velarismorningstar

[velarismorningstar]

Oh, I can't, stop you putting roots in my dreamland. My house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you...

For @gwynweekofficial, @freyjas-musings, @amandapearls, and I wanted to depict one of our favorite soft ships for unlikely pairings and star-crossed connections. Gwyn and Elain are survivors in their own respective rights. They're kind, they're fiercely loyal, and they don't let the circumstances they've found themselves in define them. If any two people could also find love and healing together, it would be them.

matty_shizhniy_art did a fabulous job with this piece, and we are genuinely so grateful to have worked with them!

[velarismorningstar]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 23

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; hello everyone ! hope that everyone is doing great, here is the new chapter of this story. Tbh it was the funniest for me to write i just love Ather's character, i hope that you will have a great time with him too ! Either way please enjoy this chapter, i'm finally with less work so i'm able to be more regular with the posts, really don't hesitate to comment because that motivates a lot !!! see you soon everyone <3333

previous ✧

Azriel

The front line was soaked in blood—mud and ash caked over scorched stone, crimson pooling in trenches, staining armor, painting the battlefield in a shade of death that would never wash out. Smoke curled from splintered trees, from the bodies of fallen beasts and warriors alike, and above it all… the scent of rot. Of magic too old and wrong for this world.

Azriel spun, blades flashing as another creature lunged out of the mist—misshapen, all teeth and shadow. Not quite dead, not quite living. He ducked, slashed once, and the thing crumbled to the dirt in a heap of shriveled bone and tar-thick blood.

But it didn’t scream when it died. It didn’t bleed right. They never did.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

Another wave came—Koshiev’s army was relentless. There was no breath between attacks, no lull to regroup. These monsters, these vessels, didn’t tire. Didn’t think. They just moved. With precision, with hunger. Azriel had already managed to cut down dozens of them. And still—they kept coming.

Whatever technique Koshiev had used to twist these things into being, it was working. Azriel wasn’t even sure what half of them had once been. Animals? Fae? Humans? Nothing moved like them. Nothing bled like them. And every time he killed one, another emerged from the fog—dark as pitch, limbs that bent the wrong way, eyeless and snarling.

He’d seen horrors before. He’d fought in more wars than he cared to count. But this?

This was something else.

This was the kind of fight that whispered in the back of your skull, that made you wonder if you were going to wake up screaming weeks, months from now—if you were lucky enough to survive.

He didn’t know how long they’d been fighting. Hours? Days?

He didn’t know how many vessels were still out there. How many Koshiev had sent. How many more would come.

And that—not the monsters, not the blood, not even the screaming—

That was what scared the shit out of him.

Because for the first time in centuries, Azriel couldn’t see when this war would end.

And if he couldn’t see the end…

Then maybe there wasn’t one.

Steel clanged on steel. Wings battered against wind and ash. Azriel moved like shadow incarnate, slicing through one creature’s throat and twisting away just in time to avoid the snapping jaws of another. Every inch of him was slick with sweat and blood—most of it not his. His siphons burned, casting dull light through the smoky battlefield, and his magic strained with every strike.

He didn’t pause. Couldn’t.

And then he spotted him—Cassian, a whirlwind of blade and brute force, carving a path through the ranks with fire in his eyes and blood streaking his armor. Relief crashed through Azriel’s ribs. He veered left, wings flaring as he cut down another beast and landed hard beside his brother.

Cassian glanced his way. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to kill a few hundred things on the way,” Azriel panted, ducking as Cassian cleaved through a malformed thing that howled in a voice that wasn’t its own.

They barely had a moment to breathe.

A soldier—a young male from the Summer Court—was three feet away from them, eyes wild with fear but still holding his line. Azriel barely had time to call a warning before the air shifted.

It didn’t come from the front.

It came beneath.

With no warning, the ground under the soldier cracked open like a mouth—dark magic shattering the stone, tendrils of something black and slick grabbing him by the waist and dragging him down. Not slowly.

Snapped. Like a trap closing. His scream split the air—and then half his body was gone. The rest followed in a wet, crunching sound that would stay in Azriel’s ears for the rest of his life.

The crack sealed shut a moment later. As if the earth had never opened.

Both Azriel and Cassian froze—just for a breath.

“Mother’s fucking bones,” Cassian said under his breath, eyes wide, face pale beneath his war paint.

Azriel didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He just stared at the bloody smear on the stone where the male had stood.

Whatever that was… it wasn’t a beast.

That was Koshiev.

That was intent.

And it was only getting worse.

Just as the blood from the soldier’s death had finished soaking into the dirt, the message came—sharp and sudden in Azriel’s mind.

"The camp was attacked.”

Rhysand’s voice, clipped and strained, cracked across the bond like lightning.

Azriel froze.

So did Cassian.

“What?” Cass barked, already turning toward him, reading the horror written across his brother’s face.

But Azriel wasn’t listening.

Because a second later, he felt it—

Nothing.

The bond—your bond—was still there but quiet. Too quiet. As if something had pressed down on it, smothered it into silence. No thoughts. No emotions. No heartbeat pulsing at the edge of his soul.

Just a void.

Azriel’s entire body went ice-cold.

Cassian swore, grabbing his arm. “Go. I’ve got it here—go find her.”

That was all he needed.

Azriel didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

He vanished.

Through shadows, through sky, through sheer, frantic will—he soared above the battlefield, the world a blur of smoke and fire below. He didn’t stop to rest, didn’t pause to calculate. He pushed every thread of his power to its edge, moving like a dying star across the sky, desperation cutting through him like a blade.

You were silent. And Azriel had never, ever, been more afraid in his life.

The world stopped.

Where there should have been tents, noise, faelight, the copper-sweet scent of blood and burn salves, there was… nothing.

The camp was gone.

Not destroyed. Not burned or broken. Just… gone.

Azriel landed hard, boots hitting soft ground where your tent used to be—where the medical pavilion, the triage rows, the healer quarters should’ve stood. Now, there was only grass. Dirt. Wind whispering through quiet trees.

As if none of it had ever existed.

As if you had never existed.

A choked, broken sound tore from Azriel’s throat.

A sound that wasn’t meant for battle. Wasn’t meant for war.

It was the kind of sound that was made only when the world ended.

He stumbled forward, eyes wide, lungs locked. His heart beat so loud he thought it might rupture, then collapse entirely.

No movement.

No scent.

No bond.

“No…” he whispered, knees nearly giving out beneath him. “No, no, please…”

Was this it?

Was this how Elain’s vision was supposed to happen?

Not even a goodbye.

Not even a fucking chance to hold you one last time. To say he loved you. To feel your skin beneath his hands. Your lips against his.

He had just kissed you hours ago. Just whispered promises against your skin. And now?

Now there was only emptiness.

Azriel fell to one knee, hands in the dirt where your tent should have stood.

His jaw clenched. His throat burned. And for the first time since he was a boy in a cell, helpless and broken and bleeding—

Tears pricked his eyes.

He stepped forward slowly, like walking through a dream that made no sense. The kind of dream that clawed at your ribs and left you gasping when you woke up. Except he wasn’t waking up. This was real.

The bond still felt wrong. Not severed—but quiet. Blurred. Faint. Like you were behind thick glass, miles away, or like someone had submerged your presence in water and he was clawing to reach it.

It didn’t look like an attack. There were no bodies. No smoke. No blood.

But with what he knew of Koshiev’s power… anything was possible.

Then— 

A flicker of cold. Of movement.

His shadows.

The ones that had refused to leave you, the ones that had stayed curled at your side even as he left.

His shadows whipped around him in a frenzy—restless, searching, calling.

And then—one of them touched the side of his neck.

Insistent. Pulling.

South. Far south. Not just meters—kilometers.

Azriel’s breath caught. His eyes widened.

The shadows didn’t say you were taken. They said: find her.

He stood in a single movement. Wings flaring, heart thundering.

You had moved the camp. You’d teleported the entire thing.

And his shadows had stayed behind to guide him home.

He didn’t hesitate.

He launched into the sky like a shadow-made storm, burning through the wind with only one thought echoing through him:

Find her. Now.

Azriel landed so hard he cracked the earth.

The camp was there—intact. Tents standing, faelights flickering, familiar shadows moving through the rows. The scent of healing salves, steel, and blood still hung in the air—but it was all real. Safe.

You’d moved it.

You had moved the whole gods-damned camp.

He didn’t pause to marvel at how. He just ran.

Straight into the healer’s tent, shoving the flap aside so fast the wood creaked.

He scanned the space—until his eyes locked on the Illyrian boy he’d seen shadowing you since the start of the war. The one who never left your side. Ather.

The male was slumped on a chair, one wing pinned with two vicious black arrows, sweat beading on his pale forehead. Elira—Azriel recognized her immediately from Velaris—was tending to the injury, hands glowing faintly.

It didn’t matter.

Azriel was on him in a breath.

He grabbed Ather by the collar, hauling him forward with enough force to jostle the cot. “Where is she?! Where, is, she?!” he roared, voice a lash of pure, frantic fury. Each word came with a shake that made Ather whimper in shock.

The boy was already ashen, eyes wide with remembered horror—and now, staring into the face of a raging shadowsinger, he looked moments away from passing out.

Elira grabbed Azriel’s arm hard. “Calm down, would you?! You’re going to kill him, and he’s the one who saved your wife!”

Azriel froze.

Elira scowled. “Y/N is fine. She’s sleeping. In your tent. She used too much power and passed—”

She didn’t finish.

Azriel was already gone.

Elira sighed, dropping her head back with a groan. “Aaaaahhhh, men…”

“I know, right…” Ather muttered, grimacing as she resumed stitching the damage to his wing. 

A few hours before

“For fuck’s sake… fuck this shit.”

It was all you could say as you stared into the distance, where dust clouds were beginning to rise—heralds of the coming enemy. Your heart thundered against your ribs, not from fear, but from calculation. From the pressure that cracked through your spine like lightning.

You took one breath.

Then another.

Then turned toward Ather.

“Your wings—are they strong enough for you to fly with me?”

He blinked at you, confused. “I mean… yes? Not for long distances, though. I—I’m not as strong as the more experienced Illyrian, but I can fly.”

You didn’t wait.

You were already walking. Past the first row of healer tents. Past the storage pavilion. Past the outer sentry post. Toward the edge of camp. Toward the enemy.

Ather scrambled after you. “Wait—wait—Y/N, what are we doing? Are we evacuating? Is this, like, some sort of fallback protocol? Are we running away? Should I be writing a goodbye note? Do you have one? We should maybe have left that for Azriel, don’t you think?!—I mean, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to skin me alive. I don’t want to die being skinned—”

You smacked the back of his head.

“Ow!”

“Shut up.” You didn’t look at him as you stopped at the very edge of camp, just before the first trees of the old forest. “Be ready. The moment I finish, grab me and fly south. As far as your wings can take us.”

He stared at you. “Finish what? What are you—”

You didn’t answer.

You inhaled deeply, letting the air burn through your lungs, as if it could hold your ribs together for what was coming. You reached—up, out, in—and found the celestial threads humming all around you. You had always called the moon your ally. Gentle, intuitive, unwavering. But the sun? The sun roared. The sun commanded.

And today, it answered.

Light surged in your chest. The very air shimmered with it. Around the entire camp, the sky itself rippled—golden, blinding, a silent warning to whatever forces approached.

It felt powerful. It felt alive. It felt raw.

And it felt like it might break you.

Your knees trembled. Your breath grew shallow. You could taste copper.

Blood slipped from your nose first.

Then your ears.

The magic clawed through you, not gentle like moonlight but searing like solar flame. Your fingers twitched as the spell stretched wide—so wide. You were folding space. Bending the air, the soil, the living threads of every healer, every tent, every goddamn cot and supply chest. You were taking everything.

Ather’s voice rang beside you, panicked and high and desperate. “Y/N—they’re close, they’re so close! I can see them, we don’t have time! Finish it! For Cauldron’s sake—please—”

You couldn’t hear him fully anymore. The rush of blood in your ears was a tidal wave. Your limbs shook violently now. Your vision swam.

The ground quaked beneath your feet as hundreds—maybe thousands—of enemy soldiers approached. The woods rustled with their shadows. The ground thundered. Your power stuttered once. Once.

And the clock screamed in your mind—NOW. NOW. NOW.

You screamed with it.

Light erupted.

A violent, blinding flash engulfed the camp.

And then— Silence.

The entire camp vanished.

Every healer, every patient, every supply—all gone.

Ather blinked—just once—before you crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Y/N!”

He barely had time to catch your limp body before the enemy force burst through the trees, crashing into the clearing where a camp had once stood.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He clutched you tight and launched into the sky, wings howling in protest as he lifted you into the air. Below, the enemy spread through the empty earth like ants—searching, confused, too late.

Blood trailed from your nose, your ears, your fingertips.

You didn’t stir.

But you were alive.

And he was flying—because you told him to.

Ather flew harder and faster than he ever had in his life.

The wind tore at his wings. The weight of your limp body in his arms made every pump of his muscles feel like fire. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Because he knew. He knew the monster below had seen him. That it had looked right at him with those eyes that weren’t eyes—black pits of death that knew.

And it knew who he carried.

The moment the camp had vanished, the forest had exploded with chaos. He’d barely cleared the treetops before the shrieking started—inhuman and guttural. And then the arrows came.

The first one missed his right wing by a hair.

The second lodged in his boot.

The third he had to dodge mid-air or it would’ve gone through you.

“Cauldron-fucking-DAMN IT!” he snarled, twisting sharply, wings howling as he dove behind a burst of trees, bark exploding behind him as more arrows sliced the air.

He held you tighter—gods, you were so still—and it made him sick. Sick with fear, sick with rage, sick with the crushing truth that he had no idea where he was going.

Because of course you hadn’t told him.

Of course you’d passed out like a martyr before saying, “Hey Ather, the whole camp is going to rematerialize southwest near a large, helpful clearing.”

No.

No, instead he was half-dead, flying through a fucking nightmare, with arrows hissing past him and hell only knew how many monstrous things tracking his scent and yours, and he was flying blind.

He should’ve never said he liked working with you.

He should’ve kept his mouth shut, kept his distance, and stayed on the front lines where people just died quickly.

Now he was going to die slowly, on fire, probably, and you—gods, he didn’t even want to think—

But then.

Then.

A shadow flickered out of nowhere.

Small. Quick. Familiar.

Ather nearly wept.

“Oh, bless you, you little shit,” he gasped, adjusting his hold on you as the shadow darted in front of him, curling like smoke toward the south.

He didn’t question it.

Didn’t dare.

He followed the shadow like it was the only star in the sky. Arrows still flew. The enemy still roared below.

And all Ather could do was pray—

That he wasn’t flying into a trap. That the shadow was truly Azriel’s. That the gods—or hell, anyone—were still watching over you.

“Just hold on,” he whispered against your hair, voice cracking. “Please hold on.”

And he flew. Bleeding. Cursing. Terrified.

But he flew.

He didn’t know how long he’d been flying.

Hours. Days. Maybe three years. In reality? Barely forty-five minutes. Probably less.

But tell that to his lungs, currently trying to crawl out of his chest cavity. Or to his wings, one of which had two actual fucking arrows in it. Or to his foot, which still had that charming little arrowhead lodged in it, singing sweet nothings up his leg every two minutes like some demonic lullaby.

He was sweating. And freezing. And panting like an animal that had already died once and just hadn’t gotten the message yet.

“Are you happy now?” he hissed into the air, glaring down at your completely unconscious face. “Is this what you wanted? Me—dying—like some overcooked pigeon because you wanted to heroic teleport an entire camp?!”

You didn’t answer.

Because, of course, you were still completely out cold.

“Of course you’re not answering,” he gritted. “Because that would be helpful. And you—you’re all about the dramatic silence, aren’t you? You just had to pass out with zero explanation.”

He adjusted his grip as another gust of wind tried to yank him sideways, groaning as his wing screamed in pain. “You know, I used to think you were cool. I really did. You’re badass, you’re powerful, you make people explode from the inside out—all the usual things that make a guy respect someone.”

Another sharp jolt of pain lanced through his leg, and he yelled.

“But this?! This is not cool!” He huffed, half-sobbing now. “This is war crimes level uncool. You are so lucky I like you.”

Still, the shadow ahead of him—his only lifeline—twisted through the sky, relentless and steady, leading him somewhere. Hopefully not the afterlife.

Ather clung to that flicker of shadow like it was holy.

“I swear to all the gods,” he muttered, breath hitching, “if you die after making me go through this—I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself.”

Another gust. Another fucking pulse of pain in his foot. He could feel the stupid arrow vibrating in his bone.

“Why the foot? Who aims for a foot?!”

You still didn’t stir. Just a limp weight in his arms, your brow faintly furrowed from power long since burned out.

He looked down at your face again. Blood had dried around your ears and nose. Your lips were pale.

And just like that, all the fury evaporated.

Ather’s throat closed up. “Don’t you dare leave,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if we’re halfway across the world—I’ll carry you the rest of the way. But don’t you fucking leave me, Y/N.”

He sniffed. “Also, your husband owes me a very expensive bottle of something very strong.”

And with that, wings still trembling, vision blurred from exhaustion and fury and sheer dumb hope—Ather followed the shadow onward. Toward safety. Toward the camp.

By the time Ather finally staggered through the perimeter of the relocated camp, he was done.

Done with flying. Done with bleeding. Done with holding you like a sack of divine potatoes while using one arrow-impaled foot to drag his soul across whatever-the-fuck terrain this was.

“AAAAUUUGGHHHHHH,” he groaned—loudly, dramatically, sweat pouring down his temple, wobbling so hard he was seeing three of every tent. “I swear to the Cauldron if I collapse now, after ALL OF THAT, I want a statue built of me!”

His left wing twitched violently. His arms burned. His foot—don’t even mention the foot.

He lurched forward, nearly tripping over air as he adjusted your weight in his arms. “Why are you so heavy?! I thought powerful people were supposed to be light with magic, but nooo,” he grunted, dragging his leg behind him like a dead fish. “It’s like carrying a sack of bricks soaked in divine energy and sarcasm!”

People were staring.

He glared at them. Actually glared.

“WHAT?! Don’t just stand there like a bunch of decorative pigeons, HELP ME, DAMMIT!”

Two startled volunteers ran forward to finally take you from his arms—Ather nearly sobbed in relief as he slumped forward, gripping the edge of the nearest table.

Elira emerged from the main tent just in time to see him faceplant into the nearest chair with all the elegance of a drunk wyvern.

“DON’T EVER leave me alone with her again,” he gasped between wheezing breaths. “I thought—I saw my ancestors, Elira. I saw them. They told me I was stupid. I AGREED.”

She blinked. “Ather, breathe.”

He wheezed harder. “You’re supposed to always be with her! Isn’t that your job? She’s terrifying. I mean—she glowed, Elira. She started bleeding from the nose and I thought, ‘Well, guess I die now.’”

Elira pulled up his sleeve and began dabbing at a particularly nasty cut. “You're being dramatic.”

“I am NOT—ow—being dramatic. I’m being traumatized!”

He slumped further, clutching his head. “She said, ‘Be ready to catch me.’ What does that mean, Elira?! Do I look like someone built for divine emergency teleportation?!”

He let out a long, miserable, guttural noise.

“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH—”

And that was the moment a dark hand gripped his shoulder and shook him hard enough that his brain nearly fell out of his nose.

Ather screamed.

Azriel stood over him like an avenging shadow, eyes wild, hair a mess, wings still dusted with frost and blood.

“Where is she?!” he demanded, already halfway turned, eyes sweeping the tent like he was seconds from vaporizing it.

Elira grabbed his other shoulder and yanked. “She’s fine! Calm down before you break him in half!”

“She’s in your tent,” she added more firmly. “Passed out. Drained, but safe. Lila and Telyan are with her.”

Azriel was gone before either of them could say another word.

Ather flopped back in the chair, limp as a boiled vegetable. “Men,” Elira muttered.

“I know, right?” Ather groaned, tossing an arm over his face. “And somehow, I’m the one screaming.”

And then he passed out. Just like that. In the chair.

Absolutely done.

Azriel was running—wind slicing past his face, shadows pulling ahead of him like panicked hounds on the scent.

Then, “Where are you? Where is the camp? What the fuck happened?” Rhysand’s voice cracked in through the bond like a blade.

Azriel didn’t slow. “I don’t fucking know how,” he snapped, mentally already halfway to the camp, “but the entire fucking camp was teleported. Twenty-five kilometers southwest.”

A pause. Then Rhys again, more tense this time: “What do you mean, teleported?”

Azriel’s wings flared wide as he shifted around a rocky outcrop. “I don’t have the time to explain it to you. Just pass the message.”

That silence—just a breath’s worth—was enough. Azriel felt the shift in Rhys’ energy. The worry.

“Take care of her,” Rhys said, quiet.

Azriel didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because that was the moment he found the tent.

He burst inside.

And the world stopped.

It reeked of blood. Her blood.

Teylan and Lila were hunched over you, carefully tending to wounds and soaking towels already stained deep red. Most of your clothes had been stripped—your skin pale and clammy, dark stains drying down your jawline, across your chest.

You were upright—but barely. The second the cold air of the door rushed in with him, you turned to the side and threw up, wet, violent, and full of something that was far too close to pure blood. Azriel’s heart stopped.

"What the fuck is going on?” His voice shook with raw fear, with rage barely tethered. “What happened to her?!”

He was already halfway to your cot, shadows thickening at his back like they were ready to destroy anything that stood between you. He didn’t care if it was a healer, a High Lord, or a god.

Teylan turned, startled by Azriel’s sudden presence. Lila was behind you, gently helping you lie back onto the cot, brushing your hair from your sweat-soaked face.

“She burned out,” Lila snapped, eyes blazing with equal parts panic and frustration. “That crazy, dumbass woman saved all of us by teleporting the entire fucking camp.”

“Lila!” Teylan hissed, not even bothering to hide the edge in his tone. “Language.”

“I don’t give a shit about her language,” Azriel growled, stepping forward, shadows flickering with every breath. “Is she going to be okay?”

He moved closer—but just as his hand reached out, Teylan blocked him with a firm arm.

“If you want to go near her,” he said flatly, “clean up first. She’s too weak, Azriel. And whatever blood or poison those creatures carried—you might be coated in it.”

Azriel looked down—realizing only now the black blood splattered on his leathers, the scratches across his skin that still oozed. He swore violently, wings twitching as he backed away with visible reluctance, gaze never leaving you.

You were still, your breaths thin and wheezing. Every inch of him wanted to be by your side. Touch you. Ground you. Protect you.

But Teylan was right.

So Azriel stepped back. Shadows curled around him like they ached, too.

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice like gravel. “The second I’m clean.”

And with that, he vanished into the dark again—leaving behind the wreckage of power, blood, and the woman he couldn’t, wouldn’t lose.

To say that it was the fastest Azriel had ever cleaned himself was an understatement. He had barely finished scrubbing the blood from his skin before he was throwing his leathers back on and sprinting back to the tent, water still dripping from the ends of his hair.

When he stepped inside again, breathless, heart thudding with that same cold fear still coiled in his ribs—Teylan and Lila were finishing up. The scent of blood had faded slightly, replaced now with clean bandages, salves, and bitter herbs meant to bring fevers down.

You were still in the cot, buried beneath layers upon layers of blankets, only your face visible. Pale. Still. A sheen of sweat remained on your skin, your lashes unmoving.

Lila turned to Azriel with a tired expression, her own hands red-raw from washing and healing. “She should be fine now. We gave her something to stop the internal bleeding and the vomiting. The fever broke once we got her temp stabilized.”

Teylan added, “She just needs rest. Sleep and food. That’s it. No more magic. Not until her power levels out again.”

Azriel nodded once, sharp and fast.

“We’ll handle the healers and the meeting for now,” Teylan continued. “But if anything—anything—changes, you call us. No matter the hour.”

Azriel gave another short nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

They slipped out a moment later, quiet as ghosts, leaving him alone with you.

He moved toward the bed slowly, eyes tracking every twitch of your brow, every shallow breath. You looked too small under the covers, too fragile. Like even the wind could break you now.

He dropped his clothes one by one until only his undergarments remained. His hair was still damp, plastered lightly to his forehead, but he didn’t care. He climbed into the narrow bed, careful not to jostle you too hard, and pulled you gently into his arms. You didn’t stir.

He shifted until your body lay sprawled across his chest, his arms wound tightly around your waist. His wings unfurled with a whisper and curled around both of you, cocooning you in warmth, shielding you from everything—light, cold, the world outside.

His shadows nestled close, quiet, grieving in their own way. He tilted his head down, brushed his lips across your temple.

You had teleported an entire fucking camp. Gods above. And it had nearly killed you.

Azriel held you closer.

He didn’t know how you did it—how you channeled that much power, how you still chose to give everything you had to keep everyone safe. He knew you were more than powerful. But this…

This had terrified him.

He buried his face in your hair and exhaled slowly, trying to steady the quake still sitting in his bones.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin. “I love you so gods-damned much…”

And he stayed there—his heart beating against yours, his wings sheltering you from a world at war—until sleep finally took him, wrapped in the fragile peace of your breathing.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom @ly--canthrope @xlosttdreamss @phoenix666stuff @runningoncoffeeandchaos @zanaorian @prettty-thing @wxveysun @aslut4percyjackson @ailoda @byteme05 @elisabethch82 @eatsleepreadance1 @rainy-day-lady @breademoji @zuhashah-09 @quiettuba @magicaldragonlady @ajxsquish @hibye02 @am-riel @thorins-queen-of-erebor@casiiopea2 @whore-of-many-hot-men @bodhiscurls

[velarismorningstar]

Forget Me Not | 7

You and Azriel begin again.

WC: 5.1k

Warnings: References to past SA, finally some fluff, smut, p in v, dirty talk, oral, really just some lovey dirty scenes

a/n: This is it, we've reached the end of Forget Me Not! Thank you to everyone for supporting my first ACOTAR work on here. I'm currently writing another Az oneshot right now, so stay tuned if you liked my writing :)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Entering Azriel's bedroom felt different this time around. You had grown so accustomed to his absence in the past week that the feeling of him behind you sent shivers down your spine.

The room went from being cold and empty to warm and stifling. Your nerves were giddy under your skin, jumping with insecurity and excitement as the shadowsinger guided you to the middle of the space.

"It smells like you in here," he commented, voice soft and amused.

You tried not to feel embarrassed. "I missed you. I'm sorry if it was inappropriate or rude to intrude on your space. It helped me to be in here."

Azriel turned you around to face him, pulling you closer once more. His fingertips brushed the skin of your face lightly, caressing your chin between his thumb and forefinger before his eyes swept up to meet your own.

"You're my mate," he said gently, and you tracked the way his lips curved around the words. "I want you here. I want this entire space smelling of you in every way possible."

Your breath caught at his words, at the underlying tone and implication. Gods, you wanted to eat him alive. You wanted him to eat you alive.

"Azriel..." you whispered, your lips inching forward toward his own. His eyes dropped down to meet the movement, flicking back up to your own before being drawn to your mouth once again.

"We don't have to do anything tonight."

You knew that. You knew he would wait, would be patient as you navigated your newfound relationship with him and how it intertwined with your trauma. But you also knew that you felt so safe and warm and complete there in his arms, and you knew you wanted him.

"I know. But I want to."

He shuddered, and the hand flexed against your lower back tightened imperceptibly. "Are you sure?"

Looking at the male in front of you, at his kind hazel eyes, his soft pink lips waiting to claim you, his gentle touch so calm and undemanding, you were absolutely sure. You felt that thrum of love flow in your chest, and the reminder that it was going both ways made you melt further into him.

"Yes." You barely got the word out before you brought your lips to his.

He brought you into him gently, his hands summoning you to meet the rest of his body, like a wave rocking you softly in its rhythm until you laid smoothly against the warm shore. You curled into him instinctually, your hands making their way up his chest and onto his skin, feeling and grasping, grabbing at anything they could claim.

He made a small noise into your mouth, as if he couldn't help it, and your knees shook slightly at the reaction. He tasted like how it felt to drink water, and you felt so dehydrated, like you could drown in him and never quite have enough.

You pushed into him harder, but he kept his touch on you light, holding you but not using the strength you could feel in his muscles. Your tongue found the the opening to his mouth, and he let you in seamlessly, letting you guide the kiss, take what you needed.

Mor had always said that Azriel never had issues finding partners. There were rumors about the shadowsinger, about his highly-praised (and well above-average) attributes, his talents in the bedroom, and his wide range of sexual interests. But he wasn't taking that control he was so often associated with. He was allowing you to dominate, to take control, and to do what you wanted to him.

You wondered how often Azriel had given the reigns to someone else in the past, and your heart thumped with appreciation.

Your fingers found his leathers, trying to remove them from his torso as your tongue explored his own. His own scarred hands found your own to help, pulling back slightly to give your bottom lip a nip before pulling the fabric from his body.

You nearly groaned in impatience in the few seconds he was pulled away from you, but then you were able to freely roam his warm skin. He was smooth, and muscled, and scarred, and warm, and you could have licked up his torso if it wasn't for the way he immediately dove back into a kiss, his gentle hands cupping your face and strong forearms framing your neck.

There was more force behind his actions this time, but he kept you in control, allowing you to move the both of you back toward the bed, allowing your own hands to remove your nightgown from your body and letting it drop to the floor.

You pulled him on top of you in his blankets, giving him a kiss before pulling back. His gold green eyes were blazing in the darkness of the bedroom, the starlight shining through the window illuminating the light in them.

"Touch me," you begged him, fingers tangling in his hair.

His biceps cradled where your head laid, and you wanted to turn and kiss up the strong arms, to touch him everywhere you could. But you needed his hands on you, his mouth, his entire body.

"You don't need to beg. I'll do anything you want."

And then his lips were trailing along your jaw, skimming and nipping down your neck, sending your chin tipping back to give him more access. His tongue soothed where his teeth nipped, and his breath tickled your skin in all of the right, sensitive places.

Chills went down your spine as he moved lower, worshipping the skin over your collarbone, down your sternum, until he reached your breasts. His eyes met yours through dark lashes, and you nearly jerked your core up to meet his hips at the look he gave you.

Then his tongue was wrapping around your nipple, and you gasped. He teased and flicked and sucked and grasped, and you were writhing, gripping his hair and sucking in harsh breaths.

You had never felt so sensitive, so willing to unravel for a male before.

His free hand was stroking the rest of your skin lightly, his fingertips just barely meeting your body in teasing motions, sending goosebumps to the surface to meet him. By the time that hand skimmed over your other breast, you were ready to start begging again.

But Azriel was perceptive -- when it came to his surroundings and especially when it came to you -- so he didn't make you wait long nor beg. He changed his direction immediately to your other breast, allowing the cool air to tease the one he had worked while giving equal attention to the next.

You were becoming greedy yourself, your fingers skimming down his muscled back, searching for any part of him you could touch. His broad shoulders enveloped your form underneath him, and you loved it, loved him, loved feeling shielded by him. His dark wings were drawn tight along his back, as if he was focused on you and only you, not allowing any part of himself to relax or benefit quite yet. You wanted to touch them, make him lose his resolve-

His mouth moved lower, traveling along your stomach until he reached the band of your underwear, mouthing along the edge. His large fingers dwarfed the elastic, and your eyes nearly rolled back at the sight. But you couldn't do anything but nod when he looked to you for permission.

He gave your lower stomach one last kiss before pulling the underwear down your legs, his fingers trailing after the fabric as if he were tracing a painting, a piece of artwork he would need to commit to memory.

His lips kissed up your ankle, up your thigh, before landing on your hipbone, your leg resting over his shoulder lightly.

Then his hot breath met your core and your head was tilting back, the anticipation causing your body to shudder and your hips to buck. His strong forearm came down on your hips in response, holding you to the bed before placing his mouth on you.

And gods, did he feel good.

From the moment his tongue lightly traced up your core, you knew that he knew what he was doing.

He didn't dive into you haphazardly, not rough nor starved-- he moved with precision, teasing and flicking, and making you ache and ache and ache.

His free hand gripped the inside of one of your thighs, pushing your leg open slightly to give him more access. And when he moaned at the taste of you, you couldn't help but let out a small cry in response.

"I'd be the happiest male if I could spend the rest of my life between your legs."

He sounded absolutely devastated.

He kissed along your inner thighs once more, one finger stroking up you before circling your clit and moving back down again. Your breathing was heavy with his actions, trying to monitor where he was going, what he was doing, how he was pulling on every nerve ending in your body.

Then his middle finger was easing its way into your entrance, and you were gasping, back arching from the bed.

Your hands gripped the covers as his mouth found your clit again, the dual sensation nearly taking you to your release already. His finger moved inside of you, not necessarily searching but instead attempting to stretch you for him, get you ready if you were to move forward to anything more tonight. The thought nearly made you feral.

"Please-" you choked out. You didn't know what you were begging for, what you were trying to say, but you just needed more of him. All you would ever need for the rest of your life was him.

Another finger prodded at your entrance, and then he was stretching you further, his thick fingers moving and curling inside of you until you saw stars. It was as if the roof to the House of Wind had blown off and you could see the skies above you, Azriel's siphons gleaming behind your eyelids.

He didn't give as he guided you higher, fingers and tongue moving together with a rhythm you would worship him over later. The noises coming from you, the gasping, the whimpering, would have been embarrassing if you could have even heard any of it over the ringing in your ears, over the pure pleasure coursing through your veins.

When you tipped over the edge, Azriel kept himself attached to you, his one arm keeping you in place as you shook against the bed, your fingers gripping his hair and your eyes squeezing shut with the overwhelming pleasure.

It wasn't until your grip loosened on him that he pulled back, drawing his fingers from your core and bringing them up to his mouth. You could barely see him through the haze going through your mind, and the fact that he hadn't done the action as a display for you, but because he wanted to, felt the need to, had you nearly cumming again.

You attempted to catch your breath as he stood from his position, the strain at the front of his leathers nearly making your mouth water. You wanted more, needed more, needed your mate -- all of him.

Your limbs shook with exertion as you pulled yourself to your knees on the bed, reaching for his waistband. His hands caught your wrists, however, bringing them back down to your sides as he leaned down and placed a surprisingly heartfelt kiss on your forehead.

"Another time," he told you. "I just want you right now."

And you were not about to refuse him that.

You let him guide you back down onto the pillows, his hand ensuring one was under your head before letting you go and moving to remove his pants. The sight that greeted you was otherworldly.

You had heard rumors. But he was unreal.

And his slight smirk and posturing said he knew it.

You smiled at him before you could help it, gesturing for him to return to you. He was back on top of you before you could blink, and his mouth was on yours. You could feel as some of the control he always seemed to need took over for him, allowing him to curl his tongue against your own, to bite at your bottom lip, to grip your body just a little harder against his own.

"What do you want, sweetheart?" His voice was gravelly in your ear, and you preened against him, pressing your breasts against his chest.

"You, please, I want all of you. I've always wanted you."

He could have teased you for how desperate you sounded, the breathiness of your voice, the way you lifted your hips to meet his, to try to draw him in. But he didn't. Instead, he pulled his lips away from your own, allowing them to just barely brush before declaring his love for you.

He swallowed harshly before speaking the words again. "I love you."

You nodded, feeling emotions building in your chest, feeling that golden tie blazing bright. "I love you, Azriel."

And in that moment, not even yet physically connected, you knew you and him could get through anything together. You were willing to die for the male above you and he for you. While the past could not be ignored, your future together held hope and promise, and you would latch onto that with everything you had, gripping that golden thread with a vengeance.

"Show me," you told him, your eyes watering despite yourself.

And then his lips were on yours again, and the passion behind the kiss sent your head reeling. You felt the head of him press against you before a slight stretch stung between your legs. You gasped into his mouth at the feeling, at the weight of him moving inside of you, and he welcomed your reaction, peppering kisses over your cheeks as you adjusted.

He was large, but you loved it. Loved every inch of him inside of you. Loved the feeling of him filling you physically and emotionally, the golden thread growing brighter and brighter the further he entered you, the more he filled and touched every part of you.

And the feeling seemed to make its way through your entire body, fire lighting in your soul, igniting pleasure in your core that shot to your fingertips and toes.

You moaned when he finally seated himself all the way inside you, his hands coming up to cup your face and make sure you were okay. You couldn’t help the tears rolling silently down your cheeks, the overwhelming emotion that was building inside of you. You had loved this male for so long, and here he was, connected to you on a whole other level, loving you, and you could feel it coming from deep in his soul.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly, kissing at your temple.

“Yes. I’m just happy.”

He swallowed hard at your words and soft smile, kissing you again before slowly pulling out of you and making his way back in. The movement sent sparks floating in your vision, and his answering grunt was enough to have you grasping at his shoulders.

His hands found your own, pulling them from around him and instead intertwining your fingers together with his, laying them gently by your head as he encased your body with his own. His wings spread above you two like a blanket, like the dark of night and his comforting shadows, and you held tightly onto him.

“I love you,” he told you again, as if he had been trying to hold the words back.

“My mate.” You smiled at him, and his pace picked up. His thrusts went from being slow and sensual to passionate and hard, and you brought your mouth to his shoulder to try to cover the loud noise that escaped you at the pleasure of him.

“You’re so perfect. Everything about you is absolutely unbelievable.”

But what you were feeling was even more so. Every inch of him, every rigid muscle, every texture of smooth and scarred skin, made you want to hold onto him and never let go. A bliss unlike any other followed each of his strokes into you, filling you with love and passion and sending blood rushing to your core.

You were absolutely drenched, his hips moving so easily in and out of the bracket of your legs, that you would have been embarrassed if not for the noises of pure male satisfaction coming from Azriel.

He was enjoying you as much as you were enjoying him, and the thought sent a wave of pride through you.

His thick length continued to spread you open with each thrust, and you don’t think you’d ever felt so satisfied and full. He was touching every part inside of you, from your entrance to your cervix to the bond singing in your chest, he was pushed up against your walls and throbbing.

You cried out as he repeatedly hit that spot inside of you, and one of his hands immediately broke from your own and came down to the peak of your thighs, fingers finding the bud and rubbing and circling until your toes were curling-

“I-I can’t…” you gasped out.

“I’ve got you,” Azriel cooed. “Let me see my mate fall apart. Let me take care of you.”

And you knew he would. He held you tightly, protectively covering you with his own body, his other arm looping around your waist to pull your hips closer to his own.

Then you were rising and falling, clenching so tightly around him you thought you might be causing him pain. But all you could focus on was the bliss shooting through your body, the shaking of your limbs, the white blinding your vision, and the gold gleaming in your chest.

By the Cauldron, you were trembling, your entire body overcome with pleasure, and Azriel guided you through it, speaking sweet words in your hair, hand still moving, hips still pumping.

“Gods, you feel so good,” he grunted out. “My perfect mate. My everything.”

Your mind was ringing with the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body relaxed and tingling and high up in the clouds. But you savored the moment still, your fingers brushing over the muscles in Azriel’s shoulders, feeling them move and tense under your touch, the obvious strength under his skin causing you to clench around him.

He cursed, spreading your legs further for him and dropping his forehead to rest against your own.

“Where do you want me?”

Everywhere. You wanted him inside you forever, you wanted him buried as far as he could go.

“Inside me. Please.”

His eyes squeezed shut at your words, a guttural moan leaving his throat. You already were imagining how the male above you would look completely unleashed, allowing his kinks and obsession with control to ravish you in the bedroom. Next time, you told yourself, you would break that leash he held on himself, and you would let him completely and utterly tear you to shreds.

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

His rough tone had you bucking your hips to meet his, and then his hands were gripping your hips hard, his fingertips digging into the skin, holding you still and tight until it ached and bruised and you were keening into him.

Heat swelled inside of you as he emptied himself, and you let out a moan of your own at the feeling, both of your satisfied noises melding together to create a sound you would commit to memory.

He was panting and grunting and you could feel your wetness mixing with Azriel’s spend as it leaked its way out from inside of you and around your thighs. He pulsed and pulsed and you couldn’t help your body’s own reaction at the sensation as you clenched in return.

It was overwhelming and otherworldly and you would never get enough of it.

When he was finished, he nearly collapsed above you, catching himself with his strong hands, his hair falling into his eyes. He looked so beautiful. So relaxed and undone and glowing.

You loved him so incredibly much.

He didn’t remove himself from your body, only looked at you as if he couldn’t really believe you were there, that this wasn’t a dream.

You pushed yourself up slightly, lightly pressing a gentle kiss to his sharp jaw. He sighed at the action, closing his eyes and savoring it, and you immediately wanted to do it again.

He swallowed before meeting your eyes again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You grasped him tighter. “Stay.”

He chuckled, and the unguarded, light sound had a smile breaking onto your face in return.

“We have all night together,” he reassured. “Let me do this right.”

His thumb stroked over your cheek, and you wanted to smile, to cry, to kiss him. But you let him do what he needed to feel like a good mate and caretaker. He planted one last soft kiss to your lips before gently removing himself from you. You inhaled sharply at the absence of him and at the feeling of his seed leaking from you, already missing the way he felt.

He glanced down to watch as he dripped down your core and thighs, eyes gleaming at the sight. He was then ripping himself away, as if watching any longer would prevent him from moving from your side, would cause him to dive down face-first into you once again.

You watched him walk to his bathroom, his muscular backside a sight against the moonlight shining in his room. You wanted to run after him, to tackle him to the bathroom floor and ride him again right there.

You controlled yourself, though, and waited for his return. He was gentle as he cleaned you up with a washcloth, covering you with a shirt of his own and placing a glass of water on his bedside table.

Once he joined you under the covers, you turned to face him, hand reaching out for him on instinct, and he welcomed the movement immediately. His arms pulled you close, and the connection felt so natural, as if the two of you had never not been in the others’ arms.

His wings, now relaxed with contentment, circled around the two of you, causing you to move closer to him.

“Rest,” he said finally, voice thick with exhaustion. “We can talk more in the morning.”

You nodded, tracing your fingers down his chest.

“You’ll be here?”

His bright eyes met your own, and your heart clenched as he repeated those words he had said months ago in your bedroom, when you hadn’t believed him for a second, when your body was the exact opposite as it was now, turned away from him and guarded.

“I’m not leaving,” he spoke softly. “Never again.”

And you believed him.

It was the best night of sleep you had gotten in awhile. You had never felt so safe and comforted than surrounded by Azriel, by his arms, his wings, his covers, and in his room. Everything that was him was all around you, and you basked in it.

When you both had awoken, the shadowsinger watched as you dressed with his heart in his eyes, and you gestured for him to do the same so the two of you could get some food and start your day.

What you hadn’t prepared for, was Cassian and Rhys sitting in the kitchen with smirks on their faces.

“Good morning,” Rhysand commented, his lips shaped into a shit-eating grin as he brought his mug to his mouth.

“Rhys,” Azriel greeted, his voice holding a low tone of warning.

Cassian looked over his shoulder at the two of you from where he was making his breakfast, scrunching his nose as if pretending to smell what you had been up to.

“You know,” he said nonchalantly, “I was right this whole time. I called you two being mates months ago.”

“Technically, Feyre guessed correctly first.” Rhys interrupted.

“We get it.” Azriel moved closer to Cassian’s side, snagging a piece of bacon from his plate. “I was an idiot.”

Rhys gave you a wink at Azriel’s words and you nearly blushed.

“Not anymore, it seems.”

Azriel gave the high lord a look, and Rhysand let out a laugh. “Alright, alright. Just come see me when you have a minute. We have to go over a few things with the Illyrian camps.”

Azriel nodded at his friend and the two shared a heartfelt look between them. You had always admired the trio’s friendship, the way they would lay their lives on the line for one another without question.

“Seriously though, I am happy for you both,” Rhys said, to which Cassian turned around and gave you a look of agreement. “But if either of you are idiots again, I’m kicking you out of Velaris.”

That sounded about right.

“Alright, out.” Azriel demanded, pushing his brothers out of the kitchen.

They bickered back and forth with one another to the door, and you couldn't help the smile that fought its way onto your face. This was your family, your friends, and your mate. This was your home.

When Azriel was back in the kitchen, he sighed at their antics, but you could tell he was endeared with his brothers.

He gave you a kiss on the top of your head before moving to the cabinets, pulling out some ingredients to make you breakfast. The sight of your mate cooking for you reminded you of the bond in your chest, the expectation there.

You two were mates, that much was obvious. You felt the golden presence in your chest, you could feel your partner within you should he allow it, but you hadn't technically accepted it yet -- accepted him yet.

And despite how much you loved him, you weren't ready to.

As if sensing the shift in your comfort, Azriel turned to look at you.

"You okay?" He asked, fingers setting the pieces of bread he had gotten out on the counter.

"Yeah, just thinking," you tried to give him a small smile.

"What about?"

His full attention was on you, and your nerves tingled under the weight of his gaze. You both were moving forward, and you didn't want to mess this up, didn't want to make you both take steps backward in your progress, but you also didn't want to be stupid. So much had happened in the past few months, and you wanted to be smart, confident, and sure in each of your decisions. You had so much taken away from you recently, you wanted for once to be able to plan and experience and allow for some natural growth.

"What if I told you I wanted to wait to accept the mating bond?"

Azriel's eyes softened, and you couldn't help the pang of guilt that shot through your chest at the thought of your words hurting him, making him doubt himself and how you felt about him.

"I'll wait however long you need," he told you, voice resolute.

"I want to be your mate. I am your mate," you clarified. "I just think we should give ourselves some time before a ceremony or something. We can go on dates, court a little bit, and I'd like to get to the point where I feel comfortable with us around Elain."

He flinched slightly at her name, at the reminder of what he had done to you, how he had been so focused on the middle-Archeron sister, she had smothered his thoughts of you.

The feelings made their way down the bond, and you knew this was another thing that would take some time. The two of you may be dealing with the repercussions of the past few months for a while, but time would help, and you both were ready to move forward with one another.

"It's okay," you told him gently.

He nodded, giving you a soft doubtful smile, but still he moved to your side and tilted your head up, pulling your lips to his own.

"I love you," he reminded you.

"And I, you."

His lips brushed against your own again, and you leaned in further, wanting to connect yourself further. He pulled back.

"When you want to accept the bond, I will give you whatever you want. A private ceremony, a party celebrated throughout all of Velaris, you name it. You just let me know when."

And you would. In the meantime, the two of you would go on dates, would talk more about your pasts and histories, would go back to sharing your interests and visiting that pastry shop you loved so much.

Azriel would make you feel wanted and loved, and you would make him feel like the kind-hearted hero he was. The two of you would hang around the rest of the inner circle side-by-side. Even when Elain was present and Azriel's guilt thudded through the bond, you would move forward. You felt nothing toward her on his end but regret, and you felt the love being pushed through the bond toward you instead.

It would take time and commitment, but you were ready with him by your side. And he reminded you every day that he was not leaving. The two of you were a package deal now -- hand-in-hand, together.

And a year later, when Azriel walked through the doors of the House of Wind to find you in the kitchen, slaving away at a recipe you had spoken of multiple times, nerves thrumming down the bond and your rosy cheeks showing your flustered state, his heart thumped in his chest.

You gave him a soft smile, your hair messy with your efforts, and your outfit messed up from cooking. And he was so in love.

A bowl placed on the dining table, a candle lit, and a glass of wine poured.

Tears filled his eyes, because he never thought he would deserve this. Not a year ago, and not now.

But you only smiled at him, nodding with encouragement.

And then his tears were falling, his shadows swarming over you until you released contagious giggles, and he was scarfing down the food like a man starved for weeks.

If someone had told Azriel a year ago, that in the very same spot he nearly dropped to his knees at the opportunity to make the broken girl in front of him a mug of tea, he would be granted the blessing of her mating bond, he wouldn't have believed it.

But as the golden thread in his chest pulsed and shined and glimmered with love and renewed strength, he cried.

I'm yours, it spoke to him. And you are mine.

And forever will we be tied together.

[velarismorningstar]

Day 5: Destiny - The Path Ahead

What is Gwyn’s destiny?

I asked the Universe and pulled a Light & Shadow spread to find out.

Light – The Tower

In chaos, I move toward the brightest light.

Chaos, beliefs challenged, new awareness and perspective.

The elements of a better life will be found amongst the rubble. Now is the time to rebuild. Trust in the journey to make you stronger and more resilient. You will find your beautiful truth and blazing potential in the darkness of the Tower.

For Gwyn, this rings true. It’s been her story so far.

In the darkness of her mind, alone in the training ring at night, even among Azriel's shadows, something new is being built. She’s growing, becoming more sure of herself. She’s taking the broken pieces of her life and forging something new. Something stronger.

Shadow – 2 of Cups (Reversed)

I thrive in partnerships, and my heart leaps with joy when I connect.

Emotional blocks, not being open to receiving love. Healing past trauma.

This card is about romance and love, as well as the unity of like-hearted individuals (hello, mates!!). It can also signify the beginning of a deep friendship. The perfect pairing of matched souls has the potential to grow into a magical and intoxicating entanglement of twin flames, or the merging of paths that will remain forever intertwined.

This card immediately made me think of Gwyn and Azriel. They’re building a friendship now that could become so much more. But love only grows if you let it. If you stay closed off, you can push it away without even realising it. I think that’s their biggest obstacle – learning how to open themselves up to accept the love they both deserve.

Collage created in Photoshop. Images from pinterest & artwork by @witchlingsandwyverns (thank you again for this incredible piece!!). Divider @strangergraphics

Gwyn Week 2025 | @gwynweekofficial

[velarismorningstar]

hot. so fucking. hot.

Lucien Vanserra confronting Beron after everything he's done to him and his family 🔥

THANK YOU flavie5dub for this SUPER amazing artwork, I couldn't have imagined it any better 🥹🥹🥹✨️✨️💖💖💖

ART: flavie5dub

COMMISSION: vanserras4u 🚫NO REPOSTS 🚫

[velarismorningstar]

this is so beautiful omg

For @gwynweekofficial

Day 5 - Destiny , I have this gorgeous artwork by ellyness5 on IG commissioned by me.

If you guys know you can tell Saint and the sinner is my favourite Gwynriel aesthetic to play with ✨️

REPOST NOT ALLOWED

[velarismorningstar]

“Azriel needs a delicate flower.”

BRUH HE IS THE DELICATE FLOWER. What the fuck are you on about??

[velarismorningstar]

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ A Star Amongst Shadows ˚.⭒☽ ˚.⋆

⋆ Azriel x Fallen Star Reader ⋆

SUMMARY: You are a fallen star, lost and alone, suddenly bound to a body that doesn’t feel like yours. Taken in by the Inner Circle of Velaris, you struggle to understand what it means to live—and to love. Azriel sees you in ways no one else can, and as your light begins to glow brighter, a dark threat rises, seeking to steal your heart. Now, you must choose: return to the sky or stay—and let love find you in the shadows.

WARNINGS: This series contains emotional themes (grief, identity loss, emotional withdrawal), sexual content, swearing, canon-typical violence, blood, and injury. Includes references to mating bonds, magical manipulation, stalking, and unsettling fae creatures. Please read with care if any of these may be triggering.

⋆｡°✩ Chapter List ✩°｡⋆

Chapter 1 ⋆ The Star Falls ⋆ Chapter 2 ⋆ Flickers In The Dark ⋆ Chapter 3 ⋆ The Language Of Body ⋆ Chapter 4 ⋆ The Light You Carry ⋆ Chapter 5 ⋆ What Burns Beneath Skin ⋆ Chapter 6 ⋆ In The Wake Of Constellations ⋆

Chapter 7 ⋆ Touched By Moonlight ⋆

Chapter 8 ⋆ The Star That Belonged ⋆

Chapter 9 ⋆ Echoes Of A False Heaven ⋆

Chapter 10 ⋆ And Then The Star Went Quiet⋆

Chapter 11 ⋆ Celestial Remnants ⋆

Chapter 12 ⋆ Where The Light Finds Us ⋆

Chapter 13 ⋆ The Gravity Of Home⋆

Chapter 14 ⋆ Born Of Shadow Blessed By Starlight ⋆

Complete fic! x

[velarismorningstar]

credits: luoman_art (characters may or may not be intended as “Gwynlain” Gwyn Berdara & Elain Archeron)

[velarismorningstar]

just thinking about bombshell Azriel. Entering the villa, making everyone turn their heads. His eyes are immediately set onto you. During the challenge, he kissed you first, then came BACK around to finish off with you.

Slept alone that night, but made sure to give you a forehead kiss goodnight. He wants you and your couple to know that you are definitely on his radar. That morning, you best believe he was in the kitchen. Talking it up with the guys, "no hard feelings man, we're all here to make connections." is what he told your couple. Served you a plate of pancakes (fully cooked) with some coffee.

Now chatting it up, hes pulled you like 7 different times just to have your undivided attention. Talked with other girls, but wasn't feeling it like he was with you. No kisses though the day, no he's saving that for tonight at the fire pit.

Its now his time to shine, he gets to pick his lucky girl. Called your name so sweetly that bees probably buzzed around minuets after. Swept you off your feet when you walked up to him, literally, that man was doing the most. gave you a sweet kiss to the lips then set you down. has a shit eating grin as he sits next to you on the couch, watching as your used-to-be man now being booted off the island.

This is my brainrot from watching wayyy too much love island! This new season has me tweaking, and not in a good way. anyways bombshell azriel lives rent free in my head. give a piece of that man. not proofread, will probably write more about this man.

[velarismorningstar]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 22

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; hey heyyyy ! What's up ? Here is the new chapter hope that you will enjoy it, see you soon !!!

previous ✧

The tent was dimly lit, the soft glow of faelight lamps casting long shadows over the makeshift table in the center. It smelled faintly of salve, leather, and cold night air seeping in through the canvas. The war outside had stilled for now, the battlefield quiet but heavy—like the world was holding its breath before the next scream.

Azriel stood by your side, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, more to remind himself you were still here than anything else. Cassian lounged on a low bench, wings flexing occasionally, as if the tension hadn’t yet left his muscles. Mor sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes fixed on you.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, raising a sculpted brow. “FIRST, you don’t tell me about the wedding. SECOND, you casually make people explode from the inside? Really, Y/N?”

Cassian snorted. “Honestly, you should be more offended about the wedding. But the exploding thing is pretty impressive too.”

You rolled your eyes, untying the blood-crusted ties of your gloves and tossing them onto the table. “Don’t act like it’s a big deal, Mor.”

“A big deal? You annihilated someone in front of a tent full of healers and warriors.”

“I’ve been a field healer before. I might’ve spent the last few centuries traveling, but I’m not new to this.” You looked between them all, the calm in your voice layered with fatigue. “I just didn’t have much reason to train the more… violent applications of my skills since I got back to Velaris.”

Azriel’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing. You could feel the weight of his worry pressing through the bond like a second heartbeat.

Cassian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Still. That wasn’t healing. That was execution.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “He was already gone, Cass. If I hadn’t acted, more would’ve followed.”

That silenced the room for a moment.

Then the tent flap shifted, and Rhysand and Feyre stepped inside, both looking like they’d just come from a battlefield of a different kind—paperwork and High Lord politics. Rhys’s eyes swept the space quickly, noting the tension, the exhaustion, the way Azriel’s body all but shadowed yours.

“We heard what happened,” Rhys said quietly. “The camp’s still talking about it.”

Feyre gave you a small, tired smile. “You alright?”

You nodded. “I’m fine. Just tired. And angry.”

“That makes six of us,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys crossed his arms, his expression grim. “The report from Winter confirms it. Whatever that warrior was—it’s not isolated. They found another.”

Your blood turned cold.

“Then this isn’t infiltration,” Azriel said darkly. “It’s strategy.”

You turned toward Feyre, your voice gentling. “And Nyx?”

Feyre’s face softened instantly. “He’s safe. In Velaris with Amren and Elain. They won’t let anything happen to him.”

Rhys added with a faint smile, “He’s still asking for his mama every five minutes and trying to climb onto the furniture he shouldn’t. Elain says he keeps throwing his stuffed illyrian toy at the windows like it’ll fly.”

Before any of you could say more, the flap opened again.

Nesta stepped in, face flushed from the cold night, a faint streak of blood drying on her temple. Her braid was loose over one shoulder, but her posture was as composed and commanding as ever.

“I was with one of the priestesses who came with the Dawn Court convoy. She stayed behind when the ridge was hit, kept shielding the trainees until they were all out.”

You straightened. “Is she alright?”

“She’s alive. Barely. She asked for you.” Nesta hesitated, then added, “Just you.”

Azriel stepped toward you instinctively, but stopped himself.

You were already reaching for your satchel.

“I’m coming,” you said, sliding your gloves inside.

You turned to Azriel and kissed him—slow, grounding, his shadows curling softly around your calves as if they, too, didn’t want to let go. His hand hovered briefly at your waist before you pulled away.

As you crossed the tent, your voice rang out, firm and sharp as steel. “If any of you cross into the healer’s tent in a state that’s even close to death, I swear I will heal you and kick your ass the moment you wake up. Understood?”

Cassian raised his hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then, just before you stepped out—

“And you better go to sleep,” you said through the bond, your voice slipping into Azriel’s mind like the brush of lips against his ear. “If I catch you anywhere else, I’ll knock you out myself. Understood?”

His reply was immediate, soft and sure.

“I love you.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Me too. I love you. But rest. Please.”

You hesitated just at the edge of the canvas, eyes still on the night beyond.

“Come and join me when you can.”

“I will come back to you.”

And with that vow glowing quietly between you like a star in the dark, you stepped out into the cold.

Back in the healer’s tent, the night stretched long.

Too long.

The kind of night that had no edges—no clean break between hours, no breath between one emergency and the next. Only the endless, rhythmic churn of pain and magic, death and mercy. The kind of night where the only measure of time was the growing ache in your shoulders and the way your feet had long forgotten what comfort meant.

Reports came in, scouts and sentries confirming no new signs of Koeshiev’s influence since the attack. No other corrupted warriors. No unexplained disappearances.

You should have felt relief.

And you did. Somewhere beneath the layers of dread and fatigue, you clung to it like a thread of gold in the dark.

But even without possession, the night was merciless.

Because healers never stopped working.

During the day, you faced the aftermath of battle—burns, lacerations, broken bones, shredded wings. Warriors carried in by their comrades, covered in dirt and glory, smelling of steel and ash. But at night… at night, the battlefield changed.

It wasn't just about the wounded anymore.

It was infection.

Blood loss.

Organ failure.

Warriors who'd refused to stop fighting until the sun dipped past the horizon—and only then collapsed, nearly gone.

And worse: the fear.

Fear that Koeshiev had already gotten inside them. Fear that every shadow on the wall might not be cast by firelight, but by something else.

You caught it in the way the volunteers flinched every time someone jolted upright on a cot. In the too-quiet conversations. In the way even the veteran healers now kept their tools a little closer, their magic resting just at the surface of their skin.

It was chaos, barely hidden beneath protocol.

And you were its anchor.

Every few minutes brought something new—a shoulder that wouldn’t stop bleeding, a stomach wound that turned septic, a child, not more than sixteen, sobbing because the friend he’d trained with for years had bled out beside him on the ride back to camp.

You patched them.

You touched their hands.

You didn’t let your voice shake when giving orders.

And every time one of the other healers broke—choked on a sob, or froze, or backed out of a tent—you stepped in.

You reminded them what they could do.

What they had to do.

Because there was no one else.

At some point, you realized you hadn’t eaten.

Or slept.

You couldn’t remember the last time you sat down.

But when a healer stumbled near the basin, elbow deep in cauterization ash, you grabbed them by the wrist, steadied their breath, and guided them back to their patient.

“I’ve got you,” you said.

You weren’t sure who you meant anymore.

Dawn was a pale thing creeping under the edges of the tent. You only noticed it because the lanterns were starting to lose their dominance over the light. Your magic was threadbare. Your throat dry from shouting instructions.

You’d just finished binding the stump of a Winter Court soldier’s leg—his third surgery, and he’d lived—and were pressing clean gauze against the bandage when you heard them approach.

Footsteps. Steady.

Rodan and Veras entered together—dressed, alert, fresh.

You hadn’t realized how exhausted you looked until you saw them standing there, eyes sweeping over the room with practiced calm.

“We’ll take it from here,” Rodan said gently.

“You’re done for now,” Veras added, her magic already humming at her fingertips.

You nodded once, too tired to argue.

“Reports?” Veras asked.

“Already filed,” you rasped. “Everyone knows. They’re watching closely. No new incidents overnight.”

Rodan clasped your forearm in thanks. “Then go rest.”

You turned, then paused at the flap of the tent and raised your voice just enough to carry through the main rows of cots and healer tables:

“Great job tonight, all of you heading to rest,” you said, voice worn but steady. “You held the line when it mattered most.”

A few heads turned. A few tired smiles broke through.

You met eyes with the incoming shift—wide awake, still fresh, but already tensing.

“To the rest of you,” you said, voice sharpening. “Good luck. And keep your heads clear. You know what’s out there now.”

A murmur of acknowledgment passed through the tent.

You let the flap close behind you.

And finally—finally—you allowed your knees to weaken, your breath to shake, and your heart to slow from its relentless, controlled rhythm.

You found him in one of the tent they'd given the Night Court—just past the outer edge of the war camp, quiet and dim and mercifully private. A single lamp glowed on a low table beside the bed, casting Azriel’s back in warm, golden light as he lie, wings stretching around the bed.

You paused in the entrance, your heart stuttering just slightly at the sight.

The intricate sun and moon tattoo danced across his shoulder blades, ringed with stars and shadows, black ink woven in elegant arcs that pulsed faintly with your bond. That mark was yours. Yours. Etched across the planes of his powerful body—the one that had fought for centuries, borne blades and broken wings, bled for people who never knew his name.

And now it bore you.

His mate.

His reason to come back.

You smiled faintly, one hand resting at your chest. For a moment, you didn’t speak—just looked. At the strong, broad shoulders, at the mess of dark hair still damp from a quick scrub, at the tension that hadn’t fully left his spine even now.

Then he turned slightly, sensing you through the bond.

He didn’t smile.

Not at first.

He just held out a hand, palm up, like a silent question.

You stepped inside and began peeling off your coat, your leathers, your blood-spattered tunic. Your voice was quiet. “I stink, Az. Let me clean off first.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he said, voice raw, barely above a whisper. “Please... Please, just come next to me.”

The tenderness in it broke something loose in your chest.

You didn’t say anything else—just stripped down to your underthings and crossed the tent. The moment you sank onto the bed, Azriel reached for you.

And held you.

No hesitation. No fear.

Just arms that wrapped fully around your waist and pulled you closer to him, his face buried against your neck, his breathing uneven.

You exhaled against his shoulder, letting your body collapse into his. He was so warm. So solid and strong—muscle and shadow and quiet strength pressed into your front like an anchor in a storm. His wings tucked around you slowly, as if they, too, had been waiting for your return.

Your fingers slid into his hair, combing it back gently, and you looked down at him—at this male who had lived through so much, carried so much, and still found a way to love you fiercely.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

Not at first.

Because love didn’t always need words. Not when your entire body hummed with it. Not when the tattoos on your backs still glowed faintly with the promise of forever. Not when his heartbeat answered yours, steady and low and there.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m here.”

“I know.” His breath caught. “But I needed to feel it.”

You didn’t move from his arms, didn’t shift an inch. Just wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders and held him the way he so often held others—silent, steadfast, and without conditions.

And in that fragile, holy quiet, both of you finally let the war go for just a moment.

His thumb was tracing slow circles at the base of your spine, right where your skin met the edge of the moon tattoo you shared—two halves of a constellation woven in shadow and light.

“You know,” he murmured against your temple, voice gravelly with sleep and emotion, “you scared the shit out of me tonight.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. “What, you thought I could only make small stars?” You arched a brow, a faint smirk teasing at your lips. “I’m hurt that you underestimated me, love.”

Before he could respond, you leaned in and kissed him—slow and soft, a brush of apology and affection all at once. His hand slid up your back, holding you like you might disappear.

Azriel exhaled against your lips, shaking his head slightly. “Never. I would never underestimate you.” His voice dropped, low and full of quiet awe. “But you never seem to stop surprising me.”

You smiled into the hollow beneath his jaw, resting your cheek there, listening to his heart—its steady, familiar rhythm like a balm.

He kept speaking, his voice quiet and close.

“And when I saw you across the tent—when I felt that magic rise from you, sharp and impossible—I knew I couldn’t lose you. Not now. Not ever.”

You hummed in response, eyes already drifting shut. The weight of the night, of war, of everything you’d poured into saving lives—it was too much. And now, in his arms, your body was surrendering at last.

Azriel kept talking. He told you about the moment he realized Koeshiev was near. About how your scent cut through the battlefield like a lifeline. About how he wanted a lifetime of quiet nights just like this.

But you didn’t hear the end of it.

You were already asleep, curled against his chest, your breath soft against his skin.

He pulled the blanket over both of you, kissed your forehead once, and held you tighter.

The shadows flickered low around the tent. Outside, the camp was still, the world holding its breath between battles.

And inside, where two matching rings glinted faintly in the dim lamplight, love kept the dark at bay.

You woke alone.

Or—mostly alone.

The bed beside you was empty, the warmth of Azriel’s body long since faded from the sheets. But a few of his shadows lingered in the quiet of the tent, coiled loosely near your pillow like sleeping cats. One flicked lazily toward you as you stirred, brushing lightly against your shoulder in greeting.

You smiled.

It wasn’t the same as having him there, but it was something. A tether. A message.

I’m still here.

You let yourself breathe slowly, your body aching in places you hadn’t even known could ache. The cot creaked softly as you stretched, muscles sore, bones heavy. But the moment your hand brushed the edge of your blanket, a memory hit—soft lips on your forehead just before dawn. A whisper of a kiss. The faint scent of night-chilled leather and cedar.

Azriel.

You’d barely been conscious at the time—more shadow than person—but you remembered now. He had leaned over you in the gray-blue hush of morning, brushing your hair gently off your face before pressing his lips to your skin.

“I love you,” he’d whispered, so quiet you might’ve believed you dreamed it.

“I’ll be back soon.”

And then he was gone, into the shadows once more.

Now, you reached out and lazily curled your fingers through the one shadow still hovering near your wrist. It twirled around your fingers, almost playfully.

“I miss him too,” you murmured.

The shadow hummed low in response, then curled protectively around your hand, a living promise that he hadn’t gone far. You closed your eyes again for a breath, your heart swelling with the quiet ache of love—and the knowledge that even in war, even in absence, he always left a piece of himself behind to watch over you.

Just like you always waited for him to return.

The days that followed blurred into one another—blood-soaked, fire-scarred, and utterly relentless.

The fighting grew more violent. More deadly. The enemy adapted faster than any of them had anticipated. What had once been waves of chaos now struck with calculated precision. Koshiev’s forces didn’t just want victory—they wanted to break them. To drain their hope. To rip apart their defenses piece by piece, both on the field and in the minds of those holding the line.

You found yourself drowning in the aftermath.

Each hour brought in more wounded than the last. Bodies twisted, burned, mauled. Arrows laced with something foul—poison that defied your most sacred herbs. Magic-wrought injuries that refused to close. Some soldiers arrived already gone, carried in only so their comrades could say goodbye before being burned or buried.

The tents became a graveyard of sounds: the wet gasp of someone trying to breathe through crushed lungs, the steady hum of spells cast without pause, the shouted orders of healers desperately trying to make sense of the carnage.

Your hands didn’t stop moving.

Neither did your mind.

Between battles and triage, you were pulled into meetings—war councils so tense they felt like battlegrounds of their own. You sat beside Rhysand and Feyre, giving updates on morale, magical depletion, healer rotations, and most grimly of all, the body count.

And through it all… you barely saw Azriel.

You passed him in corridors, exchanged glances during strategy briefings, sometimes caught a fleeting brush of fingers when seated side by side—but your shared tent was almost always empty. When you came back, exhausted and covered in someone else’s blood, the sheets were cool where his body should have been. And when he returned, silent and tight-lipped after flying patrols or delivering reports, he often found your side of the bed untouched, the faint imprint of your pillow the only proof you’d been there.

A few times, your paths crossed. A look. A kiss barely long enough to soften the ache. A whispered, “Are you okay?” with no time for an answer. Then one or both of you was gone again.

You hated it.

But you understood it.

Because war didn’t stop for love—not even the deepest kind.

Ather remained faithfully by your side.

He had shed that awkward nervousness, hardened by fire and sweat. The young Illyrian had thrown himself into the healer camp’s chaos with stubborn resilience. You rarely needed to bark orders anymore—he knew where to be. Knew how to lift, how to bind wounds, how to keep someone breathing until you got to them.

He never wandered far from you.

Sometimes you caught him watching you in those breathless pauses between patients—not out of worry, but something like fierce admiration. Not because you were perfect, but because you endured.

One night, during a particularly grim hour—when the screaming didn’t stop, when the air smelled like ash and blood and rot—you caught Ather staring at you after you saved a soldier missing half their chest.

You were soaked in blood. Magic flickered at your fingertips like a dying flame. And you were trembling.

He said nothing.

Just reached into your kit and handed you a clean cloth.

And you nodded—grateful.

It was late when they brought him in.

Not unconscious, not bleeding out—but wounded enough that two soldiers flanked him on either side, wary and watchful. Rhysand walked under his own power, but his jaw was tight, his breathing controlled in that way that told you he was forcing it to be.

You were elbow-deep in stitching a gash along a Dawn Court archer’s thigh when you saw him enter.

You swore under your breath, handing the rest of the work off to Elira with quiet instructions before pulling your gloves off. Rhys met your eyes across the tent with a nod of acknowledgement, but you could see the pain etched just beneath his calm veneer.

You didn’t waste time. You waved him toward an empty cot and grabbed your satchel of salves and spells, already bracing yourself for whatever this was.

“It’s not serious,” he said as you approached, even before you could open your mouth.

You gave him a withering look. “That’s what every warrior says right before they collapse.”

Rhysand offered a half-smile, more tired than amused. “I wouldn’t make your job harder if I didn’t have to.”

You crouched beside the cot and examined the deep gash slicing across his ribs, just under the left arm—clean, but long, and still bleeding sluggishly.

He winced as you began to clean it. “Took a blade meant for someone else,” he admitted. “Could’ve been worse.”

“It always could’ve been worse,” you said flatly, inspecting the edge of torn flesh. “But this… this should’ve been avoidable.”

Rhys’s silence said he agreed.

You applied pressure first, then gently began weaving a slow healing spell into the wound, your magic carefully coaxing the tissue to knit. Rhysand’s breathing evened out under your touch, the lines at the corners of his mouth softening.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the tent filled the silence—murmured voices, the clinking of glass vials, the soft rustle of sheets, the occasional pained grunt or gasp. You’d gotten used to the noise. It had become the heartbeat of your days. But now, next to Rhysand, it felt suddenly louder. More pressing.

“How long has it been now?” you asked softly, eyes still focused on your work.

He exhaled slowly. “Twenty days.”

You nodded. “Feels like a year.”

He chuckled faintly. “Only a year? You’re generous.”

The smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “We’re barely holding them in the Middle. If they push west…”

“I know,” he said, his voice dropping low. “If they reach Summer or Dawn… it changes everything.”

You leaned back, just for a moment, to give the wound time to settle. “You think they will?”

Rhys hesitated. It was rare to see him unsure. He was a High Lord, a general, a politician, a brother. But now, in the flickering half-light of your tent, he looked tired. Tired in his bones. In his soul.

“I think… they’re waiting for something,” he said at last. “Koeshiev isn’t stupid. He’s testing our limits. The moment one of us cracks—he’ll pour through like water through stone.”

You nodded again, slowly beginning to wrap his torso with clean bandages. “We can’t crack.”

“No,” Rhys agreed. “We can’t.”

You worked in silence for a few beats more before you spoke again, quieter now. “Do you think we’ll survive this?”

Rhysand’s eyes found yours—dark, steady, and laced with something you couldn’t name. “Yes,” he said.

Then, after a pause, “But I don’t think we all will.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

You finished tying off the bandage, brushing the back of your hand gently against his arm. “We’re losing people every day. Not just soldiers. Civilians too. The healers are breaking. I’m breaking, Rhys.”

His hand found yours.

“You’re not alone.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You hadn’t cried in days. If you started now, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

“Sometimes I think I came back just to watch everything I care about burn,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “You came back to stop that from happening. And you’re doing that. Every minute you hold this tent together. Every life you save. You are not a bystander in this war. You’re one of the reasons we still have a chance.”

You let that settle between you. The weight of belief. The burden of hope.

“You and Feyre…” you began softly. “You still get to hear about Nyx?”

Rhys nodded slowly. “When we can. He’s safe. Elain and Amren have been godsends.”

“I miss him,” you admitted.

“He misses you, too.” A pause. “We tell him stories. About you. About the brave healer who will come home when the war is done.”

Your throat tightened. “You shouldn’t give him that promise.”

Rhys’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with certainty. “It’s not a promise. It’s a truth. You will come back.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know if it was true.

And so you squeezed his hand once more, and stood, gathering your tools. “You need rest. Don’t even think about flying for a day or two.”

He smirked. “You sound like Madja.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As he rose to leave, Rhysand turned back, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “You’re not allowed to fall apart yet, Y/N.”

You looked up at him. “I know. I’m not done putting everyone else back together.”

And with that, the High Lord of the Night Court stepped back into the war—and you turned back toward the next wound, the next hour, the next weight to carry.

The light filtering through the tent was harsh—midday sun beating down on canvas already stained with blood and soot. The air was thick with the sour tang of magic, sweat, and the sterile sharpness of your salves. Outside, the sounds of distant battle rumbled like an oncoming storm, but inside, the healer’s quarters were a steady, brutal rhythm: shouting, stitching, casting, binding. The steady tick of life slipping away and being yanked back by sheer force of will.

You and Ather moved in tandem now, no longer needing to speak much—his hands were already reaching for what you needed before you asked, his movements sharp and sure, even if his face betrayed the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re getting too good at this,” you muttered, your voice rough from hours of shouting over pain and command.

“I’d rather be bad and somewhere else,” he replied, setting a bone back into place while you channeled healing light through the soldier’s crushed leg.

You gave him a grim smile. “Fair.”

Beside you, Ather dropped onto a stool with a huff, barely keeping upright as he cleaned his blade and flexed a bloodied hand.

“Back when they told me I was being assigned to healer duty…” he started, voice rough, low enough to barely rise above the din of the tent, “I was furious.”

You glanced over, just once. He didn’t stop.

“I wanted to be on the front lines. Swinging steel. Earning glory like the others.”

You nodded slowly, turning back to check the stitches on a soldier’s side. “Changed your mind?”

Ather gave a short, humorless laugh. “Now? Now I’m sure I’m actually going to do something useful here. Something that matters. Something that might even last.”

He looked at the healer’s tent around him—at the volunteers working, the quiet moans of pain, the hands that shook but didn’t stop tending wounds.

“I’d rather stand here and fight with you than die in some muddy field without even knowing if I mattered.”

You didn’t say anything, but the words lodged deep in your chest, reverberating. A quiet, shared understanding. No glory. No songs. Just service. Just survival.

That was all the moment allowed.

Because the tent flap whipped open a heartbeat later, and a soldier—bloodied, wild-eyed—stumbled in, gasping like the air had been ripped from his lungs.

“The west line—they’re through! They’ve broken through the ridge—they’re coming, they’re coming now!”

Chaos.

For one long second, everything was too quiet. Every healer froze. Every patient stopped groaning. And you—your body went cold.

Not because of the scream. But because of the wave of wrongness that swept over you a heartbeat later, like an icy shadow curling around your spine.

You shoved the soldier you were tending to into Elira's hands. “Secure the wounded. Now.”

“Y/N—”

“NOW!”

The tent exploded into motion. Healers scrambled. Patients were dragged toward the reinforced center line of the camp. Weapons, usually hidden beneath cots or bundled in corners, were being unsheathed with trembling hands.

You stepped outside just in time to hear the first horn blow—not one of theirs.

Enemy.

You turned to Ather, who was already at your side, sword drawn. His siphons were glowing a sharp, determined green. The tree line far in the distance writhed with movement, dark shapes swarming like ants cresting a hill. The enemy wasn’t here yet—but they would be. And soon.

The air was wrong again. Heavier. Charged.

Ather stepped up beside you, jaw tight, eyes forward.

You stared ahead, squinting at the horizon, hands balled at your sides.

Then you muttered, too loud for him not to hear—

“For fuck’s sake… fuck this shit.”

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom @ly--canthrope @xlosttdreamss @phoenix666stuff @runningoncoffeeandchaos @zanaorian @prettty-thing @wxveysun @aslut4percyjackson @ailoda @byteme05 @elisabethch82 @eatsleepreadance1 @rainy-day-lady @breademoji @zuhashah-09 @quiettuba @magicaldragonlady @ajxsquish @hibye02 @am-riel @thorins-queen-of-erebor@casiiopea2

[velarismorningstar]

"Elain saying “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male” clearly means she wants Azriel!!!"

"No she'll want Lucien!!"

"Azriel"

"Lucien"

WRONG WRONG WRONG ALL OF YOU

CLEARLY SHE WANTS A WOMAN, SHES LITERALLY SAYING EXACTLY THAT

GWYNETH BERDARA GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE AND SAVE YOUR WIFE

[velarismorningstar]

If I won the lottery I wouldn't tell anyone, but there would be signs.

[velarismorningstar]

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ A Star Amongst Shadows ˚.⭒☽ ˚.⋆

⋆ Chapter Eleven ~ Celestial Remnants ⋆

Azriel ~

He followed the golden thread like a lifeline.

It shimmered ahead of him in the dark—no brighter than a dying ember, but it was yours. And that made it holy. 

He gripped it with everything he had left, shadows clinging to him like blood as he moved deeper into the unknown.

The land here didn’t belong to any court. 

No map marked it. 

It was the kind of place that existed only in nightmares—where the wind didn’t blow unless something wanted it to, and the trees twisted to watch you pass.

He didn’t care. 

Let it watch. 

Let it try.

He was coming for you.

Every step forward was fueled by a savage, aching need. 

To see you. 

To touch you. 

To hear your voice once more. The bond between you throbbed weakly, like a pulse at the edge of death, but it was there—blinking against the dark. 

Holding on.

Just like he was.

The trail led him to a waterfall buried in the cliffs, its waters black beneath the moon. 

There was no sound here but the crashing fall and the whisper of something ancient breathing beneath the surface. 

But Azriel’s shadows flicked toward the stone wall behind it—toward a sliver, a break, no wider than his shoulders.

That’s where you were.

He moved before he could think. 

Straight through the spray, into cold that cut to the bone.

A crack opened before him, not just in the rock but in the very world. 

His siphons flared, repulsed by the magic sewn into the stone. 

Old magic. 

Foul. 

Twisting the air with perfume and decay. 

But he didn’t stop.

He slipped through the narrow passage, wings tucked tight, breath caught in his chest.

The golden thread connecting you to him wavered like a fragile constellation barely holding its place in the endless darkness. 

His chest tightened, breath catching in ragged gasps, each heartbeat a desperate plea for you to hold on.

Then—

A room opened up around him.

Smooth black stone. 

Columns of veined onyx. No doors. No windows. 

The ceiling shimmered like a midnight sea, stars moving far too slowly overhead.

And at the center—on a raised dais of bone-white marble—lay you.

Azriel stopped breathing.

His shadows recoiled, pulling away from the circle as if in reverence, or fear. He crossed the floor slowly, each step sounding too loud, too real, in the hush of the chamber.

You were still. 

Draped in white and moonlight, your skin glowing faintly in the unnatural dark. 

Not unconscious—enchanted. 

Suspended in the thick stasis of whatever magic she’d poured down your throat.

His heart cracked at the sight of it. 

Of you.

You looked like something plucked from the heavens—like a star given flesh. 

Untouchable. 

Eternal.

And yet so breakable now. Like one breath would shatter you.

He dropped to his knees beside the altar, his body giving out with a thud that echoed like a prayer in the silence.

His breath shook. His hands shook.

The sight of you undid him.

Your lashes were dusted with silver, cheeks flushed with some haunting bloom of sleep. 

Your lips parted slightly, like you were on the edge of waking. 

Or slipping away.

“I told you I would come back to you,” he whispered. 

His voice cracked on the last word, raw with love and pain and everything that had nearly kept him from reaching you in time.

He reached out—hesitating just before touching your skin. 

His fingers trembled inches above your cheek.

“You’re still here.” A breath. A choked sound. “Barely—but you’re here.”

He bowed his head. 

His wings hung heavy behind him, trailing the stone.

An Illyrian never drags his wings.

But now—he didn’t care. Let them drag. Let them tear. Let them bleed.

It hadn’t even been a full day. 

Not truly.

And yet it felt like he’d been searching for a lifetime. 

Like time had folded in on itself, stretching every hour into agony. 

The thought of losing you had hollowed him out from the inside. 

Every breath without you had been a punishment.

And now—here you were. Close enough to touch. And still so far away.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the grief down. 

Pushing the panic down. 

Because this couldn’t be the end. 

This couldn’t be how your story finished—on some cursed slab, under a ceiling of false stars.

He wouldn’t allow it.

Not after everything. 

Not after the way you’d looked at him that night on the balcony, like he was worthy. 

Not after how your fingers had traced his scars and called them beautiful. 

Not after he’d finally told you the truth—about the bond, about the way you made his whole life make sense.

You were his.

And he was going to bring you back.

“I’m here,” he whispered again, voice low and rough. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.”

He swallowed hard. 

Reached into the bond, felt its flickering warmth, and pushed everything he had into it.

The memories. 

The feelings. 

The truth of him.

He gave you everything.

He cradled your hand in his. Cold. Still. 

But his.

And into the golden thread, the bond between you, he breathed memory.

Not lies. 

Not the fabricated illusions the witch had forced upon you.

But truth.

Azriel’s truth.

The first time he saw you.

You were cradled in Cassian’s arms, your body curled tightly from the fall. 

No blood, no broken bones—but fear clung to you like frost. 

You were trembling. 

Your breath came too fast. 

And your eyes—gods, your eyes.

Azriel had landed beside them, shadows already stirring, blades half-drawn—ready for the worst. 

Ready to fight whatever had done this to you.

But then he saw your face.

Not just afraid.

Terrified.

And somehow, still beautiful.

Even in fear, even trembling like a fledgling knocked from the sky—you were radiant.

The kind of beauty that made the world pause. 

That made him pause.

For a breathless moment, everything went still. 

The wind. The shadows. Even the stars.

Your lashes had fluttered, your gaze flicking up—and met his.

And even though you didn’t know him, not really, you looked at him like he was safety.

Like something in you recognized him.

As if the thread between you had already begun to hum, soft and golden and unseen.

That was the moment.

That was when it began.

The bond stirred low beneath his ribs—quiet, hesitant.

Like a star turning over in its sleep.

He hadn’t told anyone.

Not then. 

Not when you were tucked away at the House of Wind with the others checking in on you like you were just another rescued soul.

But Azriel had stood outside your door that night. 

And the next. 

And the next.

Silent. 

Still.

Watching the shadows in case they moved.

Just in case you needed someone to catch you again.

He pressed that memory into the bond now—the awe of that first sight, the protective instinct that had flared so violently he’d barely known what to do with it, the way his heart had thudded like it already belonged to you.

So you would know.

So you would remember.

The first night you dance with him. 

Mor hadn’t known. 

Not really. 

She’d just grabbed your hand on a whim and pulled you into the crush of the dance floor, laughing as the music rose.

Azriel had been leaning against the bar, half-shadowed, trying to ignore the ache in his chest that always came when you were near.

Then she’d twirled you too close, left you on the dance floor.

Left you to him.

Left you for him.

It hadn’t been planned.

It hadn’t needed to be.

Your hands on his chest, how soft you felt under his own scarred fingertips. 

He held you by the waist, his touch instinctive. 

Protective.

And then you didn’t pull away.

You stayed.

Your fingers lingered, just over where his heart thundered.

And for a moment the world ceased to matter.

The bass of the music faded into the beat of your pulse. 

The crowd melted around you like fog. 

There was only the warmth of your body against his, the scent of you— jasmine and starlight and something sweet.

You tilted your head up, just enough to meet his eyes.

And gods—he almost forgot how to breathe.

Because you were looking at him like you saw something worth holding.

And for the first time, he let himself wonder.

What it might be like to be wanted.

To be chosen.

To be yours.

Your hand slid up, fingers curling softly in the collar of his shirt—and it undid him.

Not with desire. 

Not just that.

With longing.

A quiet, desperate ache that had lived inside him for centuries. 

The need to be touched without flinching. 

Held without pity. 

Seen without shame.

It was the first time he’d let himself imagine kissing you.

The first time he understood what it meant to be devoured and revered all at once.

He gave you that memory now.

Every heartbeat. Every breath caught in his throat.

The way his hands had trembled after you let go.

Your lips on his scars.

No one touched them. 

Not even his brothers. 

They were his burden, his armor, his history etched in flesh and pain.

But you had taken his hands so gently, like you already knew.

And you had pressed your mouth to the worst of them—not flinching, not pitying. 

Honouring.

Like they were worthy of love.

He’d looked at you then like you were something holy. 

Something he could never deserve.

He pressed that memory into the bond now—let it wrap around you like a promise.

And the bond pulsed in response.

Soft.

Waking.

A morning memory with Feyre.

A quiet moment on the House of Wind’s rooftop. 

Tea cooling between them. 

Feyre had eyed him with that quiet, probing look of hers, like she already knew.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” she’d asked softly.

Azriel hadn’t answered. 

He didn’t need to. 

Feyre had only smiled.

“She’s good for you. I hope you tell her, one day.”

And then, after a pause: “She’s already one of us, you know. She belongs here. We’re lucky to have her.”

Azriel hadn’t realized how deeply that memory mattered until the witch had twisted Feyre’s image in your mind—made you believe no one cared. 

Made you feel alone.

He pushed this truth into the bond like a flare in the dark. 

You were never unwanted. Never unloved.

And finally—his confession.

It lived in him like a brand.

Not just because you’d stepped onto that balcony with moonlight tangled in your hair, the silk of your nightgown whispering around your legs like fog rolling in over the sea.

Not just because you had looked like starlight made flesh.

But because it was the first night he’d let himself fall.

All the way.

He’d been weak that day. Cowardly. 

He hadn’t known how to face you. Not after what he’d felt. 

Not after what he’d tried to deny.

But you—gods, you had waited for him.

And when he stepped out into the night, unsure, unseen, you hadn’t flinched.

You’d turned to him like you knew. 

Like you’d always known.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said. Words that weren’t enough, would never be enough.

You’d asked him why. Why he’d pulled away. Why he’d left you to wonder, to ache in silence.

And he’d told you the truth.

That he couldn’t stay away. 

That the bond had roared in him from the moment Cassian carried you out of the sky and into his world.

That he had tried to push it down. 

To protect you from the ruin in him.

That he’d been afraid of how much he already cared you.

And when he said the word—bond—and saw your breath catch like the stars themselves had stilled, something in him had broken wide open.

He told you everything.

That it had begun with a glance. 

With your eyes barely open, afraid and aching and searching for something solid—and finding him.

He’d felt it then, in the marrow of his bones. A thread snapping into place, golden and quiet and terrifying.

He told you how it had grown—slow and steady, like dawn blooming over the mountains. 

How every small moment had been a reckoning: the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the way you always seemed to understand the things he didn’t say.

He confessed that he had run. 

Not from you—but from hope.

From the terrifying possibility that the universe had finally chosen him for something soft. 

Something real.

And you had stood there, trembling and still, as he poured centuries of silence into a single truth:

That he didn’t know how to love gently. That he broke what he touched.

That he wanted you anyway.

He let you feel the way his hands had shaken as you stepped closer. 

How his chest had ached when you whispered you weren’t afraid.

Not of him. 

Not of the shadows. 

Not of the bond.

And when he dropped to his knees before you—when the weight of it all became too much to bear—you’d gone with him.

You knelt together beneath the stars. 

Quiet. Bare. Real.

You’d taken his hand and pressed it to your chest, made him feel your heartbeat like it was a vow.

And when you asked to feel his, when your small hand pressed to the scars he usually hid, he had let you touch him.

All of him.

You peeled back the layers like they were silk and sin and shadow.

And he let you see him. 

The scarred boy beneath the blades. 

The male who had never been chosen, never been touched like something holy.

He had burned under your fingers. Lit from within.

And when you slipped the straps of your nightgown from your shoulders, baring yourself in the moonlight—not for lust, but for honesty—he thought he might shatter entirely.

He remembered the tremble in your voice when you said, “I’ve never been touched like this before. Not in this body. Not like I’m real.”

And his own voice—breaking, trembling—as he told you, “You are. You’re not just real. You’re mine.”

The way your hand guided his, the way his touch had whispered reverence into your skin.

That memory was carved into his soul.

Not because it was the first time you’d undressed before him. But because it was the first time he had belonged.

Not to the Night Court. Not to his shadows. 

But to you.

He gave that memory to the bond now.

Let you feel how you had undone him.

How you’d made him want to be known. 

To be felt. 

To be claimed.

Let you see how he had nearly kissed you that night—so close, lips brushing, breaths mingling—before the knock had shattered everything.

He hadn’t forgotten what it had cost him to pull away.

He never would.

And now—bleeding, fading—Azriel pressed that night into you like a lifeline. 

The most sacred thing he had. 

His truth.

“Come back to me,” he whispered through the bond, each word wet with blood and love.

“Please. Come back.”

Every breath he took shallow and ragged. 

The cold marble beneath your still form seemed to steal warmth, yet beneath your skin, a faint pulse of life stubbornly beat—fragile, fleeting, like the last flicker of a dying star. 

His hand hovered over you, trembling, desperate to do something—anything—to pull you from that endless sleep.

The silence around them was thick, heavy, almost sacred. 

Until it shattered.

A sudden shift in the air — a chilling ripple that crawled up his spine and settled like ice in his veins.

From the shadows, she appeared—like a nightmare woven from darkness and malice. 

The witch stepped forward, her presence both ethereal and terrifying. 

Her amethyst necklace glowed like a dark heart beating in the dim light, casting jagged shards of violet across the cold stone walls.

Her eyes—sharp and cruel—locked onto Azriel with an intoxicating mixture of disdain and triumph.

“So tender,” she whispered, her voice smooth as poisoned silk. “So full of hope. How quaint.”

Azriel’s breath caught. 

His shadows twitched involuntarily, sensing the threat even before she moved.

Before he could draw his dagger, the witch’s hands flicked like a deadly serpent. 

Arrows of burning ash, sharp as broken glass, flew through the air, slicing toward him with deadly precision.

The first arrow struck his ribs, a searing pain that stole his breath and sent him staggering. 

His knees hit the cold floor hard, but his grip on hope—on you—didn’t waver.

But the witch was relentless.

From her fingertips, dark tendrils of ash and shadow unfurled like serpents in a deadly dance. 

They coiled around his wings, binding feathers and bone with cruel precision. 

His wings, his freedom, trapped as if by unbreakable chains of smoke.

He struggled, muscles straining, but the bonds only tightened, digging into his skin and drawing sharp, burning lines.

“Not so quick, Shadowsinger,” the witch taunted, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. “She is mine now.”

Azriel’s heart shattered with every word.

He shifted his gaze to you—still pale and fragile on the marble table, the Everrest tonic clutching your consciousness in a merciless grip.

He pressed his hand to the golden thread linking their souls, fingers trembling with desperation.

“Wake,” he whispered, voice breaking under the weight of love and fear. “Please… come back to me.”

A faint pulse responded—a flicker of light, fragile and small, but alive.

For a moment, the witch’s triumphant smile faltered. 

Her eyes narrowed, betraying a hint of fear, a crack in her cold facade.

But the moment passed.

She straightened, voice icy and sharp.

“Soon,” she promised darkly. “Soon, Star. You will be mine to devour. To break. To consume.”

Azriel’s breath came in ragged gasps, pain blossoming like wildfire through his side. 

He clenched his jaw against it, refusing to let the agony break him.

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking but fierce. “I’m here now. I won’t let her be lost again. I’ll fight for her until my last breath.”

Blood dripped from the wound in his side, pooling on the marble floor beneath him.

He was pinned, broken, fading into the cold darkness—but the golden thread glowed faintly, a tether to you.

The witch smiled.

Not with glee.

Not even malice.

But hunger.

A slow, simmering satisfaction that curled at the edges of her face like rot.

Her eyes gleamed violet-black, starless, soulless, as she stepped back into the shadows — as if she had all the time in the world.

“This,” she murmured, lifting the amethyst necklace so it caught the faintest glint of light, “was only ever going to end one way.”

Azriel’s blood ran like ice.

But he couldn’t move.

The ash arrows still held him, buried deep through muscle and wing, nailed to the floor like a shadow crucified.

“No—” he growled, trying to rise, every bone in his body screaming.

“You already gave her to me,” the witch said softly. “I’m just letting you watch while I take the rest.”

And then—

She vanished.

Like a sigh blown into mist, like a candle snuffed in the dark.

Gone.

Leaving only silence.

Azriel collapsed forward, his hands dragging uselessly against the blood-slick marble. 

His vision blurred. His shadows faltered. 

Pain pulsed behind his eyes, in his ribs, down to the splintering in his wings.

But none of it compared to the pain of you—motionless still on the table, that glow beneath your skin flickering like the last ember of a star.

“No…” he rasped. Crawling now. Slipping in his own blood.

He didn’t care. 

Let it drain. 

Let it stain this cursed place. 

So long as he reached you.

His fingers scraped the marble edge.

His lips brushed your hand.

And still, you didn’t stir.

The bond trembled. Too thin. Too far.

Azriel’s head bowed. His breath came in shallow gasps.

He had nothing left to give.

Except…

“I love you,” he whispered.

The words fractured. Hoarse. Raw.

A first.

A last.

A vow etched into the thread that bound him to you — spun like gold through shadow, stretched so thin it barely shimmered anymore.

But it reached you.

He flung it down the bond like a spark hurled into the void, a desperate cry in the darkness.

“I love you,” he said again. “Come back to me.”

His eyes began to close.

The world dimmed.

The shadows began to fall still.

And then—

You gasped.

Loud. Sharp. Wrenching.

Your body arched off the marble with the force of it, a hand clutching your chest, as if the words had pierced straight through bone.

Your eyes flew open.

Starlight erupted behind them.

And Azriel—bleeding, broken, still crumpled at the altar of you—saw it.

He saw you.

Awake.

Alive.

And in that radiant burst, the golden thread between your hearts blazed anew—unbreakable, unstoppable, and bound forevermore.

AN: This put me THROUGH it, oh my gooooood. (I’m also like 97% done with writing this story yay but also boo!)

[velarismorningstar]

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ A Star Amongst Shadows ˚.⭒☽ ˚.⋆

⋆ Azriel x Fallen Star Reader ⋆

SUMMARY: You are a fallen star, lost and alone, suddenly bound to a body that doesn’t feel like yours. Taken in by the Inner Circle of Velaris, you struggle to understand what it means to live—and to love. Azriel sees you in ways no one else can, and as your light begins to glow brighter, a dark threat rises, seeking to steal your heart. Now, you must choose: return to the sky or stay—and let love find you in the shadows.

WARNINGS: This series contains emotional themes (grief, identity loss, emotional withdrawal), sexual content, swearing, canon-typical violence, blood, and injury. Includes references to mating bonds, magical manipulation, stalking, and unsettling fae creatures. Please read with care if any of these may be triggering.

⋆｡°✩ Chapter List ✩°｡⋆

Chapter 1 ⋆ The Star Falls ⋆ Chapter 2 ⋆ Flickers In The Dark ⋆ Chapter 3 ⋆ The Language Of Body ⋆ Chapter 4 ⋆ The Light You Carry ⋆ Chapter 5 ⋆ What Burns Beneath Skin ⋆ Chapter 6 ⋆ In The Wake Of Constellations ⋆

Chapter 7 ⋆ Touched By Moonlight ⋆

Chapter 8 ⋆ The Star That Belonged ⋆

Chapter 9 ⋆ Echoes Of A False Heaven ⋆

Chapter 10 ⋆ And Then The Star Went Quiet⋆

Chapter 11 ⋆ TBC⋆

Chapter 12 ⋆ TBC⋆

Chapter 13 ⋆ TBC⋆

This is an ONGOING fic - chapters released regularly! x

[velarismorningstar]

no, because i am addicted to this fic. all hail the queen

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 21

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5.7k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; Hello everyone ! What's up ? Here is the new chapter hehe hope that you will enjoy it, it's war and it's much darker than usual ! Either way see you soon !!!

previous ✧

While the High Lords gathered again in council—voicing plans, drawing borders, debating how to proceed—you had already begun.

There had been no ceremony. No formal decree placing the burden on your shoulders. But the moment war returned to Prythian, the weight of leadership found you.

Because they trusted you.

Because you knew what to do.

You had not fought in the last two wars. The Cauldron’s destruction and Hybern’s fall had happened while you were across the sea, in faraway lands where the stars were different and pain wore unfamiliar faces. But that didn’t mean you hadn’t seen war. You had tended to battlefields choked in ash and blood. Had screamed over wounded soldiers while enemy horns still blew in the distance. Had wrapped yourself in healer’s robes that smelled of iron and rot and clung to your skin like a second, cursed layer.

You hated war.

But you understood it.

And now, it was here.

The healer’s camp was rising fast—just a few miles behind the front line where Winter and Day were already locked in skirmishes with Koshiev’s first wave. The scent of cold pine from Winter’s edges mixed with the mineral tang of cracked stone and blood. White tents fluttered in the wind, ropes anchoring them against the rush of messengers and supplies. Ward lines had already been carved into the frozen earth by Dawn Court mages—barriers to keep out wild magic and corrupted air.

You stood in the center of it all, barked orders flowing from your mouth without hesitation. Assignments. Triage formations. Inventory checks. You moved with your sleeves rolled to your elbows and a thin smudge of soot on your cheek. No glamour. No grace.

Just the quiet, practiced command of someone who knew exactly how to keep people alive.

You hadn’t seen Azriel in hours.

He had left before dawn, shadows coiled tight, heading toward a newly forming reconnaissance post along the northern edge of the mountains. But even now, as you stalked between tent rows, checking for weaknesses in the shielding wards, you reached for the bond.

Are you safe?

No answer yet.

Az, you tried again, gentler. Talk to me.

Still nothing.

You pushed the worry down. Forced your hands to keep working.

The news from the front was grim. Winter’s line had bent but not broken—yet. Kalias’s forces were strong but outnumbered. Day had pushed in with their elite firecasters, but it wasn’t enough. Koshiev’s creatures weren’t just soldiers. They were nightmares with no rules, no blood, no soul. And worst of all—they multiplied.

All courts would be needed soon. Every ounce of power. Every blade, every spell. Every hand.

Including yours.

Elira jogged up beside you, her braid wild and armor already streaked with dust. “We’re short two crates of blood-root poultice,” she reported. “And Mira says the third tent’s warding is fluctuating—probably due to that crack in the shielding line from earlier.”

You nodded. “Have Theylan reinforce the tent wards and get a courier to Day’s supply wagons. Tell Mira to prep a shadow-safe triage zone. Just in case.”

Elira didn’t question the order. She ran.

The camp was quiet.

Not with peace, but with anticipation. A silence that pressed down like a storm waiting to break.

They stood in front of you—rows of healers in varying uniforms and colors, pulled from every court. Some wore finely-stitched robes of trained mastery. Others were volunteers, barely trained, still trembling beneath their armor. The head healers from each court flanked the edges, arms crossed, their expressions grim and expectant.

You stood on the rise just above them, wind tugging gently at your coat, eyes scanning the sea of faces.

No one spoke.

You took one breath. Then another.

And began.

“This is not the first war Prythian has seen. But it may be the last.”

The words echoed across the camp, cutting the wind clean.

“We are not soldiers. We do not wield blades, or lead charges, or set the sky alight with power. But make no mistake—we are the last barrier between survival and death.”

You let that sink in. Faces shifted. Straightened.

“We are the difference between a soldier going home… or not. Between fear and hope. Between despair and dignity.”

Your eyes swept over them.

“Some of you are experienced. You’ve done this before. You know what it’s like to have blood under your nails and someone screaming in your arms. Others… this will be your first time.”

You didn’t soften the words. You wouldn’t insult them with lies.

“You will see things you’re not prepared for. You will have to act when you’re terrified. And you will fail. Sometimes. But you will get back up. And you will keep going. Because that’s what we do.”

You paused, letting the silence settle.

“We are healers. And in this war, we will be the ones holding the line after the swords have fallen.”

A few heads bowed. Some lifted higher.

You continued, voice steady.

“Field healers—you’ll move with the battalions. Stay behind the front lines, but close enough to extract the wounded. Do not overextend. If you go down, that’s one more soldier who won’t make it back.”

“Stationed healers—work in shifts. Exhaustion kills more people than wounds do. Maintain the wards. Sanitize everything. No exceptions.”

“Beginner volunteers—you are not expendable. You’ll stay within the rear perimeter, aiding the senior staff. Watch. Learn. Prepare to step in when we fall.”

You let your gaze rest on each court’s representatives.

“Work together. No court lines. No territory pride. We fall, Prythian falls. It’s that simple.”

Then, more softly, “And take care of each other.”

The wind carried your words out to the camp.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then heads nodded, quiet murmurs passed through the rows, and slowly—one by one—they began to disperse.

The camp had emptied slowly, one healer at a time, until only wind and silence remained. You stood at the edge of the central tent, the weight of the speech still clinging to your shoulders like a wet cloak. You’d done it. You’d held the line. For now.

You exhaled, slow and quiet, stepping out into the cold air.

And before you could take another breath, someone grabbed your hand.

Firm. Warm.

You barely registered the blur of shadows before you were pulled away from the tent, tucked between two supply wagons hidden by hanging tarps and crates of medical stock.

“Azriel—” you began, startled.

But he said nothing.

He just held you.

Arms wrapped tight around you, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in like it might be the last time. And maybe, for him, it already felt like it was.

You didn’t speak. Just stood still as his arms locked around your waist, grounding him, tethering him.

Because through his eyes, you were someone else today.

Not just the mate he loved. Not the quiet, steady presence who returned home late with herbs still in your sleeves, smiling softly.

No.

You were war now.

Dressed in healer’s leathers, your expression hard and drawn, your eyes darker than usual—shadowed not by fatigue, but by responsibility. You had stood before your army of white-robed medics like Rhysand did before soldiers. A ruler. A guide. Someone who knew what needed to be done, no matter the cost.

And that terrified him.

If he could have left you in Velaris, locked you in your shared home and surrounded you in layers of safety, he would have.

If he could have taken you far away—beyond the continent, beyond Prythian—he would have flown you there himself.

If he could have stayed by your side every second of every day, watching, guarding, keeping you from even a breath of danger—he would have never let go of your hand again.

But he couldn’t do any of that.

And for the first time in centuries, Azriel was truly, deeply afraid.

He had faced death before—welcomed it, even. But now, the idea of loss wasn’t about him. It was about you. About the ring you wore. About your laugh in the halls of your home. About the way you curled into his chest each night and whispered promises for a future neither of you dared to speak aloud in daylight.

He had asked you, days ago, to show him the vision.

Elain’s vision.

The one you had tried to keep to yourself.

At first, you refused.

You had shaken your head, eyes stormed with something unspeakable, telling him it was better not to know. And Azriel had accepted it. He hadn’t pressed.

But you knew.

You knew that somewhere in him, he needed to see it.

And when you finally showed him—when you shared that memory with him under the moonlight in your home—you had spent the entire night afterward wrapped together in silence. No words. Just warmth. Just the bond. Just the sound of his heart beating under your ear.

It had nearly broken him.

Because now he couldn’t walk through a room without wondering if it would be the last time he saw you in it. Couldn’t touch the door of your bedroom without thinking of what it meant. Of what your home truly was to him.

Azriel had loved his brother. He loved Feyre with a loyalty no bloodline could break.

But this—

Their gift.

This was cruel.

Because what if fate’s promise held true?

What if the only sanctuary you’d ever shared became your mausoleum?

The place where your children should have laughed.

The place where he should have held you through your last pregnancy, and then your last gray hair, and then your last breath—but not like this. Not soon.

Azriel came back to himself when your hands found his face—when the cool press of your wedding ring met his cheek and sent a shiver through him so sharp, it felt like a breath of winter wind through his ribs.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

His golden eyes opened slowly, and the storm behind them flickered with something raw.

“I know…” he said softly, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, Az.” You gave him a tired, aching smile—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for loving me.”

His arms tightened around you, one hand curling into your hair, the other pressing into your lower back like he could hold you through the coming days just by pulling you close enough.

“I’m just so scared…” His forehead dropped to yours. His voice was barely audible, but it trembled with the force of what he didn’t say.

“Me too, love,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

You kissed—slowly, tenderly, like a promise wrapped in a farewell. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just real.

Your hands slid up to cradle his jaw as you pulled back just far enough to breathe.

“Please be safe,” you whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “Please don’t do anything reckless, Azriel. Don’t sacrifice yourself. Be careful. Please. I beg you.”

He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. Like you were light and sky and warmth and everything worth surviving for.

“I should be the one saying that to you, my love.”

You gave a shaky laugh, kissed him again—softer this time.

“I’ll be waiting for you here,” you said, placing your hand against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. “But I’ll always, always be here, Az.”

Your fingers curled, pressing gently against his heart.

And he covered your hand with his.

“I need to go,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I’ll see you later.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You smiled through the burn rising in your eyes.

“I love you, Azriel.”

One last kiss. Long. Wordless. Trembling with everything you both couldn’t say.

And then—

He stepped back.

And vanished into shadow.

The emptiness that followed wasn’t just physical. It was like something vital had been pulled from your chest. Your heart beat quieter without him near.

This was war.

A war against a death god.

And you knew—deep in your bones—that anything could happen now.

The tent was no longer quiet.

By the time you returned, the healer’s ward was already filling—low moans, hushed voices, the rustle of canvas and armor echoing beneath the enchanted lighting. The scent of blood and antiseptic clung to the air. Winter and Day soldiers lay on cots or mats, some wrapped in early bandages, others awaiting triage.

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved with the ease of someone who’d done this too many times to count, rolling your sleeves back up, scanning injuries, checking for critical signs. Elira met your eye with a quick nod as she finished stitching a leg wound nearby.

And then—

You noticed him.

A young Illyrian male standing just inside the tent’s entrance, eyes wide, shoulders tense, wings twitching slightly at his back. He wore light leathers and bore the faint shimmer of four green siphons—freshly earned. His sword was sheathed, his posture not quite relaxed, but trying.

He stepped toward you quickly and bowed. Deeply.

You raised an eyebrow. “And who are you, boy?”

He straightened a little too fast. “Ather, my lady… I mean, Y/N—I was… I was assigned to stay with you. To protect you.”

He winced like the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“I don’t mean to say that you’re unable to protect yourself—I know you are—it’s just… these are the orders I received. From General Cassian.”

You blinked once, then smirked.

Reaching out, you clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder. He stiffened beneath your touch, wings twitching again.

“Get some confidence, Ather,” you said, voice even but not unkind. “You won the Blood Rite and earned your siphons. You think they’d assign you to me if you weren’t worth something?”

His mouth opened slightly in surprise.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” you added dryly. “But this is war. And even if you aren’t standing on the battlefield with the others, make no mistake—this is my front line. And I expect you to treat it that way.”

Ather swallowed. Then stood straighter, pulling his wings in tight.

“Y—yes, my lady.”

You arched a brow.

“And keep the formalities for your general. I’m not Cassian. Call me Y/N.”

He nodded, face flushing slightly. “Yes… Y/N.”

You gave a faint, approving nod, already moving toward the next cot, where another healer was struggling with a chest wound. “Good. Now grab gloves and help Elira with the prep table. We’ve got work to do.”

Ather followed close behind as you made your way to the first table.

The tent was a battlefield in its own right—an organized mess, every cot filled, every healer moving like a piece of some frantic, well-oiled machine. There was a rhythm to it, one cot cleared, another filled. Bandages soaked through and replaced before the blood dried. Hands never idle. No time to hesitate. No room for mistakes.

You barely stopped walking as you began issuing orders. “Elira, get the bloodroot paste to Section B—head wound on cot twelve. Mira, I need fresh ward lines traced around the eastern perimeter, too many fractures in the shielding. Sylwen—double-check our poultice stock. We’re burning through it faster than expected.”

You paused at a table near the center.

The moment you saw him, you knew it was bad.

A Dawn Court warrior—barely conscious, his skin slick with sweat, blood pooled beneath his ribcage and leg. Deep lacerations, some down to bone, others... gaping. His tunic had long since been cut away, revealing claw-like tears across his chest and stomach. His breathing came in shallow rasps, and he was seizing slightly, his limbs spasming against the cot.

You moved fast, sleeves already rolled, hands glowing with the faint shimmer of healing focus. “He's crashing. We need to close the abdominal tear before he bleeds out.”

You snapped your fingers. “Ather—make yourself useful and hold him still.”

He jumped, rushing to the other side of the cot. His hands hovered for a second too long.

The warrior bucked violently.

You nearly screamed. “I said keep him still!”

Ather startled but slammed his hands down, pinning the warrior's shoulders. His eyes wide, focused now.

And if he’d dared to close them in that moment, he would’ve sworn he heard Cassian’s voice—Cassian’s authority—in your tone. That same raw edge. That same absolute command that didn't ask, but ordered.

You weren’t a front-line general. But here?

Here you were one.

The only one.

You worked fast—threading together muscle with magic, applying pressure spells, stitching layers that no blade could ever reach. The warrior moaned, head thrashing.

“Just a little more,” you murmured, hands steady. “Hold him, Ather—don’t let go, no matter what.”

Seconds passed like minutes.

Minutes like hours.

And hours like days.

Between screams and the metallic scent of blood, you could hear the frontlines burning. Distant, but not far. Explosions of power. The eerie wail of creatures that didn’t belong in this world—sounds that scraped against bone.

The wounds were changing, too. The warriors that arrived looked like they’d been clawed open by death itself. Eyes wide with terror. Some couldn’t even speak. Others begged you not to let them go back.

Your jaw clenched as you moved to the next patient.

Dammit.

Was this what Finn had seen in his final days?

Your hands didn’t stop.

But the thought lingered.

Are we going to win?

You didn’t have the answer…

The hours blurred.

Time lost meaning between the blood, the screams, and the never-ending arrival of new wounded. Healers moved like ghosts—silent, fast, leaving trails of red and magic behind them. And through it all, you stood at the center, a fixed point in the storm.

Every time the tent’s flap opened, your breath hitched.

You looked.

And every time, some part of you prayed.

Please, not Feyre. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not Mor. Not Nesta. Not Thesan. Not Azriel.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You knew every soul that passed through your hands deserved your prayers. But you couldn’t stop the relief—the guilt-tinged exhale—when it wasn’t one of them.

When it wasn’t him.

Still, you kept moving. Kept healing. Kept leading.

At some point, Ather had stopped trailing you like a shadow. You’d stopped noticing exactly when. He had begun helping—quietly, steadily—moving supplies, holding pressure, assisting other healers. Close, but no longer hovering over your shoulder like he feared you'd vanish if he blinked.

Still, you caught him lingering now and then, eyes flicking back to you too often.

You didn’t even pause your stitching when you muttered, “Make yourself busy, Ather. You’re disturbing me more than anything hovering like that.”

“But—”

“No but. I’m sure Elira could use help hauling supply crates.”

He faltered, uncertain.

Before he could answer, Elira snatched him by the elbow. “Come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No one’s going to jump at her throat in the next fifteen minutes.”

You allowed a small smile to slip through as they vanished behind the warded flap.

You didn’t even hear Teylan approach until he was at your side, voice low and calm. “It’s slowing. You should rest for a bit. Tonight’s going to be worse. You need to be ready.”

You exhaled, long and weary. “You’re right. But if anything changes, wake me.”

He nodded, watching as you made your way toward the corner of the tent. You sank into a wooden chair, back stiff, arms crossed over your chest.

“I meant rest on a bed, Y/N,” Teylan said dryly. “One that doesn’t creak like it’s older than Prythian.”

You closed your eyes. “You already know I’m not leaving. Go do your job and let me sleep.”

He sighed, quiet resignation in every breath, but turned without arguing.

Later, when Ather returned, mud on his boots and blood on his forearm, Teylan gestured toward you.

“You should rest too, kid. Tonight’s going to be long.”

Ather nodded, but his eyes were on you—still and silent in your chair, arms folded like wings, head tilted just enough to show the curve of exhaustion on your face. You didn’t look asleep.

You looked like a statue.

Not crumbling, not wounded—just enduring.

A silent guardian holding the whole tent together by the sheer weight of your presence.

And so Ather sat on the ground beside you, back against the canvas, his siphons dim, hands resting in his lap.

Like a soldier next to a queen.

Like a believer at the feet of a goddess.

Night fell quickly.

One blink, and the pale glow of the warded healer’s tents was all that lit the field.

The fight had ended—for now.

You only knew it because the wounded had stopped pouring in long enough for your hands to stop shaking. The frontlines had held, barely. You’d heard from several warriors—some feverish, some lucid enough to still tremble—that the creatures were unlike anything they’d ever faced. Restless. Vicious. Mindless. As if they’d been created only to move, to rip through flesh and bone until nothing was left.

But even they had their limits.

And so the tide pulled back.

Azriel had sent word to you through the bond. I’m fine. Just that.

You’d felt it when he said it—meant it—and the grip around your lungs finally loosened. Others had checked in as well. Rhys. Cassian. Feyre. Mor. Thesan.

They were alive.

And for the first time since Azriel vanished into shadow, you could breathe again.

You’d begged him, silently through the bond, to rest after the debriefing. Just for a few hours. Just to let his body recover. But he had ignored you—completely, maddeningly ignored you—and you felt the moment he turned toward the camp instead.

He’s coming.

Because of course he was.

Because he was Azriel.

The wounded began to arrive in full.

Not the lightly injured ones—the ones treated by volunteers and beginner healers, wrapped and sent to recover.

No.

Yours.

The ones that looked like death itself had clawed them apart.

The first warrior was screaming so loud his voice cracked and turned to silence. A massive gash had torn down his back, ribs visible with every strained breath. Another was carried in missing both legs—burned black up to the thigh, the flesh hissing with rot that hadn't even had time to set properly.

And then there was him.

You didn’t know his name—didn’t need to.

The male was barely conscious, blood slicking his entire body, and half his face—

Gone.

Burned or melted or clawed, you couldn’t tell. The skin was missing from the left side entirely, leaving muscle, sinew, and exposed teeth where his cheek should have been.

Elira had made it halfway to the cot before she turned and ran behind the tent to empty her stomach.

The scream that followed was not the warrior’s—it was one of your junior healers, who dropped a bowl of antiseptic and stumbled backward with wide, horrified eyes.

You turned on her, your voice like ice.

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Out. If you can’t stomach the sight of what war brings, you have no place in this tent.”

She flinched. Then bolted.

You didn’t watch her go. You didn’t have time to feel guilty. You moved to the warrior, gloved hands already glowing, already assessing what could be done, already speaking to Mira—who, to her credit, stayed standing, though she was ghost-pale.

“Clamp that artery—there. No, the other one. Yes. Hold it. We’re going to need a skin stabilization spell until the regrowth solution arrives from Day.”

You looked up briefly. “Elira,” you called sharply without turning. “If you're finished vomiting, I need you back now.”

A groan from the other side of the tent confirmed she was crawling her way upright.

There was no time. No room for weakness. Not now.

Every scream from the cots blended into the next. The moans. The gasps. The silence of the ones who didn’t make it.

You stood over the cot, looking down at the warrior.

His chest barely rose and fell, eyes half-lidded, glazed. Blood soaked through the hastily tied bandages at his side, pooling under him, dark and steady. His leg was gone—torn clean above the knee—and the healing magic you’d poured into him had only been enough to dull the agony, not stop the inevitable.

“There’s nothing we can do,” you said, your voice low but firm. “It’s already too late. We don’t have the time to save him.”

Behind you, Ather stood still, frozen. His mouth opened, then shut again. Finally, he whispered, “Can’t you even try? He must have a family… people waiting for him. Can’t you—”

You turned to him slowly, exhaustion and clarity sharp in your eyes.

“Look at him, Ather.”

He did.

“He can’t even keep his eyes open. His body’s already slipping away—he’s lost too much blood, and the trauma is beyond what any of us can repair in time. He’s not conscious anymore. I already gave him peace, eased the pain. But I can’t bring him back. Not without burning through what’s left of my strength.”

You drew in a tight breath, steadying your voice, not for your sake—but for his.

“And look around you.” You gestured at the dozens of cots, the groaning wounded, the frantic pace of your fellow healers. “We are surrounded by dying people. If I waste the last of my magic trying to save one life already fading, then four or five others—people I could save—will die before I can get to them.”

Ather’s eyes darkened, jaw clenched, throat tight with unspoken grief. You stepped closer, your voice soft but unyielding.

“This is war, Ather. He fought for what he believed in. He died like a warrior. Do not pity him. That would only make his sacrifice meaningless.”

“I’m sorry…” he breathed, barely able to meet your eyes.

You placed your hand gently on his shoulder, the gesture firm and grounding.

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s always hard the first time. And the times after that too.”

You squeezed his shoulder once before stepping back.

“Let’s go. We still have work to do.”

You barely took two steps when you heard her.

“Y/N! I need your help here!” Lila’s voice tore across the tent, panic sharp in her usually even tone.

You ran.

The moment you reached her, you understood why.

The male on the cot was massive, one of the front-line warriors—probably Illyrian by the faint curve of his wings, but it was hard to tell under all the blood. He convulsed violently, mouth open in a silent scream, limbs thrashing so hard the cot legs dragged against the ground.

Deep gashes ran across his chest and abdomen, torn open like something had clawed straight through armor and flesh. His side was bleeding too fast, the skin around the wound pulsing, too raw, too red.

“Shit,” you breathed, already moving.

“Hold him down!” you barked, and Ather rushed to your side without hesitation. He and another healer grabbed the warrior’s limbs, pinning him with every ounce of strength they had.

“He’s tearing his stitches,” Lila said, breathless. “Every time I try to stop the bleeding, he thrashes again. I can’t keep the pressure.”

You grabbed gauze and antiseptic, pressing hard into the wound, ignoring the blood that splattered your sleeves.

“He’s in shock—his body’s trying to shut down. We need to stop the bleeding now or we lose him.”

You looked to Lila. “Give him ten drops of mountain bell tonic. It’ll slow the adrenaline spike. Once he stills, I’ll stitch and seal.”

She moved immediately, hands no longer trembling.

The warrior bucked again, and you nearly lost your grip.

“Ather!” you snapped. “Hold him. I need him still.”

“I am trying—”

“Try harder!”

Your voice cut through the chaos, hard and fast, and for a second, the tent went silent. Ather's back straightened, his arms locking tight around the warrior’s shoulders.

You weren’t on the battlefield with the warriors.

But here?

You were a general.

You worked quickly. Gauze. Thread. Needle. Magic humming quietly through your fingertips—not a spell, not a cure, just enough to hold the pieces together.

Every second mattered.

And outside, the battle still raged—distant screams, strange cries echoing through the hills, the kind that didn’t sound fully human. The kind that made your blood turn to ice.

You didn’t look away from your patient.

But the thought echoed somewhere deep inside you.

Dammit.

Are we going to win?

You tied the last knot with a flick of your wrist. The bleeding slowed.

The warrior stilled.

Lila exhaled, slumping slightly beside you. “You got him,” she whispered.

“No,” you said. “We bought him time. That’s all.”

But your hands were steady. You didn’t let them shake.

You looked up to find Ather watching you—not afraid, but something close to reverent. Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“Stop staring,” you said softly. “Go grab fresh bandages.”

“Yes, Y/N.”

And he ran.

You turned to the next cot without pause.

Because this was war.

And there were more lives to save.

The warrior’s convulsions had stopped. His breathing had evened. You exhaled slowly, lowering your blood-slicked hands from his chest, and gave a faint nod to Lila. She stepped back, relief softening her features just slightly.

You turned to grab the salve kit behind you, ready to finish cleaning and sealing the edges of his wounds.

You didn’t even hear them come in.

But they were there—Azriel, Cassian, and Mor, stepping into the tent in search of you. You felt them before you saw them. Azriel’s heartbeat, once familiar and steady, stilled for just a second. Cassian’s body tensed like a coiled blade. Mor’s breath caught behind her te

And your own body—

Froze.

Your spine stiffened, your hand hovering mid-air. You didn’t need to look to know.

You’d felt it before.

The cold rush of knowing—ancient and visceral—sank into your spine like a blade of ice. That same crawling sensation you’d felt on the continent, that moment at sea with Azriel.

Koeshiev.

You had only enough time to hear the unnatural rasp of Ather’s sword being ripped from its sheath—not by him.

Azriel’s heart slammed against yours through the bond.

Y/N—

Lila’s eyes went wide.

But you—

You were faster.

You spun. Pivoted hard. Grabbed the warrior by the arm and yanked him off balance with brutal precision. His body jerked mid-lunge, and you twisted, shoving your palm into his chest.

There was a beat.

A breath.

And then—

Silence.

The man’s body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

A horrible stillness clung to the tent as blood spilled across the canvas underfoot. You stood above him, breathing hard, your hand still raised, your glove darkened.

You wiped the side of your face, a crimson smear marking your cheek.

“I didn’t think this would happen this soon,” you muttered, the words more breath than voice. “Fuck.”

You turned.

All eyes were on you.

Cassian. Mor. Lila. Ather. Azriel—his shadows writhing like smoke and storm across the floor. Everyone stared like the air had been sucked from the tent.

Even the wounded were silent.

You stepped forward, calm as steel.

“This isn’t just a war of blade and blood,” you said. “This is infiltration. Corruption. Whatever Koeshiev has sent into Prythian, it’s already here. And this—” you gestured to the body on the ground, “—is only the beginning.”

You looked at the healers, your voice low, but resonant.

“From this moment on, if anyone acts strangely—zones out, speaks in riddles, loses time—you report it immediately. I don’t care if it’s your mentor, your commander, or your closest friend.”

You didn’t need to explain what had happened.

They had seen.

“Do not hesitate. Do not second-guess. Because the next time, you might not get the chance to act.”

You swept your gaze across the tent one final time.

“This is war,” you said. “And war doesn’t give second chances.”

No one spoke.

Then Lila, quietly, “Is it going to happen again?”

You looked her in the eye. The truth sat like a knife on your tongue.

“Yes.”

Azriel was the first to reach you, already stepping past the others with shadows still curling at his heels. His eyes swept over your face, your arms, your hands—checking for wounds, for blood that wasn’t yours. His gaze was clinical, protective, frantic beneath the surface.

Cassian arrived next, brows furrowed. “Are you alright? What the fuck happened in here?”

Azriel didn’t speak. He was still looking, like if he could just see deep enough, he’d figure out if something inside you had cracked.

Mor hovered nearby, her golden eyes unreadable, flickering between the body on the ground and your blood-streaked face.

“I’m fine,” you answered hoarsely. “It wasn’t him anymore. It was already too late.”

Cassian glanced at the corpse. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t flinch. You just looked up at him.

“Don’t be surprised, Cass,” you said, voice steady. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. If we’re dead, the warriors die too. Take out the healers, and the front lines bleed out behind us. Koeshiev doesn’t just want to fight—he wants to rot us from the inside.”

You turned sharply, finding Ather and Lila frozen near the edge of the tent, still wide-eyed.

“You two—” your voice cracked through the tension like lightning, “—the instructions are clear. Go through every single person in this tent. If anyone seems off, anything, I don’t care how small—you call for me. Immediately.”

They both nodded.

Lila was pale but focused.

Ather still looked shell-shocked.

You turned, reached for Azriel’s hand, and without a word, pulled him out of the tent with you.

The air outside was colder now. Sharper. The moon was high above, casting pale light on the fields and distant fire-lit hills. Your fingers didn’t loosen their grip on his.

Inside, the others were still frozen around the aftermath.

And Ather—

He looked down at the body. At the blood slowly drying into the floor. At the hollow cavity of a man who had stood just minutes ago.

“How…” Ather breathed, barely able to speak. “How did she—”

Lila didn’t blink. “She made all his internal organs explode, that’s how...” she said simply, quietly.

Ather’s stomach flipped.

But he didn’t look away.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom @ly--canthrope @xlosttdreamss @phoenix666stuff @runningoncoffeeandchaos @zanaorian @prettty-thing @wxveysun @aslut4percyjackson @ailoda @byteme05 @elisabethch82 @eatsleepreadance1 @rainy-day-lady @breademoji @zuhashah-09 @quiettuba @magicaldragonlady @ajxsquish @hibye02 @am-riel @thorins-queen-of-erebor@casiiopea2

[velarismorningstar]