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A Soft Place to Fall

Azriel x Reader

Summary: When Azriel finds himself drawn to her warmth, her curves, her unapologetic softness, he knew he didn't stand a chance; and once he finally gave in, he'd never crawl back out of her arms, or her bed, again.

Azriel had spent five centuries mastering silence. He could slip through shadows, read a room with one flick of his cold golden eyes, and kill a man before his target ever heard a footstep.

And yet none of it prepared him for you.

None of it protected him from the way your laughter—bright, unfiltered—sank under his skin like sunlight in a place he’d long since left dark. Or the way you walked into a room with curves that refused to be quiet, hips that swayed like they knew his eyes were on them, thighs that whispered promises in the cradle of his dreams.

You were soft where others were sharp. Loud where others tiptoed around his silence. And you were kind to him. Kind. You looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon. Like he was a man.

And gods, he was fucked.

It started with glances.

One night at the River House, your thigh had brushed against his under the table. Just a second. Just a spark. But Azriel had spent the rest of dinner sitting stone-still, sweat between his shoulder blades, trying not to glance down at where the curve of your legs pressed so innocently against his. Like you didn’t know what you were doing.

He knew. Or hoped.

He went home that night and fucked his hand with your name on his tongue.

Over the following weeks, it only got worse.

His shadows told on him. Whispers of you undressing, fingers brushing lotion over your skin. Your voice, singing softly in your room when you thought no one was listening. The bond—Cauldron, the bond—was growing louder, insistent now, humming in his bones every time you walked by.

He began to crave you like blood. And it made him sloppy.

Sparring with Cassian? He caught a glimpse of you stretching on the sidelines and missed a block, got knocked on his ass. Mission debriefing with Rhys? Azriel didn’t hear a word—because you’d walked in wearing a dress that hugged the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips like a sin.

But he couldn’t touch. Not yet.

He didn’t know if you felt it. The bond. The way it pulled on him like a hook in his ribs, dragging him closer to you with every breath. You deserved more than a man who didn’t know how to be soft. A man who burned and bled and broke.

But then… you smiled at him.

That day in the training ring, your face flushed, thighs trembling from the workout, sweat glistening between your breasts—he snapped.

"You alright?" you asked gently, blinking up at him as he stalked toward you, dark and silent.

"No," he said hoarsely. “No, I’m not.”

You looked up at him with that wide-eyed kindness, a little confused, a little wary. “Az…?”

“I need to show you something.”

He didn’t give you time to overthink. Just took your hand and led you through the House—past the halls where his shadows curled and listened, past the tension thrumming in his chest—to the bathing chamber. Quiet. Private.

Sacred.

When the door shut behind you, you stood very still. “Is something wrong?”

Azriel turned to you, heart in his throat. “I think you’re my mate.”

Silence. Thick. Shocking.

You blinked, once. Twice. “You think—?”

“I know,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ve known for months. Since the moment I saw you. The bond—it’s been screaming at me, and I’ve been pretending I can ignore it. But I can’t anymore. Not when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

The bath steamed behind him, sweet with oils and magic. And you—beautiful and wide-eyed and so damn soft—stood before him like a vision.

He raised a scarred hand. Let it hover near your cheek. “Say something. Please.”

You stared at him, lips parted, and then whispered: “Why me?”

Azriel exhaled, voice thick. “Because your laugh sounds like something I want to protect. Because when you walk into a room, I don’t see shadows—I see a future. Because your thighs drive me insane, and when you smile at me, it hurts. And because I would burn the world if you asked.”

Your eyes shimmered.

“Let me show you,” he said. “Please.”

And you nodded.

He undressed you slowly.

Azriel had never gone to war with trembling fingers, but he did now—unlacing the front of your tunic, pushing the fabric down your arms, eyes drinking in every glorious inch you revealed.

Your breasts spilled free first, soft and full and gods, he wanted to mouth at them for hours. Then your waist, the slight dip of your belly, the luscious curve of your hips.

You reached to cover yourself, instinctive.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

And when you dropped your arms, vulnerable and trembling, Azriel fell to his knees like he’d been commanded by the gods themselves.

You gasped as he kissed the inside of your thigh, his voice shaking with reverence. “I’ve dreamed of this. Every damn night.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Azriel worshipped you like a prayer—his tongue seeking, finding, devouring the sweet bundle of nerves that made you moan and buck against his face. He gripped your thighs with reverent hands, spreading you open wider for him, shadows caressing you like a second touch.

When your thighs clamped around his head, he groaned—groaned—like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your slick. “Use me, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You came for him like a breaking wave. Then again. And again. Until your legs shook and your voice was hoarse from moaning his name.

When he finally rose, your eyes were glazed, your lips kiss-bruised from his.

“Bath,” he murmured, lifting you easily into the water.

You curled into him, back to his chest, the warm water cradling you both. His hands never stopped moving—palming your belly under the surface, stroking the curve of your hip, dragging lazy circles along your inner thigh.

“You drive me mad,” he said, lips against your ear.

“I didn’t mean to.”

He smiled. “I think I was waiting for someone like you. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when I said I’m broken. Who would still want me when I got like this—desperate and wild.”

Then he kissed you.

Not fierce. Not possessive. Just full. Devout. Like a man finally drinking water after years of thirst.

Later, as he dried you off with his own hands—slow, careful, utterly in love—he murmured: “You're mine now.”

You smiled up at him. “And you're mine?”

Azriel lowered his head. Rested his brow against your belly.

“I’ve always been yours.”

Taglist: @willowpains, @masbt1218, @antonia002, @bookishcait, @fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, @buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff,  @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch,  @okaytrashpanda, @mariaxliliana, @kksbookstuff, @marina468, @tele86, @raccoonworld, Princesssunderworld, dinosandwaffles, @xadenswhore

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[gioboni]

♡ azriel (my shadowsinger husband)

learning to fly, starting to crawl by @bluetimeombre

↳ and i wouldn't marry me, either by @/bluetimeombre

the truth serum incident by @mahalachives

in your presence: azriels quiet sanctuary by @bookwormjust

ice and shadows by @nattblacklupin

cassian: the annoying brother by @daycourtofficial

wanna be yours by @heirofshadowsingers

life's bright side by @inkedinshadows

↳ brooding, cuddly shadowsinger by @/inkedinshadows

something precious by @velarisdusk

the alchemy by @flickering-chandelier

attention please by @finelinevogue

between us alone by @olive-main

tell me about it... by @itsswritten

colds and retold confessions by @pellucid-constellations

↳ lessons in care by @/pellucid-constellations

↳ to feel at home by @/pellucid-constellations

↳ knowing you by @/pellucid-constellations

all's well that ends well by @azsazz

to keep you from breaking by @flowersforjude

↳ when the water recedes by @/flowersforjude

i love you (and thats all i really know) by @enchanted-by-fae

can you see right through me? by @steveslevis

blush by @kymawrites

↳ you make it better part 1 by @/kymawrites

↳ you make it better part 2 by @/kymawrites

[gioboni]

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[gioboni]

could you make light/dark green and white dividers!! maybe make them as stars!

hi! Sure! I did some of my fave stars/space dividers, in white/dark green for you - I hope this is close to what you’re looking for! 💚🤍

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[gioboni]

Atendimento particular, parte 1

Pareamento: Azriel x Tillia! Personagem original

Resumo: cuidados intensivos

Madja passava de um lado para o outro, distribuindo ordens enquanto atendia alguns guerreiros machucados – originado de algum treino absurdo que os rapazes pareciam estar desenvolvendo com eles. Eu estava ao lado da lareira, os braços cruzados, e não pude evitar de reparar quando Azriel entrou pela porta com passos lentos. O rosto dele estava marcado pela exaustão, e o corte feio no ombro encharcava sua camisa preta de sangue, que começava a grudar na pele.

Revirei os olhos, incapaz de conter o comentário.

— O que foi dessa vez? Decidiu lutar com Emerie? Fiquei sabendo que ela está superando até mesmo Cassian.

Ele parou no meio da sala, o olhar cansado pousando em mim. Não respondeu, mantendo aquela postura estoica, como se a dor fosse um mero inconveniente.

Provavelmente aquilo significava que não era só um treino. Por conta disso decidi não

— Não me olhe com essa cara de mártir, Azriel. Sente-se. — Apontei para a poltrona perto da lareira, minha voz firme.

Ele hesitou por um segundo, mas acabou obedecendo sem dizer uma palavra, afundando na poltrona com um suspiro quase inaudível. Peguei uma bacia de água morna que Madja havia deixado por perto e alguns panos limpos, enquanto caminhava até ele.

— Você é o pior paciente que já vi. — Resmunguei, ajoelhando-me ao lado dele. — Sempre voltando paa cá machucado como se isso fosse algum tipo de troféu. Sabe que você não é invencível, certo?

Ele continuou em silêncio, aquele olhar intenso me observando como se buscasse algo em mim. Tentei ignorar o peso disso, focando no ferimento. Ele inclinou a cabeça levemente, mas não disse nada, o que apenas alimentou minha irritação.

— Tire a camisa. — Ordenei, meu tom sem espaço para discussão.

Azriel arqueou uma sobrancelha, mas, para minha surpresa, não protestou. Com movimentos lentos, começou a puxar a camisa ensanguentada, o tecido grudado no ferimento arrancando um pequeno suspiro de dor.

Quando a camisa finalmente saiu, eu vi a extensão do ferimento. Um corte profundo atravessava o ombro dele e parte do peito, já começando a inchar. Apertei os lábios, tentando não deixar transparecer toda a minha frustração.

Suspirei e me aproximei ainda mais, minhas mãos tocando as dele para interrompê-lo.

— Devagar. Vai rasgar ainda mais a pele se continuar assim. — Afastei suas mãos com cuidado, assumindo o trabalho de puxar o tecido. Ele ficou quieto, observando enquanto eu desfazia o estrago, meus dedos movendo-se com paciência e precisão.

— A senhora é quem manda — havia um leve humor em seu tom de voz.

Que não combinava muito com sua expressão estoica.

— Isso é ridículo, Azriel. Quantas vezes vou ter que dizer para parar de se jogar nas situações mais perigosas? Você não é invensivel, sabia? — Minha voz saiu carregada, uma mistura de exasperação e algo mais... algo que não queria admitir.

Ele desviou os olhos, como se evitasse encarar-me. — Era necessário.

— Claro que era. — Molhei o pano na água morna e comecei a limpar o sangue ao redor do corte, a expressão no meu rosto endurecendo. — Sempre é. Até o dia em que você não vai mais voltar. Já pensou nisso?

Ele não respondeu, mas seus olhos finalmente voltaram a encontrar os meus. Havia algo ali, um brilho sutil que parecia... culpa. Bufei, afastando os pensamentos enquanto limpava cada parte do ferimento com cuidado.

— Você é impossível. — Murmurei, pegando uma pomada que Madja havia deixado. — Agora fique quieto. Se fizer qualquer movimento, juro que vou acabar machucando você mais do que já está.

Enquanto trabalhava, meu pensamento vagava. Foi assim que tudo começou para mim, cuidar de alguém. Minha avó. Lembro como, na adolescência, meus dias giravam em torno dela. O câncer no útero que insistia em se espalhar rápido consumia não apenas o corpo, mas também o ânimo dela. Foi naquela época que decidi que queria ser médica. Não porque sonhasse em salvar o mundo, mas porque cuidar dela era como um chamado.

Quando recebi a carta de aprovação da universidade, foi um dos momentos mais gratificantes da minha vida. Pude mostrar a ela que eu tinha conseguido, que aquele esforço não seria em vão. Mas, três anos depois, ela se foi. A doença venceu, e eu perdi mais do que minha avó; perdi também o rumo. A falta de dinheiro me forçou a abandonar o curso, e com a morte dela vieram os problemas com Oscar e seus vícios.

Mesmo assim, nunca deixei de querer cuidar. Era meu irmão caçula, afinal de contas, e por mais que eu odiasse o que ele havia feito comigo — as dívidas com agiotas, a mudança desesperada para a cidade pequena —, ainda sentia que tinha essa responsabilidade. E então, tudo mudou de novo... Prythian.

— O que você disse? — Azriel murmurou algo que me tirou dos pensamentos, mas não consegui entender.

— Nada. — Ele finalmente respondeu, de maneira tão baixa que quase não ouvi.

Balancei a cabeça, voltando ao que fazia. Havia tanto mais que eu queria dizer, mas, como sempre, ele parecia confortável no silêncio. Um guerreiro ferido e, de alguma forma, ainda impenetrável.

Quando terminei, afastei-me e ergui o queixo, avaliando meu trabalho. — Pronto. Agora, se puder, tente não morrer na próxima missão, está bem? — Minha voz saiu mais suave, quase como se houvesse um pedido implícito.

Ele inclinou levemente a cabeça, reconhecendo a preocupação escondida por trás das palavras. — Vou tentar.

Suspirei e balancei a cabeça, indo até a bacia para lavar as mãos. — Espero que isso não seja apenas você dizendo o que eu quero ouvir.

— Eu nunca digo algo que não pretendo cumprir. — Ele respondeu, a sinceridade em sua voz me fez parar por um momento antes de voltar ao que fazia.

Poucos dias depois, Azriel voltou para minha casa. Estava sentada na poltrona perto da lareira, tentando mergulhar em um livro, embora minha mente vagasse constantemente. Era difícil me concentrar quando a tensão parecia pulsar no ar desde que cheguei aqui – todo aquele mistério desse mundo dividido entre faes, humanos e criaturas mágicas.

 O som do ranger da porta me trouxe de volta à realidade, e, assim que ergui os olhos, meu coração afundou.

Lá estava ele.

De novo.

Os cortes superficiais no braço, os hematomas visíveis nas mãos, e o jeito como ele segurava o ombro, rígido, já diziam o suficiente. Mesmo sem que ele dissesse uma palavra, já sabia que tinha se machucado — de novo. Era como se ele tivesse um talento especial para se colocar em situações de risco, e o pior era que parecia achar tudo isso perfeitamente normal.

Fechei o livro com um estalo e me levantei, cruzando os braços.

— Não. Não acredito. — Apontei para ele, minha voz firme, as mãos já na cintura. — O que foi agora, Azriel? Outra missão suicida?

Ele parou no meio da sala, o olhar calmo e estoico como sempre, mas havia algo nos seus ombros caídos que denunciava o cansaço. — Foi no treino.

Franzi a testa, a incredulidade óbvia na minha expressão. — No treino de novo? — Minha voz subiu um tom. — Você está todo machucado por causa de um treino? Com quem? Aquelas nagas?

— Cassian. — Ele respondeu, direto como sempre.

Claro que foi Cassian. Quem mais? Cruzei os braços, sentindo minha irritação crescer enquanto o observava.

— Ótimo. Porque claro que um treino com Cassian nunca é apenas um treino. — Suspirei, deixando meu tom endurecer. — Azriel... Ele sempre te força assim? Ou você mesmo se força?

— É só um treino!

Ele desviou os olhos, uma ação tão pequena, mas que me dizia tanto. Era como se evitasse me responder, o que só fazia minha preocupação aumentar. Suspirei de novo, tentando acalmar o turbilhão de emoções que me envolvia, e apontei para a mesma poltrona onde ele já havia estado antes.

— Sente-se. Agora.

Dessa vez, ele não hesitou. Sentou-se com um suspiro quase inaudível, o corpo claramente exausto. Fui até a bacia de água morna e peguei os panos limpos que havia deixado por precaução. Parece que minha intuição de que precisaria deles não estava errada.

— Não consigo evitar de pensar... — Comecei enquanto molhava o pano e limpava o corte no braço dele. Meu tom era mais baixo agora, quase como se estivesse falando para mim mesma. — Sobre Oscar.

Azriel não disse nada, mas pude sentir seu olhar atento em mim, mesmo quando eu mantinha meus olhos focados no trabalho. Continuei, deixando meus pensamentos escaparem, como se falar fosse mais para aliviar meu próprio peito do que para ele ouvir.

— Ele sempre foi assim, sabe? Impulsivo em tudo o que fazia. Quando algo o interessava, ele mergulhava de cabeça, sem pensar nas consequências.

Levantei os olhos brevemente para Azriel, que continuava me observando com aquele olhar calmo e quase analítico, antes de voltar minha atenção ao ferimento.

— Não era à toa que ele sempre voltava para casa todo machucado. Exatamente como você tem vindo para cá ultimamente. Ele achava que podia enfrentar o mundo, sempre pronto para provar algo. — Suspirei, deixando a irritação misturada com preocupação escapar na minha voz. — E eu sempre acabava cuidando dele. Me sentia impotente, mas... não podia deixá-lo sozinho.

Azriel permaneceu em silêncio, mas a intensidade de seu olhar era quase sufocante. Continuei, minha voz ficando um pouco mais amarga ao relembrar.

— Uma vez, ele tentou pular de uma ponte com amigos porque acharam que seria "divertido". Outra vez, arranjou briga com garotos muito maiores que ele porque achou que podia defender todo mundo sozinho. Era sempre assim. E toda vez ele voltava para casa, com cortes, hematomas, ou algo pior, e eu estava lá para consertá-lo. — Me forcei a sorrir, embora fosse um sorriso cansado. — Parece que algumas coisas nunca mudam.

Azriel finalmente quebrou o silêncio, sua voz baixa e direta. — Não sou Oscar.

Levantei os olhos para ele, encarando-o com firmeza.

— Não, mas isso não torna mais fácil ver você assim. — Balancei a cabeça, minha frustração evidente. — Porque a verdade é que todos vocês agem como se fossem invencíveis. Você, Oscar, até mesmo Cassian. É como se nada fosse capaz de realmente machucar vocês, mas... — Minha voz falhou, e eu tive que respirar fundo antes de continuar. — Mas machuca. Machuca quem está aqui, vendo vocês serem tão imprudentes com coisas miúdas. Porra, vocês nem estão em guerra para justificar isso tudo!

Azriel não argumentou, mas algo em seu olhar pareceu mudar, suavizar. Ele finalmente falou, e seu tom era carregado de sinceridade.

— Estou cuidando dele.

Aquilo me pegou desprevenida.

— Do Oscar? — Perguntei, piscando. — Ele está treinando com vocês, não está? Com Cassian.

Azriel assentiu, e pude ver algo genuíno em sua expressão. — Ele está indo bem. Mas precisa de orientação.

Ri sem humor, balançando a cabeça.

— Claro que precisa. Ele sempre precisou. Mas você sabe como ele é. Quando acha que pode, vai além do limite. Sempre foi assim. — Meus dedos apertaram o pano em minhas mãos. — Se algo acontecer com ele, Azriel...

— Eu paro. — Sua voz foi firme, quase como uma promessa. — Estou cuidando dele, Tillia.

Havia algo no tom dele que fez o nó no meu peito apertar e relaxar ao mesmo tempo. Suspirei, sentindo minha raiva murchar enquanto limpava os hematomas nas mãos dele com cuidado.

— Só espero que você esteja certo. Porque eu não sei se conseguiria passar por isso de novo.

Continuei trabalhando em silêncio, e Azriel permaneceu imóvel, permitindo que eu cuidasse dos cortes e hematomas. Quando terminei, cruzei os braços, o encarando.

— E que isso sirva de aviso. Se você voltar machucado de novo por algo assim, vou falar com Cassian. E vou garantir que ele me escute. E quanto ao Oscar... — Fiz uma pausa, observando-o. — Espero que esteja segurando ele o suficiente para que ele não me dê mais motivos para que eu precise intervir nisso. Não. Quero. Meu. Irmão. Machucado.

Azriel quase sorriu, mas conteve-se. — Isso eu preciso ver.

— Não duvide de mim. — Retruquei, apontando para ele. — E, de novo, tente não morrer. Tenho preocupações o suficiente sem você e o Oscar competindo para ver quem consegue me deixar mais louca.

Ele apenas assentiu, mas algo no jeito como me olhava me fez acreditar que, desta vez, ele estava realmente ouvindo. Enquanto ele relaxava na poltrona, percebi que havia algo estranhamente familiar em tudo isso. A mesma dinâmica que sempre tive com Oscar. Eu cuidava. Eu protegia. Mesmo quando eles faziam o impossível para se colocar em perigo, mesmo quando era exaustivo. Eu não sabia ser diferente.

Mas, ao contrário de Oscar, Azriel era diferente. Ele carregava um silêncio e uma intensidade que me desarmavam de formas que eu não sabia explicar. Talvez fosse a maneira como ele aceitava minha preocupação sem protestar ou o fato de que, por mais ferido que estivesse, parecia invulnerável de outras maneiras.

O silêncio se prolongou entre nós, mas não era desconfortável. Quando finalmente me levantei, peguei os panos sujos e a bacia, lançando-lhe um último olhar.

— Vou dar um jeito nesses panos. Mas, sério, Azriel. Se você não aprender a dizer "não" para Cassian, vou acabar amarrando você nessa poltrona.

Houve um sorriso divertido em seu rosto que me fez ficar desconcertada.

— Vou tentar. — Ele respondeu, e havia algo quase brincalhão em seu tom, o que era raro vindo dele.

Balancei a cabeça, sorrindo de leve. — Melhor tentar mesmo.

Enquanto saía da sala, me peguei pensando em Oscar novamente. A vida que tínhamos antes era tão diferente, mas também estranhamente semelhante. Talvez não importasse o mundo em que estávamos. Eu sempre acabaria sendo a pessoa que cuida, que conserta. E, de alguma forma, isso parecia ao mesmo tempo um fardo e um conforto.

[gioboni]

O Colar - parte 1

Pareamento: Azriel x Tillia! Personagem Original

Resumo: O presente perfeito.

O sol começava a se pôr em Velaris, tingindo o céu com tons de rosa, laranja e dourado. A cidade brilhava sob a luz suave do entardecer, e as estrelas começavam a aparecer timidamente no horizonte. Isabel caminhava pelos jardins da Casa do Vento, apreciando a tranquilidade daquele momento.

As flores ao seu redor exalavam fragrâncias suaves, e a brisa fresca acariciava seu rosto, trazendo consigo o murmúrio distante do rio Sidra. Enquanto caminhava, perdida em pensamentos, ela avistou uma figura familiar parada sob uma das árvores antigas que adornavam o jardim.

Azriel estava ali, encostado no tronco robusto, com as asas parcialmente abertas e um olhar distante. Suas sombras habituais pareciam repousar, dando a ele uma aparência quase serena. Tillia sentiu o coração acelerar levemente ao vê-lo ali, sozinho. Ela hesitou por um momento, perguntando-se se deveria interromper seus pensamentos. Mas a curiosidade e algo mais a impulsionaram a se aproximar.

— Azriel? — ela chamou suavemente, ao se aproximar. Ele ergueu os olhos, aparentemente saindo de um transe. Ao vê-la, uma expressão indefinida passou por seu rosto, algo entre surpresa e apreensão.

— Tillia — ele respondeu, sua voz grave carregando-se no vento até ela.

— Está tudo bem? — Ela perguntou, inclinando a cabeça com preocupação. — Você parece... preocupado.

Azriel olhou para as próprias mãos, onde segurava algo pequeno e brilhante. Tillia notou o objeto, mas não conseguiu distingui-lo à distância.

— Estou bem — ele disse, mas havia uma nota de incerteza em sua voz que não passou despercebida por ela. Ela se aproximou mais, ficando a poucos passos dele.

— O que você tem aí?

Por um momento, ele pareceu considerar se deveria responder. Então, lentamente, estendeu a mão, revelando um colar delicado com um pingente que capturava a luz do pôr do sol de uma maneira quase mágica. A pedra central era de um azul profundo, com reflexos dourados que dançavam em seu interior, como se tivesse aprisionado um pedaço do céu crepuscular. Tillia ofegou suavemente, encantada com a beleza da joia.

— Azriel, é... é lindo.

 Ele desviou o olhar, como se estivesse constrangido. — Eu... pensei que você poderia gostar. Ela ergueu os olhos para ele, surpresa. — É para mim?

Azriel assentiu levemente, mas não a encarou diretamente. — Se você quiser.

 Tillia sentiu um calor subir por seu rosto. Era raro Azriel oferecer presentes, ainda mais algo tão pessoal e belo. Ela estendeu a mão, tocando suavemente o colar.

— Eu adoraria. Obrigada.

Ele finalmente a olhou, e por um momento, seus olhos encontraram os dela. Havia algo em sua expressão que ela não conseguia decifrar — uma mistura de melancolia e hesitação.

 — Fico feliz que goste — ele murmurou. Ela sorriu, tentando aliviar a tensão que parecia crescer entre eles.

— Você poderia me ajudar a colocar?

Azriel pareceu surpreso com o pedido, mas deu um passo à frente, posicionando-se atrás dela. Tillia levantou os cabelos, expondo a nuca. Ela sentiu a proximidade dele, o calor que emanava de seu corpo, e o leve toque de seus dedos ao prender o fecho do colar. Seu coração batia mais rápido, e ela não pôde evitar fechar os olhos por um momento, absorvendo aquela sensação.

— Pronto — ele disse baixinho, dando um passo para trás. Tillia virou-se para encará-lo, os dedos tocando o pingente que agora repousava contra sua pele.

— Como ficou?

 Azriel a observou por um instante, os olhos percorrendo seu rosto e descendo até o colar.

— Ficou... perfeito.

Ela sorriu amplamente. — Obrigada, Azriel. É realmente especial.

Ele abriu a boca como se fosse dizer algo, mas fechou novamente. Antes que ela pudesse perguntar, ele deu um passo atrás.

— Preciso ir — anunciou abruptamente. A súbita mudança a pegou de surpresa.

— Oh. Tudo bem. Nos vemos mais tarde?

— Talvez — ele respondeu, sem muita convicção.

Azriel virou-se e começou a se afastar, suas asas se abrindo lentamente. Tillia o observou decolar, desaparecendo no céu que agora ganhava tons mais escuros. Ela ficou ali por alguns minutos, confusa com o comportamento dele. Algo não estava certo. Por que ele parecia tão distante, mesmo ao lhe dar um presente tão significativo?

Naquela noite, Tillia retornou ao seu casebre nas regiões mais periféricas da cidade, uma pequena construção de madeira que rangia a cada vento mais forte. Era modesta, quase precária, mas era o que ela podia chamar de lar depois de tudo que aconteceu.

A interação com Azriel continuava ecoando em sua mente enquanto ela se sentava na única cadeira diante do espelho rachado. Seus dedos brincavam com o pingente do colar que ele lhe dera mais cedo. A pedra brilhava suavemente sob a luz bruxuleante das velas, quase hipnotizante.

Oscar, seu irmão mais novo, não estava. Ele havia saído cedo para treinar com Cassian, um esforço para canalizar suas energias e afastar o vício que quase destruiu a ambos. Tillia acreditava, com cada pedaço de esperança que ainda tinha, que ele estava realmente focado no treinamento. Ele precisava estar.

Uma batida suave à porta interrompeu seus pensamentos.

— Entre, — ela disse, esperando que talvez fosse Oscar.

A porta rangeu ao abrir, revelando Mor, sorrindo calorosamente enquanto segurava uma garrafa de vinho em uma das mãos.

— Tillia! Estava te procurando. Feyre me pediu para te chamar. Rhysand encontrou um vinho raro na adega, algo como 600 anos… Perfeito para uma noite entre amigos.

Tillia forçou um sorriso e tentou ignorar a bagunça do lugar. — Parece maravilhoso. Diga a eles que estarei lá em alguns minutos.

Mor entrou, ignorando o estado do casebre e fixou o olhar no colar em seu pescoço. — Uau, que peça linda! Onde conseguiu isso?

Tillia hesitou antes de responder, tocando o pingente. — Azriel me deu hoje.

Mor arqueou as sobrancelhas, um misto de surpresa e curiosidade evidente em seu rosto.

— Azriel te deu esse colar?

— Sim, foi um presente. Tem algo de errado?

Mor abriu um sorriso, mas havia algo reservado em sua expressão. — Nada de errado. É só que… Bem, não é comum Azriel dar presentes assim. Deve significar algo especial para ele.

Tillia sentiu as bochechas corarem, tentando minimizar. — Talvez ele só estivesse sendo gentil.

— Talvez, — respondeu Mor, com um brilho misterioso nos olhos. — Mas eu diria que é mais do que isso. Bem, termine de se arrumar. Eles estão esperando. E Tillia, — ela acrescentou antes de sair, — você está mais conectada a nós do que imagina.

Tillia franziu o cenho enquanto Mor fechava a porta atrás de si. As palavras dela a deixaram inquieta, mas ela sacudiu a cabeça, guardando os pensamentos para mais tarde.

Quando chegou ao chalé principal onde Feyre e os outros se reuniam, a sala estava cheia de risadas. Cassian gesticulava exageradamente enquanto contava uma de suas histórias, fazendo Mor e Feyre rirem até quase derramar o vinho.

— Tillia! — exclamou Cassian ao vê-la entrar. — Justo a pessoa de que precisava para confirmar minha história.

Ela riu, sacudindo a cabeça. — Se for para apoiar suas loucuras, acho que não sou confiável.

As risadas continuaram, e Tillia se sentou em uma poltrona próxima, segurando um copo de vinho que Mor lhe ofereceu. Mas enquanto a conversa fluía ao redor dela, ela percebeu a ausência de Azriel.

— Azriel não vem? — perguntou casualmente, tentando não parecer ansiosa.

Um breve silêncio pairou antes de Rhysand responder, com sua voz tranquila. — Ele tinha algo para resolver esta noite.

Tillia assentiu, mas o silêncio breve e as expressões compartilhadas entre Feyre e Rhysand a deixaram inquieta novamente. Havia algo não dito no ar, algo que parecia envolver Azriel.

Mais tarde, enquanto os outros se retiravam para seus aposentos, Tillia decidiu caminhar pelo chalé principal, tentando clarear a mente. O lugar era amplo e majestoso, em contraste gritante com seu próprio casebre. Conforme avançava pelos corredores, vozes abafadas chamaram sua atenção.

Elas vinham da biblioteca. Tillia reconheceu as vozes de Rhysand e Feyre. Tentando não parecer intrometida, ela estava prestes a se afastar quando ouviu algo que a fez parar no meio do passo.

Seu nome.

Ela ficou imóvel, as costas pressionadas contra a parede, enquanto tentava entender por que eles estavam falando dela. A tensão no tom de Feyre e a resposta calma de Rhysand a deixaram com um peso no peito.

— ... não era para Tillia — Rhysand dizia em um tom baixo.

— Mas ele deu a ela — Feyre respondeu suavemente.

Ela parou, sentindo-se culpada por ouvir, mas incapaz de se mover.

— Eu tive que intervir — Rhysand continuou. — Azriel não pode continuar alimentando essas... esperanças. Elain tem um companheiro, e não vou permitir que ele complique as coisas.

Sentiu o sangue gelar. Elain? O colar?

— Mas dar o colar a Tillia... — Feyre disse. — Você acha que foi justo com ela?

— Talvez não — Rhysand admitiu. — Mas era melhor do que permitir que ele o entregasse a Elain. Seria uma complicação desnecessária.

Houve um silêncio pesado.

— E Azriel? — Feyre perguntou. — Como ele está?

— Desolado — Rhysand suspirou. — Mas ele entenderá com o tempo.

Tillia não conseguiu ouvir mais. Sentiu-se tonta, o mundo girando ao seu redor. Sem fazer barulho, ela se afastou, o coração batendo descompassado. Ao chegar ao seu quarto, fechou a porta e encostou-se nela, tentando recuperar o fôlego. As palavras ecoavam em sua mente: "Não era para Tillia." O colar não era para ela. Azriel pretendia dá-lo a Elain. Ela olhou para o espelho, vendo o colar brilhando em seu pescoço.

A joia que ela pensou ser um presente especial agora parecia pesada, como um fardo. Com mãos trêmulas, ela retirou o colar, colocando-o sobre a penteadeira. Sentou-se na beira da cama, a mente inundada por uma mistura de raiva, humilhação e tristeza. Como ele pôde? Dar a ela algo que era destinado a outra pessoa? E pior, para Elain, que já tinha um companheiro. As lágrimas ameaçaram surgir, mas ela as conteve. Não choraria por isso. Não choraria por ele.

Tillia passou a noite em claro, os eventos do dia repetindo-se em sua mente como um disco riscado. O colar na penteadeira parecia irradiar algo quase palpável, como se a joia estivesse zombando de sua ingenuidade. Cada vez que olhava para o pingente, sentia uma mistura de humilhação e frustração.

Não havia dúvida de que Azriel não tinha intenção de magoá-la, mas o simples fato de ela ter sido a "alternativa" para algo tão pessoal a machucava mais do que ela gostaria de admitir.

Ao amanhecer, ela decidiu que não usaria o colar. Não se desfaria dele, mas também não o deixaria visível. Guardou-o em uma pequena caixa no fundo de sua gaveta e fechou com força, como se isso fosse suficiente para enterrar os sentimentos que ele trazia à tona.

Tillia estava nos jardins novamente, aproveitando o sol da manhã enquanto ajudava Mor a recolher flores para decorar a sala de estar já que pretendiam realizar uma espécie de ação de graças. Elas conversavam de forma descontraída, mas Tillia sentia uma tensão persistente. Desde a noite da conversa na biblioteca, ela evitara encontrar Azriel.

Por sorte ou intencionalidade dele, os dois não haviam cruzado caminhos. Até aquele momento.

Enquanto Isabel terminava de colocar um buquê improvisado em uma cesta, sentiu uma presença familiar atrás de si. Ela não precisava se virar para saber que era Azriel. Suas sombras estavam quietas, mas sua presença era inconfundível.

— Tillia. — A voz grave dele quebrou o silêncio.

Ela endireitou a postura, seu rosto neutro, mas sem a leveza habitual. Virando-se lentamente, encontrou o olhar de Azriel. Ele parecia hesitante, como se sentisse a mudança em sua atitude.

— Azriel. — Ela respondeu, o tom educado, mas distante.

Ele franziu o cenho, inclinando a cabeça como se tentasse decifrar algo. — Está tudo bem?

— Claro. — Ela disse rapidamente, desviando o olhar para as flores. — Por que não estaria?

Azriel ficou em silêncio por um momento, claramente percebendo que algo estava errado, mas sem saber o que era.

— Pensei que talvez você quisesse reconsiderar os treinos — Ele sugeriu, tentando abordar um terreno familiar.

— Estou ocupada hoje. — Tillia respondeu, simples, enquanto se abaixava para ajustar as flores na cesta.

Ele hesitou novamente. — Desde quando você gosta de jardinagem?

Ela finalmente olhou para ele, o olhar fixo e levemente frio. — Desde quando eu tenho outras prioridades.

Azriel piscou, surpreso com o tom. Não era típico dela ser tão reservada com ele, e ele não sabia como responder.

— Se fiz algo errado... — Ele começou, mas ela o interrompeu.

— Não fez nada, Azriel. — Tillia disse, virando-se e pegando a cesta. — Apenas estou... ocupada.

Sem dar tempo para ele responder, ela se afastou em direção à Casa do Vento, deixando-o parado no jardim.

Azriel tentou mais algumas vezes se aproximar, mas Tillia permaneceu distante. Ela não era abertamente rude, mas suas respostas eram curtas, e sua atitude antes calorosa agora era fria e contida.

Cassian percebeu a mudança primeiro.

— O que está acontecendo entre vocês? — Ele perguntou uma noite, enquanto treinava com Azriel.

— Nada. — Azriel respondeu, desviando o olhar.

— Não parece nada. — Cassian insistiu, golpeando o saco de pancadas com força. — Você parece... perdido.

Azriel suspirou, passando a mão pelos cabelos. Ele não sabia como explicar. Havia algo diferente em Tillia, mas ele não conseguia entender o porquê.

— Talvez eu tenha feito algo errado. — Ele admitiu finalmente.

Cassian parou, virando-se para encará-lo. — E você perguntou a ela o que foi?

— Não exatamente. — Azriel murmurou, claramente desconfortável.

Cassian revirou os olhos. — Sabe, você é ótimo em estratégias e batalhas, mas quando se trata de pessoas...

Azriel lançou um olhar afiado a ele, mas não respondeu.

Uma tarde, Tillia estava na biblioteca, tentando se concentrar em um livro, quando Azriel entrou. Ele não parecia esperá-la ali, e por um momento, os dois ficaram em silêncio, apenas se encarando.

— Precisamos conversar. — Ele disse, rompendo o silêncio.

— Não acho que temos algo para conversar. — Tillia respondeu sem levantar os olhos do livro.

Azriel deu um passo à frente, as sombras ao seu redor se mexendo levemente. — Eu acho que temos.

Ela fechou o livro com um pouco mais de força do que o necessário e o colocou na mesa, finalmente levantando-se para encará-lo.

— Tudo bem, Azriel. Fale.

Ele hesitou, como se estivesse escolhendo as palavras com cuidado. — Você está me evitando.

— Não estou. — Ela respondeu prontamente, cruzando os braços.

— Tillia. — Ele disse, sua voz mais baixa, mas carregada de emoção.

— Talvez eu só tenha percebido algumas coisas. — Ela retrucou, sua voz mais fria do que pretendia.

— Que coisas? — Ele perguntou, confuso.

Ela o encarou por um momento antes de balançar a cabeça. — Nada que importe agora.

Azriel parecia prestes a protestar, mas Tillia passou por ele, saindo da biblioteca sem olhar para trás.

Enquanto Tillia caminhava pelos corredores, sentiu a familiar mistura de raiva e tristeza borbulhando em seu peito. Ela sabia que eventualmente teria que enfrentar o que realmente sentia — e talvez até contar a Azriel o que sabia sobre o colar. Mas, por enquanto, ela não podia.

Orgulhosa demais para admitir como aquilo a machucara.

[gioboni]

Whispers in the Darkness, chapter 1

Summary: Livia wants a fresh start.

Chapter 1 - Chronicles of the Wedding

There are few things in the world more uncomfortable than a long flight. The food tasted like warmed-up cardboard; the constant drone of the engines buzzed in the back of my skull like an unrelenting drill; and the seats—hard, narrow, and designed by someone who clearly hated passengers. But worst of all, the one variable that could make any journey unbearable, was the company. In my case, the company was Beatriz. Beatriz, the other wedding godmother. Beatriz, the goody-goody. Beatriz, the moralist. Beatriz, who now sat next to me, with her perfect posture and serene expression, as if tolerating my presence was an act of mercy.

When Bianca, our mutual best friend—and the bride—decided it would be a "great idea" to put Beatriz and me on the same flight, I thought she was drunk on prosecco. The bride was the queen of optimism, believing that togetherness would "strengthen our bonds." But what she didn’t know—or pretended not to know—was that Beatriz and I didn’t have bonds. What we had was an old, fraying rope, always on the verge of snapping.

And still, I tried. Because if the wedding was important to Bianca, then I would make the sacrifice. "Do you think it’ll rain on the wedding?" I asked, forcing casualness. It wasn’t the most brilliant conversation starter, but it seemed safe enough. Beatriz didn’t even lift her eyes from the book she was holding. She just replied in a monotone: "It’s Scotland. It always rains." Great. A promising start.

I took a deep breath and persisted, trying to sound nonchalant: "I had to buy a new suitcase for this trip. My old one wouldn’t close anymore." This time, not even a grunt. Just the crisp sound of a page turning. "Right. Cool." I murmured to myself, leaning my head back against the seat.

The world outside the window seemed vast and inviting, a sea of clouds stretching to the horizon. It was more welcoming than the atmosphere between us. Beatriz had a way of ignoring people that felt like an art form. She didn’t need to say anything to make me feel inadequate; her cutting silence was enough.

"Bianca will freak out if the rain ruins the decorations," I tried again, throwing another line into the void. "She’s practical. She’s probably planned for it," she replied, still not looking at me. "Bianca is practical? Do you even know her?" I couldn’t help the sarcasm, and the corner of her lips twitched slightly, as if she was considering smiling but gave up at the last second. "You don’t need to be cynical, Lívia," she retorted, finally glancing up for a split second before returning to her book.

And that was that. Another failure.

I gave up trying. I reached into my bag and searched for my anxiety meds. Long flights always made me nervous, and sitting next to Beatriz only worsened the discomfort. "You’re taking that here?" her voice cut through the silence, without even glancing up from her page. I froze for a moment, breathing deeply to avoid sounding rude. "Yes, I am." "You know it’s unhealthy, right?" Ah, of course. The veiled judgment. That neutral tone that said more than any direct criticism could. "Beatriz, do you prefer I sleep or spend the next six hours trying to talk to you?" She blinked slowly, closed the book with exaggerated calmness, and finally looked at me. "Sleeping would be ideal." "Excellent. We agree on something." I flashed a fake smile as she went back to her book with the same indifference as before.

I asked the flight attendant for water, who handed it over with a kind smile. At least someone here had traces of humanity. I swallowed the pill, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. But I couldn’t relax. My heart felt too heavy, my mind spinning with thoughts I didn’t want to confront. It was impossible not to think about how this wedding, this trip, was more than just an event for me. It was a pause. A chance to start over.

After that night…

No. I didn’t want to remember. Even now, months later, I could feel the texture of the pajamas clinging to my body, the sticky sensation on my hands, and the bitter taste of dread. I could hear the muffled sound of the door slamming behind me as I ran into the nothingness, with the echo of the scream still vibrating in my ears.

A tear slipped out before I could control it. "Are you okay?" Beatriz’s voice came as a shock, making me open my eyes quickly. I looked at her, expecting to see some kind of empathy, but her face remained impassive. Just curiosity, maybe a hint of genuine concern. "Yes. I’m fine," I lied, quickly wiping my face and closing my eyes again, more to avoid further questions than out of exhaustion.

It was impossible to say if this trip would truly be a new beginning. But something had to change. Bianca had found something good, something real, and maybe, just maybe, I could find a fragment of that for myself. Even if it meant enduring Beatriz.

xxx...xxx

Arriving in Scotland felt like stepping through a portal into another world. The cold, damp air brushed against my face like a breath of new life. The endless green hills stretched out as if someone had painted the horizon with a palette of green and gray. It was a place where time seemed to slow down, almost pause. Scotland had that magic, a kind of beauty that didn’t need to try too hard to impress. It wasn’t forced or exaggerated; it was real, with its rustic details and the simplicity of something that had withstood the test of time.

At the airport, Bianca’s fiancé was waiting for us with a sign bearing our last names, an old-fashioned gesture, yet somehow charming. He was everything I expected from a well-mannered European: elegant, smiling, and utterly unintelligible.

When he turned to guide us to the car, I noticed his broad shoulders and the way he moved, with a natural elegance that seemed choreographed. For a moment, I caught myself admiring his masculine beauty. Lívia, stop that. He’s Bianca’s fiancé! I thought, immediately chastising myself.

That thought didn’t stop me from casting sidelong glances at Beatriz, who seemed perfectly at ease beside him, conversing fluently and naturally. With every exchange of words in German, my discomfort grew.

I watched them interact as if I were watching a foreign play. "You speak German?" I asked Beatriz, unable to hide my tone of surprise. "Yes," she replied, with the same lack of emotion she used to comment on the weather. It was as if speaking a language I could barely pronounce was as effortless as breathing. "Of course you do," I muttered to myself, awkwardly waving at the fiancé. He smiled politely, probably not understanding a word I said, and returned his attention to Beatriz.

The drive to the estate was, to say the least, surreal. His family’s manor looked like something straight out of a fantasy novel. Stone walls covered in moss and ancient trees lined the path, creating the impression that we were entering a magical place where even the air felt denser, laden with history.

I couldn’t help but stare out the window every second, captivated by the scenery. "Girl, you hit the jackpot," I joked when Bianca came to greet us at the entrance, radiant as always. She laughed but shot a quick look at her fiancé, clearly worried he might understand. He didn’t seem to notice, busy organizing the luggage.

Beatriz, of course, was perfect. She made the right compliments, with the right tone, behaving like the ideal maid of honor. "The place is wonderful, Bianca," she said, with sincerity and a softness I could never hope to imitate.

I, on the other hand, was more interested in the grandeur of the manor and the fact that Bianca was actually about to live there. "How did you manage this? Does he have any single brothers?" I asked, laughing as I pretended to look around for other European men. "Lívia!" Bianca exclaimed, laughing and shaking her head.

Bianca’s mother appeared shortly after, her face slightly pinched, as if she couldn’t believe I was really there. It was no secret that she didn’t like me. Her nose wrinkled slightly as I greeted her with a polite smile. "Lívia," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "How was the trip?" "Smooth. Thanks for asking."

Her eyes swept over me from head to toe, evaluating, judging. Before she could say anything else, Bianca swooped into the conversation with her usual energy: "Did you know Lívia now volunteers at the church? And get this, she even helps at a nursing home!"

The silence that followed was almost comical. Bianca’s mother offered a smile so fake it almost made me laugh. "That’s nice, dear," she said, with the most condescending tone I’d ever heard. "Yes, it’s something that really inspires me," I lied, trying to sound convincing, but Beatriz’s gaze felt like a spotlight on my words.

Then came the inevitable question. "And your husband, Lívia? He couldn’t come?" My mouth went dry instantly. "He was recently promoted. He’s busy with work and couldn’t take time off," I replied, my voice steady, though nervousness bubbled inside me. It wasn’t true, and Bianca knew it.

Bianca said nothing, just smiled, perhaps accepting my response to avoid ruining the moment.

As we walked through the manor’s grand hall, with its walls adorned with antique paintings and furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum, I tried to focus on the present. This trip was an opportunity. Maybe if I could convince Bianca to let me stay a little longer after the wedding, I could start figuring out what to do with my life.

Going back to my town wasn’t an option. Not when every corner carried a judging stare, not when even my own family had turned their backs on me. That incident at home had changed everything. It was as if the person I had been before that night had been erased, replaced by a distorted version, defined only by rumors. I could feel the weight of the stares, hear the whispers, even when they were far from me. It was a constant burden, a reminder that I no longer belonged in that place.

My own family had done nothing but reinforce that. When I needed help, support, they stepped away. Not to protect themselves, but to avoid any connection to the scandal.

That night, I had left home with nothing but my pajamas on and… blood on my hands.

I blinked, forcing myself to push the thought away before it could grow and consume me. This was a new place, a new chance. Scotland could be a refuge, even if only temporarily. Bianca was happy to have me here, and even if Beatriz was an obstacle, maybe I could find a way to turn this trip into a beginning.

I just had to figure out how.

If you need the rest of the text translated, let me know!

xxx...xxx

Later, as we got ready for dinner, Beatriz and I found ourselves alone in our chalet. She was fixing her hair in the mirror, every movement precise and flawless. I, on the other hand, was struggling not to ruin my dress while adjusting my shoes, cursing the heels that seemed to have been designed by a sadist.

“You seem nervous,” I commented, more to break the silence than out of genuine curiosity. “I’m not nervous,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the mirror. “Of course not,” I muttered. “You’re never nervous.” She gave me a look through the mirror but didn’t respond. “I just find it funny…” I continued, knowing I was poking the bear. “You speaking German and all. It’s impressive!”

Beatriz turned slowly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I had the time to learn. Maybe if you used your time for something useful…” My stomach clenched. “Oh, right. Because volunteering at the church and helping the elderly isn’t useful.” “That’s not what I meant,” she sighed, clearly irritated. “Then what was it, Bea?” I challenged, crossing my arms. “What did you mean?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the door swung open, and Bianca entered in her gorgeous pink dress, bringing a burst of energy and joy with her. “Girls, it’s almost dinner time!” she exclaimed, oblivious to the tension in the room.

Beatriz smiled at her, that perfect, practiced smile that always annoyed me. “We’re ready, Bia.” Bianca hugged us, and for a moment, the tension dissipated. In that embrace, everything felt simpler, easier. That was why we were here. For her.

“You’re the best,” Bianca murmured, holding us a little tighter. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” “Neither do I,” I replied, trying to ignore Beatriz’s gaze over my shoulder.

When we finally joined the others for dinner, I tried to forget the disagreement. I looked around at the beauty of the place, at the people laughing and chatting, and allowed myself to relax a little. Even if Beatriz was a thorn in my side, in that moment, all that mattered was Bianca’s smile. Maybe, just maybe, I could find my place here. After all, if Bianca had found love, who knows what Scotland might bring for me?

xxx...xxx

The expansive lawn at the back of the manor looked like something out of a dream. The tables were arranged in elegant rows, adorned with white linen tablecloths that rippled gently in the evening breeze. Candles flickered in crystal holders, casting golden reflections on the champagne flutes waiting for toasts. In the distance, the Scottish hills looked like a painting in constant motion, the gray sky dissolving into softer hues as night approached.

I stood there, a glass in hand and a forced smile on my lips, taking in the scene as if trying to absorb the perfection of something that didn’t feel real. The bride’s mother, impeccable in an ivory dress, rose from her seat at the head table, immediately commanding everyone’s attention. “Welcome,” she began, with that authoritative, precise voice only matriarchs seem to possess.

Beside her, a tall and elegant translator repeated her words in German for the groom’s family. Now that’s fancy, I thought, impressed. A bilingual dinner at a historic manor. It’s not every day you get to experience something like this.

“This dinner is a celebration for everyone to get to know each other,” the bride’s mother continued, her tone firm yet courteous. “Throughout this week, we will dedicate ourselves to organizing an unforgettable wedding. On behalf of my daughter, Bianca, and our future son-in-law, I deeply thank you all for being here.”

A polite, restrained round of applause followed as she sat down again.

Then Bianca, radiant as ever, stood up. She looked stunning in her dress, her hair styled in a loose bun that managed to look both effortless and impeccably calculated. “Well, after all these formalities, I think I can lighten the mood a bit,” she said, with that trademark half-smile that always signaled something interesting was about to happen.

The light tension in the air began to dissipate as everyone turned their attention to the bride. “After dinner, we have two destinations,” she explained, her tone casual. “The men will go one way, and the women another.”

There was a wave of laughter and curious murmurs among the guests. I, of course, got excited immediately. Without thinking twice, I downed the rest of my champagne in one gulp and gestured for a waiter to refill my glass. “Finally,” I murmured to myself, barely containing my enthusiasm. “I need to get out.”

Being with Bianca was perfect. Amid all the chaos my life had become, she was the anchor that reminded me not everything was lost. And a bachelorette party sounded exactly like the distraction I needed.

Catarina, Bianca’s cousin and one of the other bridesmaids, was sitting next to me. She looked just as excited as I was, her face lighting up as she murmured, “I hope it’s something fun. It’s been ages since I’ve done anything truly celebratory.”

I nodded, leaning closer to her and whispering, “If Bianca’s in charge, I bet it’ll be amazing. She never disappoints.”

Before we could get too carried away with our excitement, a familiar voice interrupted our moment. “You both seem excited.”

Beatriz.

She appeared beside the table, as flawless as ever, with that neutral smile that always seemed to hide more than it revealed. “Why wouldn’t we be?” I replied, my tone slightly defensive. “Well, because…” she began, casting a brief glance at Catarina before continuing smoothly, “I’m sure the bachelorette party will be exactly Bianca’s style.”

Catarina and I exchanged glances immediately. Grimaces, actually. Because what Beatriz had just said sounded… worrying. “What do you mean by that?” Catarina asked, her curiosity evident.

Beatriz took a step closer, leaning slightly over the table. “I mean that Bianca was very thoughtful in planning an intimate and enjoyable event. Something that truly reflects her personality.”

My stomach twisted. “Wait,” I interrupted, crossing my arms. “Are you saying you helped plan the bachelorette party?”

Beatriz just smiled, which only made my irritation grow. “Of course,” she replied, with the utmost nonchalance. “Bianca wanted it to be special, so I shared some ideas.” “Right,” I muttered, turning to the waiter who had just refilled my glass. I drank half the champagne in one go before continuing, “That explains a lot.”

I wasn’t mad. Catarina looked more confused than annoyed, but she clearly wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip. “And what kind of ideas did you share?” she asked, her expression far too innocent to be genuine.

Beatriz either didn’t notice the trap or didn’t care. “Well, simple things. Interactive games, ambient music, something that allows people to connect…”

“Interactive games?” I interrupted, laughing dryly. “Are we going on a spiritual retreat or to a bachelorette party?”

Beatriz merely raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “I didn’t know you were so attached to traditions, Lívia. I thought you liked trying new things.” “I like fun,” I retorted, gesturing with my glass. “And honestly, I doubt your idea of ‘fun’ matches mine.”

Catarina, likely sensing the conversation was about to escalate, tried to smooth things over. “Well, it sounds like it’ll be a surprise,” she said, casting a quick glance at me. “Who knows? We might end up having fun after all.”

Beatriz smiled again, as if she had won some invisible battle. I, on the other hand, remained silent, finishing the rest of my champagne as I questioned, for the first time that night, Bianca’s absurd decision to involve Beatriz in planning the bachelorette party.

A mulher mais chata que existe planejando uma despedida de solteira? Isso tinha que ser uma piada.

xxx...xxx

After a few glasses of champagne and many failed attempts to figure out what Beatriz had planned for the bachelorette party, I was caught off guard by Bianca, who appeared with that mischievous smile only she could pull off. “Lívia, there’s someone I want you to meet,” she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me along before I could protest. “Now? I’m not exactly in the mood to socialize any more…” I began, but Bianca was already dragging me across the lawn toward a small group of men.

At the center of the group stood a tall man, broad-shouldered and completely bald, who stood out effortlessly. His smile was so wide it seemed to contain every tooth in his dental arch, and as soon as Bianca reached them, he surged toward me like a hurricane, arms wide open. “Ah, bella! Finally, I meet you!” he exclaimed in heavily accented English.

Before I could process what was happening, he pulled me into a tight embrace, wrapping me in his strong arms. The overpowering scent of cologne nearly made me cough, and the unexpected closeness left me uneasy. “Hi…” I murmured, trying to smile as I discreetly stepped back, putting some distance between us. “Nice to meet you.”

He seemed oblivious to my discomfort, still grinning as if we’d just reconnected after years apart. “I am Lorenzo! Your partner for the wedding!” he announced enthusiastically, puffing out his chest like he’d just won a trophy.

Bianca was holding back laughter, and I shot her a warning look. “Italian,” Bianca explained, still smiling. “And it seems he already likes you.” “Yeah, I noticed,” I muttered, crossing my arms as Lorenzo returned to the group of men, gesturing animatedly while speaking a mix of Italian and English.

“He’s a nice guy, Lívia,” Bianca said, nudging me lightly. “Sure. And enthusiastic,” I replied, trying not to laugh as I recalled the exaggerated hug. “Seems like he’s here for the drama.” “He’s intense, but he’s a great partner. He’ll make your life easier at the altar.”

I sighed, resigned. Bianca always saw the bright side of things.

When dinner came to an end, Bianca stood up again, this time to gather the women around one of the tables. “Alright, ladies, it’s time!” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “We have three cars waiting for us. We’ll all go together, and trust me when I say this will be a night to remember.”

The women began murmuring among themselves, excited. I, on the other hand, was more skeptical, especially when Bianca dropped the next bombshell: “Oh, and don’t worry about anything. The entire evening is on Beatriz.”

My expression hardened instantly. It was as if the whole evening had been wrapped in a cloud of disappointment. Not even the champagne I kept drinking seemed to ease my irritation.

Beatriz, of course, looked perfectly pleased with her generosity. She smiled serenely, as if completely unaware that I was likely judging her for the millionth time that night. I couldn’t help it. The idea that I couldn’t even offer something as simple as a good night for Bianca stung.

“Shall we?” Bianca asked, grabbing my arm again. “Yes. Of course,” I muttered, downing the rest of my champagne before joining the group heading to the cars.

When we arrived, I saw that the vehicles were spacious and tastefully decorated. Perfect for the occasion. But as I approached, I made a point of avoiding any car that contained Beatriz or Bianca’s mother. I wasn’t in the mood for more judgment, implied or otherwise.

I ended up in one of the middle cars, where some of the other bridesmaids were already seated. Catarina, always cheerful, was in the seat beside me, while two other bridesmaids chatted in the back row. “Any idea where we’re going?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Not a clue, but I hope it’s fun,” Catarina replied with a smile. “With Beatriz in charge?” I shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Catarina laughed, but her laughter was restrained, as if she didn’t want to be overheard by the others.

As the car moved through the city’s quiet streets, I looked out the window, trying to ignore my growing unease. The scenery was beautiful—the city lights reflecting softly off the old buildings and cobblestone sidewalks—but I could barely appreciate it.

The conversation in the car continued, but my mood remained gloomy. Every laugh from the other women felt like a reminder that, no matter how hard I tried, I would never be like them.

And yet, there I was, heading to a bachelorette party planned by the most boring woman I knew, trying to convince myself that, in the end, it might just turn out to be a memorable night.

[gioboni]

The Lie of Windhaven | Azriel x reader [Masterlist]

Summary: Windhaven is a cruel place, and Azriel does his best to save her from a fate no Illyrian female can outrun. But in doing so, he might have just sentenced them both to death.

A/N: I'm so sorry I really need to be stopped with all the series I've been starting left and right without finishing the ones I already have running, but oh well

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist. ✨

Warnings: angst, talk of and description of injuries and violence and misogyny, SMUT (18+), please check each chapter for specific warnings

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Read [Part 1] here!

Read [Part 2] here!

Read [Part 3] here!

Part 4 (coming soon)

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last updated: november 2024

[gioboni]

Intruder | Azriel x reader

Summary: As Y/N returns home from a long mission excited to reunite with Azriel, she is met with her own personal nightmare.

A/N: I just now wrote this in like an hour because it has been playing in my head all day, so please excuse any typos. It’s a bit ridiculous and it got a tiny bit longer than a drabble 👀

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: mild angst, a bit of hurt/comfort, mildly descriptive mentions of sex, language

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Her favourite part about coming home after a long mission had always been the first few minutes after she stepped through the door of the rooms she shared with Azriel. She loved that he always waited up for her, and she loved the way he pulled her into his arms as she sank into the warm comfort of their bed. It was always the moment she felt like she’d finally returned home.

Today, Rhys had kept her in his office for almost two hours after her arrival—squeezing every last bit of intel out of her before he let her go. So it came that her steps were a little faster tonight, a little more desperate to return to the arms of her mate.

Her smile widened as she neared the familiar door at the end of the hallway, heart leaping with anticipation. She lifted a hand, the doorknob almost close enough to reach. But just as her fingers wrapped around the cool brass, a sound came from the other side of the door, and her heart stuttered in its rhythm.

A sinking feeling—dread settling heavy in the pit of her stomach, fingers tingling.

She held her breath as she listened, because surely, she’d misheard. Surely—but no …

There it was again. Soft moans crawled through the barely-there gap beneath the door—breathy mewls accompanied by throaty groans and a gentle but rhythmic knocking sound.

At once, she pulled back her hand as though the doorknob had burned her skin, unblinking eyes fixed on the door to her home.

The world seemed to tip to the side, knocked off its axis as Y/N stumbled to catch her weight by pressing her palm against the cool wall to her right. It felt like her insides were crawling, swelling with a burning sensation to make bile rise to her throat.

Images flickered through her mind—of Azriel with a faceless stranger. His bare skin touched by long, delicate fingers to run along the tattoos she so loved. Azriel buried between another’s thighs, hips rolling into hers to not only seek pleasure but to bring it too. Did he have his fingers twisted in her hair? His lips on her mouth? Was he whispering into her ear those very same words he’d spoken to her on so many occasions?

Another moan, male this time—desperate. Without meaning to, she pictured those hands dancing along the delicate membrane of his wings, and it drove a spike right through her guts.

The world was rushing past her, eyes focussed on everything and nothing as all became a blur of colours, and shapes, and sounds. Her ears were ringing, nausea now bubbling higher and higher, crawling its way up her throat.

She pictured the bed they shared, and somehow it seemed to her the cruellest detail of all. To take another in the bed where they’d shared … everything. It was where the bond had snapped for her all those years ago, where she’d accepted it too. He was fucking someone else in the very place they’d loved, adored, worshippedone another countless times. They’d spoken of having children there, they’d spoken of their past, of their future.

She felt her head shake, her throat tight enough to make it near impossible to draw a breath. She didn’t know why she continued listening, but the images in her mind would not slow down. They multiplied with every passing second—showing Azriel laughing with this stranger, offering the dazzling smile he solely reserved for her. He was kissing her as he rolled to his back with his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, rumbling a groan deep in his chest as she rode him, biting his lips at the nails she dug into his chest.

Y/N didn’t know how long she’d been standing there already, fingers trembling as she once again reached for the doorknob—slow as though time itself was grieving with her, wanting to spare her what awaited behind the door, spare her the end of a love she’d thought greater than the Cauldron itself.

“Y/N?”

Her body gave a hard flinch at the voice coming from behind her, and she spun around fast enough to hear a distinct cracking sound in the back of her neck.

At once, it seemed her body deflated, hand coming up to search for stability with a palm pressed to the centre of a firm chest as she bent forward with her other hand pressing into her waist.

She felt a warm, secure hand on her elbow, another combing through her hair to brush the strands that fell into her face behind her ear.

“Oh Gods,” she panted, her chest shaking with quivering breaths, and her throat tight with tears of relief threatening to bubble to the surface.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she heard Azriel say, his soothing timbre vibrating beneath her palm.

“No, that’s—… give me a minute.” She shook her head, eyes closed as she took in a deep breath through her nose. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“My love, what’s wrong?” A note of concern now coloured Azriel’s tone, the hand on her elbow tightening its grip ever so slightly. “You look like Cassian when he first met Bryaxis.”

A laugh broke from her throat that sounded a little pathetic in her ears, but next thing she knew, she flung her arms around Azriel’s neck to bury her face against his skin. Squeezing her eyes closed, she inhaled his scent and willed her heart to slow to a regular pace.

Azriel’s arms tightened around her waist as though it was a reflex, and the pressure of his embrace calmed her at once.

Then, another soft moan crawled past the door.

She felt Azriel’s head lift from where he’d kept his cheek nestled to her hair, could feel his bewilderment on the other side of the bond.

“What the—”

“I thought it was you,” she whispered into him, her arms tightening a bit further around his neck, her lip wobbling despite her best efforts. She didn’t dare open her eyes.

Azriel stiffened in her arms, but after a long moment, his body softened, and he gently moved to loosen her hold on him. She let go reluctantly, but thankfully Azriel held her close, his palm coming up to cup her cheek as he kept one arm around her waist.

As she met his eyes, she wondered how she could have thought for one second that it had been him behind that door.

“Y/N,” he breathed with a quiet sense of devastation and a whole lot of love gleaming in the depth of his eyes. “I belong to you. Body and soul. I would never, I—”

“I know,” she interrupted quietly, lifting her own hand to cup the one he kept pressed to her cheek. “I know that, Az. It was just … when I heard that coming from our room …” Shaking her head to rid her mind of those images, she leaned her face deeper into his palm and closed her eyes. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”

At her words, Azriel lifted his head, arching a single brow at the door behind her. “Why is that coming from our room?”

Turning to follow his gaze, Y/N could just spot a cloud of shadow crawling beneath the door, and not soon after, Azriel sighed next to her.

“We’re going to have to burn that mattress,” he muttered, and just as she opened her mouth to inquire who it was that had taken up camp inside their room, it seemed Azriel gave his shadows an order. It was only a second later that a familiar screech rang from behind the door.

A screech that sounded suspiciously like Cassian.

[gioboni]

Whispers in the Darkness, prologue

(Gerado por IA)

Summary: Livia wants a fresh start.

Masterlist: 01 -

[...]

The wood of the cart creaked with every movement of the wheels on the uneven ground, but now it was still, anchored in a corner of the camp. I was curled up in a corner, my knees drawn to my chest, trying to make myself small enough to disappear. My eyes peered through the rusty bars that framed my prison, but what I saw outside only made my stomach churn.

They were men. Filthy men, with stained teeth and nails caked with grime, their eyes glinting with malice. They looked at me, at us, as if we were… meat. No, worse than that. Meat has a purpose; it can be eaten, it satisfies hunger. To them, the others and I were a game. Something to be broken, molded, sold.

I wasn’t alone. Other women were in carts nearby, their faces dulled by exhaustion or fear. And then I saw her, in one of the neighboring cages, a familiar face I recognized.

Beatriz.

The best friend of my best friend. The same purple dress she had worn in the ballroom still hung crookedly on her body, now dirty and torn at the knee. The memory of the last time I saw her pierced through me like a blade. Beatriz had been pacing back and forth in the ballroom on the night of the wedding, clutching the hem of her dress as she searched for the glasses she had lost.

-- Have you seen a pair of black-rimmed glasses? I’m blind without them! -- she had asked everyone she passed. I had found it amusing at the time, watching her from a distance with a glass of wine in my hand.

To be fair, I always found everything funny, so it hadn’t been hard to laugh as I subtly helped her look for her glasses.

Now, they hung crookedly on her sleeping face. The frame was broken, and one of the lenses was cracked. She was either asleep or unconscious, I couldn’t tell. There was a cut on the side of her face, dry but still visible in the firelight. Beatriz, the woman who had always been quiet and judgmental with her glances, was finally silent — but not for a good reason.

My chest tightened. It was easier to pretend the other women were strangers, that they were all just blurred faces in a nightmare. But Beatriz was real. Beatriz had a name, a history, a life I knew. How long had it been since that wedding? A day? Two? It was almost impossible to tell. It felt like another lifetime.

What happened to us?

How could this have happened in a place where, just yesterday, we were dancing, laughing, drinking? How does this world exist side by side with that bright, happy ballroom, full of cheerful voices? It’s as if I’ve been thrown into a nightmare no one would believe is real.

I closed my eyes for a moment, but the air here was heavy, almost toxic. I tried to take a deep breath, but the smell of sweat, dried blood, and something sickly sweet — something rotten — filled my lungs. It was hard not to cough. I opened my eyes again, looking at Beatriz, trying to calculate if there was any way to reach her, to help her.

But I was trapped. Just like her. Just like all the others.

The laughter in the distance was like knives cutting through the silence. The men around the fires were playing dice, drinking, mocking one another. They were drunk, but not enough to lower their guard. From the corner of my eye, I saw one of them watching me. He did nothing, but his gaze was heavy, cruel. They didn’t need to touch me to make me feel the weight of their threat.

But they also didn’t touch us because of him.

The man in the top hat.

He wasn’t like the others. His worn vest and crooked hat tried for elegance, but his presence only made him more revolting. His eyes scanned everything around him, cold and calculating. They weren’t the eyes of a hungry predator like the others. They were the eyes of a merchant. He looked at us the way a butcher appraises a cut of meat. And his low, lethal voice had made the rule crystal clear:

-- Anyone who touches them without my permission… will pay the price with their own skin.

They believed him. That much was clear. But fear didn’t erase their stares, their twisted smiles. They were just waiting. Waiting for the right moment.

I lowered my eyes to the floor of the cart, my fingers searching once more for the sharp sliver of wood I had hidden. It was small, but it was mine. And right now, it was the only thing in the world I could call my own.

My gaze returned to Beatriz. Her chest rose and fell slowly, which meant she was still alive. But for how long? And for how long would I be?

How did I get here? That question echoed like a drum in my head. It had been so fast. Everything had been so fast. A walk, a breath, a single wrong move. I remember the hands, the force, the sweet and chemical smell of the cloth they pressed to my face. After that, darkness.

And now, this.

What kind of place is this? What kind of world is this, where women vanish in the blink of an eye, and no one finds them? No one looks for them? Did anyone at the ballroom even notice I was gone? Did they notice Beatriz was gone? Or have we already been replaced, forgotten, as if we were never there?

-- One thing at a time, Livia, -- I whispered to myself, softly, to keep from falling apart. Survive the night. Then find a crack, a mistake. Every man with power has a weakness. And the man in the top hat would be no different.

I looked at the moon high in the sky, cold and indifferent, but still a witness. It wouldn’t help me, but it could see me.

I still have a chance, I thought, gripping the shard of wood tightly, as if it were my last anchor. Small as it was, it was still a chance.

And if anyone here was going to pay the price… it wouldn’t be me.

[...]

[gioboni]

A Peculiar Court, chapter 9

Summary: Dalila comes from an oddly peculiar family. So, it’s no surprise that she finds herself in an equally peculiar place.

Chapters: 01 - 02 - 03 - 04 - 05 - 06 - 07 - 08

Chapter 9

Monday morning started off tense for Dalila, who had woken up after a bizarre nightmare involving the woman with glowing eyes she had met at the party. She had tried telling Abigail about it, but with no success. When the bus that was supposed to take Bertiza to school didn’t show up again, her older sister was furious with the city for cutting the transportation to the rural area.

While they were coming back from the orchard with a basket full of fruit, Dalila tried to bring it up again during lunch, but Abigail interrupted her, complaining that they were out of rice and she’d have to ride her bike into town the next day to get more.

Later in the afternoon, Dalila was helping her grandmother in the garden when she noticed a figure approaching from a distance. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized it was the woman from the party—Amren—carrying a basket full of things. Her grandmother noticed too but tried to play it off, casually mentioning it might just be a neighbor.

Without hesitating, Dalila took the lead, running across the field until she reached the visitor. Amren greeted her without a smile, her gaze locked on the old woman far in the distance.

“Did you walk here?” Dalila asked, trying to sound casual, but her nerves were obvious.

They exchanged a few words, Dalila tense with Amren’s presence. The woman quickly noticed the discomfort.

“Oh, I see you’re avoiding me, Dalila. Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble!” Amren said with a soft but firm voice.

Dalila felt a bit of relief and finally guided her toward the garden. Reia, her grandmother, looked pleased, ready to chat when Amren offered a polite smile. “I’m Amren.”

At that moment, Abigail approached, noticing the basket covered with a cloth. “Oh, your sister told me you needed a few things, so I took the liberty of bringing them for you!” Amren explained.

Dalila felt embarrassed and perplexed at how Amren seemed to know exactly what they were missing at home. She took the basket, murmuring a shy thank you.

“You two know each other?” Abigail asked, surprised.

“I met her in town the other day,” Dalila quickly clarified, trying to keep her tone casual.

Abigail smiled, and to Dalila’s surprise, invited Amren inside, offering her something to drink and asking how much she owed for the items. Amren refused the money but accepted the invitation, joining Reia and starting a simple conversation about the beautiful flowers in the garden.

Meanwhile, Abigail headed inside, and Dalila followed despite her sister insisting she stay outside with the guest. Dalila justified herself by saying their grandmother could entertain her, and she had something important to discuss. Abigail relented and started making lemonade since the power was still out.

Dalila began to speak, stammering a bit, unsure how to bring it up without sounding crazy. But she decided it had to be said.

“Abigail, if you have doubts, just go to town and see for yourself!” Dalila said, trying to grab her sister’s attention.

Abigail, who was manually squeezing lemons, sighed, complaining that she wasn’t made for so many manual tasks. Dalila grabbed her attention again, this time more seriously.

“The day the power went out, I rode into town on my bike, right? But I ended up finding another city!”

“Are you sure it’s not just a new neighborhood? Florencia is growing fast because of the new university,” Abigail replied, barely paying attention.

“Listen!” Dalila raised her voice, making Abigail pause and look at her curiously. “I thought I was lost. I walked around a bit and met a girl. She said the city is called Velaris!”

Abigail looked like she was about to say something but stayed quiet, signaling for Dalila to keep going.

“There were strange people, with… physical differences from us! I tried to get back to the road to Florencia but couldn’t find it. I stayed there for a while, trying to make sense of everything before I came home.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow, clearly doubting her. “Are you saying the city just changed its name overnight?”

“Impossible!” Dalila insisted, determined. “On the second day, I was approached by two men. They were very different. And through these back-and-forth visits to the city, I met Amren—the woman who came to visit us today!”

Abigail rolled her eyes, thinking her sister was either delusional or trying to pull a prank on her. Pretending to believe her, she nodded while setting the table with glasses. Dalila noticed the dismissive tone and sighed, disappointed.

“Relax, Lila, I trust you,” Abigail said, but without much conviction.

“No, you think I’m crazy. Just… just look at that woman’s ears. Or her eyes. It’s all really strange!”

Abigail scolded her, saying it was rude to talk about someone like that. At that moment, Bertiza came down the stairs, looking terrible—her face swollen, makeup smeared. Dalila immediately felt suspicious, giving her a questioning look. The sour smell filled the room, making her so nauseous she walked over to the window to throw it open and get some fresh air.

It was clear Bertiza was hungover.

That girl was clearly hungover.

Bertiza tried to play it cool, pouring herself some cold coffee and ignoring her sisters’ conversation.

“Is there any pain medicine?” she asked.

“What’s bothering you?” Abigail questioned.

“Headache,” Bertiza muttered, her eyes unfocused.

“Did you drink, sis?” Dalila asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What? No!” Bertiza replied, offended.

Abigail gave her a suspicious look as well. Dalila took a deep breath, her sharp senses picking up the sour smell in the air.

“You didn’t even shower after drinking, did you?” she remarked.

Abigail set the lemonade aside and walked over to their sister. “You really drank? You’re underage! Where did you even get alcohol?”

Alarmed, Dalila rushed to the powerless fridge and opened it, searching for the beers they usually kept. All were still intact.

“It didn’t come from here!”

Bertiza shifted uncomfortably, clearly unwilling to tell the truth.

“So where did it come from?” Abigail pressed.

“You went into town, didn’t you, Tiza?” The lack of response made Dalila purse her lips. “So, you know about the strange town, don’t you?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Bertiza finally shouted, defending herself from their barrage of accusations. “Why do you always blame me?”

“Because you reek! Why didn’t you take a shower?” Abigail was furious, launching into a heated lecture about the irresponsibility of drinking as a minor.

Caught up in the emotions of the moment, Dalila couldn’t resist making a joke, imitating pig noises at the end of Abigail’s sermon just as Bertiza seemed on the verge of tears.

“Oink oink!”

“You bitch!” Bertiza screamed, furious.

“Bertiza!” Abigail gasped, shocked.

For a moment, the house fell into silence as the chaos escalated.

In her rage, Bertiza slammed the mug into the sink, the clatter ringing through the kitchen before she stormed off towards the stairs. Dalila and Abigail barely had time to react before they heard her bedroom door slam so hard that the sound reverberated through the house, shaking the windows.

“Great, now she’s pissed,” Abigail grumbled, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. “As if I didn’t have enough to deal with today.”

Dalila sighed, crossing her arms and trying to calm the irritation that still lingered. “She shouldn’t be drinking, Abi. She’s underage, and you know how that could turn out.”

“I know,” Abigail snapped, her tone sharp. “But us fighting won’t help. She’s just going to keep acting like a stubborn teenager. It’s not like we can lock her up in the house.”

Dalila was about to argue, but she was interrupted by the sound of cheerful voices coming from the front door. Their grandmother, Reia, entered the house, followed closely by Amren. The two were chatting animatedly, laughing at something that had been said in the garden.

“The garden is so beautiful, Reia,” Amren said with a soft smile. “You really have a gift with plants.”

“Oh, it’s just practice and love for my flowers,” Reia responded with a warm laugh. “Gardening keeps me young.”

Dalila felt a knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. Amren was now inside the house, as if she were an old friend, and the calm demeanor of her grandmother only made Dalila more uneasy. Amren moved around the room comfortably, her sharp gray eyes scanning the space analytically, yet maintaining her friendly tone. Dalila wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“How’s the lemonade coming, girls?” Reia asked with a smile.

“Almost done, Grandma,” Abigail replied, turning her attention back to the lemons. She glanced at Amren, who was now slowly approaching the table. Abigail’s eyes drifted from Amren’s gaze to her ears, barely covered by her hair. “Would you like to sit? We can offer you something else.”

Amren politely shook her head. “Oh, no, thank you. I’ve already brought what you need; I don’t want to impose.”

Dalila was still tense. Amren’s presence, though seemingly harmless, unsettled her in ways she couldn’t explain. And the fact that her grandmother seemed so at ease beside this woman only deepened her discomfort.

“My sister told me you met in town,” Abigail commented.

“That’s right,” Amren replied smoothly. “We crossed paths in Velaris. I was just passing through, but we happened to meet.”

Dalila felt Amren’s penetrating gaze on her and quickly looked away, pretending to focus on setting the table. The mention of the strange city caught Abigail’s interest.

“Velaris?” Abigail repeated, pausing her work on the lemonade. “I don’t remember a town called Velaris around here. I’m sure it’s not part of Florencia.”

“I told you already, Abigail, it’s a different city,” Dalila said, exasperated, her eyes locking with Amren’s, who watched the exchange between the sisters with a sharp, knowing look. “There’s a river running through it! A clean river, at that!”

Amren smiled faintly, adding a quiet comment, “Now I’m starting to understand what’s happening here. Perhaps Florencia is much farther away than you think.”

Abigail rolled her eyes subtly, still trying to process the idea. “Florencia isn’t far. It’s only about 30 minutes by bike, or 15 minutes by bus. There’s no way it could be that far.”

Reia, who had been observing the conversation quietly, decided to finish squeezing the lemons. It was as though the strangeness of the discussion didn’t faze her at all. She stirred the lemonade calmly, as if she was used to dealing with the impossible.

Dalila turned to Amren, her mind buzzing with questions. “Is there any way to find Florencia again? I have finals coming up, and I can’t just disappear…”

Amren, with her enigmatic smile, shook her head slightly. “I don’t know, Dalila. To be honest, my visit here seems… destined. I never would’ve imagined such interesting figures living on such an isolated farm.”

“Destined?” Abigail questioned, her distrust evident. “This is starting to sound like a fantasy novel.”

Abigail tried to take control of the lemonade-making again, but her grandmother, always intuitive, gently nudged her into a chair.

“Rest a bit, dear,” Reia said with a sweet smile. “You’ve been working too hard.”

Reluctantly, Abigail sat down, watching as her grandmother calmly poured the lemonade with her usual ease. When she handed a glass to Amren, the woman accepted it gracefully, taking a slow sip. After swallowing, she complimented, “Delicious.”

Abigail wasn’t convinced yet, and her curiosity remained. She looked directly at Amren, trying to figure out what was really going on. “Are you in on this prank with my sister?”

Amren remained composed, her fingers delicately intertwined on the table. “If it’s what I think, young lady, you’re very far from home.”

That simple response made the room fall into a heavy silence. Abigail seemed ready to argue but hesitated, still in disbelief. Dalila, on the other hand, felt her heart race, her mouth slightly open in shock.

“What do you mean, far from home?” Dalila asked, a shiver running down her spine. “We’re here, at our farm, in Florencia, aren’t we?”

Amren glanced briefly at Reia, who, to Dalila’s surprise, seemed excited by the conversation, her eyes sparkling with interest.

“Perhaps the place you’re in now… isn’t the same place you think it is,” Amren responded vaguely, taking another sip of her drink.

“What does that even mean?” Abigail demanded, her patience wearing thin.

Reia chuckled softly, breaking the tension. “Isn’t it fascinating, Abigail? Just imagine, our farm being in a completely different place. That could explain a lot of things…”

Abigail stared at her grandmother, utterly confused. “Grandma, are you really taking this seriously?”

Reia shrugged, a mischievous smile on her face. “Life is full of surprises, my dear. Who’s to say this isn’t just another one? Maybe we’re getting a chance to escape that brute of a son of mine!”

Dalila watched everything in silence, trying to process the information. It was as if a new reality was unfolding before them, something she had never considered possible.

“But… how did this happen?” Dalila finally asked. “How could we be in a place that isn’t ours? That’s impossible.”

Amren tilted her head slightly, observing Dalila with that sharp gaze, as if assessing every word before responding.

“Sometimes the borders between worlds blur. We don’t always know how or why. And maybe the answer isn’t in the ‘how,’ but in the ‘why.’”

Abigail huffed, visibly irritated. “This makes no sense! We’re here, living our normal lives! How could we possibly be… somewhere else?”

“You said it yourselves,” Amren replied calmly. “The bus doesn’t pass anymore, the city you know isn’t where it should be… Things are changing, aren’t they?”

“It’s called a bus,” Reia whispered with a playful smile at Amren.

Abigail opened her mouth to respond but closed it just as quickly, as if the words had escaped her. Her hand tightened around the knife she had been using to spread jelly on the toast, still on the table. She glanced at Dalila, searching for an answer.

“I… I saw Velaris,” Dalila muttered.

Reia seemed even

more excited. “Well, if that’s true, what an adventure we’re in for, huh? Maybe it’s fate, like Amy said.”

Her words caught the visitor’s attention, who seemed to flinch slightly for some reason.

Abigail looked at her grandmother, completely baffled. “Grandma, how can you be so calm about all this? This isn’t normal.”

“My dear,” Reia replied softly but firmly, “life’s too short not to embrace the changes and surprises it brings. If we’re somewhere else, so be it.”

Silence fell over the table again as each of them processed the information in their own way. Dalila, still in shock, glanced at Amren, who seemed to hold all the answers yet said so little. Abigail, visibly uncomfortable, struggled to find some logic in the entire conversation. And Reia, unlike everyone else, seemed content, even excited, with the idea that they were in a completely different place from what they had thought.

It was at that moment that Abigail completely lost her patience. She stood up abruptly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. Her face was tense, her teeth clenched in an obvious attempt to keep her composure. In her hand, the knife was now pointed directly at their guest’s face—who, surprisingly, remained calm. Abigail was truly losing control.

“I think we’ve had enough stories for one day,” Abigail said, looking directly at Amren. “With all due respect, ma’am, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

The tension in the room spiked instantly. Dalila opened her mouth to protest, but Abigail’s glare stopped any words from coming out. Reia looked surprised at her eldest granddaughter, but kept her serene smile, as if she hadn’t noticed the gravity of the situation.

“Abigail, dear, what’s—”

“Grandma,” Abigail interrupted, struggling to remain calm, “please. I need to talk to Dalila… alone.”

Amren, who had stayed composed throughout the entire exchange, raised an eyebrow slightly, seemingly amused by Abigail’s outburst. She stood up gracefully, adjusting her clothes with calm precision. “Of course. I was just about to leave.”

Dalila, still stunned by her sister’s behavior, tried to object. “Abi, I just wanted you to—”

“Later, Dalila,” Abigail replied, her voice low and laced with frustration. “We’ll talk later. Right now, let’s see our… guest out.”

Amren rose, casting one last glance at Reia.

“It was a pleasure meeting you all. I hope we’ll meet again soon.” Amren’s gray eyes flicked briefly toward Dalila, shining with a mysterious glint that made Dalila’s stomach twist.

“Yes, I hope so too,” Reia responded, waving softly.

Amren nodded slightly and walked to the door, leaving at a leisurely pace. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Abigail turned quickly to Dalila, her expression growing even more tense.

“Dalila, what were you thinking bringing that woman here?” Abigail practically hissed, trying not to raise her voice, though clearly furious. “Do you really think this… game is appropriate?”

“Game?” Dalila asked, incredulous. “Abi, I’m not playing around! Velaris is real! I’ve been there, and Amren—”

“Dalila,” Abigail cut her off, slamming her fist against the table. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but dragging Grandma into this… Do you really think this hasn’t gone too far?”

“I’m not making this up!” Dalila’s frustration boiled over, her voice trembling. “I swear it’s real, Abi! I don’t know how to explain it, but something’s happening. Please, believe me!”

Abigail let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair, clearly exasperated. “Believe you? How can I believe this? Magic cities? Weird people? Dalila, this doesn’t make any sense!”

Dalila swallowed hard, feeling tears well up in her eyes, not out of sadness, but from sheer desperation. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I know it’s real. I saw Velaris. I saw those people!”

Abigail shook her head, her exasperation palpable. “Enough, Dalila. Tomorrow we’ll figure this out, get back to normal. We’re going to town! Until then, I don’t want to hear another word about this… madness.”

Without saying anything else, Abigail stormed upstairs, leaving Dalila standing alone in the kitchen with their grandmother.

Reia, still calm, looked at her granddaughter and sighed softly. “Don’t worry, dear. All of this will make sense soon.”

But at that moment, Dalila felt completely lost.

“I need a drink!”

[gioboni]

A Peculiar Court, chapter 8

Summary: Dalila comes from an oddly peculiar family. So, it’s no surprise that she finds herself in an equally peculiar place.

Chapter 8

Dalila still felt the lingering sensation of euphoria as she recalled the events of that very morning. The smell of fresh bread had woken her with a hunger she hadn’t felt in years, a hunger that left a hollow sensation in her stomach and brought her senses to life immediately. She could hardly believe it when she went downstairs and saw the scene unfolding in the kitchen.

Her grandmother, standing with her back to the door, was stirring a pot on the wood-burning stove, with a concentration and skill Dalila hadn’t seen in years. The elderly woman, who had long since withdrawn from daily tasks, especially cooking, was there, preparing breakfast as she used to. It was nothing short of miraculous. The smell of freshly baked bread, something Dalila had almost forgotten, filled the air, making her mouth water—a feeling she hadn’t experienced since she was 15.

Her grandmother’s bread was almost a legend in the family. It had been so many years since they last ate it that the memories of its taste had turned into stories they shared with visitors, as if it were part of a family myth. And now, suddenly, there she was, reviving the lost recipe as if time had never passed. Dalila could barely believe it.

She approached, her heart racing. "Grandma, what are you doing?"

The old woman smiled over her shoulder, with a calmness Dalila hadn’t seen in a long time. "Making breakfast, dear. I thought you’d like some fresh bread. Do you remember how I used to make it?"

Dalila stepped closer, her eyes welling up with emotion, and nodded. How could she forget? But that was exactly what troubled her. This sudden lucidity, the way her grandmother seemed so present, so full of life, had given her and her sisters an overwhelming hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a regression in the disease that had been ravaging her mind for years. Maybe her grandmother was coming back.

In the past two days, the elderly woman’s lucidity had increased considerably, and it was affecting everyone in the house. Conversations that had once been fragmented and confusing became fluent, and even small gestures—like preparing a meal or remembering her way back to her room—brought tears of relief to the granddaughters’ eyes. Dalila and her sisters were trying, in every way, not to let themselves get carried away by this hope. They knew it could be madness. It could be just a phase, a brief period of clarity before their grandmother once again got lost in the fog of her own mind. But even so, it was hard not to dream of the possibility of a real recovery.

More than once, Dalila found herself watching her grandmother with a mixture of admiration and fear. Fear that it was temporary, that the disease would return to erase her, little by little. They desperately needed a medical opinion, someone who could tell them if something positive was really happening or if it was just a cruel illusion. But the consultation was expensive, and the money they had was barely enough for the basic needs of the household. A specialist would cost more than they could afford at the moment. And yet, the thought of doing nothing seemed inconceivable.

That morning, as she chewed on the piece of warm bread, Dalila almost believed in the miracle. It was as if her grandmother had never drifted away, as if those years of illness had never happened. She watched her grandmother eat slowly, making light jokes, and Dalila felt a pang in her chest. Could they be mistaken? Was this just a phase of lucidity before another decline? Or was there really something different happening?

Now, in the garden, beside her grandmother, Dalila tried to shake off those thoughts. But they kept coming back, relentlessly. The idea of losing that woman again, who now seemed so full of life, was too heavy a burden to bear. And maybe that’s why, when her grandmother suggested they go to Velaris that night, Dalila, against all her instincts, ended up agreeing.

The truth was that she wanted to savor every moment, no matter how small or insignificant. If it really was a miracle, she wanted to be by her grandmother’s side for every single second. And if it wasn’t… if this was just a phase before the inevitable decline, she wanted at least to have good memories to hold on to.

She glanced over at her grandmother, who was working beside her. Despite her age, the old woman displayed an energy that surprised everyone. Her movements were agile, her hands steady as she tended the earth. The silence between them was comfortable, but at the same time, it was loaded with a tension that Dalila felt growing with each passing second.

Finally, her grandmother broke the silence. “You’ve been strangely quiet these last few days, dear,” she said without looking up from the ground, as if it were a casual observation. But Dalila knew it wasn’t. “Your sisters may not have noticed, but I’m your grandmother. Something is bothering you.”

Dalila felt a tightening in her chest, a growing sense of nervousness. She didn’t know what to say. How could she explain everything she’d been holding back? She quickly looked away, avoiding those violet eyes that seemed to see more than she was willing to reveal.

“It’s nothing, Grandma… I’m just tired.”

Her grandmother chuckled softly, as if she knew Dalila was hiding something but didn’t want to push her. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, the old woman smudged dirt on her face. Dalila, almost automatically, wet her fingers with her water bottle and wiped the dirt from her grandmother’s face, her eyes filled with affection.

“Thank you, dear,” her grandmother smiled, that small, sweet smile that always reassured her, but this time, Dalila still felt the weight of the Velaris lights on the horizon, like an unfulfilled promise.

“These lights… they look different tonight,” her grandmother remarked, watching the glow in the sky. “It’s like there’s a big party going on over there, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, Grandma. It must be some kind of festivity,” Dalila replied, trying to hide the discomfort she felt. “But we can’t go out at night, it’s too far.”

The old woman stopped tending the soil, raised her head, and with a slight tilt, pointed to the bicycle parked a few meters away. “What if we went by bike? Do you think it can carry me?”

Dalila stayed silent for a moment, fighting the urge to deny the idea immediately. The thought of taking her grandmother to Velaris at that hour, in the middle of that strange festivity, made her uncomfortable. But at the same time, the gleam in her grandmother’s eyes, as if she were ready for a new adventure, was hard to resist.

She shook her head, trying to argue. “Grandma, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can go another day, when I manage to buy a car. Who knows…”

Her grandmother sighed, a sad smile forming on her lips. “Dalila, dear, you know a car isn’t in our plans. Even if we sold the jewelry, we’d probably still be in the red.”

Those words echoed in Dalila’s mind, an unsettling reminder of the reality they lived in. The truth was, their lives weren’t easy, and the few pieces of jewelry they had barely covered their basic needs. But she knew that selling those family heirlooms wasn’t an option that brought her peace.

“Look,” her grandmother continued, her voice gentle but firm. “I’m old. I just want to enjoy a little party. Your sister Abigail wouldn’t let me leave for anything, and Bertiza would abandon me at the first chance she got. You’re the perfect middle ground.”

Dalila tried to hide her smile. She knew her grandmother was manipulating her with that sweet, determined tone, but at the same time, she felt herself giving in.

“All right, Grandma, but on one condition: you bundle up well, and when we get there, you have to stay with me the whole time. And we won’t tell Abigail. Or Bertiza.”

“Deal,” her grandmother said, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

When the day finally came to an end and night fell over the farm, Dalila knew it was time to follow through with the plan they had devised. Abigail had gone to bed, suspecting nothing, and Bertiza was focused on something in her room. Dalila changed out of her pajamas and into the clothes she had put on earlier, the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She was about to break the rules. But for the first time in a long while, she felt that it was the right thing to do.

When she went to her grandmother’s room, she found the old lady ready, dressed in her purple winter set, with her lips painted a nude shade and an excited smile on her face, like a child who couldn’t wait to enjoy the night. Dalila was filled with a wave of affection and apprehension at the same time.

“You look beautiful, Grandma,” she said sincerely, her gaze briefly flickering to the pendant her grandmother had grasped earlier when rummaging through the stone chest on her dresser, now gleaming as if it had never been buried.

The old woman smiled, gently touching Dalila’s arm. “You’re very kind, dear. Now, let’s enjoy this night.”

They left in silence, walking down the path to the farm gate, where Dalila’s bike was waiting. As she mounted the bike and helped her grandmother settle behind her, Dalila tried not to think about the weight of the last few days. It was light, almost imperceptible, but the uncertainty of how long this lucidity would last weighed more than anything.

“If your bottom gets sore, let me know, Grandma,” she said, joking.

Her grandmother’s light and contagious laugh made Dalila relax a little. They pedaled toward Velaris, and for a moment, Dalila managed to push her fears aside. Upon arriving in the city, the bright lights and the festive energy enveloped them like a wave of warmth. Everything seemed more vibrant, more alive.

Dalila locked the bike to a post with a padlock, and her grandmother looked around, enchanted. “This city is even more beautiful at night,” she marveled.

“It’s because of the festival decorations; it makes everything seem more magical,” Dalila replied, still feeling the nervousness running under her skin.

The two walked arm in arm through the city, listening to the loud music coming from the streets and plazas. The music reminded them of a square dance, and without realizing it, Dalila began swaying her hips to the rhythm, accompanied by her grandmother, who laughed and mimicked the movements.

That night was a gift. Even if it was temporary, even if it was just a brief illusion, Dalila held onto the moment with all her strength. And as they walked through the festival, she decided she would do everything possible to make that lucidity last as long as it could.

Dalila and her grandmother continued walking arm in arm, each step echoing a lightness Dalila hadn’t felt in a long time. At every corner, more lights and food stalls gave the city a celebratory atmosphere, as if all of Velaris were in a grand party. The laughter of people, the smell of food roasting over fire, and the lively music created an air of magic and nostalgia. Dalila’s grandmother was completely immersed, her violet eyes shining with admiration, as if she were rediscovering life in every detail around her.

Dalila, however, struggled not to let her apprehension take over. Even as she tried to focus on the festival, her thoughts kept drifting back to that morning and the unexpected miracle that had occurred in the kitchen. Her grandmother’s lucidity, preparing breakfast as if the years of forgetfulness had never happened, seemed too good to be true.

And deep down, she knew the whole family was clinging to a fragile hope. As much as her grandmother had baked the legendary family bread—the one everyone fondly remembered—Dalila knew that was only part of the battle. They needed a medical opinion. But the price of a specialized consultation was still a harsh reality for them.

“Is something wrong, dear?” her grandmother’s voice broke through Dalila’s thoughts, bringing her back to the present. “You’re far too pensive for such a lovely party.”

Dalila looked at her grandmother and forced a smile, trying to push her worries away. “No, Grandma. I’m just trying to savor every moment.”

“Well, let’s enjoy it, then,” her grandmother said, pulling her closer by the arm. “You know, I hadn’t cooked in years, but today… ah, today, it felt like everything fell back into place. I finally feel at home again, you know? Life is funny, isn’t it?”

Dalila felt a pang in her heart. That was exactly what made her so nervous. This sudden return of memories and energy seemed so unreal. And the fear that it was only temporary made her want to outrun time. Even so, she decided not to comment further on the subject. She was there to enjoy the night with her grandmother, and nothing would take that moment away from her.

“They used to have such beautiful festivals when I was young,” her grandmother said, her eyes shining with nostalgia. “My mother insisted on teaching us how to dance, and I always loved joining in the square dances. Your grandfather… oh, he wasn’t the best dancer, but he was a wonderful partner.”

Dalila laughed, trying to ease the tension in her chest. “I definitely take after him then. I’ve got two left feet.”

Her grandmother smiled, squeezing Dalila’s arm affectionately. “You’re great at so many other things, dear. Your voice, for example, is beautiful. Don’t worry about the dancing.”

Dalila felt the discomfort growing, especially when her grandmother, so captivated by the festival, began pointing to more stalls.

The two kept walking through the fair, and then something caught Dalila’s eye: a jewelry stall, filled with gleaming stones and delicate necklaces. Her grandmother, always fascinated by such things, stopped there, her eyes admiring every piece. Dalila glanced at the other beautiful earrings her grandmother showed her, distracted by the beauty of the items and by the thoughts of the approaching Monday.

Abigail would have to know about this strange town and Florencia’s disappearance, especially since Bertiza would need to go to school, and they still hadn’t figured out how to coordinate everything. The reality of the responsibility of taking care of the household and family weighed on her, even in the midst of the festivities.

"Look at this, Lila," her grandmother's voice brought her back to reality. "It suits you perfectly!"

Dalila chuckled, slightly disheartened. "Grandma, those earrings must be expensive. Don’t even think about it."

"Don’t focus on the price, dear. Focus on the beauty," her grandmother replied, with that dreamy tone she always used when she wanted to break through Dalila’s practical reasoning.

"Grandma, seriously?" Dalila sighed, trying to suppress a laugh. "I wish we could have that kind of luxury, choosing things based on beauty without worrying about the price. That would be a dream."

"Oh, be optimistic. Someday, you’ll have all the jewelry you want," her grandmother said with a sparkle in her eyes, as if she were predicting the future. "In fact, now you have mine. And you know, men like to see their women adorned with jewels."

Dalila stopped examining the jewelry for a moment and blinked playfully at her grandmother. "Why did this conversation change so suddenly?"

Her grandmother didn’t answer right away, seeming focused on something beside them. Dalila followed her grandmother’s gaze and noticed a short woman, almost like a pygmy, with short hair and Asian features. There was something odd about her. Despite her exotic appearance, what really caught attention were her grayish eyes that gleamed in an unusual, almost supernatural way.

“They are beautiful!” Dalila’s grandmother declared to the woman, referring to the jewelry she was examining.

The woman glanced at them, and despite her neutral expression, Dalila noticed a spark of discomfort. The woman offered a faint, almost forced smile before responding, "My greatest pleasure is collecting these treasures."

Dalila whistled quietly as she observed the bracelet the woman was holding. It was stunning, full of intricate and fine gemstones.

“That looks very expensive,” she commented, trying not to focus too much on the woman's strange eyes.

In vain, because every so often, she caught that odd gleam directed at either her or her grandmother.

"Every penny is worth it," the woman replied, narrowing her eyes, now focusing on the necklace hanging subtly under Dalila’s grandmother’s coat. The necklace, though partially hidden, drew an uncomfortable amount of attention from the woman, which Dalila didn’t like.

"What a lovely necklace, ma’am," the woman commented, her eyes never leaving the necklace. "It must be a family heirloom."

The strangeness of the situation only increased. There was something covetous in the woman’s demeanor that made Dalila want to grab her grandmother’s hand and leave immediately. The exaggerated interest in the necklace deeply unsettled her. She knew how much the piece meant to her grandmother—especially since she had grasped it from the chest the moment she found it—but she also knew of their need to sell it to buy the rest of the farm.

Or rather, the need her grandmother seemed to have for selling everything so they could own the whole farm.

“It’s not for sale!” Dalila declared impulsively, perhaps with a little more force than necessary. Her eyes widened, realizing how rude that might have sounded.

Her grandmother glanced at her sideways, surprised and a little disappointed by the sudden harshness, but she smiled at the woman, trying to smooth things over.

"Apologies for my granddaughter. Lila’s just a bit nervous today, since at the moment, we’re fugitives."

"Fugitives? And why?" The woman looked between them, intrigued. "Is everything okay?"

Her grandmother waved a hand. "Oh, we live on a farm, and our caretaker prefers that we stay in isolation!"

The comparison was amusing, but Abigail would be upset if she heard such a thing.

"Do you need me to intervene?" The woman seemed to take her grandmother’s complaint seriously, her posture becoming rigid. "I have the right contacts, ma’am!"

"No!" Dalila exclaimed, nudging her grandmother to correct herself. But the elderly woman turned her attention back to the jewelry, fascinated. "She’s talking about my sister, her eldest granddaughter. Abigail is a bit protective, and living on a farm with so much to do doesn’t give us easy access to the city, that’s all!"

The woman, whose expression had turned serious with her grandmother’s earlier comment, relaxed slightly, flashing a playful smile. "That older sister must be quite strict, huh?" she remarked, referring to the earlier mention of them being hidden from Abigail.

"Abigail is a sweetheart," Dalila’s grandmother replied, laughing softly, as if her earlier comment hadn’t almost gotten her sister into trouble. Or something like that. "She’s been taking care of the three of us for years. It would be strange if she weren’t so firm."

As they conversed, Dalila’s grandmother’s eyes fixed on something on the woman’s ear. Dalila followed her gaze, and both of them froze for a moment. The woman had pointed ears, adorned with various delicate earrings—something that was far from ordinary.

"Oh!" Dalila immediately regretted bringing her grandmother to this place. The old woman seemed alarmed, which made Dalila want to leave as quickly as possible. "Grandma, shall we go?" she suggested, touching her grandmother’s shoulder firmly but gently.

Her grandmother, however, seemed intrigued and ignored Dalila’s urgent tone. "Those earrings look new, dear. Did it hurt much to get them?"

The woman, Amren, raised her fingers to her own ear, smiling almost ironically. "I’ve had them for quite some time, ma’am. They didn’t hurt much, but… your granddaughter might be able to tell you better, right?" Her gray eyes narrowed as they observed Dalila’s ears.

Dalila agreed awkwardly. She turned to her grandmother, touching her arm more firmly this time.

"It was a pleasure meeting you," Dalila said, in a polite tone, though eager to get away. “Miss…?”

The woman gave a slight smile and replied, "Amren. That’s my name. And the pleasure was mine, meeting you both. Your grandmother seems like a woman of great taste."

"My name is Reia, and my granddaughter is Dalila," her grandmother said, offering a broad smile, not noticing Amren’s astonished look when she heard the name. "I’d love to see you again, dear."

“Reia?” Amren focused her attention on Dalila’s grandmother, staring at her intensely. “I feel like we’ve met before, ma’am!”

There was a playful smile on the old woman’s face, which slowly faded into a sigh of dismay.

“Maybe!”

"It was a pleasure meeting you," Dalila intervened, forcing a smile, hoping to end the encounter. "But we really need to continue our walk through the festival before we have to head home."

Amren, however, didn’t seem ready to let them go. With that strange look in her eyes, she asked one last, seemingly casual, question that made Dalila’s stomach turn: "Where do you live?"

Dalila froze for a moment, the question hanging in the air like a disconcerting fog. There was no logical reason for Amren to want to know where they lived, and that only increased the discomfort. Trying to stay calm, Dalila preferred not to answer directly.

"Oh, far from here. A very remote place," she said, hoping that would be enough to close the topic.

However, before Dalila could pull her grandmother away, Reia, in her good-natured and cheerful manner, answered exuberantly, not noticing her granddaughter’s growing concern.

"Oh, we live at the end of the road south of the city!" she exclaimed happily, as if sharing details about the charming place they lived with an old friend.

Dalila’s heart raced, and she closed her eyes for a second, suppressing a sigh of frustration.

"Grandma!" she muttered, trying to keep her voice low so Amren wouldn’t catch the discomfort. But it was too late. The information had already been shared, and Amren absorbed it with a gleam in her eyes that Dalila definitely didn’t like.

The woman, maintaining her unshakable posture, didn’t react immediately, but there was something in her gaze that made Dalila shiver.

"Oh, the end of the road south," Amren repeated, as if mentally storing the information, her smile tightening slightly. "A quiet place, I imagine."

Dalila forced another smile, trying to hide her growing unease.

"Yes, very quiet," she replied, desperately trying to change the subject. "But we really must be going now. The festival has so much to see."

"Of course, of course," Amren said, with that unwavering smile still on her lips. "Enjoy the rest of the night, ladies. Who knows, we might cross paths again."

"Stop by anytime, dear!" her grandmother added cheerfully.

Dalila almost held her breath as she gently pulled her grandmother away, feeling the discomfort grow with every step they took away from that stall. She couldn’t stop thinking about how easily her grandmother had given away their location, and the suspicion that Amren now knew something she shouldn’t deeply unsettled her.

"Grandma," Dalila said as soon as they were at a safe distance, her voice low and filled with concern. "Why did you tell her where we live?"

Reia looked surprised by the question, raising her eyebrows. "Oh, dear, she seemed so nice! What harm is there in that?"

Dalila took a deep breath, trying to remain patient. "I just… I didn’t like that woman. She was… strange. The way she looked at your necklace… I don’t know, Grandma. I’d rather she didn’t know where we live."

Dalila’s grandmother chuckled softly, giving her a gentle pat on the hand. "

You worry too much. She was just being curious. Besides, who would want to harm two kind ladies like us?" Reia smiled, trying to reassure her granddaughter.

But Dalila couldn’t relax. Something about that interaction didn’t feel right, and the memory of Amren’s gray eyes, fixed on her grandmother’s necklace, deeply disturbed her. It wasn’t just the necklace that seemed to have caught the woman’s attention—there was something else… something Dalila couldn’t quite grasp.

Because of the situation, she decided they should leave.

[gioboni]

A Peculiar Court, chapter 7

Summary: Dalila comes from an oddly peculiar family. So, it’s no surprise that she finds herself in an equally peculiar place.

Chapter 7

Dalila woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway and the soft creak of Abigail’s door opening. She sighed heavily, not bothering to open her eyes. It was always like this. Abigail woke up far too early, already prepared to take on the day as if the weight of the world rested solely on her shoulders. Dalila, on the other hand, just wanted a few more minutes of peace, far from her sister’s critical gaze and the endless responsibilities that seemed to pile up on her.

The morning air was cold, and the windows of her room were still fogged over from the night’s humidity. Dalila lay there, trying to ignore the chill creeping into her bones, rolling over to find a more comfortable position. Her eyes felt heavy, and exhaustion clung to her like a weight that wouldn’t lift.

Beside her, her phone buzzed with a new notification, but she didn’t want to move. She was too tired to care about whatever message had come through. In a flash of frustration, she grabbed the phone and tossed it onto the floor, the sound of it hitting the ground echoing in the quiet room. She clenched her teeth, irritation bubbling up inside her.

But then, just seconds later, a wave of anxiety washed over her. What if the phone was broken? She knew she couldn’t afford to replace it. Her heart raced as she leapt out of bed, stumbling over the tangled blankets to check the phone. When she picked it up, she exhaled in relief—nothing had happened. The screen was still intact.

She breathed out a sigh of relief, but as she bent down, a sharp pain pulsed in her temples. She rubbed her forehead, feeling the familiar weight of what seemed like a fever brewing. Still, she dismissed it. There was no time to be sick. She had an important exam that afternoon and couldn’t afford to let anything slow her down.

"I just have to keep going. No stopping now," she thought, forcing her tired body to move.

She dragged herself down the stairs, feet heavy on each step, already preparing mentally for another morning filled with Abigail’s disapproving glances and the inevitable little arguments. As she entered the kitchen, Abigail was already fussing over the stove, her face tight with concentration.

"Where’s Grandma?" Dalila asked, glancing around the room.

"I let her sleep a little longer," Abigail replied, not looking up from the pot she was stirring. "I was worried that the rain last night might have made her sick. I’ll wake her soon."

"Girls, grab your bags. The bus should be here soon," Abigail called over her shoulder, still focused on the food cooking on the stove.

Dalila barely moved. She still had her headphones in, music blaring as she lazily finished a glass of juice. The morning routine was always the same, and she was in no rush to leave the house. There was plenty of time before the bus arrived.

But as the minutes passed, the bus didn’t show up. Boredom began to creep in, and Dalila could see the worry spreading across Abigail’s face as she paced the kitchen, her concern growing more apparent.

"What’s going on?" Abigail muttered to herself, pacing again. "The bus is never this late."

After waiting longer than usual, it became clear that the bus wasn’t coming. Frustration filled the air as they headed back inside, all of them irritated by the disruption to their routine. Abigail, surprisingly, seemed relieved to have an excuse to stay home. Ridiculous.

Her relief didn’t last long.

"Dalila!" Abigail’s voice cut through the house, and Dalila immediately knew something was wrong.

"What now?" she replied, already feeling the impatience creeping in.

"We’re out of power," Abigail said, her tone accusatory as if it were somehow Dalila’s fault. "And my phone has no signal."

"Oh, great!" Bertiza chimed in sarcastically. "Welcome to the countryside, where the cows have more privileges than we do. I’m so tired of living out here, Abi. Seriously, it’s always the same: isolation, boredom, and constant problems."

Dalila rolled her eyes, already exhausted by Bertiza’s constant drama. "I have an exam in the city today. I’ll stop by the power company and see what’s going on. It’s probably just a general outage."

"You’re going by bike, then?" Abigail asked, her voice laced with concern as usual.

Dalila nodded, not feeling particularly enthusiastic. There wasn’t really any other option. "Yeah, I’ll head out soon. After the exam, I’ll see what I can find out. It’s better than sitting around waiting."

Bertiza, who had been quiet until now, glanced up with a dramatic sigh. "I hope you fix this fast. I can’t deal with no internet. This is a nightmare."

"Of course, that’s your main concern," Abigail snapped, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Bertiza’s life without the internet."

Ignoring the brewing argument, Dalila grabbed her backpack and headed for the door. Before leaving, she glanced at her grandmother, Adelaide, who sat near the window, as quiet as always. Her eyes were fixed on something beyond the house, lost in a world of her own. Dalila knew her grandmother was physically present, but it felt like her mind was drifting further away each day.

"I’ll be back as soon as I can," Dalila said, turning toward Abigail, who gave her a worried look. "Message me if you need anything. That is, if you get signal."

With her backpack slung over her shoulder, she stepped outside, mounting her bike. The dirt road stretched out before her, endless and monotonous. The thought of pedaling all the way to the city for an important exam wasn’t exactly appealing, but there was no alternative. The morning air was sharp and cold, and Dalila regretted not bringing an extra jacket as the wind bit through her clothes. The day wasn’t off to a great start.

As the cold wind stung her cheeks, Dalila’s mind began to wander. Ever since her father’s visit with the lawyer, something inside her felt wrong. It was as if she was always on the verge of falling apart, but she forced herself to keep it together for her sisters’ sake. Always for them. She wasn’t sure if she was holding herself up or just dragging herself along, waiting for the next disaster to hit.

She slipped her headphones on, letting the music drown out the world around her. The rhythm of her pedaling synced with the beat, and for a moment, she managed to quiet the swirling thoughts in her mind. Focus.

The faces she passed were familiar but distant. People she’d seen her whole life but no longer cared to acknowledge. It didn’t matter anymore. She had become an expert at tuning out the world, at ignoring everything around her. It was the only way she knew how to survive.

The road was the same as always, but something felt off. A strange sense of unease clung to the air, as if the cold wind carried more than just the bite of winter. She shook her head, trying to push away the unsettling feeling. Maybe it was just exhaustion or the weight of everything that had happened recently.

Soon enough, the town appeared in the distance. The small, familiar buildings and cobblestone streets greeted her as they always did. But as Dalila pedaled deeper into town, something was wrong. Very wrong.

Turning onto a narrow street that led to the main road, she stopped. The buildings were different. Just yesterday, they had been old and worn, covered in moss and dirt, with roofs that sagged under years of neglect. Now, they were pristine. Freshly painted, as if they had been restored overnight.

Dalila stopped pedaling, her heart racing with confusion. She glanced around, trying to make sense of it, but nothing added up. This couldn’t be real.

She dismounted her bike, leaning it against a wall, and began walking down the cobblestone street. With each step, her confusion deepened. Maybe it was a new paint job, but there hadn’t been any sign of renovations the day before. In a small town like theirs, any change would’ve been noticed immediately. There was no way this could’ve happened overnight.

As she walked, more details jumped out at her. It wasn’t just the buildings. Everything looked different. The people around her were unfamiliar, and the buildings that had been decaying now looked new, as if the entire town had been swapped for another. Dalila’s steps faltered, but she kept moving, pushing her bike with a growing sense of unease.

Finally, she reached the main road, expecting to see the familiar scene she knew so well. But the sight before her hit like a punch in the gut.

The main road was unrecognizable. Where there had been old, crumbling buildings and cracked sidewalks, there were now pristine structures painted in vibrant colors and perfectly clean streets. Everything was too neat, too perfect, with no trace of the dust and decay she was used to. This wasn’t Florencia. This couldn’t be real.

She stopped walking, gripping the bicycle more tightly as she tried to process what she was seeing. In front of her, beyond the long, immaculate street, something even more shocking: wrought iron fences lined the edges of a crystal-clear river that flowed serenely to her right.

A river.

Dalila blinked, incredulous. Florencia didn’t have a river. It never had. The scene before her didn’t make any sense. It was as if she were trapped in a strange dream, or worse, a nightmare where everything was distorted, but incredibly real.

She followed the river's course with her eyes, letting her gaze wander over its transparent waters, and then noticed something even more disturbing. In the distance, towering mountains rose, majestic and imposing, reaching for the sky with a force that took her breath away. The mountains were so close that the city’s buildings seemed to stretch toward their feet.

She dropped the bicycle to the ground, her heart pounding in her chest.

Where am I?

Her first thought was that, somehow, she had gotten lost and ended up in another city. Maybe she had been so distracted that she’d taken the wrong path without realizing it. But as plausible as that idea seemed, it still felt absurd. There were no other cities nearby, and she knew this region well enough to know that something like this couldn’t exist without her knowing.

A sense of suffocation began to take hold. She needed something familiar, something to anchor her back to reality. Without thinking much, she entered what seemed to be the café where she worked. The sign looked similar, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the air, but as she approached the counter, everything felt different. Nothing was as she remembered.

The people inside the café were strangers. She didn’t recognize a single face. Everyone was new, as if she had stepped into a completely different place, in a city she had never been to before. Even the woman behind the counter wasn’t the same person who usually worked there.

The woman smiled broadly when she walked in.

“Hello! Are you new around here?”

The question caught Dalila off guard. New around here? She should have been the most familiar person in that place, but at that moment, she felt like a complete stranger.

“Uh… not exactly,” she replied, trying to hide her confusion. “I live in a more isolated part of the region.”

The woman tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Oh, in the hills? Or closer to the forests?”

Dalila nodded slowly, deciding not to give too many details. I don’t know where I am, and the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

“Something like that. I’ve been home for a while and ended up… missing some things that happened around here.”

The woman smiled again, nodding. “That happens. But honestly, not much happens around here. We’re all kind of isolated from the rest of Prythian for now, you know how it is.”

Prythian?

The word sounded strange, completely unfamiliar. Dalila had never heard of a place called Prythian. She tried not to show her surprise, simply nodding vaguely, as if she knew exactly what the woman was talking about.

“Oh, right, Prythian. Of course.”

The woman studied her for a moment, as if expecting Dalila to say something more, but then smiled again.

“Your hair… it’s beautiful. The color reminds me of the Autumn Court. Have you ever been there?”

Autumn Court?

Dalila disguised her confusion with a weak smile.

“I’ve never been,” she replied quickly, trying to keep her composure. “But thank you.”

The woman seemed satisfied with her answer, but something inside Dalila screamed that she needed to leave. This place was making her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Is the café out of electricity?” she asked, trying to divert her mind from the discomfort.

The woman frowned, looking puzzled by the question. But then, as if understanding, her face relaxed, and she glanced around with a gentle smile. Dalila followed her gaze and only then noticed that the place wasn’t lit by electric lights but by chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow over the room.

“Have the lights gone out here?” Dalila asked, even more confused.

The woman chuckled softly and shook her head. “Faerie lights take years to fade, dear.”

Faerie lights? Dalila stammered, feeling the confusion overwhelm her. Faerie? What was this?

The woman pointed to the chandelier with a casual gesture, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Faerie lights, dear. An energy that lasts for centuries. Much more reliable than human lamps and candles.”

Dalila blinked, speechless. This only confirmed that something very strange was happening. Her discomfort was growing by the second, and she needed a way out, fast.

“Can you tell me how to get to Florencia village?” she asked, hoping that at least this information would be normal.

The woman frowned, looking genuinely confused. “Florencia village? Sorry, dear, but I’ve never heard of that place.”

Dalila’s heart sank. How had she never heard of it? This only reinforced the feeling that she was far from home… or from anything familiar.

“Thanks for the information,” Dalila murmured, forcing a smile as she turned to leave. A knot tightened in her stomach. I need to get out of here.

As she took her first step outside, she bumped into something — or rather, someone. A firm, solid chest knocked her off balance, and she stumbled backward. Large, masculine hands grabbed her arms, a touch that sent shivers of nervousness down her spine. She hated being touched like that without permission, and the warmth of his hands only made it worse.

“Sorry!” His voice was deep, full of humor. “If you were a little stronger, you might’ve knocked me over.”

Dalila rolled her eyes, pushing his hand away brusquely, ready to make a sharp remark. But when she looked up, the words died in her throat.

The man in front of her was, without a doubt, the most handsome she had ever seen. Striking features, long hair falling over his shoulders, and a playful smile on his lips, as if everything was a joke to him. But what really caught her attention were the wings. Two enormous bat-like wings, black and majestic, rose proudly behind him.

“Shit!” Dalila exclaimed, too loudly, quickly covering her mouth, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by her reaction.

“Don’t worry,” he said, that playful smile still in place. “I’m not as scary as I look.”

Dalila blinked several times, trying to process what she was seeing. Were the wings real? Her brain refused to accept it, but there they were, moving slightly. Without thinking, she reached out and touched one of the wings, expecting it to feel fake. Instead, she found soft, warm skin. Real skin.

The man’s smile faded as he shivered at her touch, and he quickly grabbed her wrist.

“That kind of touch,” he said in a low, suggestive tone, “is reserved for my good girls.”

Dalila pulled her hand back quickly, still stunned.

“Sorry, it was my mistake,” she muttered, trying to leave as fast as possible.

As she rushed out, she heard the woman behind the counter call after him, her voice slightly irritated. “Commander, you need to stop scaring the poor girls. Not everyone is used to you.”

He chuckled softly, but Dalila was already far enough away not to hear the rest of the conversation.

She ran out of the café, trying to ignore the chaos swirling inside her. Grabbing her bicycle where she had left it, she focused on the idea of getting out of there as quickly as possible. But before she could ride off, something else caught her attention.

Another man, standing a little further away, also with wings — just as large and dark as the Commander’s — was nearby. He held something in his hands, seemingly unaware of the world around him, focused on whatever he was doing. Yet there was something about him that drew her in. Despite appearing out of place in this strange scene, he seemed perfectly at ease, as if the world around him was made for him.

Dalila let out a strange sigh, loud enough to catch the attention of passersby. Startled by the sound that escaped her lips, she quickly turned, trying to leave as fast as she could, when she noticed the second stranger slowly turning toward her. His eyes locked onto hers for a brief moment, and she felt as though she were trapped under his gaze. Her heart raced, panic rising within her.

She began to laugh, a nervous, uncontrollable laugh that escaped before she could stop it. The feeling of being trapped in a bizarre dream intensified with every second.

Dalila mounted the bike and began to pedal hard, retracing the alley from which she had come. Maybe if I backtrack, I can find the right way back to the village.

As she pedaled, the image of the man’s wings and the other stranger haunted her. It was impossible. None of this made sense. She wanted to believe it was just a strange dream, a fantasy created by exhaustion and stress, but everything felt too real to be dismissed so easily.

When she finally reached the place where she had started, a sense of relief began to wash over her… until she realized she wasn’t alone. The winged man, the one who had been focused on his own tasks earlier, was now watching her from afar, his eyes fixed on her as she pedaled back, desperately hoping she was heading toward reality once again.