starlightandsouls - Tumblr blog

starlightandsouls · 13 days ago

Text

breathe me back to life

characters: azriel yladi, eris vanserra

pairing: azris

rating: teen & up

word count: 3.5k

warnings: violent thoughts, murderous ideations, torturous ideations

summary: in the aftermath of an attempt on eris’s life, azriel shows him the love he needs.

a/n: happy @azrisweek to those who celebrate 🙂‍↕️ this is my humble contribution to day 5: favorite trope/au. love me some hurt/comfort. divs by the lovely the talented @olenvasynyt. find it on ao3 here. enjoy!

tag list: @buffy-vanserra @the-darkestminds @olenvasynyt @jules-writes-stories @palomita-de-la-sangre @g00seg1rl @mistandmemories @talibunny30 @pippsmcgee @astro-h0e-4azris @chunkypossum @iftheshoef1tz @ysmtttty @nightsandflamess @nus4y @imma-too-many-fandoms @tartruther (if u want on / off pls lmk !)

The hearth fire has become the room, its relentless, clamoring heat pressing in from all sides. Even with his distance from it, Azriel’s breaths feel heavy as though with soot. He would not be surprised to cough and find evidence of cinder collecting itself at the bottom of his lungs, laboring every swell and fall. Beads of sweat dot his brow and the nape of his neck, some rolling down his temples, others trickling along the bare column of his spine.

“I will stay with him, if you’d like,” the healer said some hours ago. “Such temperatures are not suitable for,” and there, she had hesitated, “fae who do not know the flame as he does.”

Azriel had not done much by way of response beyond sliding his gaze her way, but the female did not make the suggestion again.

Left blessedly alone now, Azriel reaches forth to smooth the hair back from Eris’s face. He has already done so several times, hoping with each one that the skin his wrist brushes against will have lost some of its deathly chill — but even with the room at a swelter and down-filled duvets tucked around his body, Eris remains frozen to the touch.

Azriel trails his fingers down Eris’s cheek, along the side of his neck, then rests them at the exposed sliver of his shoulder. It is like caressing marble. He is no better than a sculptor bestowing affection upon his lovingly carved statuary, hoping that if only he touches it just right, if only he whispers gentle enough words, it will be brought into life.

The poison Eris ingested at the revel had been masterfully concocted. It affected the tester, whose connection to Autumn magic is a pittance of his High Lord’s, well after Eris fell to it, and then only barely — and it affected Azriel, who drank deeply from Eris’s cup in his stead, not at all. Some novel combination of herbs and charms engineered to extinguish fire at its source, to snuff preternatural flame completely.

A threat formed with singular intent.

“The Mother was with him,” the healer told Azriel. “Another sip, and…”

She did not dare give voice to the rest of her sentence. Not with the way the shadows began to yawn and stretch towards her, their edges quivering with the demand for her silence, made permanent if need be. She took her leave not long after.

Needing only to know that his lover is not one of stone, Azriel does not realize how brutally he is pressing his fingers into Eris’s shoulder until he hears a groan, quiet and half-formed. His regard snaps up to Eris’s face, and he leans forwards instinctually: a devotee witnessing proof of divinity.

There is a downturn at the corners of Eris’s pale mouth. His brow is dipped in a barely-there furrow. His eyes, which remain closed, scrunch ever so at their edges.

It is the most life Azriel has seen in Eris since he sunk his nails into Azriel’s forearm, murmured out, “Something is wrong,” and crumpled against the back of his seat. Just that glimpse of the memory burns its way up Azriel’s chest and twitches his fingers with the vengeance he will soon exact.

“Eris.”

No response.

“Eris.”

“Mm.”

Heartbeat in his throat, Azriel pleads, “Open your eyes.”

Eris only frowns deeper, then creaks and cracks into motion beneath the covers. He slides his newly animated arm out as though reaching for something he has lost. His mouth moves, but the words nearly float off into nothing, so insubstantial that even the shadows catch onto them only barely:

“Where’re you?”

Azriel moves deeper into the bed, until his thigh presses against Eris’s waist. A droplet of sweat plods onto the topmost blanket, soaking dark into the finely woven fabric. One of Eris’s favorites.

Sit up, Azriel thinks. Scold me. Send me off to the bath. Tell me not to return until I no longer smell like a dog. Anything. Anything, so that I know you’re alright.

He says, “I’m here,” and it sounds just as desperate to the ear.

Eris parts his lips as though to speak again—

—and is instead overtaken by a shiver. A great, heaving rack of his body, so violent that it displaces the duvets atop him. Just as it tapers off to its end, another seizes at his limbs.

The healer told Azriel that this, when it happened, would be a good sign, no matter how frightening it would seem. His body fell into a sort of stasis after his flame guttered, shocked as it was by the sudden loss of the internal source of his magic. For it now to be seeking to generate heat through physical means, the way any other fae’s might, means that his strength is returning to him.

Knowing this does little to assuage the impact of what Azriel sees: muscles fluttering with cramp, teeth chattering hard enough to sever tongue, face pinching up in uncontrollable distress.

Impotently, Azriel smooths at Eris’s hair again. His own hand is jostled by the tremors he meets, or else it has begun shaking itself. He balls it into a fist to steady it and finds himself imagining Truth-Teller in his hold, blood slipping hot and free-flowing between his knuckles, red and red and red, until there is nothing left of the assailant but regret for daring to harm the heart beating outside of Azriel’s body.

How could he have let such a thing happen? How could he have been careless enough to allow a threat to get this close, to nearly succeed beyond? He could have lost Eris tonight. He could have discovered what it would be like to have and to lose this love he never thought could be his. He could have returned to this room, alone, unmoored, forever in wait of a miracle that would not come. How could he have let s—

Eris whimpers.

Azriel has never heard him make such a noise, not in pain, not in pleasure. It is a small sound at the back of his throat, not unlike that a child might make, and it ends with a sniffle. In its resonance, Azriel feels something inside of him fray.

Eris jerks onto his side, curling up around the crook of Azriel’s leg from beneath the covers. He shudders out, “Az—riel.”

“My love,” Azriel responds, ragged, exposed. They are not ones for such frivolities, but there is nothing else to call him in this moment.

Nearly a sob, “‘m so — cold.”

Once Eris was settled beneath the blankets, and the hearth was lit, and the charm on it brought the room up to the natural temperature of his body, the healer told Azriel not to disturb him. She chose her words with more care than that, for this was sometime after she reminded Azriel of Eris’s mortality, but she had been adamant that Eris stay as he was until the poison left his body. She used words like precarious and uncertain — words that have never been used to describe Eris before.

The thought of leaving him to suffer that alone any longer snaps that fraying thing inside Azriel clean through.

“Please,” Eris anguishes as the blankets are peeled back. “It,” a sniffle, a shiver, “h—urts.”

“I know,” Azriel murmurs, settling in alongside Eris and adjusting the covers back around them. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Both reach for one another in tandem, a frantic, naked truth laid bare in the way they grab at each other. Azriel pulls Eris bodily atop him, wrapping his arms tight about Eris’s waist. Eris, squirming with the relentless nature of his discomfort, tucks his hands in the sweat-slick crease of Azriel’s underarms, pressing his thigh between Azriel’s legs and his feet beneath Azriel’s calves and his face into the crook of Azriel’s neck. It feels as though a tundra has suddenly spread itself across Azriel’s flushed, overheated skin, a cold scalding him near to the point of pain.

Holding Eris all the tighter to him, Azriel unfurls his wings and cocoons them both, gasping and shaking and clinging, against the harsh of the world.

“I’m so sorry,” Azriel murmurs into the crown of Eris’s head.

“Az—ri—el,” Eris cries.

“I’m here, my love, my heart.”

Eris curls his fingers into the muscles at Azriel’s back, little pinpricks of ice that ought to stab deeper, that ought to punish. Only half-aware, he whimpers, “Don’t leave m—e. Please — don’t leave me.”

Azriel swallows down against the constriction at his chest, but there is little he can do to fend against the prickling at his eyes. How strange, to hear the words he had been whispering repeated back to him now, those words he had been imbuing into his marble lover in the hopes it would be enough to give him life back.

Barely a whisper, he says that which he wanted to hear himself: “Never.”

A pitiful, huffing sound at his ear. At its underside, something alarmingly akin to disbelief — some vestige of Eris’s past reared up even now. A wound of the father, a wound of the mother, one that has not yet scarred over and still gives him pain.

“Never,” Azriel repeats, this time more fiercely.

Eris only shakes in his arms, seeming smaller than he ever has before.

“I love you, Eris. Tell me you understand what that means.”

With an immediacy that suggests he is only reacting to the tone of command, Eris nods against Azriel’s throat. The frigid tip of his nose traces along Azriel’s pulse, stirring it into a race, and his breath puffs out in frosty clouds below.

Whatever snapped in Azriel earlier whips against his heart in overwhelming demand. He had come so, so close to never being able to talk with Eris like this again — to never giving clear voice to the intimacies they are both more comfortable to leave unspoken. He cannot imagine. He cannot imagine what that would have been like, in the world where he did not drink of the cup, in the world where Eris turned statue for ever and no amount of prayers to him breathed him back.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you like this again,” Azriel swears. He sweeps a hand up, into the length of hair he cannot feel but likes to pretend he can when his touching it has Eris making the soft, pleased sound he makes now, in between his shivers. “And whoever did tonight will not meet a swift death at my hand.”

He has had plenty of time to plan it, in his sweating and waiting and beseeching.

It will be a public flaying. He will peel the skin away slowly, inch by inch, until they are not recognizable beyond that they were once alive and are now only meat. The makings of it will be brutal enough to instill in any others with similar intent what fate awaits them for so much as harboring such thoughts. Blood will run through the streets over days and weeks, until the commonfolk begin to complain of the stench down in their quarters and the farmers bemoan it from their fields, until all are drawn in to witness the festering, near-dead bodies and cry out on behalf of their mercy.

Even then, Azriel will keep them alive for what he plans to do to them in the privacy of the dungeons.

“You love me,” Eris whispers.

“More than anything,” Azriel whispers back.

The tremor that runs the length of Eris’s spine then, Azriel thinks, is not just from the chill in his body. He chatters out, “I un—derstand.”

They lay wrapped up in one other as the late hours slowly drift by. Azriel only knows time is passing at all because the trembling against him begins to lessen, first in severity, then for respites where it ceases altogether. This, and the way his wings begin to ache at their joinings to his back from being held to their extended position for so long — but that he does not pay any attention to, for it is the least he can offer.

He offers other things, too. Little oblations to his love and his heart for returning to him, for coming back to life.

He offers his hands: fingers running through hair, nail dragging against scalp, dipping low to the nape of slender neck and into the space just beneath the ear, where he knows Eris likes it best. He offers his mouth: lips to the forehead, to feel body temperature rise, to hear the small hums of appreciation when he presses them elsewhere, the temple, the cheek, feather-light against the eyelid; whispered words that mean nothing, that mean everything, if they keep Eris here with him; I know it hurts, but it is almost over, I am here, I am here always, I would do anything for you, I love you I love you I love you. He offers his body: the heat and the sweat and the harbor, made safe only for Eris, eager to be clung to, rocked against, pressed into until there is nothing able to come between them, not even death.

During one of the reliefs from his shivers, Eris mumbles against Azriel’s collarbone: “You smell.”

Azriel smiles to himself, skimming his nails along Eris’s upper arm. “Like a dog?”

“Yes,” Eris says, “which makes its inoffensiveness of particular concern.”

Azriel chuckles.

Eris opens his eyes for the first time in a kiss of lashes against Azriel’s neck. They are low-lidded and soft on Azriel’s face when Azriel adjusts to meet them, and he blinks like he has never seen Azriel before.

“I’d ask how you’re feeling,” Azriel says, “but that tells me all I need to know.”

Unimpressed: “Mhm.”

This sound draws out as Azriel moves his hands up to Eris’s shoulders and begins kneading his thumbs into the muscles there, which are tight and undoubtedly causing him pain. He works up into the neck, then where he can reach of the back, until Eris limbers. The loose weight atop him has Azriel finally breathing easier, even if the air itself still suffocates.

As the thought occurs to Azriel, he feels it begin to meet his lungs cooler, then cooler yet on the next inhale. His hands go still.

He says, “Stop that,” but such relief floods him in the realization that Eris is regaining control over his dominion that it emerges ineffective. To give his protest better standing, he adds, “You need it.”

“It’s doing nothing for me now but making my pillow too wet for comfort.”

For emphasis, Eris slides his cheek down along Azriel’s chest with facilitated ease. Azriel cannot deny the way his skin pebbles with delight as the heat steadily lessens — though this could just as likely be a result of Eris moving against him.

Still, he insists, “Leave it.”

With some measure of regret, Azriel lowers his wings back against the mattress and pushes the covers back from their bodies to expose them once more to the open air and the world beyond. He does not do so consciously, but some manner of instinct has him tucking Eris down into his side, draping a leg and an arm over as though to shield him.

“There,” Azriel murmurs.

Eris presses a kiss to the dip between his collarbones, as much to show his affection as it is to distract Azriel from the continued lancing of the warmth from the room.

“Please,” Azriel says, quietly. “I can’t—” lose you, live without you, know an after you “—see you that way again.”

“Made to look a fool?”

“No,” is all Azriel can manage with the way his voice threatens to break.

The temperature levels out.

Eris shifts enough that he can press his forehead to Azriel’s. This is made a more arduous task for him than it ought have been, for Azriel cannot make himself loosen his hold even slightly.

They lay there like this, wrapped up tight in one another, for some time more. They keep their eyes closed, their grips tight. Eventually, their breathing begins to slow with exhaustion, a shared pace, as though Azriel is still bidding Eris live. His hold begins to slacken.

When, nearly taken by sleep, this floating realization brings Azriel to jerk into a pulse-thudding, scrabbling wakefulness, Eris keeps steady for the pair of them. He does not complain as Azriel surges over him, pressing his face to the beat of the heart at his chest — nor when Azriel follows the path up to his throat, licking and suckling along the pulse there, indulging in the tang of his own sweat on Eris’s skin. A groan sounds when the sudden racing of his heart has Azriel pulling away for the fright of overexerting him so soon, but even Eris knows he is too weary in the moment.

“You love me,” Eris sighs onto Azriel’s face.

“I love you,” Azriel replies, drinking in the returned life in him from just below — the color returned to his marble skin, that rich blush that suffuses his fair coloring; the flame burning bright in the amber of his eyes, always in a dance when they meet Azriel’s; the smile he secrets away in a meeting of their lips, a blessing granted. Against his mouth, “I love you.”

It is at this moment that his shadows, which have been gathered dutifully at all of the windows and doors in their chambers, alert him of someone approaching at the servants’ entrance, like the spiral of a web vibrating out upon being snagged. On its quiver, a name: Aralim. The spy Azriel dispatched in his stead to identify the perpetrators of this plot while he held vigil.

Eris winds his arms around Azriel’s neck and holds tight to him.

“It’s—”

“I’m sure.”

“I need her report.”

“Then bid her enter.”

Azriel pushes off the mattress, but he only gets as far as propping himself up against the headboard with Eris moving back into position atop him.

Amongst his network of spies, the sexual nature of the relationship he and Eris have is no secret, but the true depth of what they have cultivated for themselves remains unspoken, unseen. To find them in bed, intertwined, neither able to reign in the intensity of the connection between them—

Aralim knocks at the false wall, a rhythm only she knows, in case anyone thought to trick his shadows with glamour.

Azriel says, “You’ll be upset with me in the morning.”

“Worry about that come morning,” Eris replies, nuzzling deeper into Azriel’s chest. Then, “Stay with me.”

Unable to deny him, Azriel pulls one of the blankets up and over Eris’s head so that, though there is no disguising the fact that there are two bodies beneath, he will not be seen so vulnerably. He then draws shadows cast by the hearth throughout the room over the pair of them, until no more than his own face is distinguishable within the murk.

Aralim does not so much as blink at the strangeness of this sight. Her reporting is succinct, as it always is, and in it are the five names Azriel had been expecting — Emile, second-born son of the late Beron and bereaved Amalia; three of the supporters in his tenuous claim to the throne; and the apothecary they found to facilitate their plot.

Eris will not allow him to kill Emile, though he has been eager to for centuries now. Azriel knows this too well, how deep Eris’s love runs, even for those who do nothing but hurt him — how futile it would be to try to challenge that. Emile will live on for now.

The others, though.

Their blood debt belongs to him, and he will ensure Emile stands witness to his eventual fate, whether by his hand or another’s.

Aralim finishes with, “If there is anything else—”

“There is,” Azriel says, brusque in his renewed anger. “Go to the kennels. Tell the attendant to bring the hounds up.”

Aralim nods and heads off to her task.

“They’ll need a scent,” Eris says, hushed, distant. He is looking at Azriel’s shadows as they dissipate, but Azriel is certain he is not seeing much of anything but his brother, plotting against his life yet again.

The drowsy serenity that had bloomed around them threatens to wither and die.

Azriel runs a hand through Eris’s hair and says, “I’m not sending them out.”

Eris flicks his gaze up to Azriel in question.

“If it already smells of dog in here, I don’t see the harm in letting them sleep with us tonight.”

There is a long moment where Eris just looks at Azriel. Then, with touch just right, in tones gentle enough to bring life back to their sanctuary, Eris says, “I love you, too.”

57 notes · View notes

starlightandsouls · 15 days ago

Text

Family Line: Chapter 2

A/N: Aahhh I'm so excited to post this, I love this chapter so much! Again, first time writing Azris so feedback is always welcome! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, I always love to discuss them

Azriel POV...

Azriel stirred, the pain blooming in slow, measured waves. Not enough to scream. Just enough to remind him that someone wanted him alive — but helpless. And helpless was in fact the best way to describe him at the moment. Hours after hours of trying to pull off the chains, to just get one hand free, had only resulted in more aches and pains.

However, the only thing he had going in his favour was that he had deduced where he was being held: the Court of Nightmares. There were places in the Night Court that even Rhysand didn’t like to acknowledge. Places that belonged not to the stars, but to the bones of the world. The Vault was one of them — buried beneath the Hewn City, deeper than even the dungeons, guarded by no soldiers because none were needed. The stone remembered.

How could Azriel, the feared torturer of the Night Court, not recognise the darkness he had dwelled in for so long; haunting the shadows, bringing pain everywhere he went. But that was his role: the punisher, the torturer. He had never been the one in the chains. Now at least Azriel knew how his captives felt.

The stone floor beneath him was lined with runes that pulsed faintly with power, ancient and binding. His shadows — always the first to stir, to shield, to warn — had been stripped from him

His wrists were chained above him with what felt like mist and iron; his wings were stretched wide, bound at unnatural angles, a cruel mimicry of flight. Every breath hurt. His head throbbed with a dull ache — not from a blow, but from something more insidious. He had been drugged. He remembered the numbness just before unconsciousness. He remembered—

The scent hit him. It was faint at first..Cinnamon. Jasmine. The wind before a summer storm.

It couldn’t be. He twisted in the chains, the pain sharpening in his shoulders as he strained.

Footsteps echoed down the stone corridor. Light, unhurried. Familiar in a way that clawed through the haze in his mind. And when the door opened, it wasn’t a stranger or a faceless enemy that stepped through.

It was her.

Morrigan.

For one breathless moment, Azriel thought it was a hallucination.She stood framed by the door, golden hair braided back from her face, her dark robe whispered against the floor like a funeral shroud. Her eyes met his — and didn’t soften.No relief. No guilt. No remorse.

Just cool, composed calculation.

Azriel froze.

“…Mor?”

The name cracked out of him, raw and rasping.

She didn’t answer. She didn't deny anything. She didn't explain. Just walked forward — slowly, deliberately. Azriel’s heart pounded, cold and fast. His mind screamed for some other truth. A ruse. A spell. A double.

But it was her.

It was really her.

It was Mor — the woman who had once been his love, who had laughed with him beneath Sidra lights, who had held his secrets in silence while the world spun on.

His voice was quieter this time. Almost childlike. “You…?”

Her silence confirmed everything his heart hadn’t yet allowed him to believe. He flinched as if struck — not from pain, but from a deeper wound opening in his chest.

“No,” he whispered. “No, not you.”

Mor tilted her head, as if studying him like a puzzle she had already solved.

“You did this,” he said, more to himself than to her. “You planned it… how?”

His voice trembled. “Why?”

Still no answer. Just the quiet satisfaction of watching realization hollow him out.

“You have always been a fool, Azriel. And a dangerous one. I told Rhysand, I've always told him to keep you on a leash. That one day you would bring our ruin. And now look. You went and fell in love with the wrong person.”

It was like a blade to the gut. Not because it hurt — but because it sounded so small. So petty. So cruel.

Azriel stared at her, feeling the betrayal wrap itself tight around his ribs. “Mor…have you lost your mind!!”

She smiled then — not kindly.

“No,” she said, “You are the one who has lost his wits, Azriel. If you were as level headed as you have always been, you wouldn't have made such a stupid decision. Eris? Of all the people in the world?”

Azriel made no mind to her arguments, her complaints. His thoughts were reeling… with betrayal, with confusion, with anger. What delusion was Mor under right now?

“How…how did you even do this?”

Morrigan scoffed, “If Rhysand wanted to protect you from me, he shouldn't have shouted where he was sending you right where I could oh so easily hear it. From there, it only took a simple spell to knock you out while you waited for Rhysand. I must admit you being caught up in your own head did help, so thank you for that.”

“Rhys… he'll… he won't let you get away with this, he'll come for me. Rhysand-”

“Thinks you're in the Autumn Court, that you left in a fit of rage to be with your mate, cursing my name and of this Court,” Mor interrupted with a smirk, as if she was delivering the punchline to a heinous joke, “imagine the betrayal he must be feeling right now. He and Cass were so welcoming, so accepting. They even shielded you from me. And when your brother, your High Lord, asked you to wait, you abandoned him. The only thing Rhys will do is banish you to Autumn forever, after I do a little talking of course.”

No, no,no. His brother wouldn't fall for this. Rhys has to know Azriel would never… But if his brother wasn't coming… Eris. His mate would surely come for him when he didn't return to the Autumn Court.

“As for the other part of the equation, well. I'll take care of Eris too.”

Azriel’s head jerked up at Eris’ name. What exactly did Mor mean by “take care” of him? Surely she wasn't so far lost to her madness that she would attempt an attack against a High Lord…she has to know it would plunge Prythian back in a war.

“You touch him, if you even think about Eris, I swear Mor…” he growled, not able to do much right now than deliver empty threats. How pathetic, Azriel couldn't even protect his own mate.

“Such loyalty, so admirable, but so misplaced. But don't worry I won't harm your beloved Eris,” she spat out Eris’ name like it was a curse, “The only thing I need to do to him is convince him that you've abandoned him, that you chose us over him. Trust me the pain of a shattered bond will hurt him more than any blade ever could.”

“He won't fall for your tricks, Mor. You know he won't. Just please, just listen to me. We can talk”

A slap cut through the air as Azriel's head jerked to the side. Claws pierced into his cheek as Mor pulled his head back to look at her,

“Eris will believe whatever I say. Because your shadows will be the ones delivering the letter.”

“You have actually lost your mind if you think even for a second, that I would help you,” he spat out.

“Not even for your mother?”

Azriel stilled. Up until this point, his mind had been consumed with confusion and hurt and betrayal. Now, rage laid waste to all other emotions and stood out as a force driving him to annihilation. Throughout their conversation Azriel had only been thinking a way out of this that involved no one getting hurt. Surely, Morrigan was just… angry. He would have forgiven his whole thing if she'd let him out. But now… mentioning his mother? Azriel would crack her skull in a heartbeat, with no thought whatsoever to what she had once meant to him.

“Mor,” he started slowly, a warning, to not go further with whatever foolish scheme she had concocted.

It was then that she pulled out a bracelet, a painfully familiar bracelet.

“This is hers right? I visited her yesterday, she was so worried about you, Az. You haven't visited her in so long. I guess you've been too busy fraternising with the enemy to be a good son.”

“Don't bring her into this Morrigan!”

“Me? You're the one who put her at risk, Azriel, not me. That said, she's safe for now. And if you want her to stay that way you'll do exactly what I tell you to. You'll send a letter I've written to Eris, with your shadows. So he knows it's you and there's no chance of forgery.”

Shadows. If Azriel could just get them back for a second he could break free-

“Don't get any ideas in that head of yours Azriel. I'll undo the spells on your chains for just long enough so you can send the letter. Don't think about using the shadows to make any moves. You might as well kill me in a second with your shadows. But I have people with your mother too, keep that in mind. If I die, so does she. You'll never get to her in time.”

So he truly was condemned. Freedom in his grasp but still so unattainable. Despite everything, despite all the pain coursing through his back, his wings, the ache in his arms from being held in odd angles…this still didn't feel real. How could Mor do this? He had imagined her being angry but this…

Like she had said, Mor waved her hands and Azriel could practically feel the wards in the chains lessen. Just then, his shadows returned to him. They swirled and flowed all over his body, caressing the marks left by the chains as if a mother soothing her child's wounds. His mother. Azriel barely had half a second to make a decision. How serious was Mor? Azriel had always prided himself in being able to correctly judge people but at this moment he was lost. What to do, which path to take. One led to freedom, one to captivity. He could use the shadows to snap Mor’s neck, or he could send the letter to Eris that would damn their love forever. His mother or his mate. How could the Mother be so cruel to put Azriel at this crossroad.

In the end, after centuries of enduring pain and hardship, Azriel knew he couldn't sentence his mother to Morrigan. He couldn't risk her, no matter what, no matter what he had to sacrifice.

He ordered his shadows, despite their own protest, to simply deliver the letter Mor had pulled out to Eris, and nothing else. As soon as the letter disappeared, Mor waved her hand again, and just like that the wards were back up, his shadows were gone.

“Now that's taken care of. Your turn Azriel. What to do with you?” Mor asked calmly, walking upto Azriel and inspecting him as if he was some animal up for display in a cage. And he supposed he was right now.

She stopped behind him, fingers hovering just above the membrane of his left wing.

“I could tear these off,” she whispered. “Not slice. Not cut. Simply cut them off. Your wings gone. And you’d never fly again.”

A pulse of magic flared, and Azriel’s body spasmed — the bond between muscle of his wings and his back stretched thin, nearly snapping. He gasped, pain rippling through every nerve.

“I won’t kill you,” she said, walking back into view. “But I will remind you what loyalty means in this court.”

She raised her palm — and from it, threads of golden-red magic slithered outward like snakes. They wrapped around Azriel’s chest, his temples, his heart.

Memory magic.

She began feeding him visions. Eris, over and over — lying, betraying, laughing at Azriel behind closed doors. Eris whispering false promises. Eris bedding other males. Eris handing Azriel’s secrets to Beron. False memories — twisted, forged — but vivid enough to splinter a soul.

Azriel’s scream tore through the chamber. Still, Mor did not flinch.

"You don't love him,” she said with a sneer. “You’re just so used to being broken that when someone equally cracked crawls toward you, you think it's connection.”

He gasped as she invaded his mind — a thousand versions of events that never happened. She smiled, watching him stagger beneath the weight of her illusions.

“Why are you doing this?” he choked.

“Because I can,” she whispered.

She moved behind him. Her fingers hovered over his wings. “These used to mean something. You used to fly for me. Kill for me.”

“I never belonged to you.”

She went still. Her breath caught — just for a moment — before her magic flared again.

And then she broke one of the chains holding his left wing.

Not to release him.

But to twist the wing downward — sharply, unnaturally — until Azriel screamed.

“You always said you loved me,” she said, pacing slowly. “But you still chose to become his. You knew how much I loathe Eris, but that didn't stop you did it?”

There it was.

Not heartbreak.

Not grief.

Humiliation.

Morrigan didn’t love him. Not really. She just couldn’t stand that he’d chosen Eris — that he’d looked at her greatest shame and said, I want him anyway.

Her face twisted — ugly and unguarded. “Because no one saved me.”

She moved closer again, hands glowing.

“I’ll make sure no one saves you.”

Fire — woven with starlight, her own sadistic twist — crackled down his spine and through his wings, searing along his nerves until he couldn’t stop the screams from pouring out. Again and again he screamed, begging for it to stop but she had no remorse.

But it didn't stop. Until it did. All that fire, extinguished in a second.

Mor stepped forward, too fast, too violently, and grabbed his face in one hand.

“I want you to understand something,” she whispered, her nails digging into his skin. “I don’t care if he’s changed. I don’t care if he kissed your scars and cried afterward. I want him to suffer. I want you to suffer. I want this love you’re clinging to like a lifeline to rot in your hands.”

Azriel didn’t flinch. “Then say that. Don’t pretend this is justice.”

Something snapped in Mor. She put aside her magic and started clawing at his face herself, her nails digging into his skin, his eyes.

Azriel gasped, his voice hoarse. “You’re not angry I love him. You’re angry I stopped choosing you.”

She struck him again. A clean hit to his jaw, hard enough to draw blood.

“I never wanted your love!” she screamed. “I wanted your loyalty!”

“And when I gave it,” he spat, “you hated that it wasn’t enough.”

Mor stood there, breathing hard, trembling. Her hands bled — from her nails digging into her own palms.

Then she laughed again. Quietly this time. Numb.

“Oh Azriel… you’re right,” she whispered. “This was never about betrayal.”

She leaned in, her mouth brushing his ear.

“This is about punishment. And luckily for you, there are so many in Hewn City who have been dying for a chance to exact their revenge upon the Shadowsinger. I'm sure you'll have a lot of fun down here with. And make sure to enjoy, because no one is coming to save you, Azriel.”

Then, without another word, she vanished, leaving behind only the echo of her threat, and the ruin of what she used to be.

Nesta POV…

It wasn't every day that her calm and easy going mate barged into their room, looking half crazed. With how Cassian had been pacing the room for the past hour, she was well on her way to declare him completely mad. Not that she was faring any better. Her mate had filled her in on everything that had transpired and for the first the viper tongued Archeron had… nothing to say. Nothing at all.

Because how do you process everything that had gone down? That too in her absence which she was still annoyed about. Azriel had found his mate? And too in Eris Vanserra? It was shocking and so utterly random but… Nesta couldn't bring herself to feel anything but joy in this moment. Knowing her mate’s and this Court's history with the eldest Vanserra, logically Nesta knew she should be apprehensive, unsettled, angry even? But none of those emotions had any place in her right now.

Now, she was only overflowing with joy for Azriel, for her best friend, for… her brother. The Shadowsinger had been the only one to not treat her like a freak, to offer her respect and friendship. He had always supported her and was kind to her without ever expecting anything in return. Hearing the news, she had instantly inquired about Azriel's whereabouts.

She might be completely acceptant of Azriel and his mate, but she knew how dramatic, how utterly self centred Rhysand and his Inner Circle could be. Nesta didn't want Azriel to be ambushed with hate and anger. She wanted to go to her brother and congratulate him, to tell him that she would be by his side no matter what.

However, all her plans were instantly shut down when Cassian had told her that apparently Azriel had returned to the Autumn Court in a fit of rage. Cassian then retold Morrigan’s appearance and her unruly reaction. Despite what her mate said, Nesta wasn't surprised one bit. Leave it to Mor to make someone else's mating bond all about herself. Nesta would know.

From what Mor said, she hd followed Azriel to the House of Wind to confront him when he had unleashed a verbal assault against her, Rhysand, Feyre, this court… apparently he had cursed them all, calling them “ungrateful hypocrites” and has vowed never to return.

Nesta didn't believe that for a second. It didn't sound like what Azriel would ever do. The level headed, kind Shadowsinger would never resort to this. And she had said as such to her mate and was horrified at his reaction.

“You're not believing her, Cassian?” She asked incredulously.

“I don't know what to believe right now, Nes. So much happened so quick…”

“Azriel would never speak like that about you, about Rhysand. And he would never leave this Court in such a manner. It's his home for Cauldron's sake!”

“Okay, then where is he? Rhysand told him to wait at the House of Wind but he's nowhere to be found. Rhys tried reaching out to his mind but he completely shut us off. What do you want me to believe in this scenario, Nes?” her mate attempted to reason.

“Not Morrigan! Knowing how biased she is in this situation why would you believe anything she says about Azriel?”

“Because all the evidence is in her favour right now. We don't have any choice but to believe her!”

“Yeah you people really have a problem of believing Morrigan way too easily,” Nesta bit back, being a first hand victim of Mor’s venom. With that she walked right out of the room, needing some space from her mate and his incessant support of Morrigan.

The next couple of days passed and there was no news of Azriel. It didn't matter that everyone else's confidence in Az was slowly chipping away, Nesta persevered. It had led to many a spat between her and her mate, but Nesta refused to believe Morrigan until she heard it from Azriel herself.

That being said, the entire court couldn't be put to halt in wait of Azriel, if anything just to avoid suspicion. So today the entire Inner Circle had to visit the Court of Nightmares to once again deal with Keir’s unreasonable demands. Why Rhysand still let him live was beyond her.

Nonetheless, Nesta had adorned herself in a way that was appropriate for that rancid place and had taken her mate's arm when he offered it. Hewn City was too vile to face alone. For all her bravado, she often found herself reaching for her mate in that place.

Together they had all winnowed to the Court, putting aside the problem tearing apart their family. After all they had duties to fulfill.

The Court of Nightmares pulsed with its usual decadence and decay.

Music like poison-laced silk wound through the air. Shadows clung to obsidian columns. Nobles lounged on velvet-draped divans, sipping wine and watching each other like wolves circling carrion. Nesta stood near the edge of the dais, her posture perfect, her expression bored — but her mind sharp as ever.

Rhysand was holding court, flanked by Feyre and Cassian. Mor stood just behind them, radiant and composed, her golden hair catching the light, her laughter echoing with just the right hint of cruelty for this place.

But something was off.

Mor’s eyes didn’t gleam the way they usually did when she was here, there was no haughty arrogance, no flaunting the fact that she had escaped this hellhole. And when she excused herself, voice smooth as satin, Nesta’s instincts flared.

It wasn't suspicion, more like dread. The kind of instinct she had learned not to ignore.

Nesta waited for a beat, then another. When Mor slipped down a side corridor, one the others didn’t seem to notice, Nesta followed.

She moved silently, hugging the shadows, navigating the underbellies of the Court like she’d always belonged here.The hallway Mor took wasn’t one of the usual passageways. No guards. No torches. Just cold stone and ancient air. The kind of forgotten path people stopped noticing after a few centuries.

Nesta descended deeper, further than the dungeons she knew about. The floor changed from carved marble to blackened rock. The air thickened. A faint glow shimmered ahead. Faint enough it could be missed if you weren’t looking.

Mor stood in front of an arched doorway carved with old, dark runes — the kind even Nesta didn’t recognize. Her hands moved with practiced ease, pressing a sequence along the stone.

The door groaned open. And Mor slipped inside. Nesta waited until the door sealed behind her, then crept forward. Her pulse thundered. The stone was warm beneath her palm, pulsing with a warded heartbeat. She didn’t dare try undoing the sealing runes herself, knowing she would only alert Morrigan of her presence. But there was a narrow alcove to the side, cut deep into the wall. Nesta slid into it and waited.

She wasn’t prepared for what she heard.

Chains. A muffled sound — like someone breathing through pain. Then Mor’s voice.

Low. Hushed. But icy cold.

“You should be grateful I let you keep your wings. They might be torn and burnt but at least they're not cut off.”

Silence.

Then: “They're here you know. Rhysand and Cassian. Your dear brothers. Just a few staircases away. But you don't get excited, there's no one coming to save you Azriel. You want to know why? Because they all hate you.”

Nesta’s breath caught.

Azriel.

She couldn’t hear his voice, but she felt his presence. A thread of something frayed and fragile in the air. Mor kept talking. Words like loyalty and betrayal. Mentions of Eris. And then — laughter.

Mocking. Empty. Cracked laughter. Like the sound of someone unraveling in real time. Nesta gripped the wall until her knuckles turned white.

She should’ve barged in. She should’ve drawn her power and burned the door down. But one look at those runes, at the weight of Mor’s voice, and she knew: she wasn’t ready. Not yet. And if Mor caught her here, who knows what that psycho would do. She might even kill Azriel before Nesta had the chance to alert Rhysand.

So she did what she hadn’t done in years.

She turned and ran.Back through the shadows. Back through the stench of incense and wine and blood. Back toward the world of masks and thrones. But her heart stayed in that room, screaming.

The hallway seemed longer on the way back.

Nesta walked quickly, every echo of her footsteps sounding too loud. Her pulse pounded in her ears like war drums. When she emerged once more into the hall of the Court of Nightmares, the noise hit her like a wave.

Laughter. Music. The clinking of crystal. A world still turning.

Her eyes swept the room. Mor wasn’t back yet.

But Rhys was on his throne, dark and composed, one arm slung lazily over the armrest. Feyre beside him, leaning close to whisper something. Cassian stood at the base of the dais, his shoulders taut beneath his armor — ever the general, always alert.

Nesta opened her mouth.

“—Rhys,” she almost said.

But something in her stalled. Rhysand’s gaze slid over to her, and for a heartbeat, it held. Warm. Curious. Maybe even slightly amused.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if he knew?

The thought slithered in, cold and sudden.

What if he gave the order?

Mor had always been one of his inner circle. Trusted. Untouchable. What if Azriel had been deemed a threat? What if his closeness with Eris, with Autumn Court, had been too risky?

And Mor — Mor could be the dagger Rhys sent when he didn’t want to be seen holding the blade.

Nesta’s throat tightened.

She forced her expression into something smooth. Her hands shook behind her back, but she hid them in the folds of her dress.

No one noticed.Or if they did, no one said a word.

Feyre was speaking to a steward. Cassian caught her eye then, and smiled faintly, the kind of smile only someone who loved you could give.

“Ready to go?” he asked, voice low.

Nesta only nodded, she feared she would give herself away entirely if she uttered a word.

But as they winnowed back to Velaris, she turned to him before they could fly up the stairs to the House.

“Cassian,” she said, too sharply.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“I just… I need a walk. Clear my head. The Court made me… tense.”

Cassian studied her. For a moment she thought he might insist, follow, or worse, offer comfort. But instead, he gave a half-smile. “Don’t stay out too long.”

And then she turned, the city at her back, the stars above; and the weight of what she’d seen pressing her deeper into silence with every step.

It wasn’t until she was halfway through Velaris, somewhere between the Sidra and the House of Wind, that the tremor in her hands started.She ducked into an alley, leaned against the stone wall and tried to take deep breaths.

Except it wasn’t really breathing. It was trying not to break.

Her fingernails dug crescents into her palms. She had seen war, death, beasts from beyond worlds — but nothing like this. Nothing that felt so wrong and yet so intimate. Mor’s voice still echoed in her skull.

How she had talked about cutting and burning his wings. Like Azriel wasn’t a person. Like he was something to play with and break as she wished.

Nesta squeezed her eyes shut. Guilt — no, shame — rippled through her.

He was her brother. Azriel had always shown up for her, silently, unobtrusively. That was the thing about him: he was never loud in his loyalty.

And now he was alone in that place. Muzzled. Shackled. And she’d just watched.

Watched. And left.

She slid down the wall, knees drawn to her chest, elbows braced. Her heartbeat wouldn’t slow. She tried to think. Strategize. But all she could see was Azriel’s stillness, the kind that doesn’t come from rest but from resignation. A broken kind of stillness.

Nesta had always known rage. She had wielded it like a blade. But what she saw in Mor had no heat, no comparison.

She returned home in a daze, ignoring her mate's questioning looks. At night, despite Cassian’s warm chest below her and his hands running softly through her hair, Nesta couldn't sleep. Azriel's cries and screams pulled her from sleep as soon as she closed her eyes. Strong, brave, endlessly kind Azriel was in pain all alone in that darkness while she rested comfortably with her mate. The thought made her want to die.

That is why as soon as the Sun had peaked from behind the mountains, she had risen. She had to tell Cassian. She would actually lose her mind if she didn't. Slipping out of bed, Nesta immediately changed out of her night gown, put on her boots and jacket and shook her mate awake.

Cassian had barely rubbed the sleep from his eyes when Nesta blurted out.

“Take me flying,” she said, already dressed, already laced up in leathers.

Her voice was quiet. But not soft.

He blinked. “Now?”

The sun hadn’t even cleared the mountains. The chill still clung to the stone. But her tone,gods, that look in her eyes, told him this wasn’t a whim. It was a dam about to burst.

He nodded once and didn’t ask again.

The wind howled around them as they climbed. She didn’t speak, not once. He held her close as the mountains rose beneath them, the weight of silence pressed tighter with every beat of his wings.

They landed on a narrow ledge tucked into the side of a peak, a place few knew existed, where no one would overhear.

Nesta stepped away the moment her boots touched ground. She didn’t shiver despite the cold.

She was trembling anyway. Well it was now or never. Whipping around, she asked her mate,

“Do you love me?”

If it wasn't for the utter seriousness of the situation, Nesta would have laughed at her mate's expression.

“Huh?” was all the poor male said, still riddled with sleep and confusion and stunned by the weight behind her words.

Nesta might have laughed, might have teased him for his dumbfounded look, if her heart wasn’t about to beat right out of her chest.

“You woke me up, brought me all the way here to ask if I love you? Nesta… darling…” her mate started slowly, slight exasperation taking over him.

She took a single step closer, voice sharp and low. “Cassian. I’m not asking as a joke.”

His brows furrowed, mouth parting, but she cut him off before he could answer.

“Do you love me?”

He stared at her. And then, a breath. A blink. A shift of something in his chest.

“I do,” he said quietly. No hesitation this time. “You know I do.”

Nesta’s throat worked. Her hands were shaking now, she curled them into fists, dug her nails into her palms to stay grounded.

“Swear it,” she said.

He blinked again. “What?”

“Swear it,” she repeated, harsher now. “On my life. On our bond. Swear that whatever I tell you�� you won’t speak of it. Not to anyone. Not until I say it’s time.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. “Nesta—”

“Swear it.”

There was something in her voice that scared him more than any battlefield ever had. A quiet, raw terror hiding behind iron-clad resolve. It was then that he realised, that he saw through her cracks:

She wasn’t asking for protection. She was bracing for betrayal.

“I swear it,” he said finally. “On your life. On our bond.”

And only then did her shoulders slump.

Only then did she breathe.

“I need to tell you something,” she said. Her voice was flat. But her knuckles were white fists at her sides.

Cassian's expression tightened. “What is it?”

She looked at him then, really looked. And something cracked in her eyes.

“I followed Mor yesterday,” she said. “In the Court of Nightmares.”

Cassian didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“I— I was curious, that’s all.” Her throat bobbed. “So I followed her down. Farther than the prisons. To some chamber carved out of stone and shadow.”

Her voice caught. And when she spoke again, it was quieter.

“She has Azriel.”

Cassian’s face paled. His wings stiffened.

Nesta looked away, blinking fast, but the tears came anyway.

“She has him chained,” she whispered. “In the dark. Like he’s nothing. Like he’s disposable.”

Cassian stepped forward, slow. “What?”

“She—she said she cut his wings. She burnt them Cass! His wings...” Her voice broke entirely. “Through the scars. Where it already hurt. She pinned him like some trophy on display.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying not to fall apart.Cassian looked like he might be sick. Or murderous. Or both.

“She said he betrayed her. That he belonged to her. And then she—she pressed her fingers into the punctures. Just to make him scream.”

Nesta’s whole body shook.

“She said Rhys wouldn’t understand. That he was too sentimental. But I don’t know, Cass. I looked at Rhys afterward. And for a moment, I wondered—what if he gave the order?”

That did it.

Cassian staggered back a step like she’d hit him.

“Have you… Rhysand would never… he wouldn't…”

“I don’t want to believe it,” she whispered. “But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t scream for help. I just— I just ran.”

Her voice shattered. “I left him there.”

And Cassian — war general, warrior, Illyrian commander — just stared at her like the world had shifted beneath his feet. Still when mate started to shake, he was in front of her in an instant, hands gently cupping her shoulders, grounding her. But he looked… broken. Like her words had torn through his ribs and left nothing standing.

He didn’t speak. Not for a long time. And when he did, it was a whisper.

“We’ll get him out.”

Cassian’s hands were still cupping her face when she spoke again, voice raw and pleading.

“Don’t go to Rhys.”

His eyes flickered, shocked, confused. “Nesta—”

“You swore it,” she whispered. “Don’t tell him. Don’t even hint at it. Not yet.”

Cassian pulled back, barely an inch, but the distance between them suddenly felt like a chasm.

“Rhys wouldn’t—he couldn’t have let this happen.”

Nesta’s heart cracked. “I want to believe that too.”

Cassian paced away, wings flaring with restless, rising fury. His jaw clenched so hard she heard the crack of it. “You’re asking me to believe my High Lord, my brother, would turn his back on Azriel. That he’d let Mor—”

“I saw her, Cassian!” Nesta’s voice shattered like a wine glass hurled against stone. “I saw her. What she did. How she spoke. And it didn’t sound like she was acting alone. How would she have the courage to pull this off alone!”

“She’s furious at Azriel. She’s always had a twisted bond with him. Maybe she snapped, maybe she’s lost it, but Rhys—he wouldn’t stand for that. He’d tear the mountain apart.”

“Then why is Azriel still there?” Nesta shouted, chest heaving. “Why is he still suffering in the dark, screaming into silence, if Rhysand knows?”

Cassian opened his mouth.

And then shut it.

And she saw it: the fear settling into his bones. The fear that maybe she wasn’t wrong. That maybe the brother he worshipped with a loyalty forged in blood and war wasn’t who he thought he was.

Cassian turned away. His voice came out hoarse. “He would never…”

Nesta came up behind him, laying a hand on his back.

“I’m begging you,” she said, softer now. “Don’t go to him. Not yet. Not until Azriel is safe. Not until we know.”

Cassian turned, and there were tears in his eyes. “If Rhys isn’t part of this… if he’s innocent…”

“Then he’ll understand why we couldn’t risk it,” she finished. “Why we had to get Azriel out first. Why we had to protect him, even if it meant keeping secrets.”

Silence.

A bitter, gut-wrenching silence.

Cassian looked like someone had caved in his chest. “You’re asking me to betray my High Lord.”

“No,” Nesta said. “I’m asking you to protect your brother. The one chained beneath a mountain, forgotten by everyone he trusted.”

Cassian’s mouth trembled. His voice barely scraped out.

“He’s all I have left, Nes.”

Nesta stepped closer. “Then let’s save him.”

Another beat of silence. Then—

Cassian exhaled, like it physically hurt to do so. He pulled Nesta into his arms, holding her like a lifeline.

“We’ll get him out,” he said, again. “And then we’ll see what truths are left standing.”

Nesta nodded, eyes closed against the wind. For a moment all was well. They still had Hell to face but at least she had her mate with her. Speaking of hell-

“How do we get him out, Cass?”

Her mate was silent for a moment as if pondering a way out of this impossible, labyrinthine situation they had found themselves in.

“If he's as injured as you say, we're going to need help. We need someone who can winnow him out quickly before Mor finds out.”

A third. A risk. One too big to take. Who could they trust to not betray them, to not betray Azriel, no matter the personal cost. But as the two shared a glance, all of a sudden the most obvious answer- the only answer- clicked in both their minds.

Eris.

Eris POV…

The fire had long since gone out. And yet Eris couldn’t summon the will to relight it. Ashes curled like dead petals in the hearth, grey and crumbling. A bitter reflection of what had been left behind.

Of what he’d lost.

He sat slouched in the ornate chair beside the window, a decanter of amber liquor swinging lazily in one hand, the other pressed to his temple as if it might hold his skull together. The bond had gone quiet. Not frayed, not strained — silent.

Dead.

It had shattered him.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not his court, not his brothers, not even the guards who had found him two days later passed out in the library, the bottle still clutched in his fingers. He’d thought he was the monster in the stories. That he didn’t deserve someone like Azriel. That one day, the spymaster would come to his senses and leave.

But he never thought he’d be discarded like this. Through a letter. He’d scoured it for signs of duress. Magic. Coercion. But the bond had gone still, utterly, terrifyingly quiet. Not snapped — no — but silenced.

He hadn’t left his chamber since.

Eris gritted his teeth as another wave of grief lapped at his ribs. He’d spent years mastering silence. Cruelty. Composure.But nothing had prepared him for this.For the ache of an unfulfilled bond, one that still burned faintly beneath his skin even when it felt like Azriel had severed it.

A knock sounded gently at the door.

“Eris?” came a familiar voice. Soft. Younger.

Feanor. Young, kind, innocent Feanor. He was the youngest before Lucien. Eris had always protected him from Beron, from the wiles of the court. Had always been the loving, dutiful older brother. But now he was too broken to fulfill that role. So Eris didn’t answer. Just stared at the empty hearth.

The door creaked open. “I brought you something.”

He turned his head just enough to see Feanor step in, holding a small plate of fruit and bread. He set it down without fanfare.

“Have you eaten?”

Eris looked away. Feanor didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just walked over and crouched beside the chair.

“We’re all worried about you, Eris. I cannot even imagine what you are going through… but not eating, locking yourself away like this, it's not going to help,” Feanor whispered hoarsely. But Eris did not reply, instead he started a lament of his own.

“It’s… it’s not broken, Luce. It’s gone. Like he walled it off.” Eris’ voice cracked. “I can’t feel him anymore. I thought—”

“I know,” Feanor said quietly. “I believe you.”

Eris let out a breath that rattled in his chest.

“I keep wondering if I did something,” he murmured. “Or if someone—”

Feanor placed a hand on his arm. “Then let’s find out what happened. You’re not alone, brother. Not in this. Lucien and Elain are here as well. Desmond and Garrick too. We're all here for you.”

It was the first thing that hadn’t sounded like pity in days. Just pure familial support. Eris didn’t say thank you. He couldn’t. But he reached out and squeezed Feanor’s hand once — hard — before letting go.

Feanor stood. “Try to eat something. I’ll check back later.”

The moment the door shut, Eris let himself lean forward, forehead pressed to the cold rim of the goblet.

“Come back,” he whispered to no one. “Please.”

……….

“He said he doesn’t want to see anyone,” the guard told Nesta and Cassian. “Especially not anyone from the Night Court.”

Nesta’s jaw tensed. “Tell him it’s about Azriel.”

The guard looked uneasy. “He said especially if it’s about him.”

Cassian placed a hand on Nesta’s back, grounding her. “Let me try.”But the guard returned moments later, pale.

“Lord Eris said if you take one more step inside, he’ll have your wings mounted to the front gate.”

Cassian stiffened, and Nesta’s fists curled.

“Let him rage,” she muttered. “It means he still cares. Tell him that we're not leaving until he listens to what we have to say!”

Perhaps, the halls of the Autumn Court would have borne witness to Lady Death's fury at the High Lord’s obstinacy but fate seemed to pity the Fae of the Autumn Court. For in that moment Lucien emerged from the doorway, looking bewildered at their presence, as if he had seen a ghost instead.

“What… are you both doing here?” Lucien asked slowly.

“Oh thank the Cauldron, Lucien we need to see Eris, you have to let us through,” Nesta pleaded, for her brother she would put aside her pride. But Lucien still stared at them as if it would reveal their true intentions.

“Look, I don't know why you're here. But Eris really doesn't want to see anyone right now, let alone someone from your Court.”

“It's about Azriel…” Cassian started before the fox cut him off again.

“Yes it's about Azriel! And how he had the gall to break my brother's heart with a letter! So I really don't understand why the two of you are here.”

“Azriel is currently in a dungeon, so I don't know what letter you are talking about. Now can I please talk to Eris?” Nesta spat out, her patience running paper thin. And perhaps Lucien saw that as well, that honesty, that worry, because he immediately said,

“Come with me.”

And as they followed Lucien back toward Eris’s room, Nesta felt the heavy weight of what she would have to say pressing against her ribs.

….

He still hadn’t left the same armchair by the cold hearth when the knock came.Sterner. Heavier.

He didn’t respond. But the door opened anyway.

And in stepped the two faces he least expected, and least wanted to see. Lucien right at his heels.

Cassian. Wings tucked, jaw tight. And Nesta. Pale. Red-eyed.

Eris didn’t rise. “Leave.”

Cassian took a step forward. “Just listen.”

Eris stood abruptly, wine spilling as his knee struck the table. “I said get out!”

Nesta didn’t flinch. “Azriel didn’t leave you.”

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say his name in this gods-damned room. He left. He made his choice. It was perfectly clear in that letter of his.”

“No, he didn’t,” Nesta said. “You don’t know what they did to him… what letter are you talking about?”

Eris laughed — harsh, bitter. “The letter that said 'My loyalty lies with my court'? That one?”

The two mates before him exchanged a confused look, one full of apprehension and worry- fear. Before he could decipher their expressions even more, Nesta said

“Eris, Azriel didn't send that letter. He didn't send any letter.”

“Oh please if this is your Shadowsinger’s way of making amends, of changing his mind, he can go rot in Hell!”

“Eris-”

“No, no! He doesn't get to do this. He can't-”

“ He's imprisoned in a dungeon, you thick headed twat! How would we send you a letter?” Cassian's interruption rang through the room and all of a sudden it was all quiet. Eris froze. His breath caught in his throat.

Cassian stepped closer, tone gentler now. “He was taken.”

“By whom?”

The pause was the longest moment of Eris’ life.

Nesta whispered, “Mor.”

Silence fell again. Heavy. Charged. It sucked the warmth from the room.

“No.” Eris shook his head slowly. “No, that’s not possible.”

“I saw what she did to him,” Nesta said, her voice beginning to tremble. “I watched him… beg.”

Eris didn’t breathe.

“She burnt his wings, Eris,” she choked. “Because of you. Because he loved you.”

The words were a blade plunged into Eris’ chest. He couldn’t speak. Could barely think over the roar in his ears.

“He didn’t write that letter. He couldn't have,” Nesta said, voice thick with anger. “Mor forced him to. She must have coerced him somehow or threatened him.”

Eris sat down slowly. The strength had left his legs. The feather was trembling in his grip — no, his hand was trembling.He bent forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as his vision blurred. He let out a single, choked sound — not quite a sob, not quite a scream.

“You’re lying,” he whispered.

“We’re not,” Cassian said. His voice cracked too. “We didn’t tell Rhysand. Not yet. We’re not sure who we can trust.”

“Azriel,” Eris rasped. “Where is he now?”

Nesta looked at Cassian.

“In the dungeons beneath the Hewn City. Still alive. Barely.”

Eris shut his eyes. He had tried to hate Azriel. For days. For nights. For the silence. For the letter. For leaving.

And now…

Now, he wanted to destroy the world for what they had done to him. How… how was this possible. Azriel, his beloved, darling Azriel was held captive in the darkness. What kind of mate was Eris? Believing a letter without any evidence, without once talking to his mate in person. All these days he'd been lounging in his study, drinking away, while his mate was being tortured… while he was losing his wings. Eris felt like taking an ash arrow right to his heart.

It was Cassian who once again interrupted his spiel,

“We’ll get him out. But we’ll need you to bring him here. Hide him in Autumn until we can figure out the rest.”

Eris only nodded and didn’t speak again. But his body radiated purpose. Fury. And something else.

Hope.

It burned in him now like the first flickers of fire in a long-dead hearth.

...............................................................................................

Taglist: @alexoftheaspens @vnfadinglight @irithiadourden @chunkypossum @brekkershadowsinger @wovendreamscapes @brunetterebel010 @beppyd07 @molcat07

16 notes · View notes