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I’ve missed seeing your fic updates, hope all is well :)

🫶🫶🫶 thank you!!! I’ve had some big life changes and needed to take some time off of writing, but can’t wait to start sharing all of my ideas again soon!! Hoping to have chapters back up by August ❤️❤️❤️

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Hi, I just finished chapter 17 of your "Ivy fic". Was that the final chapter? I Love the way you write Elain and Azriel it feels so true to their characters.

That was definitely not the final chapter! I recently moved across the country so I haven’t been able to post in a while, but have a lot more chapters coming soon 😊🫶❤️

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𝑯𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆. 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒔. 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒙. 𝑯𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆--

𝑨𝒛𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒍'𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒖𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓

💟

Since it's Valentine's Day in Brazil, we decided to post this fanart today as a Valentine's Day gift for all Elriels 🫶

💟

Art by ur.smokinghotgf

Commissioned by @lunaatthezoo and /aoitavacorte

✨ Please do not repost. Likes, shares, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. ✨

[mirrorballpages]

Elain, the Seer 🌿🌸🌼

Elain is a character that carries so much mystery around her; why did she get seer powers? How is she going to develop in the next book? She seems calm and nice, but I can’t help but think that she hides incredible power. To be honest, I’m so excited to read more of her.

Done with Clip Studio Paint✏️

Art by me (don’t repost)

Character belongs to Sarah J. Maas

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[mirrorballpages]

🗡️🖤🦇

The camp reeked of sweat, smoke, and judgment. Ash drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the metallic tang of old blood and stale male pride. The clang of blades echoed from the sparring rings. Every breath felt like inhaling stone dust and memory.

Azriel stood at the edge of the training ring, arms crossed tight over his chest, wings half-flared despite his efforts to appear still. Shadows coiled around his boots like hounds pacing on a short leash.

He hated being here.

Not for the cold. Not for the altitude or the constant ache in his wings from the thinner mountain air. No, it was the eyes. The sneers. The layered, simmering contempt that always lingered in Windhaven like rot in the stone.

And Elain was out of his sight. That was the worst of it. She was alone, well, not alone. She was with Emerie. With them. Illyrians who distrusted her, whispered about witches and Cauldron-touched females. Who didn't understand that gentleness wasn't weakness. That softness wasn’t submission.

He knew the smell of fear and envy. He knew how power was punished here, especially when it came wrapped in silk and quiet smiles. And he couldn’t follow her. Couldn’t hover over her like a blade waiting to drop. Not when their relationship was still shrouded in secrecy, hidden beneath shadows and unspoken truths.

So he stayed. Where every minute scraped against his skin like broken glass. The only reason he hadn’t launched someone off a cliff by Elain—gods, Elain—had cupped his face that morning, kissed the edge of his jaw, and whispered, “Trust me.”

He did. That was the problem.

He trusted her. It was everyone else he didn’t trust.

His shadows stiffened suddenly, whispering, flickering like a spark in dry grass. She’s back. Azriel’s head snapped up. His gaze cut past the barracks, across the frost-bitten path leading down from the terraces.

And then he saw her.

Elain.

Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her braid loosening around her crown, curls falling like gold-dusted ivy across her shoulder. Her her tunic smudged with soil, a single vine still tangled in her hair. She looked like the wild, living heart of the earth itself.

And she was glowing.

But his heart stopped.

A young Illyrian male approached her from the side, broad-shouldered, too familiar. Laughing as he said something Azriel couldn’t hear. He leaned in. Too close. And lifted his hand as if he was going to remove the vine from her hair.

Azriel’s jaw locked. The shadows snapped taut around him, coiling like blades under the skin. He took one step forward before stilling himself with iron will.

She asked for space. She can handle herself.

But the male leaned in again, mouth curved with smugness, gaze trailing down her figure like he owned the right. Azriel’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.

He imagined the scene—his fist connecting with that male’s jaw, dragging him to the mud, whispering low and cold: She’s already spoken for. My scent is on her. My name is tangled in her moans.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Because just then, Elain turned her head, graceful and poised, and saw him. And smiled. A secret smile. Warm. Possessive. One she gave to no one else.

His.

She said something to the male, gentle and dismissive, and walked away without looking back. Not in a rush. Not afraid. Just... finished.

Because she’d seen him. And that was all she needed. Azriel exhaled slowly, jaw still tight. His shadows flickered around his shoulders like restrained rage.

Not yet. Not here.

But if that male ever looked at her again… He might forget every reason they kept this a secret.

Elain crossed the field, her braid swaying with each step, her lips still curled with amusement. She smelled of crushed herbs and sun-warmed soil. And something fierce.

“You look like you’re about to kill someone,” she said softly as she reached him.

“I’m not,” Azriel said through clenched teeth. “But I’m thinking about it.”

Her laugh was light and unbothered, and gods he wanted to bottle it. Keep it for himself.

“Jealousy isn’t a great look on you, Spy Master.”

He met her gaze at last, eyes hard. “I’m not jealous.”

She arched a brow. “No?”

“I don’t get jealous,” he said flatly. “I get territorial.”

That made her grin, sharp and knowing. “You’re adorable when you try to sound dangerous.”

His mouth twitched. “I am dangerous.”

“And yet you stayed perfectly still while that male was practically breathing down my neck.”

“Because if I hadn’t, I would’ve shattered his jaw and ripped his wings apart.” He glanced back toward the camp. “You asked me to trust you. I’m trying.”

Her expression softened, voice dropping low. “And you did. I saw you watching.”

Azriel turned to her, shadows curling at his feet. “He touched your hair.”

Elain stepped closer, brushing her fingers down the edge of his gloved hand.

“He tried,” she said. “I reminded him I’m not here for his attention.”

Azriel’s shadows surged again. “Then who are you here for?”

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “You.”

His breath hitched.

“Good,” he said darkly. “Because if he had touched you, Elain, I wouldn’t care who saw. I would’ve made sure no one ever forgot that you’re mine.”

Her fingers trailed down his wrist like a dare. “Still not jealous?” she whispered.

He growled low in his throat. “Don’t push me, Seer.”

He took her hand in his, holding it too tightly, and shadow-walked them straight out of Windhaven.

But instead of the River House, he brought her to the townhouse. Because if she wanted to test how territorial he could be... she was going to find out.

@elriel-month

Read The Rest on AO3

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Elriel headcanon:

Whenever Elain has a vision, Azriel is there before anyone else notices. He doesn't speak, doesn't ask- just pulls her gently into his arms and holds her like she's something precious and sacred. When her mind drifts somewhere far from him, he kisses her tenderly-her forehead, her temple, every trembling fingertip, the tip of her nose- like he's reminding her where home is. And even after the vision ends, he doesn't leave her side. He holds her hand the whole time, tracing invisible patterns into her palm while Elain doesn't even realize she is smiling. But Azriel does. And to him, that smile is everything

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The bookshop was warm. Quiet. The kind of quiet that settled deep, like a sigh after too many days of noise. The libraries of the Night Court were places of knowledge, of history and strategy, of war and the bones of civilizations that had risen and fallen long before his time. He had spent centuries in them, pouring over maps, records, anything that could serve the court.

But this shop, this was different. The Gilded Page was small, tucked away between a tailor and a bakery, glowing with soft candlelight and filled with the scent of parchment and ink, and something sweet—honey, maybe, or vanilla. The shelves stretched high, crammed together in an uneven maze of old wooden cases and gently worn rugs covering the stone floor.

A cat lounged on the front counter, its black-and-white tail twitching lazily. Elain sighed in contentment the moment they stepped inside, her shoulders easing, her fingers already brushing against the spines of books as if they were old friends. Azriel said nothing. He only watched.

Elain moved toward a section with gilded spines and curling script, her fingers grazing the edges of the books.

"Nuala and Cerridwen said this place had a good selection," she murmured, scanning the shelves. "I thought… I thought Nesta might like a book for Solstice."

Azriel hesitated for half a breath. She was still thinking of Nesta even after everything. Even after the fight that had left Elain shaking, crying, gasping for air in the hallway outside Nesta's apartment, unable to breathe until he had pressed a hand to her back, murmured her name, reminded her that she was safe.

Even after that, she still wanted to give her something. Of course she did.

"You think she wants a romance novel?" he asked, dry.

Elain huffed a quiet laugh. "That was all she read at The House of Wind." His eyebrows lifted. He didn't think The House of Wind held any romance novels. Had never seen one. Maybe Mor had left it.

"This one," she said, tilting a book toward the light.

Azriel raised a brow. "The Warrior’s Longing?"

She nodded. "It’s about a female warrior who falls in love with a poet. I thought she might appreciate the contrast." Azriel studied her. She meant it, but there was something else in her eyes, something deeper, something uncertain.

"She was cruel to you," he murmured, careful, watching her expression.

Elain’s throat bobbed slightly, but she squared her shoulders. Soft, but unyielding. "I know." A pause. Then, quieter, smaller. "But I also know she still needs reminders that she is loved."

Azriel’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. That was Elain. That was what made her different. He didn’t tell her it was a good choice. He just nodded. Because if he said anything else, he wasn’t sure what might come out. He liked Nesta, knew her rage was how she protected herself. But he still hated the fact that anyone could hurt Elain. Azriel expected her to be finished then. But she lingered.

Her fingers drifted to another section, titles wrapped in soft pastels and deep jewel tones, the lettering delicate and gold. He didn’t think much of it—not at first. Not until she plucked a few books from the shelf and hugged them to her chest. Not until her cheeks turned pink. Azriel was trained to notice things, to catch the smallest changes in body language, the tiny flickers of emotion that betrayed far more than words.

And so, he noticed. He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking downward. And—ah. Interesting. He didn’t mean to smirk. Didn’t mean to let amusement flicker through his chest, curling at the edges like smoke.

"You’re getting those for Nesta too?" he asked, voice smooth.

Elain’s fingers tightened around the books. "No." Silence. Then—Azriel let his smirk grow, just slightly.

"I see."

Her blush deepened. He could have let it go. He should have let it go. But he was tired, and warm from the fire, and Solstice was coming, and she was blushing like that because ... and he was hoping it was because of him.

"The Duke’s Wicked Obsession?" he mused, scanning the title of the book at the top of her stack. "Moonlight Desires?"

Elain made a strangled noise and turned on her heel so fast she nearly knocked into a stack of books. Azriel unfazed, utterly entertained followed her to the counter, where the shopkeeper barely raised a brow at her flustered expression. The cat lifted its head, twitching its tail in mild interest. Elain avoided his gaze entirely as the books were wrapped, but Azriel could see the way her fingers tensed on the counter, how she was trying not to fidget. 

As they stepped back out into the cold, crisp air, Elain clutched the package of books to her chest like a lifeline. Azriel tucked his hands into his pockets falling into step beside her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, casually, as if it meant nothing at all—

"You know, if you wanted recommendations, you could have just asked."

Elain whipped her head toward him, eyes wide. "Azriel!"

And—for the first time in longer than he could remember—he laughed. Not just a huff of amusement. Not just a quiet exhale of breath. A real, genuine laugh, the sound rolling low and deep in his chest, curling into the cool air.

Elain glared, but he could see the smile threatening to break free. "You are—" she huffed, shaking her head.

"What?" he asked, mock innocent.

She narrowed her eyes, pointing a finger at him. "Not a word of this to Feyre."

Azriel placed a scarred hand over his heart. "I would never."

Elain just squinted at him, not quite convinced. And Azriel—he couldn’t stop looking at her. At the pink still dusting her cheeks. At the way she hugged the books closer, as if they were something precious. At the way she had laughed, really laughed, despite everything.

She had been so broken, just days ago. And yet here she was. Still choosing joy. Still choosing to build something beautiful. Azriel exhaled, turning his gaze toward the twinkling lights of Velaris.

He was in trouble. He had known that for a while now. But Mother above, he was in trouble.

Read The Rest on AO3

[mirrorballpages]

Azriel was getting a final report from a spy when his shadows whispered her name.

Elain. Elain. Elain.

The sound curled around his mind like a lure, irresistible, impossible to ignore. He had left the townhouse early, Cassian’s snores shaking the walls, his body sore from sleeping on a couch yet again. He had debated going upstairs, slipping into the shared room him and Cassian were to be occupying for just an hour more of sleep, but his shadows had curled around him, reminding him of all the work that still needed to be done.

Plus the room he was staying in was one he had never stayed in before—and of course, it overlooked Elain’s garden. And he hadn’t been able to stop looking since. The garden had long gone dormant for the winter, the blooms curled beneath layers of mulch and careful pruning. But even in sleep, it was alive. Even in stillness, it breathed. It wasn’t just a garden, it was Elain. Every vine trained with a gentle hand. Every bed laid out with subtle intention. A balance of color and shadow, softness and structure.

But the bed upstarts was tiny, and he was feeling restless, so he had pulled himself up, changed into his leathers, and left before dawn. Now, standing on a quiet rooftop in Velaris, overlooking the streets below, his shadows whispered again.

She’s nearby.

That alone was enough to make him pause.

And speaking to another male.

His jaw tightened. Not that it was his business. Not that it mattered. He had never—never—given his shadows the command to report on Elain’s every move. He was not a monster, nor a jealous fool who needed to know where she was every second of the day. The only order he had ever given was to alert him if she was in danger.

But his shadows were defiant little creatures, and for some reason, they had taken it upon themselves to whisper to him every single time a male so much as looked at her for longer than necessary.

Which, according to them, was often. Way too often.

It didn’t surprise Azriel. Elain was—gods, she was a vision.

No, vision wasn’t strong enough. Stunning wasn’t strong enough. There wasn’t a word in existence that could describe what she was.

All the Archeron sisters were beautiful. He had long suspected their mother must have had some kind of magic in her veins, because there was no other explanation for how they had all been born with such impossible beauty.

But Elain… Elain was otherworldly.

It wasn’t just her soft, heart-shaped face, or those deep brown eyes that could make the stars weep. It wasn’t just her full, pink lips, or the way the golden sunlight always seemed to find her, kissing her skin in a way that made it glow.

It was her light.

The way she moved through the world, gentle yet unshakable. The way she carried herself with grace even when she was uncertain, even when she was lost. The way her smiles—her real ones—were like dawn breaking over the horizon, slow and soft and full of warmth.

Azriel had never known light like that. Never known someone like her. And yet, despite all of that, he knew Elain’s beauty was her greatest insecurity.

She had told him once, early in the morning in the gardens, as they sat on the stone bench beneath the sunrise. Had told him of how her mother had raised her like a prized jewel, something to be displayed rather than something to be cherished. A perfect doll to be married off, to be admired but never understood. Perhaps that was why she never seemed to notice all the gazes she drew, why she never saw the way males practically worshiped the ground she walked on.

It was so different from Mor, who wielded her beauty like a weapon, who used it to get whatever, whoever, she wanted.

Maybe that was why Azriel had never felt anything deeper than longing for Mor.

Maybe that was why, from the moment he met her, it had always been Elain.

And now, here she was, standing in the golden afternoon light, her long curls dancing in the breeze, speaking to Charles Woodson. His jaw tightened further as he caught the way Charles was looking at her. The same way he looked at her. Azriel swallowed hard and started moving. He had no right to interfere. No right to feel the sharp pang of jealousy stabbing through his ribs.

But that had never stopped him before.

He descended to the street, adjusting his pace as he approached. His shadows curled around him in a lazy, satisfied way, as if they were pleased he had come to investigate. He waved them off before they could whisper anything more. He didn’t want to know what Charles had been saying to her.

And like always, the minute the other male saw him, his face went white. His body stiffened.

People did that around him. Even here, in Velaris, where most regarded him with admiration instead of fear, people still flinched when they saw him. Still lowered their voices, shifted away, avoided eye contact. It no longer affected him. He had grown used to it long ago.

But Elain… Elain had never flinched. Never tensed. Never looked at him like he was something to be feared.

No. When she saw him... she beamed. Her whole face lit up as she turned to him, the warmth of her smile unwavering. As if his presence was everything she had wanted to see in that very moment. Azriel's throat tightened as he stopped beside her, far closer than he needed to be.

"Hello, Elain," he murmured, his voice softer than he intended. He did have a reputation to uphold, after all. 

She tilted her head up at him, her cheeks pink from the cold. "Azriel! I didn’t see you this morning. When did you leave?"

"Early," he said simply. "I had errands to run."

Elain huffed a quiet laugh. "Cassian was still snoring quite loud when I left."

Azriel smirked. "He always is."

Elain turned then, gesturing to the male who was still rooted in place, his blue eyes darting between them nervously. "This is Charles. He’s on the garden committee with me." Azriel flicked his hazel gaze to Charles, his expression unreadable.

"Spymaster," Charles said stiffly, nodding once.

Azriel only inclined his head in return, silent. Charles hesitated, then cleared his throat. "I should let you go, Elain…"

Azriel did not say anything. Did not encourage him to stay.

Elain, polite as ever, smiled kindly. "It was lovely seeing you. Please tell your mother I say hello!"

Charles nodded quickly, glancing at Azriel one last time before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shop. Azriel watched as Charles disappeared into the shop, the tension in his shoulders loosening only slightly now that the other male was gone.

Good.

With everyone crammed into the Town House for Solstice, his moments alone with Elain had been fleeting at best. The House of Wind offered little reprieve when Rhys insisted he stay closer to the family for the holiday, and the only peace Azriel had managed to find was in his early morning flights before the city stirred.

But this—this—was a moment he wasn’t going to waste. Even if it was just the walk back to the house, even if it would take only 22 minutes. A solid 30, knowing Elain, since she would inevitably stop to admire a wreath or a display in one of the shop windows, or pause to talk to a vendor about the winter berries they were selling.

He could spare 30 minutes.

Elain adjusted the package in her arms, the crisp winter air flushing her cheeks as she turned back to him, a soft smile still on her lips. He reached for the gift she was holding before she could protest.

"Here, let me hold that for you," he said, his fingers grazing the edge of the paper wrapping.

"Oh, I'm fine! I can carry it," she insisted, looking up at him.

Azriel simply raised a brow. Of course she would insist. Stubborn, even in the smallest of things. "I can have my shadows take it back to the house," he offered, already summoning them.

She let out a small sigh, her lips pressing together before she relented. “If you insist.”

With a soft whisper of darkness, the package vanished from her arms. Azriel’s shadows flickered back toward him, murmuring their approval.

His gaze flicked to her hands, bare and delicate against the cold. Where were her gloves?

"Where are your gloves?" he asked, already frowning.

Elain flexed her fingers as if only now realizing the absence. "I swear they were in my pocket, but I must have forgotten them," she said, glancing down.

That wouldn’t do. Before she could say another word, his shadows darted away and returned a heartbeat later, dropping a familiar pair of gloves into his waiting palm. She blinked at them, then at him, her face blooming with color.

"You didn't have to do that..." she murmured, reaching for them.

He handed them to her, their fingers brushing—that same jolt rushing between them, setting something alight in his chest.

"Of course I did," he said, voice quieter now, watching the way she quickly slipped them on. "Your warmth is of the utmost priority for me."

Elain looked up at him then, something unreadable in her expression. The hazel of his eyes reflected in the deep brown of hers, like light against the earth.

"And what about your warmth?" she asked, tilting her head slightly as she motioned to him.

A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'm Illyrian. It's rare for us to get cold." It was one of the few benefits of his Illyrian heritage, along with the wings. The warmth. He rarely felt the bite of winter.

Elain considered that for a moment before, to his absolute surprise, she reached for his hand. Her gloved fingers wrapped around his for the briefest of moments, testing. Then she laughed. Laughed. A quiet, breathy sound, like snow melting beneath the first touch of spring.

"Well, you are quite warm," she said, squeezing his fingers gently before letting go.

Azriel clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to grab her hand again, to pull it back into his, to tuck it against his chest where she could feel how fast his heart was beating. But then she sighed, tucking her hands into the folds of her cloak. "I still have one more place to stop, and I know your must be busy..."

Azriel shook his head, letting his smile grow just a fraction. "It's Solstice, remember? My day is wide open."

Her answering grin was radiant. "It's only a few blocks away. The twins told me about it," she explained. Then, quieter, "I... I wanted to get something for Nesta."

Azriel hesitated, just for a second. Of course Elain would still get Nesta a gift. Even after the things she had said. After the pain, the anger, the rejection. Because Elain was Elain. She gave, even when it hurt. Even when it wasn’t deserved.

And because Azriel knew what it was to love someone who pushed you away, to care so deeply for someone who didn’t—or couldn’t—let you in, he simply said, "Then let’s go." She squeezed his arm, that soft warmth burrowing deep into his bones. And Azriel decided, then and there, that he would make this walk last as long as possible. Azriel barely noticed the cold biting at his face as they walked, Elain’s arm looped through his. The streets of Velaris were still bustling, but his focus, his entire being, was centered on her.

She moved easily beside him, unconcerned by the stares she drew from passersby. As if she was unaware of how they looked at her. How they paused mid-step, mid-sentence, just to catch a glimpse of her. It had always been like this—Elain walking through the world, completely oblivious to the way she captivated it.

But Azriel noticed. He always noticed.

And he noticed, too, how she barely spared them a glance. How her focus remained on him, her brown eyes tilted up, her soft pink lips curving with quiet amusement. It was rare to walk this freely through the city, rare to move unnoticed. Not that he was unnoticed—he never was. People still shifted out of his way, still cast wary glances in his direction. But Elain…

Elain was light, warmth, the delicate golden balance to the sharp edges of his shadows.

And for the briefest of moments, Azriel allowed himself to imagine.

To pretend. That this was his life.

That Elain was his.

That after this perfect afternoon, they would return to their home, to their shared life. That she would hum softly as she baked in their kitchen, her hands dusted with flour, her curls slipping loose from their braid, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wrapping around her like a second skin.

That he would press himself against her back, slide his arms around her waist, and bury his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. That she would laugh—laugh—tilting her head back to look up at him with those luminous brown eyes, soft with affection.

That he would steal kisses whenever he pleased. As many as he pleased. He exhaled slowly, pushing the fantasy away before it could sink its claws too deeply into his heart. A dream. That was all it was. Nothing he could ever truly have.

Read The Rest on AO3

[mirrorballpages]

Elriel Month | Peace and Quiet

There is such tenderness, intimacy, and safety when you can understand the person you love without words. For this prompt we imagined the relief that Azriel and Elain would feel as they fall into bed together at the end of the day after enjoying the extroverted company of the inner circle, so they can cling to each other for peace and quiet just like our High Lady foretold.

We were all so excited to get the opportunity to work with @kotikomori on this piece and she truly gave us a little peek into a slice of Elriel heaven!! We are so grateful @kotikomori! 💕💕

🎨Art by: @kotikomori

✨Commissioned by: me, @theseersgarden , @saraannereads and @emilyondemand

📚Characters belong to: @sarahjmaas

Likes, shares, saves, and comments are encouraged and appreciated!

Please do not repost without permission

@elriel-month

[mirrorballpages]

Gold cage, hostage to my feelings

Elain adjusted the ribbon-wrapped package in her hands, just picked up from Madja's, the crisp winter air carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon from a nearby vendor. The streets of Velaris were bustling with shoppers preparing for Solstice, their arms full of wrapped gifts, their laughter ringing through the cobblestone alleys. Feyre had left to go to Rainbow Road, and Elain continue to wonder, not wanting to go back home just yet.

She was just leaving the shop when she heard a familiar voice call her name.

“Elain!”

She turned to see Charles, stepping out from his family’s shop, his golden hair catching the late afternoon light. He was handsome, in the way that so many High Fae were—clean, composed, elegant. He reminded her a little of Graysen, with his pale blue eyes and easy smile. The thought of her former love made her chest ache. She had met Charles a few weeks ago at one of the garden committee meetings, and Sophie had told her how Charles often asked about her. 

"Charles!" she greeted, offering him a warm smile. "How are you?"

"Busy," he admitted, tucking his hands into the pockets of his wool coat. "But I can't complain. The shop is doing well this season. My mother insisted I step outside for a moment to get some air—she thinks I work too much."

Elain smiled. "She sounds wise."

He let out a soft chuckle. "She likes to think so." His gaze flicked to the bag in her hands. "Last-minute shopping?"

Elain nodded, brushing a curl behind her ear. A brief silence passed between them, filled only by the murmur of the crowd and the distant sound of bells chiming from a nearby clock tower. Then—

“I was actually hoping I’d run into you,” Charles said, shifting slightly on his feet.

Elain blinked, her brow lifting in quiet curiosity. “Oh?”

Charles hesitated, his fingers flexing in his coat pockets. “I—I was wondering if you might like to join me for dinner sometime. After Solstice, of course.”

Elain felt something twist in her chest. Not dread, not excitement—just… something. She knew she was considered beautiful. Had heard it whispered in ballrooms and murmured behind fans in the human courts, had seen it in the lingering glances of High Fae males and the way people instinctively softened around her. But she struggled to see it herself now, to recognize that beauty in the glow of her skin, in the sharpness of her ears, in the eternity now stretched before her.

And Charles—kind, easygoing Charles—was offering her a piece of normalcy. A simple dinner, an uncomplicated night. Sophie had told her how much he talked about her, how often he asked about her work in the gardens, about her favorite flowers.

But she had a mate. The thought came unbidden, curling around her spine like a vine. Lucien. A male who had barely spoken to her in months. Was she even allowed to consider this offer? To say yes?

Elain swallowed, her fingers tightening around the package in her hands. Her mind still sometimes lingered to Graysen, to the future she had once envisioned—a mortal future. A home with stone walls and a tidy garden, a human husband at her side. Winter evenings spent by the hearth, soft candlelight flickering over a life that had been stolen from her. Hosting dinner parties, snuggling against her husband’s side as snow drifted outside the window.

Would she have been happy? Truly? Charles was waiting for her answer, his blue eyes hopeful, open.

She wet her lips, forcing herself to speak. “That’s very kind of you, Charles. I just—”

His eyes flickered past her suddenly, the color draining from his face.

Elain frowned. “Charles?”

“I—uh,” he stammered, clearing his throat, stepping back. “I should go inside.”

Elain turned to see Azriel, stepping through the crowd, his shadows whispering, his presence like a storm rolling in.

Oh. Elain frowned slightly at the way Charles' posture shifted, the way his shoulders tensed, his hands clenched slightly at his sides. He was uneasy. 

Azriel's face was unreadable, shadows curling subtly around his wings. Watching. Assessing. She had seen it before. How people moved when he entered a room. How their gazes flicked away, how their spines stiffened, how laughter grew quieter, more forced. She had seen the way shopkeepers hurried to serve him and the way strangers gave him space, as if even brushing too close would curse them. And yet—Azriel never seemed to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. But Elain noticed.

Read The Rest on AO3

[mirrorballpages]

Wrote Chapter 2 of my Elriel AU (And if you like it, I'll finish the rest of the chapters!)

Azriel didn’t sleep. The night before played in endless loops through his mind, scenes rewinding and re-forming until he couldn’t tell where memory ended and fantasy began. He kept seeing her face, lit by the rooftop glow, the breeze teasing her curls, the soft smile that tilted her lips as she looked at him like he wasn’t someone to be feared or pitied or fixed. Like he was just… someone. Just Azriel. And that undid him more than he could stand.

He didn’t know what the hell had happened. He’d met her once. Spoken to her for a few hours. But somehow, impossibly, it felt like something had shifted in him, like something ancient and tired had stirred awake. And gods help him, but he wasn’t sure he could look at anyone else and feel anything close to this again.

Which made no sense.

Because Azriel didn’t do this. He didn’t date. He didn’t linger. He didn’t stay. Not because he wasn’t capable of wanting more, but because he didn’t believe he was allowed to. He was the one women flirted with when they wanted danger without depth. The one they touched like a secret, something thrilling but temporary. And he let them. Because it was easier that way. Safer. Cleaner. No expectations. No risk.

He wasn’t cold. He was, if anything, too much. Too romantic, too protective, too full of feelings he didn’t know where to put. But love? Real love? The kind Rhysand had with Feyre—the kind that required presence and softness and vulnerability—he didn’t believe he could survive it. Not when there were parts of him no one had ever seen. Parts still blistered from childhood. From what he did for Rhys when asked. From what he hadn’t done when he should have. The scars on his hands weren’t from some noble act of heroism. They were from being failed. From being forgotten. From surviving things no one had ever apologized for.

Letting someone close meant risking all of that being exposed. Letting someone see—really see—meant relinquishing control. And Azriel had built his entire life on control. It was the only thing that kept him from unraveling.

And her...

Gods, her.

What would someone like Elain want with someone like him?

He lay in bed long after the city had gone quiet, one arm draped over his eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, to fade, but her voice kept coming back. Soft and bright and real. Her laugh echoed between the lines of his memory like sunlight catching on glass, and the way she’d looked at him—open, curious, so heartbreakingly kind—it sank into his chest and refused to leave.

He kept thinking about what she said. About her past. About not being the right fit for forever.

How the fuck could anyone leave her?

When the first light of morning broke across the apartment walls, pale and cool, Azriel sat up and ran a hand through his hair. That question hadn’t left his mind since the moment she’d told him. Since she’d smiled through it, soft and sweet, like it hadn’t gutted her. Like she hadn’t been abandoned.

And gods, maybe that was the worst part— Not the breakup. Not the man who had left. But the way she’d carried the weight of it like she deserved it. Like it made sense to her. Like it was logical that he would do that.

Azriel couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop turning it over in his mind like a knife he was trying not to grip too tightly.

Because the truth was, Elain didn’t just shine, she bloomed. Every part of her seemed to unfold gently, quietly, without apology. She didn’t demand attention. She just drew it. The way flowers bend toward the sun without even trying.

And from the moment he saw her—flushed with color, half-laughing, eyes like golden light breaking through cloud—he hadn’t been able to stop watching. Not in the possessive, prowling way people assumed about him. No, this was different. Deeper. A kind of awe. A kind of ache.

He was drawn to her because she wasn’t trying to be anything. Not seductive. Not mysterious. She just was. And maybe that was what wrecked him most.

Because Azriel had spent his whole life building walls. Holding everything back. Making sure he didn’t need, didn’t hope, didn’t want. And then Elain looked at him like she saw right through the armor and didn’t flinch.

She was softness, and everything in him had been taught to treat softness as weakness. But with her, it didn’t feel weak. It felt sacred. Elain Archeron made him want things he hadn’t dared name in years. Companionship. Stillness. The kind of quiet that didn't feel like isolation, but peace.

He couldn’t stop picturing the curve of her smile or the way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear when she laughed. And gods, he hadn’t even asked for her number. He’d walked her home, watched her disappear behind her door, and never once thought to ask. 

What a fucking idiot.

But she’d said she was working today.

And before he could overthink it, before he could talk himself out of it, he was up and out the door, boots hitting the sidewalk, the morning air still crisp with summer air.

He walked to her shop, the sun still low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the cobbled pavement. The storefronts were quiet, their windows catching the early light, glowing like honey. And then he saw hers.

The shutters of Elain’s flower shop were partially drawn, but the door was unlocked, a hand-painted “come in” sign swinging lazily in the breeze. Through the glass, the world was already awake—her world. Warm soil and clipped stems perfumed the air, jasmine blooming sweet and heady in the corners of the windows. The light inside pooled across the floor in soft angles, spilling over buckets of roses and eucalyptus, over scattered ribbons and bits of petal and green.

And there she was. Spinning gently from one arrangement to the next, barefoot and focused, her long cardigan drifting behind her like it had a rhythm of its own. Her hair was half-pinned, curls slipping loose around her face, and she was humming under her breath—just loud enough that he could hear the echo of it, faint and fragile, even through glass. So he quietly knocked, hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake.

“Azriel. What—how—hi!” Her voice stumbled, caught somewhere between surprise and shyness, and when she opened the door, the scent of warm petals and freshly cut stems wrapped around him like sunlight. He stepped inside before she could second-guess it, into a world made of softness and green things and the faint undercurrent of jasmine in bloom.

"I was just walking by getting coffee and saw your lights were on." It was a lie. A small one. Okay, a big one. One she probably saw right through. His voice came out lower than he meant, already affected by the scent of her shop, the quiet intimacy of watching her tuck a loose curl back with the inside of her wrist. Something so small it shouldn’t have hit him like it did.

She laughed softly, brushing her palms on her apron, cheeks already flushed. "Oh! Well, sorry I'm so flustered. Nuala called out sick, and her sister, Cerridwen won’t be in for another few hours... and of course I a behind on a few last minute orders for today." Her eyes widened, gesturing vaguely to the chaos around her - loose stems in buckets, ribbon spools unspooled like wild vines, a partially finished bouquet wilting gently in the corner.

“Can I help?” he asked, already reaching for an empty bucket before she could protest. “I mean... I don’t know anything about flowers, but I can follow directions. And I’m great with scissors.”

Gods, he wanted her to say yes. He’d take orders. He’d scrub the floor. He just wanted to stay in this space that smelled like her.

She hesitated, biting her lip. “I really don’t want to take up your whole morning. It’s Sunday—your day off.”

“I’ve got nothing to do today,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “I’m all yours.”

The words were out before he could pull them back. She blinked. Her blush deepened. And then, she winked. “Well… technically, you do owe me a bouquet.” A sparkle lit her eyes, “Bet’s a bet.”

Azriel’s heart did something inconvenient and reckless. “Right,” he murmured. “Okay, so floristry boot camp. I’m ready.”

She laughed—bright and warm, the sound ringing against glass and water and light. She handed him an apron, their fingers brushing as she passed it over. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, backing toward the workbench. “Floristry’s no joke.”

Azriel looked down at the pink apron, a sharp contrast to his all black attire and boots. Then up at her. “Neither am I.”

🌸🎀💕🌷

Elain did not wake up this morning thinking Azriel would be in her shop. In a pink apron. Helping her with flowers.

No, instead she had tossed and turned beneath her cotton sheets, watching the shadows crawl across her bedroom walls as the night slowly unraveled into morning. Her body was still, but her mind—her heart—was anything but. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again. Azriel. The name echoed in her chest like the fading note of a song. His voice, his smile, the way he had looked at her like she was something worth paying attention to....she kept replaying it, again and again, until the memory blurred and shimmered like a dream.

She still couldn’t believe it had been him—the handsome stranger she’d been quietly watching, the one who passed her shop like a shadow in motion, golden skin inked with stories she didn’t know, sunglasses hiding eyes that had still somehow managed to pin her in place. She’d made up little narratives in her head about him. Who he might be, what he might do. Never once had she imagined that they would end up sitting together in the corner of a rooftop bar, talking like they’d known each other in another life.

And gods, she’d stayed out late. With him. Elain Archeron, the girl who liked to be in bed by nine with a book and a cup of tea, had sat in the glow of starlight and string lights with Azriel until after midnight. She hadn’t even noticed the time. All she’d noticed was the way his eyes softened when she spoke, the way his voice dipped when he asked questions about her life, as if the answers mattered. As if she mattered.

She couldn’t remember the last time her heart had fluttered like that. Couldn’t remember the last time her hands had trembled just slightly with nerves, or the way her laugh had felt like something bubbling up from her chest that she didn’t have to suppress. Not even with Graysen. Their relationship had been quiet, composed, built in pieces over time like a puzzle slowly coming together, but never once had it lit her up from the inside. Never once had it felt like this.

This thing with Azriel—whatever it was, whatever it could be—it wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t careful. It burned. Softly, but undeniably. A flicker of flame in her ribcage. And gods help her, she couldn’t stop wondering if he felt it too.

She buried her face in her pillow, groaning softly. Don’t be ridiculous, Elain.

Azriel was handsome. Devastatingly handsome. The kind of man who looked like he belonged in dark corners of art galleries or in black and white photographs taken on rainy days. He was quiet, but there was a gravity to him, a weight she couldn’t quite name. He probably dated women who were all angles and ink and certainty. Women who wore leather jackets and red lipstick and didn’t blush when someone looked at them too long.

Not soft florists who wore pastel cardigans and cried at animal rescue ads. But still, here she was, standing in her shop, with him so close she could smell his night chilled cedar cologne. Or maybe he just smelled like that normally. Gods, of course he would just smell that good all the time.

They’d fallen into such an easy rhythm that Elain almost forgot they hadn’t done this before.

Azriel was better at arranging flowers than he had any right to be. He trimmed stems with careful hands, read her cues without needing words, and—somehow—made the mess of ribbons and leaves feel like a shared secret instead of a chore. They moved around each other with unspoken grace, close enough that the backs of their hands brushed every so often, each time sending a warm little shiver up her arm.

He was funny, in a dry, unexpected way—quiet jokes tucked into the spaces between conversation. And he was watching her. She could feel it. The way his eyes lingered when she smiled. The way he leaned in, just slightly, when she spoke about flowers and their meanings, like he was memorizing the words, not just hearing them.

“You know,” she said, nudging his elbow gently with hers as she arranged a row of white ranunculus, “I didn’t expect you to be good at this.”

His head tilted slightly. “Should I be offended?”

“Not at all. I just assumed you’d be more ‘dark alley, dagger behind the back’ than ‘floral wire and ribbon curls.’”

Azriel looked at her then, that slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think I carry daggers?”

Elain gave him a slow once-over, lips curling. “I think you’re the kind of man who has at least three hidden weapons at all times. Probably names them. Probably sleeps with one under your pillow.”

He laughed under his breath, low and quiet, and it did things to her. “Only two weapons under the pillow,” he murmured. “I’m not unreasonable.”

She arched a brow, pleased. “So you do name them?”

“You’ll have to earn that secret,” he said, handing her another stem. Their fingers brushed. Elain tried not to blush and absolutely failed.

“I’ll have to earn it?” she echoed, glancing up at him beneath her lashes. “Is that how this works now?”

He met her gaze, steady and unreadable, and something flickered behind his eyes. Not amusement. Not just. Something quieter. Like he didn’t know how to stop looking at her.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’re doing well so far.”

“So,” he said, placing a pale pink lisianthus into the bouquet she was finishing, “is it frowned upon to ask your florist out for coffee while she’s training you in bouquet combat?”

Her breath caught. She looked up at him and his expression was soft. Hesitant, but open. Like he wasn’t just flirting now. Like he was asking.

“Only if the florist says no,” she said, her voice lighter than she felt.

And gods, his smile. It was small, almost shy, and it wrecked her completely.

He shifted a little closer, just enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Then I think I’d better take my chances.”

She could barely think around the way her heart stuttered. He was about to say something else—she could feel it, poised on the edge of the moment like a breath before a kiss—

“Well, well, this is cozy.”

Elain jumped slightly, the sound of the doorbell and her employee’s voice snapping the spell. Cerridwen stood just inside the entrance, one brow arched, dark curls pinned up and eyes full of mischief. Azriel stepped back half a pace, his expression carefully smoothing, though Elain could still see the hint of pink in his cheeks.

“Oh—Cerri! Hi! You’re early,” Elain said, too quickly, brushing her hands down the front of her apron.

“Mmm,” Cerridwen said, her gaze flicking between them as she shed her coat. “Didn’t realize today’s arrangement came with brooding six-foot-four company.”

Elain went hot all over, and Azriel—bless him—just chuckled softly under his breath. “I was… helping,” he said, though his eyes were still on Elain.

Helping. Gods, was that what this was? She didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Because now that she knew he’d been about to ask.... she wanted to say yes. Even if the moment had passed.

They were almost done. The last bouquet was nestled into its vase, the ribbons tied, and the mess of stems and clippings swept neatly into a bin. The shop still smelled of roses and jasmine and the hint of gardenia clinging to Azriel’s sleeves. Elain pulled off her gloves and stepped back, brushing her hair behind her ears.

“Well,” she said, trying not to sound reluctant, “we’ve just about caught up. Cerridwen can help with the rest.”

“Then let me grab coffee,” Azriel said eyes still fixed softly on hers. “You’ve earned it.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him he didn’t have to, but he was already moving, pausing only to flash her the smallest, most devastating half-smile. And when he reached for the door—

He was still wearing the pink apron.

Elain’s face flamed. Bright, helpless heat rushed to her cheeks, because of course he made a pastel apron look like part of some grungy, underground fashion shoot. Gods, the man had the audacity to walk out of her flower shop in a faded pink apron over a fitted black t-shirt, black jeans, combat boots, sunglasses, and windswept hair, like some absurd daydream of opposites attracting. The bell jingled softly behind him. And she was frozen.

“Don’t tell me that is the handsome stranger you’ve been eyeing for weeks,” Cerridwen said dryly, already halfway through tying her apron. Her voice held a note of scandalized delight.

Elain groaned and pressed a hand to her burning face. “I haven’t been.... okay, maybe I have been. A little.”

Cerridwen snorted. “A little? Elain, you literally paused in the middle of a sentence the first time he walked by. And I have never seen you blush so hard in your life.”

Elain sighed, half-laughing. “Okay, fine. That’s him. But we weren’t just, like, flirting. We met last night." Cerridwen’s eyes went wide. "At Feyre’s party. Turns out he is the brother of her new boyfriend. And yes, the brother is equally handsome. As is the third brother... who I think is into Nesta... but she also almost killed him... But Azriel...we ended up talking. For hours. On the rooftop. Until 1 AM. And he walked me home.”

“You talked? You stayed out past midnight? Elain, I thought you were going to say you shared a drink or danced once, not spent the night under moonlight talking with him. He’s gorgeous. And also, how does he look like a bodyguard and a sculpture at the same time?” Elain groaned again, louder this time, and leaned against the worktable.

“He’s not interested,” she muttered. “He’s just being nice.”

“Oh my gods, are you serious? Elain. Have you seen the way he looks at you? Like you hung the damn moon.” Cerridwen stepped closer, lowering her voice. “He looks like he wants to memorize the sound of your laugh. And you’re standing here acting like he showed up because he’s bored?”

Elain opened her mouth, but the bell jingled again. And that was it. Because there he was. Stepping back inside like something out of a dream she hadn’t let herself have. Sunglasses perched on his nose. That ridiculous pink apron still tied around his waist like it belonged there. One hand held a tray of three steaming coffee cups, the other—gods—held a white bakery box.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said simply, setting the box down on the counter. “So I got... a variety.”

He opened it. A dozen pastries. Croissants, fruit danishes, cinnamon swirls, lemon tarts, a chocolate brioche. Every color and shape, carefully packed in paper and string.

“Didn’t want to assume,” he added, that quiet edge of shyness in his voice. “Figured it was better to overdo it.”

Elain stared. Actually stared. Because what the hell was happening. He looked like sin and kindness wrapped together, and he had brought her pastries like he had known her her whole life. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, traitorous and full of hope.

Cerridwen, behind her, whispered loudly: “I told you.”

They settled into the small café table near the front window, the soft morning light spilling across the petals scattered on the floor, catching in Azriel’s hair and making him look almost ethereal in a way that felt unfair. Elain curled her fingers around the warm paper cup, grateful for something to ground her.

Cerridwen raised a brow as she grabbed her own drink and selected a danish from the box.

“Well, I have invoices to check in the back before we open in 10,” she said, with a tone that could only be described as barely concealed glee. Her eyes cut pointedly toward Elain before she disappeared through the curtain, the subtle hum of music in the back room starting up a beat later.

Elain took a small sip of coffee, then glanced at the box of pastries. “You really brought a dozen.”

Azriel shrugged one shoulder, sipping from his own cup. “Didn’t want to assume. I figured… better to be over-prepared than risk disappointing you.”

Her heart flipped. Stupid, fluttery thing. She reached for a croissant, breaking it gently in half to busy her hands. “You have a habit of showing up when I least expect it,” she said, trying for lightness, but her voice came out a little softer than she intended.

“Would you prefer I didn’t?”

Elain blinked. The smile slipped off her face for just a heartbeat. “No,” she said, more breath than word. “No, I— I like it.”

She wanted to say something more. About last night. About now. About the fact that her heart was fluttering in her chest like it had just woken up after sleeping too long.

But he beat her to it — or nearly did. He shifted in his chair, fingers trailing the seam of his coffee cup, eyes briefly on the box of pastries as though composing his thoughts with sugar. Then he looked at her.

“Can I…” he began, voice low, a little rough at the edges. “Would it be okay if I had your number?”

Not can I take you out. Her breath caught, and she blinked, partly from surprise, partly because gods, the softness in his voice undid her. Like he wasn’t used to asking. Like it took something from him to even say it. Like it mattered more than he wanted her to know.

And yet. And yet—something sharp and small bloomed behind her ribs. Not pain exactly. Just the echo of almost. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. But after the way he looked at her earlier, after the way his voice dipped, after the near-confession before Cerridwen walked in…

She thought he’d ask. Thought he wanted to. And maybe he did. Maybe he almost did. But he hadn’t. So of course she smiled. Of course she took his phone, fingers steady even as her heart curled a little inward.

Because it was just flirting. That’s all it was. A game. He didn’t mean it. Not really. She was a florist. Soft and quiet and easily overlooked. He was just being kind. Friendly. He probably smiled like that at everyone. Probably brought pastries to every woman who let him crash her morning routine in a pink apron. It didn’t mean anything.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. That was all. That was all. But his eyes lingered, warm and unreadable, like he wanted to say something else and didn’t quite know how. Or maybe he did know, and just didn’t let himself.

The front door chimed softly, the first customer of the day stepping in, the jingle like a bell waking her from something fragile and half-dreamed. Cerridwen emerged from the back room in a practiced glide, her smile already turning professional as she went to greet them.

"I should... I should go. Let you get back to work. Thank you for the bootcamp. You’ll hear from me.”He reached behind his back, fingers tugging at the knot of the pink apron, and when he slipped it off and handed it to her, something small and inexplicable cracked inside her. The moment—the magic of it—felt like it folded up with that apron. Like this tiny, perfect world they'd built between the stems and petals had vanished as suddenly as it appeared.

She took it from him, brushing the fabric between her fingers, and told herself not to look too wistful. Not to ache over something that wasn’t hers to begin with.

“Thank you,” she said softly, for everything she couldn’t say out loud.

He offered a soft smile, and then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Elain stood there, apron in hand, her chest tight and full all at once. Like she had been holding her breath for an hour and now didn’t know how to exhale.

It’s fine, she told herself. It was a moment. A sweet, unexpected moment.

But even as she thought it, her heart wouldn’t slow. Wouldn’t stop hoping. Because the truth shimmered in the quiet as she looked back toward the door he’d just walked through:

She didn’t know what this was, or what it might become. But whatever it was, it meant something.

And Elain, still trying to slow her racing heart, smiled into her coffee cup and quietly, irrevocably, let herself hope.

Read The Rest on AO3

@elriel-month

[mirrorballpages]

Fairytales for Elriel Month

The townhouse was quiet, the late morning light spilling through the sitting room windows in golden streaks. Azriel had planned to stop by only briefly. To check in, maybe have a cup of tea before heading out on a mission. He had not planned to find Elain there, curled up in the corner of the couch, utterly lost in a book. At first, he didn’t think much of it. Elain reading wasn’t unusual. Elain so absorbed in something that she didn’t notice him enter wasn’t unusual. What was unusual—and highly suspicious—was the way she snapped the book shut the moment she saw him.

Azriel stilled. His instincts, honed over centuries of war, of spying, of reading the smallest of movements, instantly told him one thing: She was hiding something. A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "Interesting choice of reading."

Elain clutched the book to her chest. "It’s just a novel."

Azriel hummed, stepping closer. "Is it?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but her blush betrayed her. Azriel didn’t need his shadows to tell him the truth. He already knew. And Mother above, he was going to enjoy this. He waited, standing at the edge of the room, watching her. Elain refused to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the cover of the book, as if she could will it into disappearing.

Azriel tilted his head slightly. "Which one is it?"

She hesitated. And that was all the answer he needed.

"The Duke’s Wicked Obsession?" he guessed, mock thoughtful.

Her blush deepened.

"Or is it Moonlight Desires?" His voice dropped slightly, all smooth amusement.

Elain groaned, burying her face behind the book. "Azriel."

"I’m just curious." He stepped closer, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I’ve never known you to be interested in… ducal obsessions."

Elain whipped her head up, glaring now. "It’s just a story."

"Of course." He let his smirk grow. "A story about a brooding duke who follows a woman across the country because he’s so obsessed with her he can’t sleep at night?"

Elain made another strangled noise. "You are insufferable."

"Or a masked stranger who is fated to love the heroine after just one dance?"

Elain looked one breath away from throwing the book at him. Azriel chuckled, eyes gleaming. He was enjoying this far too much.

She straightened, regaining some of her composure. "What’s wrong with them?"

Azriel lifted a brow. "Nothing at all. I’m just learning new things about you."

She huffed, crossing her arms. "And what exactly have you learned?"

He let the silence stretch between them before saying, "That you enjoy a bit of obsession in your romances."

Her lips parted slightly, her blush creeping down her neck. Azriel waited. Then, in a quiet, challenging voice, she said, "Would you prefer I read about spies instead?"

Azriel blinked. Elain tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something sharp, knowing. "Perhaps something about a mysterious, brooding male who lurks in the shadows, always watching, never letting himself be seen?"

Azriel’s smirk faltered. Elain smiled sweetly. "You wouldn’t happen to have any recommendations, would you?"

Azriel just stared at her, his usual smooth confidence suddenly abandoning him entirely. Elain laughed softly, flipping open her book again. "That’s what I thought."

And Mother above, Azriel knew he had just lost this battle.

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

The next time he found her reading, he did not tease. Not outright. But as he sat in the armchair across from her, pretending to read his own book, he couldn’t help but watch her. The way her eyes darted over the page, the way her lips parted slightly, the way her cheeks turned pink every now and then. He was dying to know.

So, after a long silence, he asked, "Why do you like them?"

Elain looked up, startled. "What?"

"The books." He gestured toward her latest romance. "What do you like about them?"

Elain hesitated. For a moment, he thought she might refuse to answer. But then, she surprised him. She set the book down on her lap, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "They always end happily. No matter what happens," she continued softly, "no matter the obstacles, the longing, the heartbreak… the characters always find each other in the end."

Azriel didn’t move. Because of course. Of course Elain Archeron, who had lived a life filled with uncertainty and heartbreak and loss, would crave stories where love always won.

She smiled, almost shyly. "I like knowing that, in the end, they’ll choose each other."

Something tightened in Azriel’s chest. Because wasn’t that what he had spent his whole life convincing himself he couldn’t have? A love that would choose him back. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t know how to. So he just watched her, watched the way the firelight danced across her face, the way she waited for his response as if his opinion actually mattered. And then, before he could stop himself, before he could think better of it—

"Tell me your favorite part."

Elain blinked. "What?"

Azriel gestured to the book in her hands. "Read me your favorite part."

Elain stared at him. Then, slowly—so slowly—she flipped through the pages. Evangeline had spent years perfecting the art of ignoring Dorian Blackwell. It was easy, at first. Ignoring his dark, unreadable eyes whenever they found hers across ballrooms. Ignoring the way his presence always seemed to press against her skin, even from across a room.

Ignoring the fact that, no matter how far she ran, no matter how many times she insisted she did not want him— He never let her go.

And now, here he was. Again. A storm standing in the doorway of her cottage, his broad frame drenched from the rain, his cravat undone, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Evangeline." His voice was low, hoarse. She did not move from where she stood by the fire. Did not let herself tremble.

"You should not be here," she said quietly. "You should be in London, playing the part of the cold, untouchable Duke."

His lips curled slightly, but there was no humor in it. "You have always misunderstood me, Evangeline."

"Have I?" she challenged. He took a step closer. Then another. Evangeline’s pulse hammered.

"You think I follow you because I enjoy the chase?" Dorian’s voice was softer now, but there was something dangerous beneath it—something frayed, something breaking. "Because it is sport?"

Her throat worked. "What else could it be?"

He let out a low, rough breath. Then—he was there. Close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could see the way his jaw clenched, as if restraining something too big, too consuming.

And then—softly, like a confession, like something that cost him everything— "I have been in love with you since the moment you first defied me."

Evangeline stilled.

Dorian’s hands flexed at his sides, as if he ached to touch her. "Since the moment you looked me in the eye and told me I was not the man for you."

Her breath came too fast, too sharp.

"You are cruel," she whispered.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. "Perhaps. But not with this. Never with this."

She shook her head. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. "You are obsessed with winning. You cannot love me."

Dorian exhaled sharply, then—before she could move, before she could breathe—

He dropped to his knees. Evangeline gasped.

Because Dorian Blackwell, the untouchable, unreadable Duke of Thornhaven, the man whose name made others tremble, was kneeling before her. His head bowed. His hands fisted against his thighs.

"Say the word," he murmured. "Tell me to leave, and I will. Tell me you do not feel this, and I will never come back."

Evangeline’s chest heaved. But Dorian lifted his gaze then, and the words tangled in her throat.

Because his eyes—gods, his eyes. They were not cold. Not calculating. Not the eyes of a man playing a game. They were raw. Unraveled.

Wrecked.

And Evangeline knew.

Knew that this was not about winning. Knew that this was not obsession, not pursuit. Knew, with terrifying, unshakable certainty, that this man loved her.

Had loved her for longer than she could fathom.

And she—she did not know how to stop herself from loving him back.

Azriel sat back, listening. And he wasn’t sure when he started watching her lips instead of the words. Wasn’t sure when the teasing had stopped and something heavier had settled between them. But when she finally lifted her gaze, her breath catching slightly at whatever she saw in his expression— Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court, a male who had spent centuries unearthing the darkest secrets in Prythian, was currently trying to process the fact that he had just heard a scene where a brooding, untouchable Duke got on his knees for the woman he loved.

He knew. He was in more trouble than he had ever realized.

@elriel-month

Read on AO3

[mirrorballpages]

The good news was that while some of Windhaven’s females deemed Elain a witch… others came out to see what all the fuss was about. They lingered near the edge of the terrace at first, arms crossed and brows furrowed, but curiosity pulled them closer. Whispers drifted through the cold mountain air like wind through pine, and Elain let it wash over her without flinching.

She had quickly realized the truth: healing the rot entirely through magic would be both exhausting and dangerous. Not just for her body, but for the secret she still guarded. If word reached Feyre or Rhysand of what kind of power she wielded, the questions would come. The pressure. The scrutiny. She wasn’t ready for that.

So, she found another way. Practical. Quiet. Effective.

Elain stood, brushing soil from her palms, and turned to Bretha and Tash. “Will you take me to the apothecary?” she asked gently. “I think I know how to make a mixture that can treat the rot."

Bretha raised an eyebrow, still skeptical, but nodded. “If you’re serious about fixing this, you’d better hope I’ve still got dried wormroot in stock.”

Emerie had to return to her store, but before she left, she gave Elain a look filled with something like pride, and maybe a little warning. You’re doing it. But be careful.

By the time Elain reached the apothecary, there were five more females trailing behind her, and by the time they began working outside to mix the ingredients she’d selected—dried nettle, wormroot, ash bark, and vinegar steeped with fennel—there were nearly a dozen.

Just as she’d hoped. The chatter began slowly at first. Half-hearted comments about the weather, the poor quality of this year’s milk, complaints about the state of the village washhouse. But then Tash said something about a male disappearing for three days. And another woman mentioned strange meetings after sunset near the upper ridge.

Elain listened.

She moved quietly through the group, kneeling to guide one female’s stirring, pausing to answer questions, always smiling, always watching. She let them underestimate her. Let them think she was only here for the plants.

And they talked. Gods, did they talk.

She felt Azriel’s shadows before she saw them—curling along the edges of her boots, coiling around her calf like a tether. Protective. Possessive. Probably worried. She reached down and brushed them away gently, sending a subtle pulse of reassurance along the tether.

I’m fine. I’ve got this.

The shadows withdrew, reluctantly.

For the next three hours, Elain worked beside the females of Windhaven, teaching them how to crush and layer the herbs into a thick, pungent paste to spread across the soil. Some wrinkled their noses. Others laughed. But they listened.

By the time the sun was mid day, the rot plots had been treated, the females were gathered with fresh instructions for continued mixing, and Elain had enough whispered confessions and careful observations to fill several pages of her journal.

It was information that would’ve taken Cassian months to get. And Elain? She’d gotten it with a smile, a hand in the dirt, and her crown braid laced with ivy.

@elriel-month

Read The Rest on A03

[mirrorballpages]

[mirrorballpages]

Elain woke to warmth. Not from the rising sun, which had only just begun to bleed pale gold through the ivory curtains, but from the male wrapped around her like a second skin. Azriel’s arms were curled tight around her chest, his bare skin pressed to hers, his breath steady and slow at the back of her neck.

His shadows were nowhere in sight.

These were her favorite moments, the quiet before the day began. When there were no titles, no expectations. Just them. Two souls tucked in soft sheets, tangled from the night before.

She shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, but his wings reacted instantly, sheltering her instinctively, tucking her further beneath him, as if even her thought of leaving deserved to be challenged.

A smile touched her lips.

He looked so peaceful when he slept. Hair tousled, lashes long and dark against his cheekbones, mouth parted slightly. She let herself watch him for a moment, committing every detail to memory. She barely moved an inch more when—

“It’s not polite to stare,” he muttered, voice low and rough from sleep, and from last night.

Elain chuckled softly. “I’m just admiring the view.” She leaned in, pressing slow kisses along his jaw. His grip around her immediately tightened, pulling her flush against him.

When his eyes opened, they gleamed green in the early light, clearer than emerald, deeper than shadow. Always a little softer when they looked at her.

“Someday,” he said, brushing a curl from her cheek, “I want a full week with you. Just us. No duties. No interruptions. A bed, you, and nothing else.”

She laughed, a light, happy sound in the quiet room. “You mean like a vacation?”

Azriel huffed. “Never heard of that. We Fae apparently don’t believe in such luxuries.”

“Of course you do,” she said, smirking. “You just refuse to take a day off.”

“I never had a reason to.” He kissed her temple. “Not until you.”

The words—so simple, so sincere—sent a flutter through her chest. But the kiss that followed was anything but simple. His mouth found hers with slow, knowing heat, and already Elain could feel her pulse quicken, her resolve slipping. He shifted, sliding his body over hers, and she felt him, all hard muscle, lean power, and far too ready.

Elain groaned softly as his lips trailed down her throat. “Az…”

His hands had already begun their familiar path, stroking down her ribs, his touch worshipful. She arched beneath him despite herself, one last indulgent press of hips to hips.

“We don’t have time,” she gasped, though her hands were already in his hair. “I need to get ready. And remember—I can’t smell like you.”

That earned a low growl, the sound vibrating against her skin. “Come on,” he murmured, now kissing lower, down her sternum. “Fifteen minutes. Tops.”

“When,” she said breathlessly, “have we ever been under an hour?”

He didn’t reply, his mouth was already on her breast, tongue circling her nipple like he intended to devour her instead of argue.

“Azriel,” she gasped, pushing gently at his shoulders. “After. I promise. When we get home, we’ll finish this.”

He let out a frustrated exhale, pressing his face to her stomach like a sulking cat. “Fine.” Elain sat up with effort, trying very hard not to look at him as he rose too. Shirtless, tousled, and visibly hard.

He noticed her glance and smirked. “You’re the one who stopped.”

“I’m the one with a mission,” she countered, sliding out of bed and reaching for her robe. “We have to be in Windhaven soon.”

Azriel ran a hand through his messy hair, still watching her with that lazy hunger. “Just remember what you promised.”

Elain turned back to him, arching a brow. “What, that we’d finish this?”

He stood, closing the space between them in two steps, and whispered, voice a velvet promise, “No. That the next time we’re alone, I’m claiming you as mine. And this time, you’re not washing that off.”

🌸🎀💕🌷

For once, Azriel kept to his word and didn’t distract her too much as she got ready. He insisted on bathing together, as he always did, though this time he kept his hands mostly respectful, save for a few lingering kisses at her shoulder. Over breakfast, he only asked her once—his voice quiet, careful—if she was sure she wanted to do this.

She was.

Elain dressed simply: a soft cotton dress dyed forest green, fitted enough to move easily in, but loose enough to blend in. She laced her boots with steady hands, braided her hair into a crown, and packed her satchel with dried herbs, a trowel, and the small journal she kept for visions and notes.

The moment Azriel took her hand and stepped them through shadow, the warmth of the townhouse vanished. Windhaven greeted her with a slap of icy wind and the sharp scent of pine and stone. The land was gray, always gray, endless cliffs and slate-colored fields broken only by the flicker of black wings in the sky or training rings below.

Azriel held her hand until the last possible second. Then, reluctantly, he let go. His voice was low and sharp, eyes scanning the village with the ease of someone who knew danger before it struck.

“The males will be in training,” he said, “but a few might linger in the village. If anyone is rude to you, or lays a hand on you, send a shadow.”

“I know, my love,” Elain replied gently, brushing her fingers down his wrist. She summoned a sliver of shadow, curling it toward him like a kiss. A few others rose at her command, coiling up her arm and nesting along her neck like loyal guards.

He watched her for a heartbeat longer, jaw tight, one hand resting near Truth-Teller. He’d insisted on wearing two swords, four additional daggers, and hidden blades in his boots. She’d laughed when he strapped on the last one. He hadn’t.

No chances. Not here.

Together, they descended the path into the village, passing rows of stone homes and pine sheds. Males glanced up from their sparring, some paused mid-bite in their breakfast, others sneered or stared openly.

She felt it. The hostility. The scrutiny. She was an outsider, a High Fae female with soft hands and a prettier face than they thought she deserved.

But she held her head high.

Azriel walked her all the way to the edge of the village, where Emerie waited in a dark wool cloak, wind tugging strands of hair from her braid. Azriel nodded to her once, clipped and stiff, before vanishing into shadow.

"Thank you for offering to help,” Emerie said as they began walking. “I know my kind aren’t easy with... outsiders. But the rot is spreading, and the fields are suffering. If they don't take your help, we’ll lose another harvest.”

Elain gave her a soft, knowing smile. “Fair warning, I'm aware they’ll likely treat me terribly. But it’s a long shot I’m willing to take.”

Emerie nodded, her expression half-apologetic. “Nesta mentioned your other goal, too.”

Elain glanced at her sidelong, surprised but not shocked.

“I’ve asked Tash to join us,” Emerie added. “She knows everything that happens in Windhaven, and she’s the most talkative female I know. If anyone cracks, it’ll be her.”

“Thank you,” Elain said genuinely. “That’s very helpful.”

The village unfolded before them, farther than Elain had ever gone before. She’d only been here once, years ago, fresh from the Cauldron, her senses in shambles. Back then, the wind had felt like razors in her lungs, the clang of metal like thunder in her skull.

Now, it was bearable. The chill kissed her cheeks but did not sting. The sky stretched pale and heavy above them, clouds threatening rain. The mountain loomed close.

Windhaven itself was carved from stone, homes pressed into the cliffs like nests, roofs made of thatch or roughly planed pine. The older buildings bore battle scars from centuries of wind and war, while a few newer ones, still smelling of sap, stood proud and bare.

But it was the eyes that made her skin crawl. Weary gazes followed her as she walked, mothers pulling children inside, elders narrowing their eyes, young males sneering behind cups of bitter tea. As if the sight of her alone might bring disease. Or worse.

“Don’t take it personally,” Emerie said with a dry laugh as they approached the gardens. “They think you and Nesta are witches.”

Elain blinked. “Witches? Oh, gods.”

“Yeah,” Emerie chuckled. “So don’t be surprised if some won’t get too close. They’re convinced you’ll curse them. Or turn them into roots or something.”

That drew a soft laugh from Elain. “My magic involves seeing things,” she said lightly. “And I’m decently lucky when it comes to making plants grow. I’d hardly call that killing power.”

“I would,” Emerie said without hesitation. “You can see the future and shape the earth. You can bend the world before it happens, and reshape it after it breaks. That’s about as powerful as it gets, if you ask me.”

Elain’s smile faded slightly. There was no way Emerie could know about the Earthvein. But her words struck something deep in Elain’s chest. A knowing. A truth.

Before she could ask, they rounded a bend and came to the garden. It was vast, carved into the base of the mountain, once-beautiful beds now blackened and brittle. A few women were already gathered outside the low stone wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

"This is still a fucking stupid idea," one older female muttered. Her voice cracked with years of wind and command. "Bringing a witch into camp."

The younger woman beside her shrugged. “It’s that or we start starving, Bretha. Not sure what else you want.”

Emerie didn’t flinch. “This is Elain. Elain, meet Bretha and Tash.”

Elain offered a small smile. “Very nice to meet you both. I promise I won’t get in the way. If one of you could show me around, I can begin.”

Bretha sniffed but said nothing. Tash gave a cautious nod, then pointed toward a sunbaked stretch of the terrace. “Start there. That’s where the old irrigation lines used to run. Soil’s driest.”

Summer sunlight bathed the valley in gold, but Windhaven’s garden was wrong. Too still. Too silent. No hum of bees. No soft chitter of soil creatures. Even the weeds had died. The plants weren’t just dry, they were rotting. Brittle stalks blackened at the base. Leaves curled and veined with sickly violet. Sticky, tar-like sap oozed from broken stems.

Tash crouched beside Elain, dropping her basket with a sigh. “We tried cutting it back. It just comes back darker.”

Elain knelt beside the patch, her heart aching. This wasn’t neglect. This was something worse. A plague. And it was spreading.

Behind her, Emerie spoke quietly. “It started just after Solstice. First the eastern fields, then the terraces. We burned sections. Added fresh soil. Nothing helped.”

Elain reached out. Let her fingertips brush the dirt. The ground was warm, but not with life. The magic inside it was twisted. Defensive. It recoiled from her touch.

She exhaled and closed her eyes. Let me in, she whispered silently. Not in words. In feeling. Let me understand. At first, resistance. Then, like roots cracking open stone, acceptance.

And what she found beneath the surface chilled her. It wasn’t natural. The rot hadn’t grown here, it had been fed. Poisoned into the earth. And now it clung to the roots like a parasite, snarled and festering.

Elain opened her eyes. “This is deliberate,” she said softly. “Someone did this.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered females. Bretha stepped forward, voice tight. “Who would—why would anyone—”

“I don’t know,” Elain said. She brushed her hand gently across the soil again. “But I can try healing it.”

She pressed her palm flat to the dirt. The air changed. A faint tremble rolled beneath her skin, then through the earth. Ivy stirred on the far edge of the terrace. Vines uncoiled from the stones, slow and watchful, like curious animals sniffing the wind. Not hers yet, but listening. The tainted plants shuddered. The rot twitched under her hand like it had been caught mid-feast. One stubborn stem—darkened and blistered—turned a soft, glimmering green. Only a single leaf. But it was enough.

Bretha leaned in, frowning, as if her eyes couldn’t be trusted.

The rot curled beneath Elain’s hand like it was alive. It fought her. Clawed at her with a whisper, I belong here. But she pushed deeper. The Earthvein pulsed. Not violently. But steady. Ancient. Like water finding a break in the dam.

Vines began to rise from the soil around her, gentle and insistent. They crept across the terrace like lacework, winding around dead stalks, lifting the dying plants as if cradling them.

Then came the voice, a sharp cry from behind.

“She’s cursed the soil!” The older woman—grizzled and wide-eyed—turned and ran up the mountain path, shouting, “I told you! It’s unnatural! That’s not gardening, it’s witchcraft!”

Two others followed, muttering, glancing over their shoulders like they expected the vines to chase them. Elain stayed where she was. Kneeling. Hand in the earth.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. But her pulse thundered in her ears. “I didn’t mean to frighten them,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Emerie stood beside her, arms crossed. Her voice was calm. Certain. “You didn’t,” she said. “They chose to be frightened.”

@elriel-month

Read The Rest on AO3

[mirrorballpages]

The Eyes & Ears of the Night Court

Summer at the River House was golden and blooming, the scent of jasmine trailing through every open window and the gardens bursting with late blossoms. The dinner table was long, oak polished to a gleam, and unusually full since everyone had come. Feyre and Rhys at the head, Nesta and Cassian near the wine, Amren and Varian flanking opposite ends, and even Mor, home from another diplomatic mission, laughing as she passed bread. And Azriel... Azriel was there too. Quiet, brooding, utterly still.

But he wasn’t there for the politics. Or the food. He was there for her.

Elain sat across from him, radiant in a soft green gown that clung to her waist, curls pinned half-up with sapphire combs. She was buttering a roll with delicate concentration, as if she weren’t acutely aware of his gaze.

They had been together for two months now. In secret. Since the night they had finally, finally stopped pretending. Since he’d whispered her name like a prayer and she had kissed every scar like a promise.

Now they were inseparable in every way that mattered. But no one knew. Not yet.

Azriel spent most nights at the townhouse, where Elain had moved a few months ago to get some privacy and space. Sometimes, when Azriel couldn't leave himself, she would slip into the House of Wind under the cover of shadows, barefoot and silent. Always returning before dawn. Always careful. And gods, she thrived on it. On the secrecy. On the danger.

Elain Archeron, the sweet, soft-spoken gardener, had learned to love the power in withholding. This was hers. Not dictated by sisters, or fate, or a Cauldron that had tried to rewrite her life. She chose Azriel. Chose silence. Chose to wrap herself in shadows and moonlight, to brush his hand in public like it meant nothing, only to leave wild roses on his pillow the next morning.

And Azriel let her.

Even though every part of him wanted to tell Rhys to go to hell. Every time Elain laughed at someone else’s joke, every time another male looked at her too long and he had to pretend—it tore at him. But he did it. Because she asked. Because he was good at secrets. Because she touched his scars like they were something worth saving.

The conversation shifted. Quickly. As it always did lately.

Windhaven.

Cassian was already four glasses deep, waving his hand in the air, wine sloshing dangerously close to his leathers. “The problem is, since the Blood Rite, none of them talk. The second I show up—silence. Even Az can’t pull anything from spying.”

That was true. Azriel had tried. The males stonewalled him. The females avoided him. Elain’s fork paused mid-bite. Her eyes lifted, not to Rhys or Feyre. To Azriel. A spark flickered behind her gaze. For months now, she’d been training with the twins, learning not only how to listen, but how to defend herself. How to move through the world without relying on anyone else to keep her safe. Ever since that dark spring when she’d been taken by the King of Hybern, her power shackled and voice silenced, Elain had vowed never to feel that helpless again.

And she hadn't.

People still saw her as the quiet one. The gentle one. The sister with flowers in her hair and honey on her tongue. But that softness had become her armor. Her weapon. It made her invisible to those who underestimated her. And that made her dangerous.

Everyone talked to Elain. The baker who gave her fresh loaves on Tuesdays. The courtiers who relaxed just a bit too much in her presence. Even visiting emissaries who forgot she was listening as they sipped tea in Feyre’s sitting room. Especially the women. They told her everything, assuming the smile meant harmlessness.

And now, as the conversation circled Windhaven and its silence, its unrest, a plan took root.

She spoke lightly, but there was steel beneath it. “Emerie told me the vegetable and herb gardens in Windhaven have started to fail. Something about a rot spreading through the grounds. I could offer to help.”

Several heads turned toward her. She went on, voice warm, steady. "It would give me a reason to be there, one no one would question. And while I’m working... I could listen. Because we all know the females—” she smiled slightly, “—they’re the ones who do the most talking.”

Azriel tensed. Not obviously. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But she saw it. The slight shift of his shoulder, the curl of a shadow up her wrist like a tether. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.

Mor lit up beside her. “That’s brilliant. Females always talk. Especially when no one thinks they’re being listened to.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow over her wine. “You’re sure they’d even let you close enough to listen? Illyrians hate everyone that isn’t them.”

“They might.” Elain swirled her wine in her glass, eyes distant. “People... have a way of opening up around me.”

“She's right,” Feyre added, glancing at Rhys. “Even in the human lands. Remember the manor servants? She had them vacating the home within minutes.”

Rhys’s expression remained carefully unreadable. His fingers drummed once against the table, then stilled.

“You’d have to be alone,” he said finally. “And while the females may not fight like the males, they’re not docile. If things go wrong—”

“I won’t be alone,” Elain interrupted gently. “Azriel can track me with his shadows. If anything happens, he can step in.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Everyone felt the shift in the room. Rhys’s jaw ticked. “Azriel hates Windhaven. We can send Cassian.”

Azriel’s voice was flat. Final. “I’ll go.”

All heads turned to him. His shadows thickened slightly, curling at the edges of the table like smoke.

“If they see Cassian with her, they won’t say a word. My shadows can hide. I won’t interfere unless I have to.”

Rhys opened his mouth, but Elain spoke first, sweet and sharp.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Azriel.” She turned to Rhys with the faintest edge of a smile. “That won’t be a problem... will it?”

A beat of silence. Rhys picked an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “No,” he said smoothly. “Of course not.”

Elain lifted her glass in silent toast. She didn’t look at Azriel, but she didn’t need to. She could feel his eyes burning on her skin like a brand.

🌸🎀💕🌷

The townhouse was silent save for the occasional crackle of the hearth in the sitting room below, and the whisper of wind slipping past the window panes. Summer air hung warm and heavy, thick with the scent of night roses blooming along the balcony. Elain sat curled on her bed, the book in her lap barely read, her thumb idly stroking the soft edge of the page. The moonlight pooled across her coverlet, painting her room in hues of silver and dusk.

And then the shadows came. Soft at first, like smoke trailing beneath the doorframe. They slithered along the walls, over her skin like a caress, brushing the back of her neck in silent greeting.

He was home.

Elain didn’t move, only glanced up as Azriel stepped from the shadows in the corner of her room, his face unreadable.

"Where the fuck did that idea come from?" he said without preamble, voice low and taut.

She smiled softly, feigning innocence. "Good evening to you, too."

He was already shedding his leathers, pulling off his boots with practiced ease, his shoulders rolling with tension. Even after all these months—after memorizing every scar, every plane of his muscled form—he still unraveled her with a glance. The way his wings arched when he was agitated, the subtle way he moved, efficient and lethal.

Her gaze dipped, following the ripple of his abdomen as he took off his jacket. She reached out, fingers grazing down the center of his chest, slow and reverent. But the touch faltered when she met his eyes again, simmering, barely restrained.

He was furious. And afraid. She folded her legs beneath her and returned her attention to her book. “You’re not surprised. You knew I was thinking of doing something.”

“I didn’t think it would be this,” he said, pacing now. “Inserting yourself into Windhaven politics.”

Elain lifted her chin. “Have you and the twins not been training me for exactly this?”

His steps stilled.

“You were the one who said I’d be good at being an emissary,” she continued, calm but firm. “So consider it a test. A single trip to see what I can uncover.”

"You shouldn’t go."

“I’m not asking your permission.”

That pulled his gaze to hers, sharp and hard-edged. His arms crossed over his bare chest, shadows pulsing faintly at his feet.

"You never need my permission. But you don’t know what it’s like there, Elain. The males—"

"—are Illyrian," she finished. "Like you."

He let out a bitter breath. "They’re backwards assholes who hate females, and hate High Fae even more."

"And yet, you said yourself the unrest needs eyes on it." Her voice softened, but her spine didn’t bend. "They won’t talk to generals or spies. But they might talk to a soft-voiced female who seems harmless. One who talks to flowers. One who seems like she isn’t paying attention."

Azriel’s jaw worked. His wings shifted again, as if preparing to take flight, even confined to this quiet room. She knew he hated that image of her. Hated that anyone, anywhere, still looked at her and saw fragility.

Because he saw more. He always had.

"When are you going to step into your power, Elain?" he asked suddenly, voice quieter now. Raw. “Really step into it.”

He sat beside her, reached for her hand, held it like it grounded him. Elain sighed, setting the book aside. “When things settle. When we can be honest about what we are. Then I’ll tell them. About the Earthvein magic. The visions. But now... there’s too much happening already.”

“We may not have that luxury.” His thumb stroked along her knuckles. “With Koschei stirring, and this unrest in Windhaven... they need to see what you can do.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I can’t just flip a switch and stop being who I was raised to be.”

Azriel didn’t speak right away. He just lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, slow and soft. A gesture that said I hear you. I see you. I will never push you before you’re ready.

And that was the thing about Azriel. He never demanded. Never rushed. He could command armies with a glance, silence a room with a word, but when it came to her… he only ever offered. Waited.

Elain exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she watched his lashes lower, his lips brushing her skin like it was sacred. She didn’t have to explain further. She never did. He always respected her decisions, even when he didn’t agree with them. And that was what undid her most.

Because Azriel… Azriel had seen her power before she had.

Long before the shadows wrapped around her fingers for the first time or the Earthvein stirred beneath her feet. Even then, he had watched her with that quiet, burning gaze, as if he knew what she was capable of. As if he was just waiting for her to realize it. He had seen her as strong. As dangerous. As someone who could shape the world with nothing more than a breath.

But she—she wasn’t ready.

Not because the power wasn’t there. It was. It thrummed in her bones, stirred when she touched the soil, whispered when her visions came too fast and too clear. It ached, sometimes, this tether to something ancient and wild. Something no one had taught her how to carry.

But power meant exposure.

Power meant stepping into the light.

And for Elain, that was far more terrifying than any monster in the night. She had been raised to be good. To be pleasing. To be perfect. And power, real power—messy, unpredictable, Fae power—was not perfect.

It was wild and consuming and loud. It was not what her mother would have wanted. It was not what the world expected of Elain Archeron, the flower-growing, tea-serving, quietly smiling middle sister.

So she curled it in, kept it quiet, like a vine growing inside the walls of her own chest. Hidden. Azriel shifted beside her, and she felt his shadows curl again, gentler this time. Not urging her. Just present. Just there.

“I know I need to,” she whispered after a long moment, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. “But the moment I do… the moment I step into it—it becomes real. And if I fall...if I fail…”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t finish. Azriel’s hand was still around hers. He turned her palm over and pressed a kiss to the center of it. “If you fall,” he said quietly, “I will catch you.”

She closed her eyes.

“And if I lose control?”

“Then I’ll help you take it back.”

Her breath shuddered. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, eyes damp, but not quite crying. He didn’t hold her tighter, didn’t whisper reassurances he couldn’t promise. H

"You’ll be surrounded by Illyrians tomorrow," he murmured, shifting closer, his body heat wrapping around her like a cloak. He began kissing down her neck, slow, reverent. “Males who don’t give a damn about flowers or soft words. Males who’ll look at you and see something they want.”

Elain tilted her head, giving him more skin, smiling faintly. “They’ll see what I want them to see.”

He kissed her deeper, his grip tightening on her thigh.

“You forget,” she whispered, “I’m not as delicate as I look.”

Azriel paused, pulled back enough to meet her eyes. Something dark and proud burned in his. "I never forget that," he murmured, his hands gripping her hips with reverent possession. “And gods, I wish they could smell me on you.”

His voice was low, rough with restraint. “I hate that I’ll have to wash my scent off you in the morning. I hate that I can’t claim you—truly—and have them know that you are mine. That no one else is allowed to even look at you.”

His wings flared slightly behind him, a stretch of shadow and power. And then he lowered his mouth to her skin, kissing down her throat, her collarbone, her chest, slow and consuming. Elain’s breath caught. Her heart beat like wings against her ribs. He had only just returned from the House of Wind after two long days away, and she had missed him, ache-deep and desperate.

"Someday," she gasped, her head tilting back for him, "everyone will know. That I am yours. And only yours."

Azriel groaned, deep and ruined, and began to slide down her body with a hunger that bordered on worship. He hooked his fingers beneath the lace of her panties and peeled them away, slow as sin.

“I missed this,” he breathed against her thigh. “I can’t even go two days without you without losing my fucking mind.”

Each kiss up her legs was a vow. His mouth traced fire over her skin, the scrape of stubble making her tremble.

He reached her neck again, his voice low and hoarse. “Use them.”

Her power sparked before he even finished speaking.

“I want to feel you like that,” he said, pressing kisses to her shoulder, her throat. “Let me see how strong you are.”

At a flick of her fingers, ivy began to stir on the windowsill, silky and slow, awakened by her magic. The vines slithered toward him, twining around his wrists and shoulders, one curling delicately around the base of his spine. Azriel shuddered.

He rolled beneath her, letting her climb over him, shadows flickering across his bare chest as he surrendered. He had always liked control. Had built a life around it. But with her, he gave it, freely and completely. They had played with his shadows first, Elain learning what he liked, what undid him. But the vines... the vines had been hers. And he had loved it.

For someone forged in silence and strategy, he took being undone so very well.

And Elain? She thrived in it.

“You’re mine, Shadowsinger,” she whispered, her voice dark silk, bending over him as the vines gently restrained his arms. His shadows curled up her thighs, eager and reverent, as she slipped off her dress and rid him of the last of his leathers.

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice broken now. “Say you’re mine.”

She leaned down, lips brushing his. “I always have been.”

That was all it took.

Azriel surged into her with a growl, her body arching, the vines tightening around them both, pulling them closer. She gasped, head falling back, pleasure rippling through her as she adjusted to his length, to the feel of him finally back where he belonged.

“Gods, Elain,” he groaned, eyes locked to hers. “You are so fucking perfect.”

She rode him slowly at first, his hands straining against the vines until one broke free, gripping her thigh with bruising intensity. His other hand slipped between them, stroking her with unerring precision.

“Azriel—” she moaned, already close, her voice breaking on his name.

“Louder,” he growled. “I need you to scream it.”

And she did. Her climax tore through her like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, brilliant and consuming. But Azriel wasn’t done. He never was. With a swift movement, he flipped them, cradling her body like it was precious even as he drove into her again. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed her deeply, thoroughly, his hands mapping every inch of her.

The vines curled tighter, binding them chest to chest, holding them together as if even nature couldn’t bear to part them.

And then—

She reached for his wing. Just the sensitive inner edge.

He roared.

“Fuuuck, El—” he growled, his voice ragged, his teeth sinking into the curve of her neck with barely restrained need. A mark. A promise. He pulled back just enough to look at her. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her flushed face. “Mine.”

Elain could barely think. Could only feel. Her body trembled as the second orgasm surged, vines and shadows entwined, their magic humming in perfect union.

Tomorrow, she would walk into Windhaven. Surrounded by males who would underestimate her. But tonight, Azriel reminded her—and himself—that she was not just lovely.

She was lethal.

And she was his.

And in the hush of that room, wrapped in ivy and shadow, he worshipped her like she was the only thing he'd ever believed in.

@elriel-month

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