding at her. Nodding. 

What a fool he was, pining after a female who was mated to another male, let alone allowing himself such a visceral reaction to simple things like smiles. Foolish, indeed. 

Feyre had mentioned in passing that Lucien was bound to make an appearance during the night. He didn’t let himself feel insulted. The voice inside his head was telling him that Feyre could see right through him and thought him fragile. He didn’t need to be notified of guests, especially Lucien.

Azriel sighed, blowing a white cloud into the biting air and hoped Rhysand had enough chairs for everyone. 

A shiver ran through him when, at last, the front gate to the River House appeared at the far end of the street. He quickened his pace, hands pushing the gate open. His dress shoes clicked against the stone walkway leading to the front door and before he reached for the knob, he pulled at his suit. His scarred hand ran through his hair, fixing and making sure he looked presentable before tackling the entirety of the Inner Circle. 

The shadows curled around his ear, telling him that everyone was already somewhere in the house except for Amren and Varian, who were Mother-knew where and doing Mother-knew what. Azriel didn’t care enough to know. 

With one last inhale, he braced himself for an eventful evening and opened the door. He followed the sound of chatter and bottles clinging to the decorated family room where everyone was gathered. 

The first person to notice his entrance was Cassian. “Az, brother, there you are!”

He came up to Azriel, stuffing a crystal glass full of aged rum into his hand and wrapping a shoulder around him. Cassian was already inebriated, Azriel could tell as their wings brushed on accident. Nesta sent subtle stares their way from the corner of the room while nursing a cup of grape juice and making sure he was still standing upright. She made some comment to the two Valkyries near her, making them giggle while watching.

Cassian and Nesta were still considered to be newly mated and Azriel avoided the House of Wind with fervor. Especially after Feyre and Rhysand had given it to them as a mating gift. He had been planning on vacating his room and moving to the Townhouse way before that but he dreaded packing all of the trinkets decorating his shelves. He would have missed the silence too hadn’t it been replaced by sounds of rabid fucking. Even the dining table wasn’t safe from their ministrations and a small part of Azriel grew jealous at it.

“You should stop with the drinks if you plan on participating tomorrow,” muttered Azriel, still cheering his glass with Cassian’s.

Cassian laughed, the sound joyous and open. “I will end your winning streak this year, spymaster.”

“No, I think it will mark my two hundredth win,” Azriel remarks absentmindedly, elbow shoving itself into Cassian’s ribs. Cassian didn’t take to that lightly and while balancing his almost empty glass, he put Azriel into a chokehold with a boom of laughter. He ruffled his hair while promising utter devastation come tomorrow morning. 

Cassian’s technique wasn’t sloppy despite being drunk but it took one smooth move for Azriel to free himself and knock back the contents of his glass.

“I would save the energy, Cass,” he told him, unfastening the button on his jacket.

Cassian grinned. “Or I can beat you now and eliminate the competition.” 

Before they could begin to play-wrestle, Feyre cleared her throat, staring them down. “No fighting in front of Nyx,” she reminded them. “Besides, Az just arrived and you’re already wrinkling his suit! Get off of him, Cassian.”

“A suit I paid good money for,” whispered Rhys from beside his mate, his ankle resting atop his knee. The tips of Azriel’s ears went red and once he pushed Cassian off, he heard a soft, female chuckle behind him. 

Without a thought, he turned his head, his shadows scattering at the sight in the doorway. Words escaped him like they always did in Elain’s presence and instead, he stared down at her. 

Her hair was done half-up half-down, decorated with little white flowers she was sure were grown by her own gentle hands. Baby breaths, he recalled her saying. As his face traveled from those brown eyes looking at him with mirth, his breath caught somewhere on its way from his lungs and to his mouth. A light pink dress made of the softest fabric adorned her curves, pooling and shimmering around her feet like a waterfall. The color and the design reminded him of that one time he stayed in the Day Court. Sun had just risen and painted the entire sky a brilliant pink and small puffy white clouds dusted the horizon.

At once, he willed his shadows to enshroud him again and stepped from the doorway, his eyes never leaving hers. His only thought was on that necklace in his breast pocket, still undecided on whether he should give it to her or not. Seeing her, he couldn’t help but notice that the little rose pendant would go perfectly with the dress. There and then, his mind was made. He would put the petite box on the pile later once everyone had gone to sleep. 

Somebody behind her cleared their throat and it was the only reason Azriel noticed the fire-haired male. 

Lucien’s stare softened considerably as the golden eye shifted from Azriel the moment their eyes met. The emissary chose to ignore him, instead put a gentle hand on Elain’s upper back that Azriel traced with his eyes. As they crossed over the threshold, it was all he could do once the scent of their unaccepted mating bond filled the room. 

Sometimes, Azriel thought to himself, the Mother had a cruel sense of humor. 

Azriel leaned against the wall, letting the murmur of his shadows take the attention from Elain and Lucien. He listened, ignoring questioning stares from Rhysand and focusing on the sauntering female making her way to the family room. 

He turned his head just in time to be met with Mor’s profile appearing in the doorway. She was holding a bottle of wine and smiling, love filling her eyes as they went over everyone present. The familiar faces and the new. Azriel noticed how she took a while to look at the Illyrian female next to Nesta and he noticed Emerie staring right back. He bit back the small smirk fighting to be shown. Though once she had her fill, the last person whom she graced with her glance was Azriel. 

They shared a knowing look and at last, it was void of any tension or anxiety. “Hey, Az,” she said, a gentle smile on her lips. 

He dipped his chin. “Mor.”

He saw a flurry of brown hair before a muffled “Mor!” was exclaimed into the female’s chest. Mor recoiled due to the impact and suddenly, Feyre was hugging the Morrigan, not caring for propriety in front of guests. 

Rhysand’s cousin had been spending more time in Vallahan than in the Night Court, forging alliances and still not succeeding in convincing the Queen to sign the peace treaty. She tried to visit as much as she could and sent many letters through Azriel’s spies concerning the foreign kingdom. He worried for her, hearing just how proud the people in Vallahan were and the schemes the court was prone to. 

“Feyre, please, don’t crush me before I can make it through the doorway.”

“I’m so glad you could make it for the dinner,” she murmurs into her chest before pulling away and taking in the red gown Mor had put on. It earned a hum of approval from her High Lady and Mor wiggled her eyebrows, whispering something into Feyre’s ear and making her laugh. 

Azriel stepped away, moving further inside the room though the wall was his preferred place. Feyre had handed off Nyx to Elain, who was rocking the baby on her hip while conversing with the Valkyries. Gwyn was wearing her usual priestess robes and cooed at the small Illyrian. The middle Archeron sister was smiling unabashedly, sending something warm trickling down Azriel’s chest. 

“Brother,” Rhysand greeted, breaking him out of the reverie and lifting a bottle to fill his glass. With a cocked brow, Rhysand poured the liquor and walked away from Azriel without another word, leaving the shadowsinger hanging in the air.

Rhysand stopped in front of his mate, kissing her temple without sparing Azriel another second of his attention after filling his glass. It left an unsure feeling behind but he brushed it off, convincing himself to have misread the slippage of his brother’s mask. 

— ✾ —

It was only after an hour filled with Mor’s complaining about being hungry and Cassian’s grunts of approval that Varian and Amren arrived. Azriel knew the moment Rhysand’s second had walked through the front door of the River House and his shadows notified him that Amren’s lipstick was smudged, and Varian was rubbing a handkerchief along his face.

It made Azriel swear up the Cauldron as he began rethinking his decision to come to this particular family dinner. It wasn’t often that he chose to, rather opting for eating by his lonesome in the House of Wind. The smell of people’s scents mixed in the aftermath of sex was something akin to strangulation and Azriel liked to enjoy his meals without the sensation.

Rhysand turned away from Amren and Varian, clasping his hands together and announcing, “It’s time we feast!”

Cassian whooped alongside of Mor, and they were the first ones on Rhysand’s heels. At the left-hand side of the family room were double doors, too, decorated with garlands and ribbons. Rhysand pushed down on each handle, leading the grand entrance to a refurbished dining room. 

Azriel’s shadows skittered around him as they watched everyone enter. In hushed voices, they began counting those walking through the threshold and Azriel fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

As much as everyone assumed he had complete control over his little shadows, they were sentient creatures fascinated by the simplest things. It wasn’t a coincidence that shadowsingers were oftentimes spies, because while the shadows liked talking, they adored observing and reporting everything to their master whose job was to pick out the important information. 

And so, Azriel had to ignore his shadows gushing about a new table that could now fit not ten people but twelve! Once they were sure their master knew of the fact his shadows returned to counting. 

There’s four, five, six. Seven. Eight, nine, ten and eleven, and twelve. 

Amren had taken the head of the table, leading Varian to sit next to her with their intertwined hands.

Mor chose to be the mediator between Lucien and Elain and ignored all the sideways glances the emissary sent her way as she laid a hand on the back of the chair. The little smile she sent Elain did not escape Azriel either. While everyone had chosen their seats, Azriel entered last, closing the door behind him with his back to the group. 

There’s the thirteenth. Such a lucky number. 

In all his years spent in Velaris, Azriel failed to remember a time when a dining room was this full. The new table added two extra seats and dwarfed the room in comparison to how it used to be. Everyone made themselves comfortable, shucking off jackets and laying them across the backs of their chairs. 

Azriel hadn’t had the chance to pick where he wanted to sit and as he turned to the room, he had come to realize with an odd mix of relief and disdain that his seat was between Nesta and Varian. Pick of the litter, then. 

The seats have been specially altered to accommodate winged individuals and while Azriel settled into his chair, he was at least grateful that his closest companions lacked any membranous monstrosities protruding from their backs. Were he sat next to inebriated Cassian, he’d have to focus his attention there and leave his shadows with filling up the blanks. 

As food started appearing one plate after another, Azriel took in where the rest of the people were sat. He was facing Feyre and Rhysand, Nyx placed into a tiny chair between theirs. Cassian was occupying the other head of the table and already spoke to Elain in hushed tones to the best of his abilities. To the General’s other side was Gwyn, then Emerie and Nesta. One of his newer shadows notified him that Emerie couldn’t take her eyes from Rhysand’s cousin and that she blushed when their eyes met. 

A table of this size offered a lot of variety and where there was space between statement pieces, candelabras and flowers, there was food or drink. Once the sound of cutlery filled the room, the conversation fell off and comments about the food were exchanged. The feast, as Rhysand called it, was truly one for the books. 

Oh, the beef. It’s delicious. 

Could you hand me more of the potatoes, Lucien? 

Is there any more wine on your end of the table?

We should do this more often. 

The exchanges appeared awkward to Azriel and the small talk he had to endure from Varian made him want to retreat further into his shadows. All throughout the main course he felt Rhysand’s eyes on him but when he went to meet his High Lord’s stare, he had already turned away. 

As the food dwindled and the fae lights dimmed down to a comfortable glow, many different conversations were going on. Feyre talked to Lucien while letting Rhysand feed their son and the Valkyries were explaining their training to Mor, who had been unaware of all the progress the priestesses had made. 

Gwyn was in the middle of explaining the new technique that she discovered while helping Merill with her research when she offhandedly mentioned a thing that elicited a groan from Nesta and Emerie.

Cassian, dragged out from his conversation with Elain, drew back. “What? What happened?” he questioned, brows drawn together in confusion. 

“It’s the long-lost kingdom again,” explained Nesta and Cassian ah’d with some recognition, nodding along.

Gwyn blushed a deep crimson. "I promised Nesta not to talk about it," she sent a glare to the mentioned female over Emerie's head. "So I won't."

Nesta rolled her eyes but it couldn't be taken seriously because as she looked down, one corner of her mouth was lifted up.

"To talk about what?" asked Feyre from the other end of the table, cutting her conversation with Lucien short. The male was already tilting his body towards the priestess, eyes straying to his mate before focusing wholeheartedly back on Gwyn. 

Gwyn met Feyre's kind gaze. "I've finally started my own research and these three hear too much about it."

Something struck Azriel's chest on the left-hand side as he realized he was not included in the explanation. His shadows stilled and watched Gwyn. 

"Oh?" mused Feyre back. She settled her chin on the heel of her palm, smiling gently at the priestess. “What is it about?"

Almost taken aback by the attention she was getting from her High Lady, it had taken her a moment to get the words out. "It's this extinct nation– or at least many think it's extinct. They just about fell off the face of this world five hundred years ago."

There were more blank faces around the table as even Amren drew her unsettling gaze to Gwyn. Now, everyone was listening to her and even Elain let her gentle and encouraging eyes rest on her small form.

What a kindness she thinks she’s offering, one shadow hissed and coiled around his ear. 

Gwyn’s hand reached up to play with a strand of coppery hair, continuing, "Truly, there are barely any records on its fall, some books on its existence and even less on their emergence."

"You do love a challenge, Gwyn," muttered Nesta, earning a gleaming smile from Gwyn. 

"That I do," she responded, almost sheepish. "The last scriptures go back to a few decades before the War. It's unheard of that a kingdom from the continent is not mentioned in writing."

Mor shuffled in her seat, holding the glass of wine in front of her with both hands and offering an inquisitive look to Gwyn. "Is it Severín, by any chance?" 

"Yes," she breathed out, the realization that many of them are as old as five hundred dawning over her. "You fought in the War, didn't you?" she asked, this time with more gentleness. She looked to Cassian who was pushing his food around and nodding lightly, the tone of the conversation still easygoing, edging on clinical.

"We all did," stated Mor, her mood growing more serious with each sip she took. "I went there once but decades after it had fallen to aid an old friend."

"You were there for the liberation of Black Land?" she inquired, earning a nod and a small smile from Mor. She had connected the dots fast enough that it pleased her. 

"I offered my help to Drakon and Myriam, yes. I would not be wrong to suggest you know who they were." 

The use of past tense didn’t escape Azriel.

"Could I—" she started but faltered before she got too ahead of herself. But before she could find better words or consider a better timing, Mor lifted a gentle hand. 

"You can ask any questions you want. I'll come to the library tomorrow for a few hours and I'll make sure to find you."

For a moment, Gwyn was left speechless before she stammered out a quick, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she uttered, before looking around the table. "We wouldn't want to bore these people with the recounting of ancient history."

"I, for one," said Feyre pointedly while fixing Nyx's clothes, "would love to hear more about this fallen kingdom. I don't get to read as much anymore."

Nesta bit back a grin, turning to her sister with a goodhearted smile. "Anymore? You were illiterate a few years ago."

A few reluctant giggles escaped the present and even Azriel had to hide his smile. Feyre gasped, resting her palms on the table and looking in feigned disbelief at her oldest sister. Rhysand looked to his wife, a smile splitting his face in half. "And whose fault is that?"

This broke the hesitance, light laughter echoing around the room and even Amren cracked a smirk.

Feyre hummed, letting her chin rest against her palm again. "But about the Black Land... Is it not the same as what Mor said? Severing, or something?"

"Severín, my lady," corrected gently Gwyn, letting Feyre copy the hard r's in her own time. She gave her an encouraging smile once she got it right. "But they're not the same, though they existed in the same place within Rask."

“I think I've seen it on one of the older maps, near where the Wall would be," wondered aloud Feyre and her mate gave her a nod, confirming her guess. "Is it close to that mountain range with a river? The northern one."

"Yes, the Vistula River,” she nodded at Feyre. “There’s a legend involving the Severínians and the river delta. Supposedly, before they ever settled in Rask’s territory, the region was surrounded by a desert and there was no vegetation unless you were close to the seashore. And even then it was only rocky ridges, not fit for cultivating crops.”

“But something changed,” muttered Feyre playfully, enchanted by the story Gwyn was gladly unraveling for her. 

“Something did change. ‘When the Severínians finally decided to settle, rivers sprang from the mountains and created a cradle for a new kingdom to rise from.’ It’s a quote from a diary of a Raskan traveler. The name ‘Vistula’ actually means to flow slowly and its roots are in the Severínian language.”

Feyre smiled at the little tidbit of information. “Do we know what urged them to settle there? If there was no life there, it must have been a hard decision to make.”

“I asked myself the same thing! We do know that they were a nomadic people, that their archetypal features were feathered wings. Individuals with pale hair were denoted to have powers. That actually created a new branching in the classification of magic. I saw some scholars give them the title of ‘purifiers.’”

Mor nodded along with the explanation as if everything that came out of Gwyn’s mouth was just confirmation of something she had already known.

“They had a so-called affinity for ‘life’ and it was sought after by many rulers at that time. They could grow crops within a few hours which would otherwise take months under normal circumstances. They made for very good healers and menders and no one had ever described them as violent. Actually, they were quite a docile people. One of their saying was something along the lines of ‘to live is to be gifted and to serve is to protect.’”

“Do you think they had never settled before because someone would have come to take their freedom away—simply because of what they possessed?” asked Feyre again with a thoughtful expression. 

“Perhaps,” agreed Gwyn calmly and judging by her change of expression, the silence around the table came to her with a force of a thousand bricks. Alarmed, she looked around at the present and realized that everyone, including Amren, was fully focused on what she was saying. Shadows notified Azriel that Varian on his right had sent Gwyn a smile before saying that he had never known anything about this kingdom. 

“Rask had never taken lightly to someone encroaching on their territory.  They might be the reason why this kingdom has been ‘wiped’ from the collective memory,” offered Rhysand. 

Mor scoffed, agreeing with her cousin. “Especially if they offered refuge to humans who could have been a workforce in their salt mines instead.”

“Refuge?” Feyre turned her attention to Mor, brows furrowed. “What do you mean by refuge?”

The blonde female looked to her High Lady, skillfully avoiding Lucien’s whirring gold eye. “Before their fall and before Rask had turned it into Black Land, they allowed humans to live side by side with them and even earn their keep. It was unheard of at that time since most of the Courts even in Prythian considered humans slaves.”

“The talks of human rights were nothing but murmurs within chosen circles,” concluded Rhysand, swirling the wine in his cup. “Shame, Severín could have made for good allies during the War.”

“They would not have fought,” spoke up Amren all of a sudden, surprising even Rhysand into stumped silence. 

He frowned, facing his second and declared, “You are right. They wouldn’t have but they were the only example of Fae and mortals living in peace together. That could have made a difference.”

“The fools were so in love with peace, they wouldn’t have sided with foreigners even if it cost them their lives. Which it did anyway.”

Azriel thought to himself that it was perhaps the biggest reaction Amren had given in the past year and since the day she crawled out of the Cauldron. It wasn’t often that this ancient female chose to speak her mind but something had grated against her at the mention of this long-lost kingdom. 

“Rask is a nation of conquerors,” said Amren, her hand playing with a ruby necklace adorning her collarbone. It twinkled in the candlelight of the table and the danger of her eyes. “They wouldn’t have given in where they didn’t have to.”

Mor sucked on the inside of her cheek before responding, “So they chose to sack a peaceful people?”

“Their feud wasn’t just some baseless thing, dusted over by centuries of anger. Those Severínians,” she had spat out the name like spoiled food, “had settled in Raskan territory, knowing damn well where they were.”

“They were the ones who created life there, not Rask,” argued Mor.

Amren’s ageless gaze moved sideways. “So the legend goes.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

She sat up, leaning on her elbows and zeroing in on Mor with a poise of a predator. “What I mean, Morrigan, is that not everything written in those books and scriptures is fact. It takes one desperate generation to rewrite what has truly happened.”

“Are you insinuating that those people deserved getting slaughtered?”

Amren bared her teeth. “All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t let someone with that magic anywhere near me. It’s not of this world and trust my word, I would know.”

Azriel’s shadows had stilled with the exchange, murmurs of questions and curiosity filling his ears. He just watched on as Mor and Amren exchanged heated glances, bared their teeth. Between them, Feyre massaged the space between her brows and when Rhysand laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, she had shook it off. 

“Please,” said Feyre, gaze still downturned. “Don’t argue. Not tonight and not over something meaningless.” 

Within the plead was hiding something more. It wasn’t often that Feyre could just sit down and dine with all of her close friends. She had a child to take care of, she taught children in the city how to paint and see the beauty of the world through the medium of the brush and when she came home, she was still a mother and a High Lady with obligations. The last thing she wished for was an argument—on her birthday, nonetheless.

On her other side, even Lucien had sent worrying glances her way. 

“I’m sorry, Feyre,” murmured Mor, though Amren remained silent. Azriel supposed that it was the biggest apology they would get from her, considering she had never once explained herself to anyone. All she deigned herself to do was meet Feyre’s eyes and nod as if she was heeding a command from her High Lady.

The Inner Circles and the rest had grown quiet, their eyes as if stuck to their plates. Only Azriel was still looking up and around, noticing how awkward it had gotten and wishing it was socially acceptable to winnow from this room. 

From the other end of the table, Cassian cleared his throat and said, “Varian, do you think I could visit this summer? I swear not to shatter another building.”

The laugh from Varian was a little choked and aware of the diversion Cassian had tried to make. “I don’t know if my cousin has lifted your ban.”

“Not even after everything?”

“I’m afraid not,” he sighed. “But Cresseida and I will put in good word for you.”

With a wink from Varian, Cassian laughed, exclaiming, “Atta boy!”

Elain, from Cassian’s side, leaned in and asked with a small voice meant for him only, “How did you get banned from the Summer Court?”

Those who already knew laughed along as Cassian dived into a dramatized retelling of that fateful day in Adriata. 

— ✾ —

The River House had finally fallen quiet after the eventful Winter Solstice dinner and the following party. The faelights had been dimmed to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadows of the longest night of the year. 

Amren, Mor and Varian had finally gone to bed but Azriel found himself still lingering downstairs. 

He knew he should get some sleep. He would need it come dawn for the snowball battle at the cabin. After everyone had retired back to the family room, Cassian had mentioned no less than six times that he had a secret plan regarding his so-called impending victory. Azriel had let his brother boast, especially since he had been planning his own win for a year now.

Cassian wouldn’t know what was coming for him. And Azriel planned on capitalizing on the fact that Nesta likely wouldn’t let Cassian sleep much tonight. 

Azriel snickered to himself and the ever-restless shadows around him stirred, gazing out to the family room. 

Sleep, they had whispered in his ear and a sense of deep-set exhaustion crawled over his bones again. 

I wish I could, he comforted them silently. But sleep rarely found him these days. 

Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced any time he grew still long enough for them to strike. Too many wants and needs left his skin overheated as it pulled taut over his muscles. And so he chose to sleep only when his body gave out, and even then only for a few hours.

Azriel surveyed the empty room from the hallway, the presents under the tree and the ribbons littering the furniture. There were two dirty glasses on the mantel of the fireplace, smeared lipstick on one and nothing on the other. 

Nesta and Cassian hadn’t reappeared in the house, though that came as no surprise. They were among the first ones to leave and Azriel’s shadows had notified him of his brother carrying Nesta to the House of Wind mere minutes after Rhysand had winnowed her friends out. 

He was elated for him and yet Azriel was never able to stop it—the green envy in his chest of Cassian, of Rhys. Cauldron, even of Amren. He knew he would be swallowed by that never-ending despair if he went to his bedroom, and so he chose to remain down here by the dying light in the fireplace. 

The room lacked the bustle and laughter it had enshrined for the last couple of hours. Now the silence grew heavy and the stillness of his bedroom began crawling between the walls and into the family room. He clutched his fingers around the jacket on his forearm, letting it dissolve into shadows.

Azriel removed himself from the doorway, entering the hall and walking soundlessly to the foyer. 

Soft steps padded from the stair archway and there she was.

The faelights gilded across Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. Again, the image from the Day Court had appeared before his eyes and as she halted, her breath caught in her throat.

“I…” He watched her swallow. She clutched her fingers around a small box. “I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. I forgot to put it there earlier.”

A lie. At least the second part was a lie. He didn’t need his shadows to read her tone, the slight tightening of her face. She had waited until everyone was asleep before venturing back down, where she would leave her gift among his other, unopened presents. Subtle and unnoticed, she wanted him to find it in the morning and after the snowball battle. Perhaps she had hoped he would pocket the little box, open it in the privacy of his room and away from the prying eyes of his family.

Elain closed the distance and her breathing quickened as she paused a scant foot away. “No trouble in giving it to you now, I guess. Here.” She extended the wrapped gift, her hand trembling. 

Azriel fought hard not to look at his scarred fingers as they took the gift. She hadn’t bought her mate a present, he recalled. When his shadows went over the gifts, they had divulged this precious detail to him. He hadn’t gotten one this year nor last but she went through the trouble of buying something for him. She had given Azriel a headache powder a year ago which he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use but just to look at. Something he had done every night he had slept there—or rather attempted to sleep there. 

Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days. -Elain, and then opened the lid. 

Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, "You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you..." 

He hadn’t had the heart to tell he was going to move from the House soon and so unable to suppress his impulse, he just chuckled. “You wouldn’t want me to open this in front of everyone.”

Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t appreciate the joke.”

As he closed the box and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, he returned her smile. “I wasn’t sure if I should give you your present…” 

He had left the rest unspoken as he reached into his shadows. Her mate was here, sleeping only a level above them and he had been present all throughout the evening, not once leaving the room before Elain had retired for the night. The scent of their mating bond had filled Azriel’s lungs and even if he had positioned himself to a far corner, it would still reach his nostrils, tickling something wicked that called for unfairness. 

Though tonight, here in the dark and silence, there was only the two of them and he supposed it was fair at last to give her this one thing. Despite wanting to give much more.

He pulled the velvet box out, letting his shadows open it for her. Once revealed, they scattered to the back of his neck in a moment’s time. 

Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin and his shadow retreated even further, almost completely disappearing. They and their murmurs had always been prone to vanish when she was around and so did his voice of reason. 

The golden chain was unremarkable and the amulet tiny enough to be dismissed as an everyday charm. Weeks ago, he had escaped the House of Wind and found himself walking through the Palace of Thread and Jewel. A vendor had waved him over from the crowd, choosing Azriel to present his newest invention. When he told him to hold it up to the sun, Azriel was rendered speechless once the true depth of colors became visible and it reminded him of her. It was a thing of secret, lovely beauty, just like the female before him. 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Azriel watched her face tentatively as she lifted the necklace from the box. The fae lights shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm aglow with hues of red, pink, white and green. 

Azriel let his shadow swallow the box as she said softly, “Put it on me?”

The everlasting murmurs in his head slowed to a still. But he took the necklace, opening the clasp as she exposed her back, sweeping her hair up in one hand to bare her neck. 

He knew it was wrong but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. He let his scarred fingers touch her unmarred skin, letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took his sweet time fastening the clasp.

Azriel's hand lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch, until his palm lay flat against her neck. 

It had never gone this far. They'd exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching. 

Wrong—it was so wrong. The murmurs returned with fervor but he didn’t care. 

He needed to know what the skin of her neck felt like. What those lips tasted like, her breasts, her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue—

The fabric of Azriel’s pants began straining against his will. It ached so fiercely he could only pray she didn’t peer down. Pray she didn’t understand the shift in his scent. 

He would only allow himself these thoughts in the dead of night, when everyone had fallen asleep and when no one, not even his shadows, could bear witness to his selfishness. 

Elain bit her lower lip and it took every ounce of Azriel’s restraint not to free it with his own. 

“I should go,” Elain said but made no move to leave. She was still peering up at him with those big eyes.

“Yes,” he said, his thumb sweeping long strokes along the side of her neck. The gentle brush sent a shiver down Elain’s spine and as her arousal drifted up to him, his eyes nearly fell shut. If he could, he would drop to his knees in front of her, asking her to let him worship her body. But Azriel settled for stroking her neck. For now. 

She shuddered, drifting closer. So close, one deep breath would brush up her chest again his upper stomach. She was looking up at him, face so open and unafraid as if he could deliver her to the lands of milk and honey. Azriel wouldn’t put it past himself to try. 

Still, her naivety hadn’t escaped those incessant murmurs of his own. They scratched their talons against his reserve, reminding him that the hand brushing her neck had done unspeakable things. Who was he to touch her like this?

It should be a sacrilege for his rough, scarred fingers to rest on her skin, to taint her with his presence. 

He could have this, right?

Azriel wouldn’t admit it to anyone ever but he was a selfish bastard and he would allow himself to have this one moment of reverie. If only to drive away his curiosity. But afterward, he promised himself to keep a hold on himself, he would go back to restraint. This single occasion would be it for him. Something to keep, something to remember during those long, dark and lonesome hours.

“Yes," Elain breathed like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them. 

Azriel's hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain's mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut. 

Offer and permission. He nearly sighed in relief as he lowered his head toward hers. 

Azriel.

Rhysand’s voice thundered through him, halting him mere inches from Elain’s sweet and awaiting mouth.

Azriel.

The unrelenting command was an undercurrent to his name and Azriel looked up. Atop the staircase, Rhysand stood with a clenched jaw and a glower pointed at him and only him. 

My office. Now.

Rhysand vanished into thin air and Azriel was left standing there, the prickle of being watched and observed still skipping along his skin. Elain who stood before him was still awaiting his lips on hers. His stomach twisted as he pulled his hand from her hair and stepped back so their breaths would mix no longer. 

He forced himself to say, “This was a mistake.”

Something had his throat in a vice, whether it was a need or the shame at being called on like a dog, he didn’t know. He was only aware of the strained sentence coming out and Elain opening her eyes. They widened, filling with hurt and confusion before she whispered a single, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t– Don’t apologize,” he managed to say. “Never apologize, it’s I who should…” He shook his head, unable to stand the bleakness in her face that he was the reason for. “Goodnight.”

Azriel winnowed himself into shadows before he could hear what she had to say if anything. He appeared only a heartbeat later in front of Rhysand’s study. His shadows whispered in his ear that Elain was already retreating upstairs. Shame washed over him and he ran a hand over his face. 

He pushed the dark, heavy door to reveal Rhysand at his desk, fury a moonless night across his face. 

He asked softly and only once, “Are you out of your mind?”

Azriel let the door shut behind him and didn’t even think of sitting down in the chair facing the monstrous desk littered with papers and memos. Azriel thinned his mouth at the question. He was always sparse with words and wasn’t going to stop the habit now. 

His brother looked at him in exasperation, as if not believing what he was seeing. Upon closer inspection, the lines on Rhysand’s face were longer and shadows lingered in the space below his eyes. But even despite the tired appearance, his power rolled around him like a dark cloud in an ominous reminder. 

“I asked you something, Azriel.”

Azriel joined his hands behind his back, saying, “What do you want me to say?”

Rhysand’s frown should have been an answer enough. “I want you to explain why I saw you about to kiss Elain in the middle of a hall where anyone could see you,” he snarled, pointing an accusing finger his way. “Including her mate.”

Azriel scoffed. Of course, he would mention Lucien. It wasn’t often that Azriel’s hackles rose and he allowed them to. But when he met his brother’s eyes with rage, he knew Rhysand could match him a thousand times over. His glare had crossed with its violet twin as the air grew heavier and heavier. The siphon on his chest that he kept glamoured vibrated in answer to the challenge.

Rhysand blinked. “What of Mor, Az?”

“Don’t talk to me about Mor,” he bit out.

“I’m going to talk to you about whatever I damn wish. Especially if you go about your delusions like that.”

Azriel chose to ignore that last bit if only to keep some of his sanity. This male before him had been his friend for over five centuries. They have bled, cried and laughed beside each other. He would never lie to him and never spare his feelings. And Rhysand was right, after all. The little voice in the back of his mind had always been right too and the way Rhysand was scowling at him was all the confirmation he needed.

He glared at his shadowsinger. “If Lucien finds out you’re pursuing her, he has every right to defend the bond as he sees fit. Including the Blood Duel.”

“That’s an Autumn Court tradition.” 

The duel had historically been enacted in rare cases and ended only when the other person was dead. There was no yielding, no three taps and out. There were only two fighters and no titles could help once the Blood Duel had been invoked. Despite being an outsider, Azriel had wanted to invoke it when he had found Mor all those years ago. He had been ready to challenge both Beron and Eris, prepared to kill them or die with them. But it was Mor’s right to claim their heads that had stopped him and he would never do her the dishonor of taking that choice away. 

“Lucien, as Beron’s son, has the right to demand it of you,” reminded him Rhysand. 

“I would win,” he stated, pure conviction lacing every word. 

“I know.” It was a bitter sense of acceptance that dawned on Rhysand’s face. “Your doing so would rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn Court but also the Spring Court. Jurian and Vassa, too.” Rhys looked up from where his hands were joined in front of his face. “You will leave Elain alone.”

Azriel neared one step closer to Rhysand’s desk. “You can’t order me to do that.”

The High Lord took in that step and thinned his lips. “I can and I will. If not to protect you three from a world of hurt, then to protect this Court. I watched you tonight and half the evening you had your eyes glued to Elain and the other half, you were lost in your thoughts. And if I caught onto it, then Lucien did too. You better mind yourself, brother. You’re losing focus.”

Azriel snarled softly against his best judgment. 

“Snarl all you want.” Rhysand leaned back in his chair. “But if I see you panting after her again, I’ll make you regret it.”

Rhysand had rarely considered punishment, let alone threatened it. It stunned Azriel enough to knock him out of his rage and into incredulity. His brother avoided his gaze, grabbing a pen and focusing on the papers on his desk. Even as he looked down, his eyes weren’t scanning the words written there. His hand with the wedding ring shook slightly when he ran it through his hair.

“Get out, Az,” he said, more gently under his breath but Azriel heard it all right. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

With no further words from Rhysand or himself, Azriel walked out of the study, pushing himself to keep a calm pace, though he wanted to storm out. He tucked in his wings, walked down the stairs and past the spot where his and Elain’s mouth had almost met. His eyes were focused forward, shadows swirling around him and sensing the distress of their master. Once he pushed through the front door and into the frigid air, he let it consume him. 

The white clouds escaping his mouth were the only sign he was alive because as he passed the gate, he stood still. Too still. The River House towered behind him and the light in Rhysand’s study went out. 

How his brothers used to fear being chained down by the ankles. They had joked with Azriel, saying he would be the first to settle and that their fleeing nature would never allow them to stay still for one female. 

But they had grown, changed over time while Azriel stayed behind, hoping that the relationship they shared would remain unchanged. 

As Azriel kept standing in the cold, he let it permeate past his suit. Down through his skin and to the marrow of his bones. There was no jacket to ward off the chill—all by his choice. There was no one to run to and Azriel wondered if that was his choice too.

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Taglist:

this is being crossposted to ao3 so make sure to show some love there too, if you feel so inclined!

omg hi to whomever is reading this work ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

thank you for taking the time out of your day to sit down with this, be it on your commute, after a long day at school or whatever other downtime you have!! i am very honored and i hope i can entertain.

i'm very pumped to get this out and into the world. this oc has been stuck in my head for like over a year, i swear. maybe even perhaps when the bonus chapter of acosf with azriel first dropped ! the ideas of the plot and scenes just kept coming to me in random moments throughout these last 12 or so months. it felt like i was being shaken by my shoulder and someone was screaming into my face to, "write this one, goddammit!!!!!"

so here i am, appeasing some azriel-obsessed part of me.

since his character is very… open to interpretation due to the utter lack of anything (looking at you, SJM), i'm going to take certain liberties with his personality and motivations. so this might be slightly OOC, but i'll make sure that this is tagged on my ao3.

enjoy, my lovelies. i'll be grateful for any comments, tips or questions. if you think something could have been done differently, don't ever be afraid to comment on it. i am very open to criticism as bettering my craft is one of my biggest goals with this. my inbox is open (i think).

[tremsing82]

Rhys’ Father/The Former High Lord of Night

I want a chapter where Rhys figures out his father wasn’t a bastard. The man’s version of a punishment to a bunch of teenage Illyrians warriors who ran naked through Velaris was to walk down and up the steps of the house of wind. Keir’s version of a punishment to his daughter for having premarital sex was to torture and nail a nail through her womb, Beron’s version of a punishment to his son for loving a lesser fae was to torture and kill the female in front of his son. Rhys dad was just an older version of Rhys. The high lords of Night have always been on the receiving end of bad luck. Rhys even said everything I love gets taken from me. And well what if the same was true for his dad. His dad didn’t find his mate till he was 900+ yrs old. His dad didn’t bring children into the world till he had a mate bond. Rhys father who instead of yelling at his daughter to leave the bridge would just pick her up and carry her home. That is not a bastard of a father. Rhys says his father separated him and his friends because he was afraid of their powers and them coupe against him but truthfully they were entering into a extremely volatile war, where every small weakness would be used against any political pawn, which Rhys is a political pawn and his 2 best friends will be his biggest weakness. So he sent Cassian to lesser legion as a grunt where he was not in the worst of the battles and he kept Az near himself not only for the spy intel but also to keep him away from the battle. Rhys though needed to go to battle and learn to be a leader to his future army. So yes I hope Rhys has this epiphany that his dad was actually a really good parent and leader.

Also by ensuring Cassian and Az did not enter extremely violent war combat he made sure his son entered his high lord era with the 2 most powerful Illyrian at his side to help lead his court and armies. By having Az spy for him he taught him how to master his spying abilities. By having Cassian be a grunt in a lesser Illyrian legion he made sure Cassian knew how he wanted to change the Illyrian war camps and armies. He ensured Rhys had the best most well rounded and intelligent circle of friends as support during his reign. He made sure Rhys was safe to delegate his responsibilities so he had less stress on his shoulders which allowed him to be more in tune to his people’s needs and made sure he felt free to have fun and find love and have a family he can be hands on with. Something his father probably didn’t have the luxury of having.

[magnoliadale]

More Baby Shower Photos <3

I had so much fun putting this shower together for Maverick and Stella. From the colors to the gift table, it’s truly my best one yet! Everyone looks so good and a time was truly had for the Torrance family and friends. Stella is excited about becoming a mom and Maverick cannot wait to meet his spawn lol.

** Georgia Clarke created by missamelies on the gallery

[alicenchanted]

Court of Scandal, 2

Part 2 | Motivations | Azriel X Illyrian!F!Reader

Summary: A second paper circulates through Velaris, this time critiquing the High Lord. Azriel grapples with protecting Rowena's identity as 'Thorne,' while maintaining loyalty to his brothers, and tensions mount. Rhysand and Cassian begin to suspect something is amiss, forcing Azriel to admit Rowena’s role in the scandal, and his desire to protect her.

Word Count: 3,207 words

AN: Been a little slow with fics because I'm on a moodboard kick. Here's the next part of this little request. Hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings: minor depictions of parental abuse, wing clipping mentions.

Read on Ao3 / Part 1

After Dark, the Velaris Papers

Dearest Readers, this Author has stumbled upon the most fascinating news. The Lady of Night has been seen doting not on two children, but four. Might she believe her son unfit to take up the mantle of High Lord? We may yet witness the breaking of a familial line within our lifetimes, with the title perhaps falling to one of the bastards in the Lady’s brood.

If young Rhysand is anything like his father, we should count ourselves fortunate at the prospect.

But more pressing still: one long-asked question has finally received its answer.

Tyrn’s son is winged, like those of the very labor force the High Lord so deeply despises. Remarkable, is it not, that despite his disdain for the Illyrian species, His Highness has still honored his marriage to one?

He may come to regret that decision. If wingspan is any indication of future prowess, then the eldest may prove more competent in the bedroom than his father, and maybe in court as well.

Yours Truly,

Thorne

~~~

Rhysand held his breath. Back straight. Fists unclenched. His wings lay curled up within his body, hidden away like hibernating beasts. 

“Do you understand just how dangerous this is?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then you will find him and do what is necessary?”

“Yes, Father.”

The High Lord stood. Tyrn was no longer taller than Rhysand, who was nearing his final maturation before settling as a fae, but he was still a force to be feared. Rhysand willed himself not to falter as his father approached.

He couldn’t. His father raised a hand, flattened his palm, and Rhys flinched. It was instinctual fear, the hardest kind to master control over. 

The High Lord smirked at the sight, lowering his arm. “I need not remind you, then, what is coming should you fail.” He turned, walking towards the edges of the Moonstone Palace’s radiant windows. Rhysand knew to follow.

Looking out at the Court below, Rhysand’s face turned grave. Beneath the jagged fixtures of rock, Morrigan was trapped, likely facing her own father’s wrath. His eyes bored into the Hewn City from above. Rhys tried to reach for Morrigan’s mind, but she was too far and he was not good enough. He would never be good enough.

“Everything I do is for this Court. For you, Rhysand. I will not have you inherit a kingdom in shambles.”

“Yes, Father.”

His lovely, deadly, indigo eyes fixed on his son for only a moment, his stare unreadable. Rhys kept his gaze fixed upon the water, on distant shores that he might have one day seen as he left this place forever. If only fate had not woven the strings of his life.

The sun lowered beyond the mountains, turning the world to night, and Tyrn turned back to the window without sparing another glance to Rhys. “You are dismissed.” 

The High Lord waved a lazy hand, and Rhysand did not need to be told twice. As slowly and confidently as possible, he stalked out from the throne room, not turning to see his mother’s expression. Would it be sympathy? Disinterest? Anger? He couldn’t bear it.

“What happened?” 

Cassian and Azriel were crouched against the arched wall, rounded ears pressed to the stone, attempting to listen. Rhysand silenced them with a glare. “I’ll tell you when we get home.”

~~~

Landing in Windhaven, a first glance at the town square confirmed their fears. Throughout the square, Illyrians ran about waving pamphlets and trampling the messenger boys. Males emptied their pockets for coin, and women gathered at the corners to read Thorne’s most recent column allowed, giggling all the while.

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, laughing nervously. Azriel knew it was his way of coping with stress, he had seen it often enough. “This is not good, huh?”

“No,” Rhys said. “This isn’t good.”

“It could be worse,” Azriel shrugged his shoulders. Offering comfort had never come easy to him. He had received so little of it in his already long life, but it didn’t stop him from trying. “It seems like she likes you more than Tyrn.”

“She?” Rhysand and Cassian both stumbled, coming to a stop on the starlit cobblestone street. 

Azriel shrugged again, his face turning to stone. “I mean… who knows.”

Rhys quirked a brow. “My father believes it is a male, one of his men perhaps. Many of his friends hoped to have Keir’s position. With that author calling it ‘The Court of Nightmares,’ it's already doing work to ruin Keir. And the plays…”

“Could be,” Azriel nodded, sealing his lips back shut. Two nights ago, he had found that girl in the dark alleys of Velaris. Illyrians rarely traveled there, especially not women. Even if they could fly the distance, if their wings had been spared like the Lady of Night’s, they were much too busy keeping house to ever travel. That girl- shit- he didn’t even get her name, did he? 

When he saw her tattered wings, the purse clutched in her trembling fingers, he knew. It had taken only one thought for his shadows to curl up her body and into that handbag, searching the papers inside. 

“I think we should start by following after your father’s men,” Cassian said, firmly backing up Rhys. 

“Okay,” Rhys agreed. But he didn’t look so sure anymore. Azriel felt the heavy weight of Rhysand’s violet-blue eyes. They followed his shadows, darting with their frantic movements. Azriel had not yet learned how to quiet them, they gave away far too much.

Rhysand did not press the issue any more, though. “Where should we go? The Hewn City, stay here in Windhaven? Velaris?-”

“Velaris.”

Again Rhysand was staring at him, trying to read what Azriel knew. It was a bad idea to visit the female author’s hunting grounds, he knew. She would be in danger, yes, but so would they. She had seen Rhysand’s wings and written them into her work. Azriel was a little surprised that Rhys and Cassian didn’t see the connection, but then again, many of Tyrn’s men had seen Rhys in his Illyrian form for training over the years.

He would not tell them. Not until he knew more about her. Not until he could ensure she… paid for her crimes? But what would her payment be? Surely it would not be as simple as a fine. Her writings were treason, she would be executed. Or tortured then executed. Agh- 

Azriel rubbed his temples, trying to soothe the incoming headache with pressure. “Are you coming?” Cassian asked, as eager for the flight as a hound for fetch. 

“Yeah, sorry,” Azriel shook his head and pulled back his wings.

~~~

Rowena wove through the streets of Velaris, a grin on her face. Tonight’s earnings from her last pamphlet would be plentiful. Maybe she could even afford to tip Aeron extra. It wasn’t easy winnowing for a living, she was sure, he needed to keep his rest and energy high. 

Rowena’s feet took the lovely paths with remembered grace. The kind of grace she had as a girl, before her wings had been tapered and ‘fixed.’ Some of the more wealthy families of Windhaven had their female’s wings clipped with design, the skin at the bottom punctured into lacework. Some females looked like little walking doilies, prim and pretty mothers-to-be. Rowena was one such girl. Every ounce of fight in her had not been enough. 

The only thing she was glad for, when it came to her family, was that her parents’ deaths were timely enough to allow her some measure of their gold. Small, but enough to do something. 

Finally, she was using that gold. The best, and most discreet, printer in Velaris, the highest quality paper, the darkest and most poignant ink. Her parents’ stores would run dry soon, but it wouldn’t matter. She would make it all back and then some. A shiver of delight wracked her body as she neared the printer’s doors. 

And then, a shiver of fear. As quick as a bat in the night, footsteps overtook Rowena’s pace. Her mouth dropped open to scream, but a warm hand gripped her mouth. “Shh.”

She opened her teeth to bite, but caught the scent of mist on his skin. Blue gems glittered in her peripheral. It was Rhysand’s lackey, the one who saw her yesterday. He pulled his hand away, instead moving it down to her neck, keeping her in place.

“So you know, then?” A weight as sharp and bloody as a guillotine settled in her stomach. Many times she had stopped to consider what punishments might await her were she ever to be caught, but success had muddied her head. She was as bad as the emperors of old, drinking and dancing while conspiracy rumbled around them. 

“I do,” he confirmed. His chest was solid muscle. She could feel him up against her back, breathing down her neck.

If he turned her in to the authorities- Cauldron, she didn’t know what would happen. She could beg for her life, or- “Spare me from your masters and I’ll give you half my earnings.”

“Your what?”

“My earnings,” she hissed. “What, you think I do this for free?”

“Well…” his face went blank. Ha- he had. “I just figured you hated-”

“Hatred may be enough to survive on for a short while, but I seek to thrive, Shadowsinger.”

“You know who I am?”

“Not before spending time in the tavern, eavesdropping on your warlords’ loose tongues. It wasn’t that hard to put things together, though.” She gestured to his coiling shadows, which seemed once again very interested in her purse. No papers tonight, only room for her payment.

“I don’t want your coin.”

She stiffened, but held her head up high. He only wanted her then. She bared her throat to his grip, to the scarred skin of his hands. She would not tremble. “Then allow me some small mercy by killing me now.”

“I won’t kill you.”

Her amber eyes met his own. He would take her alive- to be bloodied and- “You believe I deserve worse?”

The Shadowsinger, Azriel, hesitated. His grip on her relaxed, but his arms were within range. He would not hurt her, but he would not let her go either. 

“What’s your name?”

“No.”

His chest lowered with a sigh. “I won’t kill you, and I won’t share your secret either.”

Rowena carefully slid a hand into her purse, looking for a few gold to offer him, but he shook his head. 

“No, no money.”

“Suit yourself.” She turned to leave. Rowena would not be a simpering fool demanding to know why he was helping her. Azriel would either turn her in, or he wouldn’t, and the reason would always be personal gain. He was getting something out of this. Perhaps the Illyrian warriors hated their Lords, too.

At the end of the alleyway, her path to the printers closed off. Like iron gates, two sets of wings spread wide to block her. Rowena ripped around to glare at Azriel. “Liar.”

“Everything is fine,” he called over her figure, as if trying to call off his dogs. Yes, on both sides she was trapped. 

“Is it, Azriel?” The High Lord’s son spoke. “You’ve been sneaking away quite a lot tonight.”

“Rhys, he’s got a girllllll,” the other warrior, Cassian, said. “We should let them have their fun-”

Azriel’s arms wound their way around Rowena’s middle, petting just above the skirt of her dress. His touch, now pressed against her much more intimately than before, sent tingles across her sensitive wings. Rowena sucked in a breath. 

Rhysand watched the scene, eyebrows raising from where he now stood right across from her and Azriel. She shivered in fear, but he cocked his head, the accusation in his eyes fading away as stars lit their depths. “When were you going to tell us, Az?”

“I-”

“It’s big, right?” Cassian winked at Rowena, pride glimmering in his eyes. 

“Oh- uh- yes.” She cleared her throat. “Very big.”

Azriel choked just a bit, earning a laugh from the Illyrian warriors. 

Rhysand allowed himself a little smile, but it faded. “Azriel, as happy as I am for you… we have more important things to worry about right now.” The stars winked out from his eyes. “Please, return to her tonight after we’re done… hunting. Cassian-” he hit the soldier on the back with a solid smack. 

“ Oof ”

“-Cassian and I will not stop you.”

“Well, maybe-”

Again, Rhysand patted Cassian’s back jovially. “Try again, Cas.”

“We won’t bother you,” the warrior smiled a winning grin that spoke of an intent to do the opposite.

“Ah, yes.” Azriel nodded, looking at Rowena warily. “I will see you later my- my love .” 

The shadowsinger released her to join the other males. As they leapt off the ground, taking to the skies of Velaris, Rowena saw Azriel give her one last look. A warning not to do anything stupid. 

Unfortunately, they did not see eye-to-eye on what stupid was. 

~~~

Rhysand looked dismal the next morning. Just below his eye was a small black bruise, easily covered with Lady Selene’s powders and creams. Cassian closed one eye to focus, daubing Rhys’s high cheekbones with a strange sponge. 

“Ow.”

“Sorry-”

“Ow.”

“Sorry-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Cassian, let me do it.” Rhys stood abruptly, storming over to one of the Cabin’s mirrors. “I should have asked Az, he has steadier hands.”

His bruise faded away under the tinted cream. It was just painful enough to serve as a reminder for Rhysand. Fuck the High Lord. Cassian stood, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Rhysand in the mirror. He watched himself in the mirror, too. All that training was paying off.

Azriel sat sullen in the back, brooding, as he liked to do. “What’s wrong,” Cassian ventured, trying to sound lighthearted. “That girl break your heart last night?”

“I couldn’t find her after.”

“Don’t you know where she lives?”

“No.”

Ok, weird. But not any of Cassian’s business. “Your shadows are restless, my friend. We can go to Rita’s-”

“No,” Azriel snapped back, his voice cold and distant. 

Cassian took a step back, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were that serious about her.”

“I’m not.”

Rhysand stepped back from the mirror, bruise fully covered. There was space on the cushion next to Azriel, and Cassian watched Rhys sit. 

“What’s her name,” Rhys said thoughtfully. His face was warm and encouraging, even hopeful. Azriel was private about a lot of things. Sometimes, it ate away at Cassian that so much of Azriel’s life was hidden away.

Azriel said nothing, and Rhysand gently touched his shoulder. “We’re not gonna judge you.”

“I don’t know her name,” Az said quietly.

“What?” The words spilled from Cassian’s mouth and Rhysand turned to glare.

“I said we’re not going to judge him .” He softened his features out before looking at Azriel again. “That’s okay, I’m sure Cassian only remembers, like, one ex’s name.”

“Five,” Cassian corrected. “Elen, Genetta, Aine, Liriael, and Willa.” He was still working on Morrigan, Rhys’s cousin, but that would likely never happen with her down in the Hewn City.

“I stand corrected…” Rhys mumbled. “But- it doesn’t matter. Names aren’t important, anyways.”

The expression on Azriel’s face was tight. It was the look he had when the Lady of Night had questioned him about the pamphlets only a week ago. He was cracking under the pressure of something. 

Rhys knew it too. He shared a glance with Cassian, each daring the other to break the heavy silence that had settled over the Cabin.

“Sooooo, Azriel…” What to say? What to say?

Rhysand sighed audibly, ignoring Cassian’s pitiful attempt to reach out. “Az, just tell us what’s going on.”

“I can’t.”

“Why,” Cassian said. Growing more agitated. He wanted Azriel to just spit it out already. “Whatever is going on, we can help you. As much as I love a good tryst in the alley, it’s not safe to be meeting her with all of the Darkbringers out there.”

Azriel laughed, low and empty. “You think I don’t know that?”

“It seems like you don’t.” Rhysand jumped in, the conversation turning serious. “You’re distracted. Nothing else matters right now except finding that author and ruining his name.” Rhys gently touched the bruise beneath his eye. 

Azriel did not move, but his shadows did. Around his hunched form, the tendrils of darkness shifted and squirmed uncomfortably. 

“What are you hiding?” Cassian asked.

“Nothing.”

Too quickly. Far too quickly. Azriel’s body went rigid, and Cassian knew why. Rhysand looked desperate. Perhaps he was desperate enough for information that he would use his magic.

Rhysand’s shoulders sunk at the sight of his brothers’ sudden tension. He knew what they were thinking by body language alone. “Relax. I’m not my father. I wouldn’t do that without permission.”

Cassian watched Azriel’s wings droop sullenly, like Rhysand’s sister when she didn’t get her way. He muttered something into the crook of his arm. “Shestheauthorofthepamphlets.”

“What?”

Azriel lifted his head. “She’s the author of those pamphlets. The female I- we met.”

Cassian looked to Rhysand first, wanting to see if Rhys would blow. Cassian would be there to pick up the shrapnel. But he did not yell. Rhys grinned, looking pleased. “This is perfect.”

“What do you mean?” Azriel asked quietly.

“We know who she is, she clearly trusts you. We can set up a meeting between you two and hand her over to my father, wipe our hands clean of this.”

“We can’t do that.” Azriel insisted.

Rhys looked at Cassian, waiting for his help. Cassian gave him a conflicted shrug. “Rhys- we can’t just send an innocent girl to her death…”

“Innocent? She’s hardly innocent.” Cassian watched Rhys look back and forth between his brothers. “What, you want to keep it a secret? To protect the female that’s- that’s going to destroy our court.”

“I’m not saying we protect her,” Cassian said slowly.

“I am.” Azriel’s expression, his words, they were firm. “She hasn’t been spreading lies, only bringing to light the questions they- we - all have. When was the last time you saw Morrigan? What are Tyrn’s real motives for putting Keir in power?”

Rhysand was quiet. He opened his mouth, but quickly closed it, letting Azriel storm forward. Seeing him at a loss for words made Cassian feel antsy. Uncomfortable. He slid a hand through his too long hair. 

“This is our chance to have a say in Velaris’s future now, without waiting for centuries to pass.” Azriel folded his arms, his shadows calming as he finally let go of everything pent up within him.

“Don’t you think she’ll find something damning to write about us, too?” Rhysand asked carefully.

“Not if we don’t give her anything.” 

Azriel did have a point there. “I hardly think having your bedroom prowess praised is ‘damning,” Cassian added with a shy grin.

Rhysand shook his head, not feeling any better about the idea. “I… I have to think about this. Weigh the stakes.”

“Fine,” Azriel bit, turning away with finality.

Cassian sighed. Now seemed like a good time to go train.

[highmati]

we’re going villain mode team

[shittalkingwiththesuriel]

Eris 🤝 Tamlin 🤝 Azriel 🤝 Cassian

“Like him” - Tyler the Creator

“She said that I make expressions like him

My legs to my shoulders to my chin like him

My waist and my posture like him”

[florencemtrash]

So like…..who’s gonna have the unfortunate job of telling Helion that Az accidentally and unknowingly stabbed his daughter 😅

I would NOT want to be that person that's for fucking sure 😅. Not my circus, not my monkey.... except it IS my circus and my monkey so... fuck

Either way, don't you worry, Helion will learn very quickly what went down and he is not going to be happy about it....

[jollyinmadness]

Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 2, Amygdalus communis | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 8.5k

Warnings: Animals dying (not in detail).

Summary:

When an unknown curse starts spreading through the Night Court's lands, the Inner Circle is forced to seek help in the wisdom of Day's vast libraries. Among the dusty tomes, they are met with a mysterious female who wields magic that may yet be the key to their problem.

Kira, one of the few surviving Purifiers, will have to leave her reclusiveness on the shores of the Continent and learn what her ancestor's vow really means.

Azriel will be forced to reconcile his follies, step out from his shadows and push against his shortcoming with nothing but the scarred skin of his hands.

After years of lucky breaks, will the Inner Circle succeed one last time? Or will their fate rest in the hands of an outsider who has more to lose than gain in helping them?

Then again, the Cauldron is forever being stirred by the Mother and no one escapes the yarn on the embroidery of their lives.

Previous chapter |✶| Masterlist |✶| Next chapter

There was some peace to it, she had to admit. Being so far away from anyone and everyone but still within the bounds of the Day Court. The capital city, Trinthi, was just a few days’ trek away and the forest grew thick among these parts. 

So many animals passed by her little tent, some species she had never encountered before. A rabbit seemingly mixed with a fox, elks with a blue patch of fur on their back and tails long like a cat’s, bears, as black as the night but as calm as the air before a storm. 

The flora here was also a sight to behold. 

Gods, she had traveled the eastern continent three dozen times now, experienced the droughts of the Tijuan desert and the suffocating humidity of the Galbraithe rainforest. She had seen the highest mountain peaks and deepest valleys, lived in villages cut off from the rest of the world, yet she had never experienced something like this. She was beginning to think she could never be surprised—but here she was, proven wrong. 

Even if she had had another five hundred years she doubted she could find out all the medicinal properties the plants of Day had to offer and the habits of all the fauna here. The High Lord had long ago chastised her for this, saying there are many scholars who have already done what she has, there was no need to sit around doing this. That the libraries of Zinnia are always going to be open to her. He always pressed her, “Why do you waste time like this?”

But that was the thing for her. All she seemed to have was time. Despite his lack of understanding, he never did stop her from leaving the Palace and taking refuge among the wilderness. 

The little compendium she carried on her person had started to peter out of pages as she sat on a branch, her back against the thick trunk. Her hands were dirty from charcoal as she rushed to jot down the details of a mother bird feeding her hatchlings. How she kept an eye out at the predator lurking a few trees away, a red tailed hawk. How the little birds stretched out their necks, waiting for food their mother was chewing up for them.

She wrote down most of what she saw, added little drawings in a style she had mastered over time. They weren’t perfect by any means but when she sat down to watch the nature unfold on its own, capturing it seemed like the only right thing to do. Mainly, it was then her mind quietened enough that she could see the world for what it was. Void of magic, void of power hungry Fae rulers battling it out and leaving a trail of blood in their wake, void of suffering brought on by that greed. 

This forest was the one thing left behind. 

Self sufficient in its way, brutal in others. A never ending cycle of being on a hunt and being hunted. For her, it felt familiar yet distant. She could simply watch without being an unwilling participant. 

And so only a nest remained in this perfect little bubble. There was the robin and its hatchlings and the hawk perched far away, scouting his prey. 

And in just a few moments, a chain of events unfolded as the female kept her eyes peeled and head turned in the nest’s direction. 

The hawk flapped its wings, massive and powerful in its stature. It rose into the air. The mother bird startled, reeled back her body and turned her head from one side to another but she did not catch sight of the hawk, for it had disappeared above the canopy of the forest. As she stepped from one clawed leg to another, a panic of sorts consumed her. Her little hatchlings had their mouth wide open, still waiting for the worms hanging out of her beak. They were squeaking, trying to garner their mother’s attention though it lay elsewhere. It was apparent that she wished to fly away, save her own feathers but the instinct to protect the little creatures had taken over. How peculiar, unusual even.

The worms dropped from her beak and the little robin prepared for a fight she was bound to lose. And as those maggots fell through the air, the canopy overhead opened and down came the hawk, its wings opened, angling him in a fast arch with his claws pointed at her.

There was no outcry from the hawk nor the robin. As he snatched the mother away from its babies, few feathers were left in her awake. The only sounds were the hatchling’s little squeaks as their mother was torn away from them, unaware of what had just transpired. Their eyes were stuck closed as the hawk came after the little nest a second time. He took three, then two birds and then he deemed his take enough for the day, because he had not returned for the very last one. Perhaps he thought it was dead, as it lay at the center of the nest, unmoving. It had not been crying, not the way its siblings were just a few seconds ago. 

The female on the tree sighed, putting down her charcoal and paper. She supposed that was the way of life. A little bird is torn away from its source of nutrition and is left to fend for itself. A claim to a life is denied without it ever having started. 

She stretched her feet, climbed down the tree she was resting on, only to climb up another. She carefully took the nest into her hands, making sure the fragile structure wouldn't fall apart as she went down. 

When she peered in, the small robin seemed to stir and pop open an eye. She doubted the bird could see her, it had little feathers and seemed weak as it was. It was a hatchling, barely on the brink of becoming a nestling. She tucked the nest to her chest, making a tutting sound and catching its attention. It lifted its swaying head and opened its beak, awaiting some sliver of food, as if eating was a chore it didn’t get to do often. There was no sound coming out of its small throat but she could see the chasm it led to. It was starving, losing a fight that hadn’t even properly begun. 

Her finger gently reached in, rubbing against the little bird with utmost gentleness. It snuggled closer to the warmth and before she could even reach her tent, she began thinking of the way she was going to feed it. 

The satchel on her hip carried cheese and some bread—food certainly not suitable for a baby bird. She would need to go back to the forest and find insects, or some berries if need be. She worried the little thing was going to crumble beneath her hand with the way it shivered.

As she broke the tree line into a small clearing, she eyed her tent hidden under the lip of a rock. She picked this spot as a cover for rain but there was not a cloud in sight for days now. She couldn’t help but think the weather had been quite befitting of the Day Court. 

The nest was delicately placed on her bedroll, a rugged thing sufficing for a week’s worth of nights she planned on. Looking at the barely feathered creature, she worried her lip while wondering what exactly she was bound to do with it. She could take it to Trinthi and to the botanic gardens full of little birds like these. Perhaps other robins there would adopt it, take care of it. It could thrive there under the care of local keepers. She would need to ask around, that was for sure. 

But for now, it needed sustenance. She entered the forest once again, watching the ground with sharp focus and using what little magic she had to scout out tendrils of life. In a way, she felt like the hawk that killed the little bird’s family but she shook off the thought once she found what she was looking for. At once, she returned with a handful of berries and worms wrapped in a cloth. 

She lay down on her back, gently taking the bird and placing it on her chest, right above her heart. For a moment, she took a pause and just watched it. The way it breathed right with her, harmonious with the rise of her chest and the beating of her heart. It ruffled its featherless wings and lifted its beak, probably smelling the crushed worms she had chewed up for it. 

“You’re hungry, aren’t you, little one?” she muttered under her breath and the bird let out the tiniest squeak in response. It made her smile. The little bird swallowed the dripping mixture from her finger, swallowing and swallowing, filling up its empty stomach. 

“Taking to strays, are we?” 

The sound of another's voice startled her as much as it did the little bird. She lifted her wide eyes, meeting the gaze of a male from where he was standing in the far treeline.  A breath of relief escaped her. 

“Helion,” she greeted, not moving from where her fingers were dropping food into the bird's beak. 

“Is that a… robin?” Helion stepped forward and questioned, voice pitched with slight disbelief. 

“A hawk took its mother and siblings. It was the only one left,” she explained, feeling as though she was caught doing something wrong.

Helion only hummed, standing motionless in front of her campsite. She could invite him to sit down but there was nowhere to take perch beside a muddy log and he was wearing a white chiton. The fabric seemed light as it blew in the wind. Golden clasps adorned it but there was no crown of spikes on his head, only a snake-like armband wrapped around his bicep. Helion hadn’t come to her as the High Lord of the Day Court, he had come as a friend of many years. Or whatever their past transgression made them into, perhaps an acquaintance. 

“Has it already been a week?” she asked, referring to her planned stay in these lands. 

Helion shook his head, a stream of straight dark hair swaying with the movement. “Yes, two days ago actually.”

“Oh…” she sputtered out, breaking eye contact with Helion and looking down at the bird. 

Helion had been a High Lord for almost half a century now and as much as he didn’t wish to admit it, it was beating down on him. She watched her friend change with the centuries they knew one another and she couldn’t help but notice the biggest one happened in the last fifty years. Even if she wasn’t present for them.  

She had grown up alongside him, being a little younger than Helion. She had known him like the back of her hand despite the fact that she only came to visit every few years and stayed weeks at most—perhaps not counting one of her very prolonged stay but she wished not to think about that. 

Helion had been brilliant and it came to her as no surprise when she had learned he, a son of the previous High Lord, was chosen to be the next by their land’s magic. She only mourned the circumstances and wished the title wouldn’t carry its burden.

“Right, sorry.” At his lack of an answer, she forced one corner of her mouth to lift and said, “You’re a long way from Trinthi. Have I been summoned?”

Helion shrugged. “I simply wanted to see what all that fuss was about. You always disappear on me like this.”

“And I always invite you to come along and you always refuse. I might need to cut this excursion short,” she stated, transfering the little bird whose digestive system would start up any second to its tent. 

From where he stood, Helion tilted his head at her. “Because of a bird?”

“Have you ever taken care of a hatchling before?”

“I am a High Lord and spell-cleaver,” he said, matter of fact. “Of course not.”

She nodded her head, letting out a small genuine laugh. She looked at the High Lord and spell-cleaver from the corner of her eye. ”Did they teach the High Lord how to help a lady with packing?”

“I never knew you were a lady!” 

Despite the comment, Helion dropped down to his knees and helped her take the camp apart. He pulled off the fabric on the tent, the tarp, instantly dirtying his hands and clothes though he didn’t seem to mind. Folding the fabric in silence, she stuffed all her utensils inside a sack. He handed her other things laying around, like a flint and a lantern that she hooked to her pack’s clasp. She also made sure that her compendium was wrapped carefully in leather along with her assortment of charcoal. It had happened a few times too many when a storm caught her and ruined all her hard work.

Once that was done, she attached the small, folded tarp to the bottom and swung the sack over her shoulders. The only thing that remained was an extinguished fire, the log she used to sit on and a dirt patch where her tent had been. 

She picked up the nest, holding it close to her chest. “Do you think it’ll be all right if we winnow?” she asked under her breath, making sure the napping bird was still breathing. 

“I’m not too sure,” he admitted, resting a palm on her shoulder as they both leaned in their heads. “I can cast a protective spell, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Helion.”

“It is no problem, Kira.”

Kira smiled at him, knowing he was teasing her for the continuous use of his name. She couldn’t help it. The habit had been etched into her blood and bones long ago. 

Not only do you make sure the right person reacts, it also shows that you care enough to remember their name, came the prickle at the back of her mind and her smile sputtered out slightly.

She let Helion take the nest and watched as golden light filled in the flesh of his fingertips, much like frostbite would turn them purple. Helion muttered something under his breath, an incantation she didn’t recognize and then smiled at Kira. The bird still appeared to be sleeping but if Kira looked close enough, she could see the binding and protecting spell all around its body.

“She should be all right now.”

“It’s a she?” asked Kira. 

“I believe so, though it is still too early to tell.” He kept holding the little bird to his side, offering an elbow to Kira. “Care to give her name?”

She placed her arm in his, only giving the campsite behind her one single look before shrugging her shoulders. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, prompting him to walk forward to the forest. “Do you have any ideas?”

“What do you think of Nastya?”

She hummed, the birdsong of the forest filling in the gaps in their conversation. “Meaning resurrection,” she quipped. “How subtle, Helion.”

He huffed out a small chuckle beside her. “I was never one for subtlety. Shall we?”

A nod from Kira was all the confirmation Helion needed as he took a step forward and a gate of golden light washed over them. 

Kira could never fully grasp winnowing with the High Lord of the Day Court. When she was younger, the only times she winnowed was with her sister and even then, it felt nothing like this. There was no wind tearing at her linen tunic and it never seemed as though she was stepping into sun itself. The glow was so bright she had to squeeze her eyes closed, and even then, the backs of her eyelids lit up. One second she was in the forest not far from the north border and the next, she was floating through space and time and standing in Helion’s home. 

Kira stepped away from Helion, putting a hand at her stomach and taking in a deep breath. 

“You all right there?” she heard Helion ask from her side. 

It didn’t matter how many times she winnowed with him, her body never took it lightly. Surrounded by magic of this sort—one that belonged to a High Lord nonetheless—she felt like a lump was about to escape from her throat and onto the polished marble floor. Something inside her always wished to answer that mighty magic and usually, it was her stomach. 

“Just trying not to throw up,” she hissed out. Despite the churning in her belly, she wobbled to Helion’s other side to inspect Nastya. She was still sleeping soundly, the spell working as intended. “Could have casted that spell on me too,” she muttered and let out a sigh. There was an answering chuckle from her side.

Once the nausea passed, she took the nest from Helion and looked around to ground herself. 

They had landed in the foyer of the palace, its creamy walls flanked with windows and covered by gauzy blinds that billowed in the afternoon’s wind.

“Do you care to take dinner with me?” asked Helion and Kira slowly turned her eyes to meet his. 

Within this grand palace, his eyes appeared like molten honey once the sun’s beams hit his face. She was always jealous of the way he appeared to be cut by a god’s hand—it should be sinful to be this handsome and this powerful at the same time, so unabashed and confident in one’s abilities. Instead here she stood in front him, a polar opposite with her bright white hair, as if spun from clouds in the sky. She wasn’t all hard muscles like Helion, though she reached higher than any other female in his close circle. Still, she was not comparable to this heartthrob of a High Lord. 

“Who would say no to you?” she jested with a mirth. 

Helion sent her a beaming smile. “In the gardens, then?” 

Kira paused, making sure that her smile mirrored his. “As is our tradition,” she said awkwardly, glancing towards the winding staircases. “You couldn’t have winnowed me to the front of my room?” 

At this, he laughed but refused to answer. “I have some things to attend to but Meallan has been rather snippy since you left. Make sure to go and see him sometime?”

At the mention of his beloved pegasus, Kira eagerly nodded. 

For a few years now, Meallan's left shoulder had been bothering him due to his age and most likely breeding history. Despite being of legendary ancestry, even these animals seemed to be sensitive to the product of a millenia’s worth of genetic mingling. 

But for all it was worth, Kira worked with the team of healers and had offered her own input when prescribing a healing salve. A pinch of garlic, flurry gillyflowers and a spike of her own spell was what she usually used on horses in the human lands. She figured the magical kind couldn’t be too different in that sense.

Despite the injury, the pegasus seemed to like her and allowed her among the few people who could wash his wings, hand feed him or braid his mane. She always considered herself lucky when animals as rare as him would let her close, allowing her to put charcoal to paper and immortalize their likeness. She swore that when she showed him one of her sketches, the pegasus seemed to snort and puff out his feathers in pride. That animal must have been more brilliant than he had let on, Kira was sure. 

“Is he still ignoring Mageara?” she wondered, referring to the female pegasus stationed only one pen over. 

Helion rolled his eyes, joining his arms behind his back. “You know as well as I do that she will come nowhere near him when he is crabby.”

“Acting like a true mated couple, then.”

Before Helion could force a laugh, a door opened to their left and in came a female with a stature so demanding of attention they couldn’t help but turn to her. 

“Astria!” called Helion as her cane echoed around the foyer. 

A modest but flowing dress billowed behind her lightly and as she shook her head, braids of obsidian jingled with all of the golden detailing carefully woven into them. While she usually wore them in a bun at the nape of her neck, this time they flew around her in a beautiful frenzy that entranced all inhabitants of the palace. Astria, the right hand of Helion and his father before him, smiled wide when she noticed Kira standing there with him. 

“My! You finally went to fetch my great-niece?” she called out, her voice raspy and rough with time. 

Without waiting for Helion’s answer, she came to Kira who was wearing a timid smile. She kissed her left cheek and then the right, leaning far enough to trace a hand down the side of her face. 

“You have leaves in your hair, child,” she said, her skin likened to the terracotta of Day’s architecture wrinkled around her eyes. 

Nobody knew just how old Astria was, and to whoever asked she simply responded with a shrug, saying she stopped counting at twenty two hundred—how long ago has that been? That nobody knew either. With her age and wisdom, every moment spent in Astria’s company felt like a blanket of peace settling over a weary traveler. And despite that comfort, she could still instill a sense of respect like no one else while brushing off lint from Kira’s tunic.

“I’ll get cleaned up,” she promised to the female, eyes following her movement while Astria tended to her. 

Helion cleared his throat. “I've delivered the precious goods, am I free to go, mistress?” 

At that, Astria’s critical eyes moved from Kira’s person and to Helion, who was still standing there, hands empty and resting on his hips. The lines of Astria’s face hardened, as she noted the sack slung over Kira’s shoulder, the little bird at her side and the stained chiton on Helion’s body. One end of her lip curled but she didn’t say whatever she wished to. Helion tensed, wondering if his jab was poorly timed—which it surely was. 

“No, I came to remind you that the Grand Scribe is waiting for you in your study,” she chirped, her voice void of that caring warmth she held with Kira but it rather resembled a stern hand Helion needed as a young High Lord. When Helion moved, Astria’s voice stopped him almost instantly, “Do you plan on seeing him as disheveled as you are?”

Being the only person Helion would ever show respect to at his station, he bowed his head and scuttered out of the foyer. It would have been scary if it weren't hilarious to Kira, considering the centuries she's been acquainted with both. 

“That boy…” mumbled Astria under her breath, watching after his disappearing figure. Once he left their line of vision on the winding staircase, Astria turned to the nest Kira was holding. “Is this your new friend?”

For some unknown reason, Kira’s cheeks turned red at the ridiculing tone Astria always seems to take with her. As if she were talking to a child. Kira thought that compared to the elder female everyone had to be. 

“She was the only one left in the nest,” she explained. 

“I’m glad to know you don’t steal birds and their homes on a whim. Come, I think the Head Botanist would love to take this bird in.”

And as Astria intertwined her arm with hers, Kira couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging spread over her. Being tugged to the stairs that Helion disappeared through, Astria spoke to her of all the happenings in the palace. She caught her up with the mundane, the important and the ridiculous. She spared no details as they walked through hallways, heads leaned in to one another as two trusted females would. After all, they had almost a week’s worth of events to catch up on. Astria wasn’t about to let any one of them slip. 

Who knew what would have come of this court hadn’t Astria stayed behind the last fifty years? She has been the one supporting pillar in the age of quicksand, standing strong and determined to not let that general from Hybern break down what her and Helion’s predecessors worked so hard to build. The damage, though, was considerable and Kira knew that both Astria and the High Lord mourned what they could have saved. 

Even now, as they spoke, that weight Helion had on his shoulders carried to his most trusted advisor. Despite having over two millennia of experience, she could not hide the cracks in her facade as well as she thought. But then again, neither could Kira. 

So instead of speaking useless and comfortless words, she supported Astria’s weight a little more, taking on this one burden if only to help her. 

— ✾ —

Tonight, Kira was going to find solace in the gardens of the Palace. 

They were plush and regal in their own right, with palms and citrus trees flanking the winding gravel walkways. There were new rosemary and lavender bushes, Kira noted when she first stepped through the glass double doors with Astria on her one side and small Nastya on the other. Even certain other plants she hadn't seen here before and she would need to investigate once she had settled. 

The older female had swayed her to the left and in the direction of the greenhouse, though her mind remained on the private gardens that no one but the High Lord and his closest had access to. Nestled between the Palace and the sea, not even the never-ceasing murmur of citizens could reach it. If she ever dared to look away from the magnificent horizon, she would have to crane her neck to see the gold-plated conical roofs of the many towers. In truth, it was ostentatious but absolutely deserving of every crystal chandelier and delicately carved arch between pillars to bring it together.

You could take an evening swim in one of the many hidden pools of the garden and choose your poison of beauty. Either the blues of the sky battling with its reflection in the water or the blinding display of richness—in knowledge and treasury alike. 

They stopped in front of the regal greenhouse, where the Head Botanist was cultivating new sets of plants, either at the request of healers or just for the curiosity of his colleagues. The greenhouse itself sprawled far and wide, allowing the team of three dozen people to work in their own sections without any disturbances most times. And sometimes, Kira would help out here and there, if she was allowed. 

The Head Botanist seemed rejoiced at the sight of the small animal, quickly sweeping it up from Kira's arm, starting one of his many rants. Robins do this and their feathers are like this, his incessant talking could bore even the most patient of people. Both Kira and Astria were glad when something stole the Head Botanist's attention away from them and they shared a knowing look while slipping away. 

On the outskirts of the garden, Astria held out a hand and for a moment Kira wanted to frown, before realizing that her great-great-and-then-some-great-aunt's eyes were on the heavy bag weighing down her shoulder. 

She handed it over and with one swift move, Astria has not only magicked the pack away but also managed to rid her body and clothes of the dirt staining them. 

“You needn’t have done that,” she muttered to the female, meeting her dark gaze with its twin. Truly, it was perhaps the only resemblance they shared and the only piece of Astria’s twin sister trickling down through generations and generations into Kira’s face. Mayhaps it was the reason Astria oh-so liked maintaining eye-contact, if only to catch a glimpse of her long gone twin. 

“Of course I did,” she said back, intertwining their arms again and setting a comfortable pace, cane burrowing into the gravel. “I’ve told you about my side of things in this Palace, now tell me how you fared in the wilderness and why you lost the track of days.”

She always felt like a child, explaining her endeavors to anyone but the pages in her compendium. Everyone who had heard she traveled urged her to sit down with them and retell her most exciting stories. More often than not, she did not have the heart to say that she wasn’t that kind of traveler and that she spent her days in the woods with nothing but some handmade traps and a charcoal. She wasn’t like those travelers who went wherever they yearned because they could and they wanted to. Kira often felt that if she stayed around one place for too long, her time would run out and the thing chasing her would catch up—whatever the thing was. 

So she would always settle for honeyed truth. Sit around a fire and gesture wildly about peculiar twins living in the middle of nowhere, aura of witchcraft about them. Spin tales of cultures she had stumbled upon and remain true while still entertaining. Answer questions with sarcasm and retain an air of mystique. All of it a pretense, of course. 

But with Astria, she could never gather the courage to lie. 

Kira blew out a breath. “I hunted, sat in trees and then slept.”

Her great-aunt chuckled lowly, the sound scratching against her throat as it escaped. “So same like always. Besides the bird.”

“Besides the bird,” she echoed with a small smile. 

“Perhaps it’s good that you lost count of your nights there, otherwise you wouldn’t have been there to bring it here.” She patted Kira’s hand. “Until we wait for the High Lord, care to share a teapot with this old crone?” Her chin flicked towards the faraway deck made of white stone. Kira could hardly see it between the palm trees but she knew it was there. 

She cocked her brow at the title Astria gave herself, letting out a tired chuckle. “Of course.”

Once they finally reached it, the canopy of the palms gave way to blue sky and the lack of their trunks finally showed the reason why this particular sitting deck was so coveted by Helion’s most trusted advisor. 

The Sophia’s Bay was littered with petite boats and giant ships alike. They stood in neat rows, their white sailcloths throwing shades against the docks and even from a distance so great, you could see the many sailors unloading their cargo.

If it were any other season, the sun would have been higher in the sky, turning the air stale and humid. The chill right now was almost biting and even Astria shivered slightly. This evening, it seemed dusk would come sooner than expected.

“What’s the date today?” Kira asked as they walked to the three chairs and a table. Astria took the one in the middle, immediately grabbing the blanket strewn across the back of it for her lap. 

“Why, it’s the Winter Solstice.”

Kira hummed in acknowledgement, eyes still on the Bay and the numerous ships. She felt Astria’s gaze on the back of her head and so she forced her body to move. It followed after her even as she grabbed the blanket and haphazardly threw it on her legs too. Although her linen tunic was clean, she could still feel the essence of the dirt all over her. 

“Have you bought any presents?” she asked Astria, avoiding those all-seeing eyes and fumbling with the blanket. 

Astria wouldn’t answer, still pinning Kira down with that gaze of hers. It wasn’t rude and it certainly wasn’t meant to be demeaning. Whenever Astria pointed her eyes to Helion she would laugh, knowing that whatever she gleaned with just one sweep was enough to beat any truth-binding spell in existence. 

Perhaps that was Astria’s gift: longevity and omniscience. She didn’t particularly enjoy the latter being used on her, though. Let alone in this circumstance. 

“Is there a spot you missed with your cleaning?” she said with a bit more bite than intended and it soured Astria’s expression. 

She had half a mind to apologize before the older female huffed, summoning a pot of tea. The cups accompanying it tinkled as they dropped, their pink glass almost girly in design and reminiscent of the garden behind them. When the light hit them at an angle, they cast shadows of tea leaves and petals sunk into the glass itself. 

“Black tea, your favorite.” Astria picked up the scathing pot, filling the cups almost to the brim. Kira leaned to grasp the one offered to her, muttering a quick thank-you. 

Over the rim of her own cup, Astria spoke, "You've stayed here a long time, child. Helion won’t say it but it worries him too."

Her fingers tightened on the cup’s ear, watching the few leaves swirl around the bottom. Kira kept scanning the Bay and the horizon, though not looking at anything in particular but thought about Astria's words. “He wants me to leave?”

“No.” Astria scoffed. “We think it is unlike you to stay around so long.”

“Well,” she started but the possibilities of her answers ran away from her before she could grasp onto them. 

The short time between the end of Amarantha’s reign of terror and Hybern’s invasion of Prythian was spent out in the Continent—by Helion’s orders. He had forbidden her from stepping a foot on this Mother-forsaken island, telling her to travel, to go anywhere but here while they dealt with the threat. But ever since a new peace treaty had been signed, she hadn’t really dared to travel past the Day’s borders. 

For over a year, she had been an esteemed guest and strayed only to the northern forests, for excursions such as this last one. She couldn’t find it in herself to leave, to cross the borders of Day. Did she perhaps worry that yet another catastrophe would strike while she was not around? Who knew! She certainly did not. 

“After the War with Hybern, I thought I would stay around longer,” she admitted lamely, leaving behind all the other explanations hanging in the air between here and the eastern Continent. 

“Have you talked to Helion?”

“About the War?”

“No.” Astria’s mouth was set in a line that told Kira she wasn’t going to elaborate. Fine then, she thought to herself.

“There wasn’t any time,” she trailed off. Though there was no other person Kira felt as comfortable around, this was a topic that has been scratching under her skin for fifty years now, still yet to be breached. Astria set her cup down with more force than necessary, sending scorching tea onto the saucer and the thumb holding it. She didn’t even flinch against it as she leveled Kira with a look.

“There won’t ever be as good a time as now. We’re rebuilding, thriving! Dealing with trifle matters like Dawn students not understanding our sorting systems and arguing to us that it’s illogical!” she exclaimed, her lilting voice gaining in volume. But then, she lowered her tone and leveled Kira with her glare. “The trench between you is far too obvious, despite you two loving to ignore it. All I am saying is you need to find that bridge between you again.”

Kira sucked on the inside of her cheek. “Astria, there’s is no trench–” Astria pointed an accusing finger her way, shutting her up quickly.

“Do not lie to me, child, you know how much it irks me when you do,” she said. “You have been like two peas in a pod for centuries and whatever disagreement you had before the War, you always talked it out. Just do so again. Friendships like yours are far too rare to give up over something as trivial as an argument. If he had slept with your lover or you with his, I would not say the same.”

The small jest at the end was not nearly enough to bring Kira out of the tangent of her thoughts—and mainly her memories. She absent mindedly reached up to her necklace, toying with the snake pendant worn down from the habit. 

She wondered just how exactly Astria found out about this quarrel between them, if Helion had talked to her about it afterwards or whether it was from her own observation. No one but them was present for it. Kira had silently hoped that once reunited, they could work through it without ever mentioning it again. When the details came to her, she was as ashamed and hurt as the day she had left. More so now that Astria knew of the wedge. 

“It wasn’t just some disagreement, Astria. I said some terrible things. Things I do not wish to repeat.”

Astria lifted her perfectly plucked brow. “Have you apologized?”

This renowned interest in their relationship almost bothered Kira, but she dared not to question the timing of this interrogation. Perhaps her aunt had hoped they'd step into this next year with a renewed sense of friendship, moving past a chasm so deep that one fall could be fatal. But some disagreements, arguments can be out of the reach of forgiveness. Kira would know, for she hadn't fully forgiven Helion either. 

Growing red in the face, Kira blew out a breath. “After he returned… We hugged, cried. We said our apologies but it was vague at best, rushed at worst. I told you, there was no time before he had ushered me out, quoting Hybern and a looming war.”

Astria sighed, likely knowing Kira wouldn’t budge an inch she wasn’t willing to give to begin with. “Quite frankly,” she steered the topic, “I wouldn’t have wanted you here during all of that either. It was good he sent you away. I couldn’t even stomach losing my last living blood to a second-class act like that Hadrius male.”

Hadrius—the true name of King Hybern that no one ever spoke out loud anymore. If Kira remembered her history lessons correctly, he had changed his name to match his kingdom out of pure arrogance. He was Hybern and without him there was nothing and without his kingdom he was nothing too. She couldn’t help but find it ironic that only one of those things had lived on. In what state, she couldn’t testify.

Astria must have been around when he ascended his throne because she spat out his name with a scoff. “Stealing the Cauldron, thinking the Mother wouldn’t send someone to protect her world. Fool, fool. He got what was coming for him and I hope that Archeron girl gave him her piece of mind after what he had put us through.”

Kira frowned to herself, partially grateful at the topic shift and racking her memories for the name Archeron. Since her return, the topic of the War and everything surrounding it had been almost taboo, verging on being forbidden. Something must have happened within the Court’s inner working for Astria to become so riled up over it. She decided to revisit this bit of untold information at a later time, the name Archeron ringing around her head like a church bell. 

When her boat had docked on the eastern coast of Day, the name was spreading around like a wildfire. The people’s faces looked positively elated, there was wine being shared among sailors and then a sound Prythian was void of for far too long—laughter, uninhibited and free. 

It could have been mere two weeks since the battles were over when Kira had boarded the first ship headed to Day. She was sure some of the passengers were traveling to Prythian for the same reason as she. 

She turned to her great-aunt. “Feyre is her name?”

“Aye,” nodded Astria, her low-born accent slipping through even after all those years— millennia at court. “Cursebreaker and Cauldron-blessed.”

“Was she the one to kill that Hybern general, too?”

“No, it was the Spring lordling who got the honors.”

She couldn’t even remember the male’s name so he must have been either her age, if not a little younger. The rulers of the Courts had changed much since the last time she peered into a history book. Flora and fauna, medicine even, were more to her taste. The circumstance of this High Lord’s rule were a mystery to Kira beside what Astria just said. 

So she told her, “I haven’t heard much about what happened Under the Mountain. Helion doesn’t wish to speak of it and for good reasons I think.”

Astria took in Kira’s folded hands and the tension she felt must have shown because she said, “You two truly haven’t talked then.”

Thinning her lips, she gave her a sideways look. “Has he talked to you?”

“No, he returned to his gallivanting as soon as he sent you away. I don’t think he had time to fully grasp all that had happened. He’s been solely surviving for the last fifty years, I think it will be soon that he returns to living…

“He might need a nudge,” mused Astria, turning pensive.

“Like what?”

Astria shrugged, the movement so unceremonious against her rod-straight back. “A purpose besides rebuilding. A new pegasus, or loving someone.”

Kira clicked her tongue. “He loves plenty.”

“Too much and the wrong kinds but I have lost the battle with him on that front long ago,” she spoke silently, as if afraid of someone hearing. No one was allowed to enter these gardens without Helion’s spoken agreement but Astria warned her that even the wind in these parts carried hushed whispers too far and too easily. 

“I worry for him too,” Kira said with gentleness befit of a child. In many ways, she would always return to the age she was when she had met Helion for the first time. He had been grown then, around thirty years old when they had met and grown alongside each other. 

They didn’t speak in earnest anymore, not like they used to. Then a question appeared in her mind, one she didn't dare ask this past year. 

“How did he take his father’s death?” she asked at last, turning to face Astria with her whole body for the first time since they sat down. 

She had known his father, Damian, only in a formal setting and met him a handful of times. There was this one memory of him in her head that solidified the late High Lord as someone to not fear but rather revere. 

She had dragged Helion into the Zinnia Libraries, going into great detail about the intricacies of a Cherubian Rose that he could not care less for. After she was too exasperated with explaining the difference between a lethal and non-lethal formula, she had looked up to the mezzanines above them. And there he stood—the source of Helion’s good looks was leaning against the barrister with a Scribe talking his ear off. The late High Lord was staring at them, soft smile playing along his lips. 

Kira dipped her chin, her upbringing kicking in as she lowered her eyes. He said something to them, his voice traveling across the silent libraries and eliciting a few hushes. To this day, she can’t exactly recall what it was but Helion had looked up and called him an old man. Damian had responded with nothing but a good-hearted laugh. 

He was a kind man. Too kind to deserve the death he got at the hands of Amarantha. And for trying to free his people of all things.

Astria’s expression turned acrid and her eyes at last strayed to the horizon, where the bottom edge of the sun finally licked the endless sea, shooting hues of peach and red along the few clouds. “I wasn’t there but I could feel the shift as it happened. We held the rituals, sans the body but I don’t think Helion had ever gone to the stone.”

A hush settled over them and even the tea had not felt warm enough amid the nearing dusk. The longest night of the year awaited them with nothing but a biting chill. Kira’s eyes again drifted to the ships in the harbor, gilded in gold with the last of sun’s rays. 

Kira wondered how long she could stay—and whether she should leave. 

With the trench as Astria called it, her presence began feeling like a nuisance. To her dearest friend, to her aunt, to the servants and to the air that these trees around them breathed. A reminder of bygone times.

The sight of the distant horizon still called her name. The places she could go to and the corners she could hide in. She could spend her days in the pools here and she could traverse the plains of Xian for the rest of her life. But Astria and Helion, them could never leave behind, despite her gut telling her to move. 

Like those boats moored to the docks, she would float on the surface. She would sway from one side of her confines to another and keep her sailcloth up and stretched. But this city, this court would be the rope that kept her tethered.

Even if her home had long been gone, the Day Court would always resemble it the most. 

— ✾ —

Once Helion had finally joined them, the merry mood had returned and with it came the Solstice dinner. This year, they decided for a small feast for just the three of them. In this palace and on the Winter Solstice, the staff was given a day off, free to spend the day with their families. Only those who wished had stayed behind. 

And the chef who had lived in the palace for as long as Helion had been alive had prepared a feast for them. Plates with potatoes, roasted chicken chops, rice, hummus and one could not forget about the wide variety of pastries, both sweet and savory. Kira couldn’t help but eat a plateful of stuffed dates, complimenting the male as he winnowed in with more and more plates. 

They spent the rest of the evening conversing about all things inconsequential, skillfully maneuvering around any topic that could tip the careful balance of the tranquility between them. The words exchanged with Helion were polite, careful even. Astria gave an odd look here and there, not hiding the annoyance she held for her two companions. And when the awkward silence stretched on for too long and the tea and cakes finally ran out, that’s when she decided to retire to bed. 

Astria folded her blanket back where it belonged, threads of sage green and pale gray decorating the warm fabric, and left the private sitting deck with a good night and a dip of her chin—Astria’s version of a curtsy. Her back retreated between the palms and the lights coming from the Palace. 

From her seat, Kira watched the High Lord fumble with the blanket, appearing for the first time in a long time… well, careful, she supposed. Hesitant, and almost tired. He pulled on a loose thread, breaking it and then throwing it on the ground. When he finally set the messily folded blanket down on Astria’s chair, he looked to Kira and gave her a small smile. She watched him right back, curled up in her chair with a blanket.

They hadn’t exchanged gifts yet and no one even spoke of it, but she was sure that if she were to peer into a historian’s annals, she would find it to be the odd year. 

What a little tradition they have kept despite it all, honoring both the customs of Prythian and her own. When the question was first poised all those centuries ago and before the War, she was surprised to even find that other cultures opened their presents the morning after the Winter Solstice and not immediately after dinner. 

This year had to mean they shared their presents in the morning then.

Kira brought her blanket under her chin, looking up at Helion while his body was torn between staying here with his friend and leaving for the bed, most likely already being warmed by someone. 

“The meeting with the Grand Scribe went well?” she decided to ask him, since they hadn’t talked of it during the dinner. 

He seemed surprised at her question, but recovered swiftly. “Yes, there was a problem in the Zinnia Libraries but I have settled the matter.”

Kira’s brow furrowed. “Zinnia Libraries? Is everything well there?”

As one of the major libraries in the Mouseion, this library held all the knowledge pertaining to the flora and the fauna of the world. It worked closely with other nearby athenaeums, which concerned themselves with either medicine or cuisine and they were amongst the most frequented ones by the Scholars. Well, the historical athenaeum was the most famous one for obvious reasons, but its architecture and design was nothing compared to Zinnia. 

“Some new imports from Xian were supposed to come in with the shipments but they’re nowhere to be seen. The captain knows nothing about this so we’re trying to get in contact with the libraries in Guizhou. But we’ll have to wait for their explanation.”

“Oh,” she said, not knowing what to say anymore. “Do let me know how that goes.”

Helion’s lips thinned with his smile and at a particularly brisk gust of wind, he straightened and locked his hands behind his back. The gold snake wrapped around his bicep glistened in the faelight coming from the Palace. It must have been nearing midnight, judging by the stars’ position in the sky. 

“Are you going to retire as well?” came Helion’s voice but Kira shook her head. 

“I’ll stay here a while longer, if that’s all right by you.”

“Of course. Stay here as long as you wish, Kira.” And with a dip of his chin, he turned on his heel and made his way to the Palace, taking the warming charm with him. 

She sighed and waited at least ten minutes before getting up and chasing after the warmth as well. Only thoughts of a good warm bath floated around in her head, because knowing her habits, sleep would find her only after the dawn was well on its way. And even then, she would be quick to rise with the rest of the Court.

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@tele86

A/N:

hello, peoples!!! ( ˶o˶˶o˶) !!

i'm so sorry this update took so long (a year...), i know everyone (like two people) who wanted this update had forgotten about it, but i haven't !!!

i had the busiest last year – i was in the process of getting a new job, i was writing my bachelor thesis and finishing my degree along with two state exams and a thesis defense. but at last! i am free. and so is my capacity to write something else besides academical slop.

so! to motivate myself, i have decided to post this second chapter where you get to meet Kira. she is someone i'm still getting to know, there is much to her character and reasons as to why she acts the way that she acts. if she seems dry and flat to you now, believe it was intentional (or was it now?????). anyways! enjoy.

i am always open to notes, comments and critique.

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡