the way it burns - sam_lane - A Court of Thorns and Roses Series (2024)

Chapter 1: One

Chapter Text

There were many things Eris Vanserra hated about being the heir to the High Lord of the Autumn Court, but being summoned like a dog had to be at least in the top five on the list.

Eris found himself and two of his brothers all standing before their High Lord and father, Beron. The man imagined himself a god in fae form, and it never failed to both impress and annoy Eris with the way Beron could command a room. Just as he commanded the three of them now — silently and patiently, with fire blazing in his eyes. A promise of pain to come. Eris only prayed it wouldn’t be his own.

“It seems,” Beron drawled, “that your lost little brother has found his way home at last.” He paused, glancing among them. Eris didn’t take his eyes off of Beron, and he didn’t let his surprise show. “He and Tamlin’s bride have fled the Spring Court together, and have fortuitously found themselves within our borders.”

A broad and savage grin broke out across Eris’ face. “Oh, Lucien ,” he mused, shaking his head. “Someone has been misbehaving, it seems.”

“Indeed,” Beron agreed. He gestured to the three of them, but spoke to Eris. As his heir, he would expect him to succeed here. Success or failure, it would be his and his alone. “You know what to do. I want them alive , and in good condition. Understood?”

Eris nodded. “Yes, Father.”

He turned to go, signaling the other two to follow. The fire in his veins already sang at the thought; it had been too long since he had had a reason to be excited about anything. The trivial court bullsh*t bored him to death — being general to the Autumn Court armies was only fulfilling to him when there was a war to wage, or battles to fight, or strategies to plan. Courtier nonsense was achingly boring to Eris.

“Gather weapons, and whatever else you need. Meet me back here in half an hour. Do not be late,” Eris instructed his brothers. They nodded, and winnowed away, leaving Eris to brood. Which he did — for every second of the entire half hour, considering he was never not ready for a fight. There were no weapons for him to gather, no armor for him to don. The others rejoined him, and Eris simply rolled his shoulders before winnowing away to find Lucien.

Finding them was an easy task. Lucien and Feyre were holed up in a cave, dirty and rather exhausted by the looks of them. Eris silently instructed his brothers to pin Lucien between them, which they did easily, while Eris pulled a knife from his boot. Feyre was fast asleep, a costly and idiotic mistake. And this was the girl who had the whole of Prythian in the chokehold of war thanks to a pissing match between the High Lords of Spring and Night? Eris had trouble believing it. She was unremarkable in every way, and an idiot to top it all off; sleeping in enemy territory is just begging for capture.

Eris firmly grabbed her by the face, yanking her upward, and brought the dagger to her throat, just as his brothers dragged Lucien to his feet.

“Look who we found,” Eris drawled coldly, his face just above Feyre’s. Cold shock and a hint of confusion played across her features as she fully awoke. Eris wasn’t sure if she really recognized or knew who he was. Lucien’s face paled as his eyes bounced between the three of them and finally settled on Eris. Yes, the biggest threat in the room, Eris thought to himself. I know it, you know it, they know it.

“Father is rather put out that you didn’t stop by to say hello,” Eris continued with a haughty smirk of pure male arrogance plastered on his face. The knife he held steady at Feyre’s throat did not waver one bit.

“We’re on an errand and can’t be delayed,” Lucien answered quite smoothly considering his circ*mstances and odds. He had to know that his escape ended here, that he wasn’t leaving the Autumn Court and neither was the Archeron bitch. Her clueless eyes now darted between them all — a doe caught in a trap. A pretty face that was very close to sparking a civil war that would rip Prythian to pieces. Idiots, Eris thought to himself. f*cking idiots. The least they could have done was choose a smarter female to bicker over.

Eris let out a laugh then, devoid of humor, a devilish grin taking over his face. “Right,” he said. “Rumor has it that you two have run off together, cuckolding Tamlin.” He tsked a few times at his youngest brother, unable to help the spread of his grin; the high of the chase, the trap, and the capture was getting to him, urging on the fire that burned in his veins. “I didn’t think you had it in you, little brother.”

“He had it in her, it seems,” one of his other brothers added, chasing it with a sneer and a snigg*r. Eris chuckled at that. Feyre didn’t in the least seem bothered by the course language.

Her eyes — blueish-gray and so very young — slid to Eris then, her head keeping perfectly still as he kept the knife poised at her throat. Her voice didn’t waver one bit as she issued her challenge: “You will release us.”

Eris was surprised by this, but didn’t let it show. He knew better, and was far too well-trained to let something as plain as a passably pretty but simple-minded girl trick him.

“Our esteemed father wishes to see you,” he replied carefully and coyly, wearing that perfect mask of a serpent’s smile he had cultivated so many moons ago. He held the knife as steady as she held his gaze. “So you will come with us to his home.”

“Eris.” Lucien’s voice was one of warning, but his name brought recognition to Feyre’s eyes. Eris saw everything she thought play out in one great heaving breath as she looked at him.

First there was the surprise. Then the chaotic thumbing through of hundreds upon hundreds of memories that most so often did when trying to place a name. Where have you heard it before?… Yes, Lucien’s brother… What else?

Then Eris saw the next piece click in Feyre’s mind. Mor. Yes, there it was. Yes, I’m that monster. Eris was sure that she had heard the entire Night-Court-version of the story, judging by how much disdain now filled her eyes. Maybe Eris had judged her incorrectly before; maybe she wasn’t some simpleton.

And just as the thought crossed his mind, Eris felt it. Just underneath her skin, an answering call to his own power perhaps, he could have sworn he felt just the faintest sweep of fire-kissed power run through the vein he now rested a knife against in her throat.

It unsettled him. And nothing — nothing — unsettled Eris. Ever.

“Get up,” he bit out, making himself sound bored, unamused. Eris hauled Feyre to her feet, intentionally blocking out that siren song of fire that haunted him, singing to him from beneath her skin, so similar to his own. Impossible, he thought as his brother dragged Lucien to his feet. Utterly impossible. She’s not of this court. It’s my tired mind playing foolish tricks on me, that’s all. It had to be. And yet…

His father had told him how she had been Made. The coming together of all seven High Lords; the giving of a kernel of each of their powers; her rebirth as High Fae. He hadn’t told Eris’ brothers. No, he had only told Eris — as his heir, or as General to his armies, Eris wasn’t sure. All of it made his head spin.

“After you,” Eris said, forcing a hint of smoothness into his voice that he certainly did not feel. This situation was feeling more and more out of his control by the second. He lowered the knife from Feyre’s throat, giving her one hard shove toward the mouth of the cave.

In his distraction, he hadn’t noticed his mistake until it was too late. She’d been waiting for him — to lower the knife, to lower his guard. She spun, the second he shoved her, and propelled herself toward him, driving her elbow upward and connecting it cleanly with his nose.

Eris couldn’t even mutter a curse as he stumbled backward, pain shooting through his head like hot daggers.

Fire — hot and wild — instantly flooded the cave, and Eris thought for a moment that his brothers were finally worth a damn in a fight. But no, this fire careened toward them, as Lucien dove out of the way toward Feyre.

Feyre. Feyre — the wielder of that fire. Autumn’s fire. Eris wiped the blood streaming from his nose and stood, as Feyre backed out of the cave, with Lucien at her side, hands outstretched, dumping every ounce of raw untamed fire she had at them.

Eris unleashed the roaring blaze in his own blood and sent it billowing right back at them. Only his was not the untrained handiwork of a mewling girl. No, he was a warrior of over 500 years, battle-hardened and trained with proficiency.

He also had the white-hot added benefit of pure and undiluted rage on his side. This girl had something that did not belong to her.

Eris opened every channel of power he had in his most immediate access and allowed the flames to pour freely through his fingertips, wreathing himself and his two brothers safely in a ring of protective magic as they regained their footing. He didn’t need to dig deeper — he could tell she neared the end of her reserve already.

He smirked. This was the consequence of knowing nothing about the power you could wield. Her well had run dry after a few brief but potent attacks, and she had hardly anything left. Meanwhile, Eris hadn’t even tapped into his deeper reserves of magic yet, and had barely drained his immediate reserves of magic. He grinned like a maniac, drunk on the power of always being the better fighter. Did she really think she could best him with magic?

Their attacks grew less focused, wilder, and broader. Sparks of flame blasted the ceiling, raining dust and debris down on them. Eris ignored it, finally stepping through that wall of flame they so boldly held up like a lifeline. Eris savored the feel of the heat, the sizzle of the fire as it licked his skin, played amongst his red hair, raced along his senses, setting him half-wild.

He had time for one gleaming, livid face toward Feyre and Lucien, before the two of them both pointed their magic toward the weakened cave ceiling — directly above Eris.

Eris had only a few moments to register that an entire mountain was literally caving in on him before the weight of the rocks truly began to press — hard. Darkness, cold and harsh, already began to pull on him, beckoning for him.

He gathered a burst of his power inside of him, like a ball, and released it all at once, hoping to shift the rocks away from him. They barely moved. He tried it again, a great pulsing burst of power. Nothing.

Darkness pulled harder at the edges of his vision. This time, he let it pull him under completely. The shadows were a welcome comfort.

Azriel and Cassian certainly had their hands full these days. With their newly appointed High Lady off playing a deep game of subterfuge in the Spring Court — with Tamlin, the High Lord of Spring, none the wiser — it left their High Lord in a rather foul mood indeed.

Which, of course, meant that Az and Cassian, being the good brothers that they were, did whatever they could to keep Rhys busy throughout his day. Today, that meant dragging him all over Illyria to check in on the war bands in person. This was more of Cassian’s thing, but Azriel knew he could use the distraction too. With Feyre’s newly-Made sisters at the House of Wind — which was Azriel’s usual haunt — he needed an excuse to be out.

Though, I’d almost rather brave the sisters, he thought to himself, vaulting into the sky with Rhy and Cassian after visiting Windhaven. He hated the Illyrian camps with a passion, and had always used any excuse possible to avoid them.

The three of them coasted along the ripping winds in a comfortable silence. Az sighed.

“Remind me again why—”

He choked on his words, suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation that the air had left his lungs completely. Murky blackness pulled sharply at the edges of his vision.

“Azriel.” Rhys’ voice was a sharp command, his night-kissed power coating the air around Azriel, the mountains far beneath them positively trembling with it.

Azriel’s wings snapped together instinctively as he struggled to draw breath. His blue siphons flickered as they tried to draw power — tried, and failed. Hot. It was too damn hot. But that didn’t make any sense. They were far above the Illyrian mountain ranges, high up in the snowy skies. How is it so f*cking hot all of a—

The thought died as he felt himself begin to fall. The inky blackness pulling at the edges of his vision were taking over, his body feeling crushed under ten thousand pounds of weight and burning.

Why can’t I breathe? Why am I burning? Why am I falling? Why—

“Azriel!” The command was much louder this time, the night-kissed power of his High Lord slowing his descent to the earth as Azriel lost all control of his body, of his mind.

As he careened toward the snow-blasted earth, the ghost of a thought crept through his mind: After so much cold, this brush of heat really isn’t so bad.

And then it vanished. All of it at once: the crushing weight on his body, the heat, the blackness threatening to pull him under, all of it. It all just… stopped.

Az’s wings snapped out, catching an updraft, and he righted himself quickly. He drew a few deep lungfuls of air, gulping down the cold icy wind greedily.

Rhys and Cassian were right there, their faces stark with shock. Cassian was the first to speak.

“What the hell was that ?” His wing beats were short and frantic, his red siphons blazing like fire.

Azriel did his best to steady his racing heart rate. Shadows angrily wrapped themselves around him, through him, as conflicting images flickered through his mind. Az tried holding on to them to make sense of them, but they were gone before he could get a solid grip of them — almost like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

Cassian and Rhysand, their concerned faces turned towards him, waited expectantly for an answer.

“I… I have no idea,” Azriel replied honestly, the echoes of the delicious warmth of the heat already fading from his skin.

Eris awoke with a grunt, the ghost of cool, blessed darkness and cold a light touch on his fire-ravaged skin. He could somehow smell snow, even as he woke within the boundaries of his court, far from any geographic location where one would find such a thing.

Peculiar, he thought to himself hazily. Even in such a state, the sensation was there, if he dug deep enough. The snow… the bite of cold on his face, so high up… flying , maybe? How is that possible? he mused. Flashes, brief and unstable and slipping away by the millisecond as he desperately tried to grasp them… flashes of blue—

“Eris.” A firm slap to his face roused him completely, and the visions slipped away entirely, gone forever as his amber eyes flicked open to his two brothers, bloodied and bruised but quite alive, and gazing down at him.

They had lived, fortunately, but his annoyance at them for their poor timing rose quickly, and he batted their hands away from him.

“Where did they go?” he asked, not bothering to ask if they were alright. If he had to return to his father empty handed, Beron would have all their heads. They needed to capture the two quickly. That was all that mattered at the moment.

“They fled toward the border,” the older of the two answered, pointing toward the Winter Court border.

Eris swore. That border was uncomfortably close. If Feyre and Lucien made it across, they were as good as safe. Relations between the Winter Court and the Night Court weren’t perfect, but they were far better than Autumn and Night. Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court, may very well guarantee Feyre — and therefore Lucien as well — a safe return to the Night Court.

“We need to move. Now,” Eris snapped as he stood, biting down on the groan that almost escaped as his body barked in pain at the movement. f*ck, he hurt everywhere. That pretender had not only stolen Autumn Court power, but had brought down an entire mountain on top of him.

Oh, how he would enjoy making her pay for it once he got her back to the Forest House.

It took two more days just to locate the pair, who were annoyingly adept at covering their tracks and hiding their scents as they fled.

To Eris’ great dismay, they had already crossed the border between the Autumn and Winter Courts by the time Eris and his brothers had caught up with them. Eris considered this heavily and he watched Lucien and Feyre trudge across a vast frozen lake in the distance. Did he dare to go after them in another Court’s territory? Did he dare to provoke Kallias this way over the apprehension of two simple fugitives?

He almost turned away and winnowed home, leaving the mess for someone else. Almost.

Then he remembered the unbridled fire she had thrown at him, the rock she had tried to crush him under. The rage broiled in him again, the flame intensified in his veins, in his blood, in his bones and sinew. He remembered that Prythian was on the brink of war right now, all because of this one simple girl . Steam rolled off of him in great billowing puffs as the heat in him rose unchecked and unchallenged.

No. No, he didn’t give a damn whose territory she was in. He wasn’t going back home without her.

Eris winnowed himself to the edge of the lake Feyre and Lucien were trekking across. They hadn’t noticed him yet. He held up his hand, encasing it in flames, perfect and bright gold in the crisp winter sunlight, and smiled. Waiting. For them. To notice him. Which they did eventually, with his brothers standing behind him.

“Run,” Eris heard Lucien breathlessly say to Feyre.

“Run where exactly?” she replied as Eris lowered his fiery hand to the lake’s edge. Nowhere to run, girl, he thought savagely to himself. That’s exactly right. At least you’re not half as dumb as you come across.

The ice met with his flaming hand and steam rippled instantly, bubbling and warping, and the ice went almost instantly opaque. Eris savored the feeling, reminding him of that cool, windy, snow-blasted caress he had experienced upon waking from his stupor a few days ago—

No. No, not here, he reprimanded himself.

He guided the heat, shooting it in a line straight for the pair on the ice. The opacity shot straight out in the line he had intended, the ice thawing in a straight line at Feyre and Lucien.

They ran pointlessly in the opposite direction, the thawing ice making for a treacherously slippery escape. The ice stretched on seemingly forever.

“Faster!” Lucien barked at the girl. “Don’t look!” He gripped her by the elbow as she stumbled. Mother above, is she really this useless under pressure? Eris wondered.

Still, he unleashed more and more, unlocked his centuries of carefully honed magic, one layer at a time so as not to exhaust himself. He had been trained for situations exactly like this — he knew how to make his magic last. He dug his fingertips deeper into the pliant ice, bending it to his fire’s will, making it submit to his bidding.

Behind him, his brothers had already drawn their bows, and began unleashing volleys of arrows toward the two.

“Bring them down,” Eris commanded. “Do not kill them. Father wants them alive .”

The pair sprinted now, gaining speed and making wild, unpredictable zig-zag patterns across the ice instead of staying side-by-side. Eris sneered.

If that’s the way you want to play, fine by me, he thought. Just as he rose to pursue in a different manner, he was once again unsettled — for the second time in as many days, and yet again, by Feyre f*cking Archeron.

Eris could just barely see as she threw out a hand toward a massive patch of the ice where Eris had melted it, and from her hand flew pure glittering solid ice — frozen and new, over where he had melted it.

Ice. The power of the High Lord of the Winter Court. Eris’ blood boiled uncontrollably. This unremarkable creature, previously human of all things, had not only fire , but also ice.

He would worry about the implications later. For now, Feyre was busy refreezing every patch of melted ice where Eris had thrown his power into the frozen lake, and she and Lucien were dangerously close to making their escape a reality.

Eris would not let it happen.

“This has gone far enough,” Eris motioned his brothers out onto the ice, one winnowing one the far side with him, and one winnowing behind the pair.

The instant their feet hit the ground, the brother at Eris’ side let one arrow fly with deadly accuracy toward Feyre, which she rolled to avoid, shouting as she did. The arrow just barely grazed her, but otherwise missed.

Eris plunged his power down into the ice at her feet, willing it to melt. The steam rippled and hissed, the ice turning to slushy water. He was losing his patience with this game of theirs.

Another arrow let loose from his brother, and a shout that ripped from Lucien’s throat to warn Feyre. A solid shot, as it sunk clean through her right forearm. Her scream was deeply satisfying to Eris as she hit the quickly melting ice beneath her, pain etched across her face.

His other brother began closing rank on them from the other side of them, caging them in. He had them. He knew it. He let the victory show and he smiled savagely, taking a step closer to the pair of them as Feyre tore the cloth around the arrow in her arm, breaking the shaft in two and ripping the pieces from her body. Her shriek echoed across the lake, bouncing away for nobody to hear.

Eris unlocked more pathways to his magic, more channels of power, unfurling the fire and hurling it into the ice, concentrating it into the spot at Feyre’s feet. Even as she boldly stood, palming two daggers — as if it would do her any good at this point — the ice wavered beneath her, groaning and cracking.

“This can end with you going under, begging me to get you out once that ice instantly refreezes,” Eris drawled as he nonchalantly swaggered closer to her, carefully staying outside of the ring of concentrated magic he had created, “or this can end with you agreeing to take my hand.” Behind them, Lucien now stood between his two brothers, cut off by the two of them, with a lone knife in his hand as he eyed them carefully. “But either way,” Eris continued, “you will be coming with me.”

A solid recovery, he thought to himself. Sloppy, maybe, but still solid. He had only a moment to think it before he found himself, yet again , unsettled. He should have known better.

One second, the girl stood before him looking for all the world like an animal in a cage, and the next—

Light. Blinding, dazzling light. Feyre herself had somehow burst into pure white light, so bright and unexpected that Eris stumbled backward as he swore loudly.

By the time he regained his footing and blinked away the stars in his vision, Feyre was sprinting toward the shore, already a good distance away. He had no time to worry about Lucien; let him be a problem for his brothers. Eris growled, winnowing himself into her path, directly in front of her.

Eris gave her no warning before he struck, a quick but hard backhanded blow across her face. He followed it up with a punch to her gut before she had even fallen, and the air left her left in one great heave as she hit the ice.

Beyond them, Lucien was doing his best to put up a worthy fight against his two other brothers. Fire blazed, metal sang, and shouts echoed across the frozen lake.

Eris sneered down at Feyre, reaching down and grabbing one savage fistful of her hair at the root and dragging her toward the shore.

To her credit, she fought. Feebly, sure, but she fought with some sort of skill. Someone had trained her at some point — probably one of those Illyrian brutes in the Night Court. She simply did not have the strength that Eris had at his disposal. She kicked and she clawed and she spat and hissed and all of it was in vain.

She opened her mouth to scream, and Eris summoned a gag of fire, coiling restraints of flame around her ankles, her wrists, and her throat as well. He made them hot, but not deadly. Not yet.

His sentries were already winnowing in on the shore of the lake as he made his way there with his prize, an adder’s smile on his face. He had won. It had been nearly an impossible task but—

Eris felt the prescience before he saw him. Before he smelled him. Then he shot down out of the sky like an avenging god, slamming into the earth and setting the ice cracking beneath them in every direction.

Cassian. That Illyrian bastard brute, who always found himself in Eris’ way.

Eris sneered at the Illyrian, general to general, Cassian’s red siphons blazing like the fire that sparked anew in Eris’ blood at the sight of the challenge. Oh, he was more than happy to take on this male in open combat, one on one, after every bit of bloody history between them.

Feyre let out a shuddering sob in Eris’ grip at the sight of the warrior standing before them, as if he were her salvation this day. It only served to further enrage Eris. He would prove it not to be true.

Another impact behind him — he already knew who it would be. Where the general went, he could be sure the shadowsinger followed. Cassian went into no battle without Azriel.

Eris didn’t turn away from the Illyrian before him, he didn’t dare, and yet…

Something pulled his focus. Some incessant tug— there in his chest. Some annoyingly insistent thrum, deep in his bones, an incandescent beating of the simple command: turn around turn around turn around turn around…

Feyre began openly crying in earnest now, as Cassian drew two of those Illyrian blades he favored.

“I suggest,” he said with a perfected lethal calm, “you drop my lady.”

Eris tightened his fist in Feyre’s hair, wringing an enjoyable whimper from her throat, only aiding the savage sneer on his face. The answering rage on Cassian’s face was extremely gratifying for Eris, but—

f*ck, there it was again. The tug. The insistence. The pull. Eris almost let a gasp escape his lips at the force of it, at how deeply he felt it reverberate through his chest, deep beneath the armor, beneath the layers of locked channels and pathways of magic he had created for his use centuries ago.

He was so focused on it that he missed the look slid between Cassian and Feyre. It was a stupid mistake, a green mistake, because the next second, Feyre spun, twisting down to the ice and slamming her bound legs upward between Eris’ own legs.

He bent practically in half with a wheeze and a sharp grunt — directly into her fisted, bound hands, which collided sharply with his nose. Bone crunched, and Eris had no choice but to release her as the world spun, stars springing into his vision momentarily.

Feyre took her moment of freedom and rolled clear of him. Cassian was instantly upon him, a whirlwind of rage and steel. Eris had barely a breath to draw his sword before Cassian engaged him. Yes, the clever little bitch certainly was smarter than she seemed.

Eris met Cassian steel against steel, one efficiently trained warrior against another. Two males who had plenty of reasons to hate each other. That rage and hatred shone plainly in the general’s eyes as he threw everything he had at Eris, and Eris did everything he could to meet him.

Still… that incessant pull. That relentless tug across the ice, where his brothers squared off against Lucien and Azriel. It was becoming an uncomfortable urging now, like wearing armor that was too tight or that feeling that one would get right before they fell over the edge of a cliff. It nearly seized his joints altogether, nearly controlled his own muscles, nearly made him do as it wished—

Steel against steel rang out across the lake as he barely blocked a brutal blow from the Illyrian general. Eris’ focus was scattered . If this kept up, he’d get himself killed—

A volley of arrows flew across the ice, courtesy of his own sentries. He spared a single glance to see that Feyre had somehow freed herself of his binds, just as the arrows neared them all—

And bounced harmlessly against a solid shield of blue magic. Eris’ brows knitted together, his breath quickening and his blade faltering for a single millisecond as something itched at his memory.

Blue. Blue. He knew that shade of blue. He’d know it anywhere.

Eris lowered his sword, just a fraction, and turned, gazing across the ice at the shadowsinger. At Azriel.

Eris’ breath left him in one great gasp as the whole of his world shifted on its axis. The insistent tug that had pulled in his chest beneath his centuries of armor and magic now burst apart into a million filaments of something bright and blinding and foreign. It was wild and uncontrolled and so incredibly unwieldy that Eris had no clue how to guide it, how to hone it or control it or what the hell to do with it. Or even what it was.

Mate. The word sunk into his soul like a stone.

No. Please no. Please please please —

The moment had cost him. The moment he spared for a glance at his mate — he thought the words bitterly — had cost him. For Cassian had seized that moment of hesitation and plunged his blade effortlessly into Eris’ gut.

Eris fell to his knees, pain seizing his body and blood blooming and pooling. A vicious scream ripped from his throat, as his blood trickled to the ice, the red a stark contrast against the pure white.

Is this my punishment? he thought. Am I to die here, having finally found my mate, only for it to be someone who hates me and will be quite happy to stand here and watch me die? His knees screamed in pain, until—

“Stop.” The command in Feyre’s voice was a stark contrast to the timid girl he had seen up until this point. But the two Illyrians obeyed. Cassian withdrew his blade, retreating to Feyre’s side. Eris groaned loudly, clenching his hand to his gut, his blood seeping out over his fingers, wet and warm. And Azriel…

Azriel.

He had withdrawn from his own battle with Eris’ brothers, coming around now to where Eris knelt before Feyre and Cassian. Eris was aware of his every step, his every movement, his every breath. So painfully aware, as if he could see into his damn soul.

He supposed he could, now that he really thought about it. He didn’t truly know how deep a mating bond went, how all of it worked, the mechanics and nuances. It was all so f*cking complicated that he had sworn it off centuries ago, and since he had had never found his own—

And there he stood. So heartachingly perfect it knocked the very breath from Eris’ body. How many times had he looked at Azriel and never known — never really seen ? He saw now — every ripple of muscle, every vein in those powerful wings, every flicker of those blue siphons. The blue that had roused him from his knockout just a few days ago. The wings that had carried him on the snow-kissed wind that Eris had felt on his own skin. Did he know? Had it snapped into place for him too? Had his entire world shifted here today? He searched his hazel eyes for any sign of it, that wild burst of white frayed light in his chest seeking out something in the shadowsinger before him.

But all he found there was hatred and disdain. There was nothing of the open softness, the vulnerability that Eris found himself innately craving from the male, loathe though he was to admit it. No, he was much better off dead here today, gutted by Cassian and left to freeze and die.

Eris glared at the three of them defiantly. Glared— and waited. Waited for his judgment to pass. Pass it swiftly, and leave me to it then, he thought. He felt utterly devastated. He couldn’t stand this for another second. He couldn’t stand the thought of innately wanting approval — validation — from Azriel. Cursed to an immortal lifetime of seeking his forgiveness? No. Better to die here and now. Put an end to it before he truly had the chance to sink into it any further.

Do it, he willed them, not meeting the eyes of the shadowsinger, but instead looking to Feyre. Kill me now. I refuse to be cursed to a lifetime of loving and hating another person with equal measure — just as I love and hate myself for loving and hating them. It was too much. Simply too much. He had lived through bloody battles that weren’t half as bad as the war being waged within his own wretched soul this very f*cking second.

“You all deserve to die for this,” Feyre spoke at last. “And for much, much more.” Eris didn’t disagree. Get it over with, he wanted to urge her on. “But I am going to spare your miserable lives.”

Eris blinked in disbelief. No. No. His lips twisted, but hadn’t so much as formed a single word before Cassian was snarling back at him in warning, allowing Feyre to continue.

The air shifted around her then, a glamour lifting from Feyre’s body, revealing a detailed marking on her arm — an intricate tattoo of black whorls, delicately interlaced. Lucien joined them then, his face pale as he stopped a good distance from Azriel. Eris barely spared him a glance; his nearness to the shadowsinger was too much for Eris to handle. That he could stand that close to him without his head being torn clean off—

“I am High Lady of the Night Court.” Feyre’s words were somewhat quiet, but the impact was anything but.

Yet again, it seemed, she had a penchant for unsettling Eris. High Lady, he thought. Mother above. His eyes widened as he took her in with new eyes, and felt something he hadn’t felt in a long long time: fear. He only prayed it didn’t show.

“There’s no such thing as a High Lady,” one of his brothers spat from behind him.

Feyre only smiled sweetly. “There is now.” She looked to Cassian then. “Take me home,” she commanded, her chin held high. Then to Azriel, “Take us both home.” Lucien. She meant f*cking Lucien.

Lucien would leave here, with his mate, Eris thought with rage, and they wouldn’t even give him the courtesy of a clean death.

“We’ll see you on the battlefield,” Feyre threw at them all, before she stepped into Cassian’s awaiting arms and they shot into the sky. Moments later, Eris had to endure the sight of Lucien — the sight of his youngest brother — uncomfortably and unknowingly stepping into the arms of Eris’ mate as they, too, shot skyward.

Eris finally collapsed completely to the ice, not tearing his eyes away from the skies until Azriel was a black speck in the distance — until he could no longer see him at all — and then drawing the very last bit of strength he had in him and winnowing home.

Eris didn’t go to the Forest House — not immediately. He had no doubt that word of his failure had already reached his father, and he would have to face that music sooner rather than later.

But he couldn’t stand it — this incessant pull, this unrelenting and unyielding ball of unwieldy magic in his chest. He had no other word for it, as he had not a damn clue what the hell it really was. It had simply exploded into being the second the bond had snapped into place for him, but it didn’t listen to him the way his magic usually did. It couldn’t be coaxed or guided or wielded. There was no honing it or forming it into anything even close to useful or even tolerable.

So the only choice he had — the only option he could think of in his wrecked state — was to expend it completely.

So Eris winnowed himself to a remote part of the Autumn Court, far away from any settlement or city or village. And the second his feet hit the ground, he unleashed himself.

In over five centuries, not once had he ever let himself go in such a manner. He didn’t think, didn’t unlock each channel and pathway of his magic one by one, carefully expending each avenue so as not to exhaust himself too quickly. No, today , that was the goal.

So today, here, he opened them all. And he let it all burn. And burn and burn and burn.

And as it burned, he thought of how cruel the Cauldron truly was. For gifting him with such strength, only to curse him with such a weakness. He thought of how complicated this mess just became. Mate. The word echoed through him like a death knell, a promise of all the pain to come. He had heard rumors, whispered tales of the pure torture of a rejected mating bond. That’s where this was headed, of course, right?

The fire flowed out of him, the force of it almost a heat he could feel.

Of course that’s where this was headed. After all, to them, he was the monster who left their precious Morrigan to die. That’s who he would always be. Never mind that he was also the brother who refused to participate in the slaying of his youngest brother’s lower fae lover. Never mind that he was also the brother who refused to hunt down Lucien and kill him, choosing to hand him over to Tamlin and the Spring Court instead, choosing mercy instead.

The whole of the wood surrounding him was engulfed entirely now in his blaze. Yet still, more poured out of him as Eris clenched his jaw.

No, he would always be a monster to Azriel and his Court. Azriel would reject this ridiculous bond, and it would destroy Eris. He barked out a cold humorless laugh. Over five centuries of cruelty, crafting the perfect warrior, and this was what would bring him to his knees? A hazel-eyed Illyrian who refused to see him as anything other than a monster?

The flames guttered for half a heartbeat. Is that what he wanted? Did he want forgiveness? Did he want redemption? Did he want returned affection? He’d been so busy worrying about what Azriel saw when he looked at him that he’d never really thought of what he saw when he looked at Azriel.

The fire kicked up again, pouring out of him in earnest. He wasn’t nearly empty, and that annoyingly bright ball of light in his chest that refused to lessen, that refused to listen, was still very much there.

He saw… well, he saw the same sneaky spymaster that he had always seen. Didn’t he? Don’t I? No. No, if he was being honest, he didn’t. Not from the moment the axis had shifted to try to show him the rest. Tried, but—

But we have been on opposite sides for so long that he didn’t even see it the moment that I saw it. Shame washed through Eris, shame and guilt so white hot that his fire burned hotter, sizzling at his fingertips as it poured out of him almost liquid.

His father was waiting. Mother above, his father . How would he explain this to Beron? He’d never accept it. Pushing aside the fact that the Night Court was as good as a sworn enemy to the man… Azriel was a male. Beron was traditional, to put it mildly and politely. Eris could just see the sneer on his face now — could just hear the mocking words he’d pelt his heir with, now that he had come undone, after centuries of hardening under training and war-waging, under the weight of something as ridiculous as this.

Exhaustion began to creep in at the edges of his consciousness. Good, he thought with a flush of gratification. Take it all, and take this infernal white energy with you.

Eris spent his power down to the very last drop on the wood around him, well into the night. He spent and he spent and he spent, saving just enough for the winnow back to the Forest House when he was done. He didn’t stop, didn’t relent, until his knees were weak and his arms were shaking with the effort, until the clenched jaw now hung open in a scream of rage and regret.

Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.

Stop , he begged. He couldn’t stand the word as it pounded through his bloodstream, the churning need drawing him to Azriel even when he hated himself for it. He didn’t think it possible to hate himself more than he already had but this… this was a new low.

The fire ceased its endless flow from his body, and he collapsed to the forest floor, the smell of the burnt loamy earth almost comforting to him. This was what he was good at: destruction. He knew how to take from things. He had no idea how to add to things, to give, to grow . That wasn’t his gift. His gift was destruction. And now his curse, it seemed, was Azriel.

Eris took stock of the last few dregs of his magic, the rest of it completely depleted and empty.

And yet still, that white ball of exploded light that refused to be willed away in his chest, the one that insisted he seek out his mate— it remained.

Chapter 2: Two

Chapter Text

Heat. White hot, raging, burning heat. Burning wood, burning leaves, burning dense underbrush. A single choked, harsh, painful sob ripping its way up a throat raw from screaming. The sharp tangy scent of magic — but a lot of it. Too much. Using too much, on purpose. All of it. More. More. More.

Pain. The shooting pain of knees hitting the ground with the full force of a body’s weight bared down on them. Arms— shaking. Hands— trembling. Eyes— stinging. Throat— tight with emotion. This is giving up, so as not to give in. A filthy hand dragged through blood-crusted hair. Utter devastation— the acceptance of the inevitable, like the setting sun or the tide rolling in.

The sweep of magic, and then blessed dense darkness. The quiet of solitude at last, precisely as we were meant to be: alone. Only alone. Always alone. The heavy push of stone, the scent of oak wood furniture. Shame, guilt, regret, panic, desire, longing, disgust, exhaustion, all warring within, poised to rend a body asunder. Broken fingernails scraping and clawing at an armored chest, fracturing on scaled armor plates, desperately digging at what lay buried there underneath, far below—

Azriel jolted awake, his muscle-hardened body slickened with sweat, one hand gripped to his bare chest as he half-sat up, wings splayed beneath him. Despite the chill in his apartment, his skin was warm, almost too warm. Like he stood too near to a fire.

He dragged great heaving breaths into his lungs, gasping down gulps of clean air. His shadows danced about him, as if they too had been disturbed by whatever he had dreamed. One slipped over his shoulder, tentative, as his brows furrowed so hard he felt his face might truly split in half. He batted it away, catching sight of his hands in the dimmed faelight. No cracked and broken fingernails. His confusion only grew.

Only dreams, he thought to himself.

Not dreams, his shadows whispered to him.

He threw the blankets off of him, tossing his sweat-damp hair out of his face and shuffling out of his bedroom. His shadows clung to him as he stretched his wings, his arms, popping his shoulder joints, reveling in the burn of his muscles as they pulled and flexed.

He stood rooted to the spot for a few moments, his slick chest still heaving from the dream, his mind still reeling from trying to make some sense of it. So many images — too many — clashed and blurred together that he had trouble sorting them, cataloging them, calmly turning them over in his head into something useful.

He headed for the narrow creaking staircase up to the roof of his building, tucking his wings in tight to squeeze through the passage. Feet bare — wearing only the soft cotton sleep pants he had donned after the shower he had dragged himself into earlier, the ones that hung low on his angular hip bones, held up with a single looped tie — he padded up the steps with a practiced efficient silence and emerged on the rooftop.

Velaris was mostly asleep, but the faelights glittered across the city. Azriel wandered to the roof’s edge, lowering his body down and sitting, his legs dangling over the side of his apartment building, wings stretched out behind him. The air was crisp, cold, and did wonders for Azriel’s fire-warmed skin. Fire. His brows scrunched again in confusion. There had been no fire. Not here in his apartment. There had been one briefly in the townhouse when he had aided in returning Feyre to Rhys — returning his High Lady to his High Lord — at last, but that had been hours ago, and not nearly long enough or close enough to linger on his skin this way.

No, this was different.

His shadows wreathed his wing tips playfully, and his eyebrows rose in question. Care to share? he asked, in that way that only he could speak with them.

Silence. That stumped Azriel. His shadows never denied him information. They brought him whatever he needed to know, and had done so for centuries. That they chose now to hold out on him…

Azriel sighed. Not dreams, they had said. Not dreams? Then what? His shadows slithered comfortably over his body, like a warm blanket to ward against the chill. He wasn’t gifted with foresight. He wasn’t reliving old trauma; it certainly hadn’t been any memory of his. He couldn’t see into the mind of another—

His shadows suddenly picked up their pace, writhing over his body quicker and needier, pulsating and thrumming against him.

That’s enough, he commanded. If you won’t help me, then at least leave me alone to brood in peace.

Azriel ran one hand through his blue-black hair, half-expecting it to be tangled and matted with blood. It wasn’t, and that was a small relief. His hands were shaking a bit, but Az contributed that to his fatigue.

He leaned his head back, gazing up at the stars far above him, the open sky just begging him to take to it. He was aching to fly. He couldn’t. He wanted to, but—

He rose, heading back to the door, to the narrow passage back down to his empty apartment and the silence waiting for him there. He had a long day ahead of him. Feyre would see her sisters at the House of Wind for the first time since they had been Made. He would need as much rest as he could make himself get.

Once inside, instead of going straight back to his bedroom, Azriel headed for his dark kitchen. He didn’t keep much in the way of food here, as he ate most of his meals with the others, either at the townhouse or the House of Wind. But some vices of his, it seemed, he could always count on.

Digging through a cabinet, pushing aside dusty glasses he never used and plates he had never eaten off of, he found it: an unopened bottle of the finest whiskey Az could get his hands on. He had told himself he’d save it, but for what? A special occasion? He supposed not dying in the hands of the King of Hybern recently was special enough.

He dragged the bottle out and opened it as he trudged back to his bedroom, settling comfortably back in his bed. He took a long swig of the amber liquid, and the rich, smooth, full-bodied taste washed through his senses so pleasantly, he let out a deep hum of appreciation.

He took another drink. Hints of sweet vanilla and toasted oak plundered through him, dulling the rest of the world, allowing the exquisite abyss of sleep to creep in slowly.

Seemingly out of nowhere, as he took another long drink from the bottle in his hand, a great sense of misery crashed through him. But it echoed, almost like a shout down a long hallway, its origin opposite to where Az was standing. It didn’t feel like his own misery. Azriel squeezed his eyes shut tight. He was too tired, too buzzed, too drained to puzzle over it.

So instead, he overrode it with how damn good the whiskey was, taking as many drinks as necessary. He let the taste, the sensations it brought, the flavor and feel and warmth of it, spread down the long hallway that the misery echoed down until it felt like it reached the other end and then—

The misery quieted. Az smiled. His work was finished here. He slid the bottle, half empty now, onto the small table next to his bed, and wrapped himself in shadows and slept.

Beron was silent. Silent and furious.

Eris stood before him in the throne room of the Forest House, hands clasped loosely behind him. The picture of casual grace. He didn’t feel it; he felt absolutely shattered. Dismantled. Ruined beyond repair. He would not let it show, and he refused to be the first to show his hand to his father.

So he had slid on that carefully cultivated mask before coming here — the one that told the world who he was: the Heir of Fire, the next in line to this throne, the one who had fought for it, deserved it with each bloody inch he had clawed his way through Prythian to be worthy of.

A stab to his chest reminded him of a different kind of worthiness he now somehow sought: the kind that demanded a much softer touch, a kinder hand, something he had no idea how to do.

No. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached with the effort. No, I will not think of him here.

Eris didn’t know if his father could smell the mating bond on him or not; technically, it wasn’t reciprocated, it wasn’t returned, hell, it wasn’t even acknowledged yet. Not by anyone but himself. It changed his own soul down to the studs, yes, but did it change his scent?

“So.” Finally his father spoke. Beron’s voice was all business, the voice of the High Lord. “You failed. Twice.”

Eris could have wept in relief. He’d take the verbal and even physical lashing over his failure to secure Feyre and Lucien a million times over having to stand here and have his soul stripped bare in front of Beron for his brothers behind him to witness, to have his mate bond with a Night Court male made public knowledge before he had even come to terms with it — before it had even clicked for that male at all yet.

“There were… complications,” Eris answered carefully.

“Oh I am aware of the complications that arose, boy,” Beron spat, his face full of rage. Fire burned his eyes.

Eris’ knees were shaking with the effort of holding him up. Does he know? The double-talk was making his head spin already. His body was still weak from expending all of his magic the day before, had barely recovered half of it as he stood here now. But the ball of unblinking unyielding white light in his chest — the light that urged him straight to his mate — glowed brighter than ever. Bright and unruly.

“Are you telling me,” Beron continued in a lethal calm voice, “that you cannot handle two Illyrian bastard brutes and your ill-trained soft-handed baby brother?”

Eris blinked. Surely if he knew, he would’ve cut Eris down with it by now?

Before Eris had the chance to respond, Beron rose from the carved oak wood throne, the faelight catching on the gold thread of his tunic. Eris tensed as Beron held up one hand, palm up, and the whip appeared in a rush of magic.

Eris’ stomach tensed and soured at the sight of the worn black leather. His eyes hardened, guttered, as they fell on it, then coldly slid back to his High Lord’s face. “How many?”

Beron smiled mirthlessly, without warmth or comfort or light. “You decide. Five or ten?”

Eris did not smile back. He knew this trick — he had suffered it as a boy. His father would ask Five or ten? and when Eris had dared to answer Five out of desperation to end the pain early, his father would decide Fifteen seems to be in order.

“Ten seems adequate,” he replied evenly, already unbuttoning the brown tunic he wore, his hands steady and his movements even and intentional. He slid it off, along with the white shirt beneath it, and turned facing his brothers.

Their eyes were alight with amusem*nt; they adored any chance to see Eris suffer for failures they all shared equally in.

Heavy is the head that will one day wear the crown, they always sneered at him. Oh, if only they knew.

Eris dropped to his knees, his mind already drifting somewhere far away from here, from now. Away from this… prison.

The word made his throat tighten. How long had he really thought of his own Court in such a way? Long enough to harbor such resentment for these people who looked so like him. His family.

But what else was there? Where else would he ever find something as elusive as freedom?

He heard the whip sing through the air as it came down, and felt the sharp sting as the first fire-kissed lashing tore into his skin. Eris winced, but didn’t make a sound. One.

Freedom. Like that of the blessed open sky — the sky he could practically feel on his face through Azriel as he soared through the open skies above snow-capped mountains, that earth-shaking power of his thrumming through his body, so different from Eris’. Yes, Eris thought as he could almost picture it, feel it, and the joy of it almost cracked his soul. Yes, that kind of freedom. The whip came down again, the fire splitting his skin just next to the first wound. Two.

Eris let his mind run free now, and it ran straight for his only source of joy in over five centuries. Of course it did. Eris’ eyes slid closed; he didn’t want his brothers to see the pinpricks of silver tears that glimmered in the corners, the overwhelming emotion now barreling through his as he thought of Azriel’s face. Not the one he usually got to see, not the one that hated him. No, he thought of what he might look like if he perhaps thought of him as a friend, a confidante— a… lover, even? Heat rose in Eris’ chest at the thought — but then the whip came down again, harder than the last time, and directly over the first wound. Eris let out a small gasp of pain, unable to stop it. Three.

The heat in his chest bloomed, unchecked, uncontrolled, rampant, ravaging his senses. Eris thought of Azriel’s hands — scarred, he knew, and didn’t care — tracing the lines of Eris’ body, every plane and muscle, learning where to touch to make him gasp with need, where to touch softly, where to grasp hard, running through Eris’ hair, what it would feel like; those incredibly powerful legs, untold years of muscle, wrapped around him, pulling him closer, deeper. What would his lips look like when they weren’t curved into a snarl aimed at him? What would his face look like when he was on the edge of release? Eris’ eyes fluttered open. How long had he been kneeling here thinking these thoughts? Had his scent shifted to arousal? Almost in answer, the whip came down even harder, a vicious diagonal slice across his back, kissed with more fire than the previous three had been. Eris couldn’t hold back the small cry of agony that made its way up his throat this time. Four.

This bond would ruin him, in the worst way possible. He would pine over a male who hated him for the rest of his days, it seemed. As much as he didn’t want to, as much as he had tried to physically tear it out of his own chest last night, it remained. There was no undoing it, no destroying it, no burning it out of him, and no ignoring it altogether. The pull was constant. The need was insistent. How was he expected to live like this? The tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes; he didn’t give a damn if his brothers saw it or not. He was in agony and all he wanted was for it to end. The whip came down again, a wicked flame-tipped slice. The smell of his own burning flesh barely affected him. Five.

All this time, all these taunts and snide comments, all the spying and subterfuge. Eris wasn’t surprised one bit that Azriel didn’t recognize the bond. He couldn’t see past the hatred, past the loathing. Would he ever? Eris wondered if it would ever snap into place for him. And even if he had… They’d make him choose, Eris thought, the realization hitting him in the gut so hard he choked on it. His Court, his family, they’d make him choose. Them or me. And he’d choose them. And it would destroy him all over again. That was his destiny: to be destroyed, repeatedly. Another slash of fire, more burned, ripped flesh. Six.

Eris practically sagged now, but he straightened his spine defiantly. He would not give his father the satisfaction of knowing he was breakable. He would not be broken. Not by this. Not by Beron. Not by Azriel. Not by anything. Another slash whistled through the air. Seven.

Eris gritted his teeth so hard he tasted blood. It was coppery and bitter in his mouth. So unlike what he had tasted on his tongue last night. It had happened when he had winnowed back to the Forest House and collapsed in his bedroom, too exhausted to even drag himself to his bed. One second, he was being crushed under the weight of the million filaments of light in his chest and drowning in absolute agony, and the next… The taste of whiskey had hit his tongue, so strong he could have sworn it was in his own mouth. It took him a few moments to realize that it wasn’t the taste of whiskey, but the sensation of whiskey — the nuttiness, the sweetness, the smooth, bold, richness. It had slid through his senses like water through tissue paper, crashing through him and washing away the ruin for just long enough that Eris had been able to breathe. He sobbed when he realized it — Azriel. It had been Azriel, unknowingly pushing that small experience down the bond. The whip came down hard again, fire biting into Eris’ ravaged back. Eight.

It had made Eris wonder, made him second-guess. Has it snapped into place for him, and he’s just been cagey about it? he wondered after that. He had clearly pushed those sensations down the bond — could someone do that without meaning to? Eris had no idea how mate bonds worked. Did he do it knowing that Eris was on the other side? The shadowsinger was rumored to know everything, his shadows whispering to him the secrets of every Court constantly. He has to know. There’s no way he doesn't know. The whip crashed down on Eris again, cleaving his back in two, the fire burning down to his very soul. Nine.

Eris drifted. He drifted so very far away. He didn’t care about the pain. He didn’t care about the smell of his own burnt flesh, or the cruel chuckling of his High Lord and father behind him. He didn’t care about the tears slipping out of his eyes or the mocking triumphant smiles of his brothers standing before him. He didn’t even care about the seat and crown he was to one day inherit. Not anymore. He didn’t care about any of it. He was far away from here. Away from the Forest House, away from the Autumn Court, even. By the time the last lashing came down on him, splitting him open in one last vindictive swing, he was far away — lost in a pair of soft hazel eyes that looked back at him with all of the love he had never in over five centuries been given, cast in the comforting blue glow of seven Illyrian siphons, with the whispered words he’d give the entire world to hear from his mate in his ear: “I am yours, and you are mine.”

One small, soft shadow wiped a tear from his cheek just as the whip fell for the last time. Ten.

Chapter 3: Three

Chapter Text

Azriel was summoned back to the townhouse by midday the next day by Rhys. Az was happy to note that the moodiness seemed to have subsided a great deal now that his High Lord’s mate was finally returned to his side.

Meet us at the townhouse. Feyre would like to see her sisters. There was a long expectant pause. And I have something I need you to do, Az. Something else.

Azriel stared up at the ceiling of his apartment, stretched out flat on his back, wings splayed beneath him and drooping over the sides of the bed. He sighed heavily. His hair was still wet from the shower he had just taken. He had needed it — to rid his body of the blood and sweat of the Autumn Court sentry he had spent the morning with in the Hewn City.

Just once, Az thought, he’d love to not have to start his day by torturing answers out of someone. He would always do it, of course. Because his brother asked it of him, he would always say yes. Not even because Rhys was his High Lord, but because he was his brother, and he respected him enough to do what Rhys needed him to do.

The sentry broke easily, Azriel remembered with a wry wicked smirk. Barely half an hour and he was a mewling mess, already pissing himself and giving him everything he had needed to know. Which wasn’t much. Rhys only had one question he needed answered, hence the captured sentry.

Find out if Eris was acting on Beron’s orders yesterday, or of his own accord. We need to know how long his leash really is as we assess our options for allies in the coming war.

So Azriel had obeyed. They didn’t call his blade Truth-Teller for nothing. Az hadn’t bothered reminding Rhys that his shadows could gather the same information without the bloodshed; his brother was aware. If he had wanted him to spy this intel, he would have asked. No, this was calculated. What the Autumn Court had done yesterday was tantamount to an act of war in Rhys’ book, and while he wasn’t in the position to openly declare it against them, this was at least a small outlet for his frustration.

Of course, Rhysand didn’t consider the toll it would take on Azriel. He never did. He assumed it didn’t take one at all, most times. Nobody ever considered that, it seemed. Az had existed in his shadows for so long that the others assumed he was just as unfeeling as the darkness he surrounded himself with, the darkness he found his comfort in, his peace .

Just once, he thought ruefully, I’d love to start my day with something other than violence . He thought of other outlandish, more enjoyable ways one might start their day. How did his brothers start their days? Cassian started his with a massive meal loaded with the right nutrients to fuel his body and a good hard workout. Rhys started his day in the arms of his mate—

Azriel’s thoughts faltered for a breath. How would that feel? What was it like? Wonderful, he supposed, it had to be, of course. But to live an immortal existence knowing that you found the one soul designed to fit your own—

The strongest weapons must be forged in the hottest fires, his shadows whispered to him. Az’s dark eyebrows shot up.

And you’re being vague as hell and not at all helpful. Again, he whispered back snappily, not in a kind mood after the denial of information they had levied against him yesterday. He was not accustomed to shadows who did not bend to him, who did not submit to him.

Az sat up, his body blissfully sore after the events on the ice from the day before. The Autumn Court had made an idiotic move, politically, Az thought as he shuffled into his bathroom. To be so bold as to assume they could take his High Lady… Azriel clenched the edges of the sink as stared into the mirror.

Eris. Azriel’s face twisted with disgust. He wished Feyre had let Cassian finish the male off yesterday. That would have been a long-sought after victory, and one they had earned at this point. But who did that kill belong to, he wondered? Who deserved the honor of ending that particular male’s life?

Should it be Mor, for how he had left her to die at the edge of the Autumn Court after her father had dumped her there? Should it be Cassian, for the constant slew of insults to his station and lineage? Should it be Rhysand, for the sheer threat he posed to his Court, as Azriel knew that there was nothing Rhys wouldn’t do to protect his Court and people? Should it be Feyre, for what Eris had put her through yesterday? Should it be Lucien, for the lifetime of cruelty and hatred he had probably lived through until finally escaping to the Spring Court?

Azriel ran his hands under the faucet, then ran a handful of the cool, crisp, clean water over his face, the droplets racing down his chest in rivulets, over his Illyrian tattoos, over his scars, over the ghost of that something he had dreamed of there last night.

Or should it be me? he finally let himself think, shadows playing at his shoulders. He inevitably thought of that day he had found Mor at the border of the Autumn Court, beaten to within an inch of her life, left to die there. Left by her father, Keir. Left by Eris. Azriel gritted his teeth. f*cking Eris. He wished he’d died yesterday. They’d been so close to killing him.

He turned away from his reflection, unbothered. Let him live, he thought. Let him live for now. He knows his days are numbered.

Azriel went about getting ready to meet his High Lord at the townhouse, as requested. He absentmindedly rubbed at his chest, that ghost of something still aching deep inside of it, just waiting to… waiting to…

His shadows stilled around him, almost expectantly. He huffed in exasperation. I know you know what… this is, he reprimanded, gesturing to himself, his chest, that odd sense of hollowness that screamed from what he imagined was his soul. Don’t be coy. You answer to me. His patience was already wearing thin.

Before he knew it, one small shadow had split off from the rest, slipping away and out of sight — presumably to follow his command and gather the information he sought concerning what the hell was happening to him as of late. Good, he thought to himself. It’s about damn time.

Azriel’s day did not improve; Lucien Vanserra was also at the townhouse.

Az wasn’t sure why he didn’t think he would be. Of course he would be — Elain was his mate. He would do anything he could to be near her. That was how mate bonds worked. At least, that’s what Azriel had been told. Having never been blessed with one himself, he didn’t actually know from experiencing it.

Azriel and Cassian did their best to look as casual as possible, posting themselves up in the dining room to wait for Rhys and Feyre, eating lunch and monitoring every move — every breath — Lucien made.

Rhys and Feyre emerged finally. Cassian’s face set into a playful smirk, and Azriel kicked him under the table before he could make a snide remark. Rhys’ abrupt dismissal of them last night had said enough; there was no need to draw more attention to it.

Lucien stood, taking in the full picture of the pair of them: Rhysand and Feyre, the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court. Lucien had his back to Azriel and Cassian, but the judgment and disdain rolled off of him in waves so strong, they were practically physical.

Rhys leaned against the archway, the picture of calm. “I assume Cassian or Azriel has explained to you that if you threaten anyone in this house, this territory, we’ll show you ways to die you’ve never even imagined.”

Cass and Az both smirked. Indeed, that had been Cassian. Azriel was too busy needlessly bleeding answers from a soft-willed spineless coward to bother warning this male of the consequences of stepping out of line here. Besides that, he wasn’t sure he could stand to be in the same room with him; Az found himself… fond— of the middle Archeron sister. He wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about this mate bond between the two of them.

“But,” Rhys continued, hands casually sliding into his pockets, “I can understand how difficult this past month has been for you. I know Feyre explained we aren’t exactly as rumor suggests…” He trailed off for a moment. “But hearing it and seeing it are two different things.” He shrugged; again, so carefully casual. “Elain has been cared for. Her participation in life here has been entirely her choice.” Azriel felt a stab in his gut at that. He should be helping more in that regard, he thought. “No one but us and a few trusted servants have entered the House of Wind.”

Through all of this, Lucien remained still and silent. Azriel thought it might have been too much for him, maybe. He had to hand it to the male, he had balls for coming here. But then again, maybe he didn’t have a choice. Az had no idea how strong the pull of a mate bond was. That was all a mystery to him.

His shadows shivered around his shoulders, tightening around his arms, around his chest. It reminded him too much of that hollow heavy ache in his chest, the one from his dream from last night. The one that had felt like something had burst open inside of him, when he had dreamed of clawing it out, ripping and tearing his own fingernails to dig at it—

“I was in love with Feyre long before she ever returned the feeling.” Rhys’ quiet words snapped Azriel’s attention back to the conversation, and seemed to snap his shadows’ attention as well — they had stopped shivering and shuddering, stopped pushing and caving inward on him.

“How fortunate that you got what you wanted in the end,” Lucien replied coolly, crossing his arms.

Cassian and Azriel both went utterly still. He had crossed a line with that one sentence; they waited for the command.

Not today, Rhys spoke into their minds. We’re going to need him in the very near future. Trust me.

“I will only say this once,” Rhys said in warning, and his voice was different now. The voice of a High Lord. “I suspected Feyre was my mate long before I ever knew she was involved with Tamlin. And when I learned of it… If it made her happy, I was willing to step back.”

“You came to our house and stole her away on her wedding day.” Lucien’s voice was bordering on accusatory.

“I was going to call the wedding off,” Feyre stepped in. “You knew it.”

“I was willing to lose my mate to another male,” Rhys went on, delivering his words precisely and with almost deadly accuracy. Az couldn’t imagine that type of pain, that type of suffering. “I was willing to let them marry, if it brought her joy. But what I was not willing to do was let her suffer. To let her fade away into a shadow. And the moment that piece of sh*t blew apart his study, the moment he locked her in that house… ”

Rhys’ wings had completely unfurled, his voice had risen to a shout, the very ground they stood on trembled at his power — the power of a High Lord. Even Azriel’s shadows shivered at the touch of Rhysand’s darkness.

Azriel unwittingly moved closer as Cassian did the same. Rhys had never told them that part. He had never told them that Tamlin had locked Feyre — their High Lady — in his manor. Locked her in , like a caged animal. Azriel was disgusted; he knew exactly what it felt like to be locked in, to be caged up like a beast. Rage coursed through him — he took this very very personally.

There’s a reason I didn’t tell you, Az. Rhys’ voice in his mind was like a candle in a thunderstorm. He could barely hear it as the anger surged through him like lightning in his veins.

Teeth bared, Rhys snarled at Lucien, “My mate may one day find it in herself to forgive him. Forgive you. But I will never forgive how it felt to sense her terror in those moments.”

Feyre’s face flushed as she found Azriel’s eyes on her then, both tender and wrathful. She flicked her gaze to Cassian; Azriel could feel the unchecked fury rolling off of him as well. Neither of them had known the extent of what she had endured in Spring.

Lucien stood rooted to the spot. Azriel decided he was either very brave or very stupid.

“So, again,” Rhys continued, his voice under much more control now, “I will say this only once. Feyre did not dishonor or betray Tamlin. I revealed the mating bond months later — and she gave me hell for it, don’t worry. But now that you’ve found your mate in a similar situation, perhaps you will try to understand how it felt. And if you can’t be bothered, then I hope you’re wise enough to keep your mouth shut, because the next time you look at my mate with that disdain and disgust, I won’t bother to explain it again, and I will rip out your f*cking throat.”

Azriel and Cassian both tensed. This was the moment — the one where Lucien would decide if he was going to be a problem or not.

Lucien merely shifted, considering. “There is a longer story to be told, it seems.”

Azriel relaxed, just a bit. Cassian did the same. Inwardly, Azriel sighed deeply, thankful he didn’t need to resort to violence on behalf of his Court yet again for the day. He caught a curious glance from Rhys, and realized too late that his mental shields were wide open.

Everything alright, brother?

Azriel merely nodded, just slightly. What do you need from me when we’re done here? The others proceeded to make plans to head up to the House of Wind to visit the other two Archeron sisters. Az knew he wouldn’t be going.

Amren is at her loft, working on the Book. I’d like you to head over there, see what you can do. Help.

Az rolled his eyes. Amren does not need a babysitter, Rhys.

No, but the Book does. He hesitated. After everything we went through to get it… Just— see what you can do to help, okay? Mor will meet you there. We’ll be along after this visit to the House.

If you all survive, you mean.

Rhys mentally laughed. Yes, if we all survive. Another pause. Azriel knew what was coming. Az. What was that… earlier?

What was what? His response was quick. Too quick. Rhys could see right through his bullsh*t.

What happened last night? What’s got you so rattled today?

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, the blue siphon atop it gleaming and bright. Nothing. Just dreams. Odd dreams.

Not dreams, his shadows whispered to him. Azriel snapped his wings slightly, reprimanding them.

Rhys scrunched his brows at Azriel’s behavior. We should talk later. It wasn’t a request, it wasn't an offer. Az knew better.

Sure, he replied simply before heading to the rooftop with the rest of them. As they headed to the House of Wind, and he to Amren’s loft, those two words echoed over and over in his mind: not dreams.

Azriel arrived before Mor, and Amren did not appreciate being assigned a babysitter. To top it off, the Book of Breathings gave off the oddest energies that sent even Az’s shadows skittering to the corners.

Amren wanted quiet, which was fine by Azriel. He preferred less mindless chatter anyways. He found himself standing before her window, looking out over Velaris, when the dread came.

It was slow at first. A creeping sensation of dull, roaring, panic ripping at him, but… No, this is an echo down a hallway again, he thought. His breath quickened as he remembered what his shadows had whispered to him: Not dreams. What did that mean? His brows pinched together.

Then came the pain, in a great, heaving wave, so unexpected and sharp, followed by a wash of colors — orange, yellow, gold, brown. No, the sensation of colors. How is that possible? he thought to himself. How does one feel the sensation of colors? The words echoed again: Not dreams. Sensations shifted — to something far more familiar: his skies. His open skies, the cold on his face, the mountains so far below him, the freedom as it sang through his bones, his muscles, his nerves. Longing . A deep longing for that freedom. But why would he—?

It came again, sudden enough that a small gasp of air escaped him. He heard Amren shift behind him, felt her eyes on him, but she said nothing. His shadows were a mess as they crawled over him, dancing, shivering, unsure. Never, in all the time that he had been bonded with darkness, had he seen it so frantic. Azriel’s chest felt heavy, hollow and aching. The pain began to subside, and as his eyes slid closed, flashes flew before him — but of his own face? Like looking in a mirror, only… only he saw himself as something different. Like seeing himself through someone else’s eyes. Like seeing how he looked to somebody else. Hateful and angry. Then less hateful. Friendlier. Mild, casual. Smiling. Playful, smirking. Then something… else. Smoldering was the only word he could come up with—

The pain surged again, Azriel’s chest becoming unbearably tight. He stumbled, one hand gripping the sill of the window in front of him. His wings tucked tight against him.

“Azriel.” Amren’s voice was mild, but firm. He paid no attention to it.

Sweat was breaking out across his forehead as the pain barreled through him, seeming centered on his back. This sent panic skittering through Azriel; his wings. Anything but his wings. More sensations, more flashes. Nimble, graceful, gentle hands, mottled with scars— Azriel started. His hands. His scars. Yes, they were his hands, he could almost feel it — his fingertips warmed at the sensation, as if they could feel the skin underneath them, tracing tenderly over a collarbone, running down a toned stomach, grazing over a plump bottom lip, dragging through long silky hair—

“Azriel.” His name out of Amren’s mouth again broke the trancelike visions, shattered them like delicate glass, and he almost turned to face her, but the pain came again. Sharp and hot. Fire, he realized. The lancing pain only fire could bring.

He nearly doubled over — not from the pain. He had felt much much worse. But from the accompanying agony. Words started to come to him then, broken pieces of desperate thoughts. How am I expected to live like this? It came shouting down that hallway in his mind, escorted by the most gut-wrenching agony Azriel had ever been party to. “What is this?” He gasped out the words, not really meaning to say them aloud.

Amren calmly replied, “What do you think it is?”

Azriel’s answer came at the same time as an echo down that hallway as he said aloud, “I think it’s f*cking torture, and I want it to stop. ” Down that hallway, the sentiment echoed much the same: This is agony. It’s torture. I just want it to end.

The waves of pain continued to roll over him, one after another after another, each one worse than the last. More flashes, more sensations, more broken thoughts.

My destiny: to be destroyed, repeatedly. More fire. Orange, yellow, gold, brown— Azriel’s spine straightened, as if some outside force had willed it to do so. They will not break me. The thought was a shout, so loud it rang through every crack and crevice of Azriel’s entire being. Everywhere he had been broken before — everywhere he had been pieced back together, it seeped through him. They will not break me they will not break me they will not break me…

Who? Az flung the question in sobbing desperation back down that echoing hallway, not having any idea why he did it or who he was asking. Or if anyone was even listening on the other end. Who will not break you? Tell me who.

No response came. Azriel felt the salty sensation of tears stinging his eyes, but none fell. Whiskey. He tasted whiskey. His whiskey, but… different. The memory of his whiskey. The sensation of it, from when he had flung it down that hallway last night to smother the echoing vestiges of crushing misery. There had been someone on the other end. The realization crashed into him as more and more of it began clicking into place, like pieces of Amren’s jigsaw puzzles.

As if she had been summoned by the thought, Amren was there— right next to him, concern etched into her lethal features. “I don’t—” Azriel stumbled over the words as they continued to pelt through him — the flashes, the pieces of thoughts, the pain , the sensations. “I can’t,” he managed to rasp out, his throat dry and raw from screams that weren’t his.

“Do you want me to summon him?” Amren asked solemnly. Rhys. She meant Rhys.

“No.” Azriel’s answer came quickly; he didn’t know why he said it. Only that he meant it. He had never, never , kept a secret from his brother. It was not in his nature. But this felt private. This felt—

“He will know, boy,” Amren said, her voice soothing but still firm. “He will know what to do. How to help you. How to guide you.”

Azriel’s face pinched in confusion. How to help you. How to guide you. What did she mean by that? What—

He felt another shuddering wave of pain wash through him, the smell of burning flesh smothering his senses. He felt the panic rising then, the smell alone beginning to rip open old wounds that had long since healed over, but—

It ebbed into a sort of odd stillness— a sense of peacefulness amid chaos. A calm center in the eye of a hurricane. I’ll just… drift now. I’ll drift far away from here and think of you. The thought ghosted to him down that echo chamber of a hallway, and Azriel closed his eyes against the realization, against the final puzzle pieces sinking into place. He turned, grunting as his back hit the wall, and he slumped against it, his wings drooping to the floor. His energy felt drained, his willpower gone. His shadows comfortingly slithered over him, soothing, calming as his pants began to slow.

Azriel pushed his sweaty hair out of his face to peer at Amren, who watched him carefully — considering him. “How do I..” He didn’t know how to ask what he wanted to ask.

She raised one delicate eyebrow. “How do you what ?” She waited. f*ck, he cursed inwardly. She’d make him say it out loud.

“How do I— send something back, I guess?” Azriel set his face into defiant defensiveness, ready for Amren to mock him, maybe. Tease him mercilessly. It’s what his brothers would have done. But he bit down on the urge to solo this venture; he wanted — needed — to know. Know how to ease the pain, the misery, how to throw a lifeline down that echo chamber at the raging sea of agony on the other side. Azriel didn’t care who waited there — they waited for him.

“Tell me,” he snapped, baring his teeth, a mix of desperation and raw aggression in his voice, the latter being natural to him, but the former being foreign and unfamiliar to both his vocal cords and his soul.

“I do not know,” Amren answered gently. “Perhaps Rhysand—”

“No,” Az cut her off before she had a chance to finish her thought. “I don’t want Rhys— I don't want him… to know.” He almost hung his head in shame. He didn’t know why he was so insistent that this be a secret from his brother, from his High Lord. He only knew it was imperative that he not know. Not yet.

Azriel dragged his hand through his sweat-drenched hair, the locks beginning to dry without the continual assaults of pain and other sensations, and his eye snagged on the Illyrian siphon atop his hand. The blue stone flickered with power, ready to be released by him at a moment's notice. And then he knew.

He let the blue fill every corner of his vision, every fiber of his soul, and closed his eyes, breathing the shade in deep — as deep as he possibly could. He found the echoing hallway with ease; it was becoming easier and easier for him the more thoughts and sensations and images that flooded down it.

And then without knowing if it would work or not, Azriel breathed that blue down the dark hallway that had gone eerily quiet and still. He pushed and pushed until every inch of it was covered in that familiar pulsating blue, that perfect, comforting, flickering blue of his siphon. He kept going once it reached beyond the other end, and he didn’t know why. What was he waiting for? Some sort of reaction? He wasn’t sure. He kept going anyway.

He only stopped when a small shadow appeared over his shoulder, one small shadow who smelled quite different and he knew it came from somewhere beyond their borders.

Azriel paused his efforts, remembering the shadow that had slithered off into the world earlier that day, before he had left for the House of Wind. I know you know what this is, he had told it, gesturing to that odd sense of hollowness in his chest. It had left without a word, and now returned.

He began to ask, Where—

For you, it answered, a single tendril extended toward his mouth. You must prepare yourself.

Azriel wasn’t sure what he expected when he closed his eyes, just barely parted his lips, and extended his tongue. His shadow dropped the single tear it bore onto the tip of his tongue and Az drew it back into his mouth, the saltiness washing through him before everything else began slamming into him in an unabating assault on his senses. Only this was different from the echoes he received down the hallway — those were echoes; like ghosts of memories, pieces of thoughts, sensations of feelings. Receiving them this way was undiluted and potent.

Let it all burn and burn and burn.

The smell of burning oak wood, leaves and underbrush, all of it. Burning. Let it all burn. Who cares?

Flashes of gold thread, sparkling under the faelights.

Forgive me. Redeem me. Love me. Free me. I’m not worthy of any of it but I want all of it. From you.

A black whip whistling through the air, crashing down across the back — already mottled with scars — in neat, clean slices. Fire-kissed slices, so they burn as they cut .

The smell, Mother above, the smell. When did I stop noticing or caring about the smell of my own burnt flesh?

I’d give anything to fly, the way he does. Just launch into the sky and fly away from here — whistle, crack, pain — and never have to do this again. The sky, the cold, the space, the freedom. Just take me away from here, please.

Azriel’s wings stirred, as if they were ready to take to the very sky to find— they didn’t know. He didn’t know.

Images of Azriel’s scarred hands stroking over a blurred naked body, caressing, teasing, savoring, enjoying, his mouth tasting and kissing and whispering words of adoration and love laced with filth and desire and lust—

Azriel’s hands twitched, his fingers curling inwards.

Images of his own face , eerily similar to what he looked like when he found release, which had been far too long with another person, his mouth hung open and head thrown back as tidal waves of pleasure coursed through him and he gasped for air, then two strong hands framing his face and pulling his gaze to theirs, the firm command: “Eyes on me. I want to watch you.”—

Please, just let it end. How can I be expected to live like this?

All this time— They will not break me—

The taste of Azriel’s whiskey— Does he know?

And then came that peace again. The odd stillness. Only this time, there was more: the peace was there, wrapped in the soft hazel of Azriel’s eyes, the flickering blue of his siphons, and seven words that he’d never in his life said before echoed through the chambers of his cold and empty heart in his own voice.

I am yours, and you are mine.

Azriel didn’t know if he gasped, or sobbed. Maybe a little bit if both. It filled him so completely, filled his heart so much that—

My heart is so full of you that I don’t know if it even belongs to me anymore.

Why? he asked the shadow that had brought him the tear. He wasn’t sure what he meant. He simply waited for an answer. But the reply was one he’d already heard.

The strongest weapons must be forged in the hottest fires. The shadow paused. Shall I return?

Yes. Go. Azriel’s throat tightened, but he bit down on the emotion building there. Protect— protect them. Please.

The shadow skittered away without another word, several more peeling off as well. Azriel, overwhelmed from all that had occurred, stood dumbfounded, staring at Amren hunched over her books. She had left him alone, mercifully, when he had refused her offer to summon Rhys and gone back to her work on the Book of Breathings.

Az ran shaking hands over his face, through his hair, gathering himself and righting his nerves. Mor was due to arrive any second. For now, he’d keep this to himself, he decided, and focus on the war ahead. Yes, that would keep him busy enough.

He squeezed his eyes closed, then opened, blinking them hard a few times — shaking his head, as if he could rid himself of all he’d seen, all he’d heard, all he’d felt.

He spoke into the silence. “Please, don’t—”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Amren replied. “But he will know, boy,” she said carefully without looking at him.

“I know,” Azriel said almost dejectedly. He just needed time — time to sort it out himself, time to figure out who—

No. Not now. For now, war. That’s what he would focus on. That was the pressing issue, the urgent matter at hand.

He stretched his wings, knocking into the odd collection of knickknacks and tchotchkes Amren kept in her loft, earning him a scathing glare from the woman. He chuckled, taking a deep breath, reveling in the comfort of his shadows as they danced about his shoulders, hoping beyond hope that they were doing as he asked wherever they may be.

By the time Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian had arrived, Amren’s mood had soured quite a bit. She wasn’t making much headway with the Book, and Azriel and Mor’s presence was only annoying her more.

Azriel rose from his seat on the divan against the wall when the trio arrived, choosing instead to post himself against the wall, leaning casually against the wood paneling.

“You should kill Beron and his sons and set up the handsome one as High Lord of Autumn, self-imposed exile or no,” Amren said from the floor as she flipped through the pages of a book she was scanning. “It will make life easier.”

Azriel actually liked this about Amren; she did not mince words. She always spoke what was on her mind, without political double-speak or innuendo. It made her easy to understand. If anyone had to know his current secret, he was glad it was her.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Rhys said, casually striding up to hover on Amren’s periphery. Azriel made sure his mental shields were a solid wall; he knew Rhys wouldn’t invade his privacy, but he didn’t want anything slipping out unintentionally.

Feyre huffed out a breath. “Who else thinks it’s a terrible idea to leave the three of them up at the House of Wind?”

Azriel tried to keep his face mild, but a hint of shock slipped out. Leave the three of them? They had left Lucien ?

Where else is he supposed to stay, Az? Rhys’ voice in his mind was a shock. Azriel schooled his face into neutrality with some difficulty and simply gave a curt nod of understanding without meeting his brother’s eye.

He’s her mate. I imagine if we didn’t leave him there, he’d find his way up there himself eventually, Rhys spoke into Azriel’s mind with a hint of humor, but Azriel’s breath hitched a moment on that one word.

Cassian, in response to Feyre’s question, had raised his hand, and said, “I give him an hour before he tries to see her.” Rhys and Mor chuckled a bit at that.

“Thirty minutes,” Mor countered him, crossing her legs beneath her on the divan where Azriel had vacated his seat.

Feyre winced. “I guarantee Nesta is now guarding Elain.” Azriel’s ears perked up at that. He was curious just how bad the visit had gone at the House of Wind. “I think she might honestly kill him if he so much as tries to touch her.”

One can only hope, Azriel thought smugly to himself.

“Not without training, she won’t,” Cassian mumbled grumpily, tucking his wings and taking the seat next to Mor that Azriel had left open.

Feyre seemed to choose her next words carefully. “Nesta spoke as if you’ve been up to the House… often.” That’s the understatement of the century, Azriel thought, but didn’t say it. His brother’s fascination with the eldest Archeron was none of his business. “You’ve offered to train her?”

Cassian crossed his ankles, stretching his legs before him. “I go up there every other day. It’s good exercise for my wings.” Azriel almost scoffed. He knew the reason his brother visited the House so often had absolutely nothing to do with his wings.

“And?” Feyre pressed him.

“And what you saw in the library is a pleasanter version of the conversation we always have.”

Mor’s face looked like she wanted to jump in and say something, but Azriel caught her gaze instantly, boring his stare into hers. Keep your mouth shut, he told her with his eyes. He’d already had to remind her more than a few times that Cassian’s heart was not an ant hill for her to endlessly poke with a stick, torturing and prodding until all the ants had come out to die beneath her thumb.

Thankfully, she didn’t speak.

“I don’t blame her,” Cassian continued, shrugging. “She was— violated. Her body stopped belonging to her.” His jaw clenched, teeth gritted. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

Azriel could relate. He had rescued many of the priestesses that now worked in the sanctuary of the library beneath their feet— saved them from the untold horrors they had endured, some of them too late. Most hadn’t left since he had brought them here.

Rhys’ response was effortlessly casual. “I’m sure the king will thoroughly enjoy the experience.”

“I mean it,” Cassian glowered at him. Az knew he was dead serious.

“Oh, I have no doubt that you do,” Rhys replied. “But before you lose yourself in plans of revenge, do remember that we have a war to plan first.”

“Asshole.”

This was why Rhys was High Lord and Az and Cassian were endlessly loyal to him. He always had his violet eyes set on the bigger picture. He also had a way of keeping Cassian’s rage and Azriel’s simmering violence honed into a useful force of deadly precision — one he could willfully aim and strike at whatever enemy he needed to hit the hardest.

“I am most definitely that,” Rhys said with a smirk, “but the fact still remains that revenge is secondary to winning this war.”

Cassian looked ready to retort, but Rhys peered down at the books scattered around Amren on the floor. “Nothing?” he asked her.

“I don’t know why you sent these two buffoons,” she said, glaring pointedly at Mor and Azriel, “to monitor me.”

Azriel’s tense shoulders relaxed a bit. Amren showed no sign of revealing what had happened earlier to the rest of the Inner Circle. Az hadn’t explicitly asked her not to — only that she not reveal it to Rhys — but it seemed she just knew , in that way that only she could interpret.

“We’re not monitoring you,” Mor responded, her foot restlessly tapping. “We’re monitoring the Book.”

The curious Book of Breathings sat atop a small table, its odd old type of magic almost whispering in its own language, the way Azriel’s shadows did. Azriel peered down at it, puzzling at it, trying to decipher its peculiar language—

“Oh, be quiet,” Amren hissed at the Book. “Odious thing,” she mumbled, going back to the assortment of other volumes before her.

“Since the two halves of the Book were joined together,” Rhys said with a half smile, “it has been… known to speak every now and then.”

“What does it say?”

“Utter nonsense,” Amren scowled at the Book. “It just likes to hear itself talk. Like most of the people cramping up my apartment.” She stared pointedly at each of them.

“Did someone forget to feed Amren again?” Cassian said with a smirk. Azriel raised a brow, amused at his boldness.

Amren was already leafing through her books again, and didn’t bother to look up as she pointed a finger at Cassian. “Is there a reason, Rhysand, why you dragged your yapping pack into my home?”

If there is, please get to it, Azriel silently begged. Much as he loved his family, he didn’t want the company of daemati at the moment. Not when he was harboring too much in his mind he wished to keep to himself.

The others drew in closer, so Azriel had no choice but to do the same. Had he not, he would have called more attention to himself.

Rhys spoke to Feyre. “The information you got from Dagdan and Brannagh confirms what we’ve been gathering ourselves while you’ve been gone. Especially Hybern’s potential allies in other territories — on the continent.”

This was good. This was comforting for Azriel. Focusing on the tactics and strategies of a war was distracting for him; it would draw his mind away from where it wanted to go.

“Vultures,” Mor muttered. Az agreed. Judging by Cassian’s expression, he did too.

Feyre’s look of concern — her internal thoughts — led Rhys to continue. “I can stay hidden, mate.”

Feyre glared at him. Understanding dawned on Azriel then. She was piecing together what he and Rhys had been up to while she had been tearing apart the Spring Court from the inside — the observational trips to the continent.

Az decided to cut in, for Rhys’ benefit. “Having Hybern’s movements confirmed by you, Feyre, is what we needed.” Rhys threw him a thankful glance.

“Why?”

Cassian responded, crossing his arms. “We barely stand a chance of surviving Hybern’s armies on our own. If armies from Vallahan, Montesere, and Rask join them…” He drew his finger across his throat.

Mor elbowed him, and he nudged her right back. Azriel shook his head at them. His shadows banded around him comfortingly, warm against his wings, his chest… that place where the hollowness sat…

No. No , he reprimanded himself, slamming his mental shields into place once more, absentmindedly rubbing a spot on his chest. I won’t do this, not now. Not here. War is the only thing I do well without distraction. That doesn’t change now. The echoing hallway almost called to him; Azriel slammed the proverbial door on it, blocking it out of his mind. Focusing on what was in front of him.

“Are those three territories… that powerful?” Feyre asked, looking hesitant. She didn’t want to seem unfamiliar with their world; it was understandable, but also met with grace. They all often forgot how so very young their High Lady was, how new.

“Yes,” Azriel replied without judgment or harshness. “Vallahan has the numbers, Montesere has the money, and Rask… it is large enough to have both.” He didn’t want to consider a war where he had to go up against all three, plus Hybern. Not after the recon work he and Rhys had done these past weeks.

“And we have no other potential allies amongst the other overseas territories?”

Rhys pulled uncomfortably at the cuff of his jacket. “Not ones that would sail here to help.”

Azriel thought of Miryam and Drakon. They might help, but—

“What of Miryam and Drakon?” It seemed his High Lady’s train of thought ran a similar track to his own. Azriel’s chest bloomed with pride at that — then instantly recoiled, haunted by that shallow empty hollowness, as if something was missing there—

“You fought for Miryam and Drakon centuries ago,” Feyre went on, bringing Azriel’s attention back to the unfolding conversation, the planning in front of him. He cursed himself lightly for the distraction again. “Perhaps it’s time to call in that debt.”

“We tried,” Rhys responded, his eyes leveling on Az. “Azriel went to Cretea.”

Azriel did his best not to cower under his brother’s curious gaze. There was more to it than the surface conversation at hand— Rhys wanted in his Azriel’s head, in his thoughts. He didn’t want it badly enough to root around like a thief in the night without asking for permission, but he certainly wanted to know why Azriel seemed to zone in and out of this conversation at will.

“It was abandoned,” Azriel replied, speaking of the island where Miryam and Drakon were supposed to be located — where he had searched for them weeks ago, repeatedly, in vain. “In ruin. With no trace of what happened there or where they went.”

“You think Hybern—”

“There was no sign of Hybern, or of any harm,” More cut in, her face tight with worry. Azriel couldn’t hold back a slight scowl; he thought it a foolish notion to assume such a thing. Hybern had already shown they were more than capable of brutality, of disregard of one’s virtue and personal liberties and choices. The King of Hybern had no qualms with violating whomever he needed to on his path to power. Assuming the safety of Miryam and Drakon without confirming it would be arrogant.

“Then do you think they heard about Hybern and ran?” Feyre asked next.

“The Drakon and Miryam I knew wouldn’t have run— not from this,” Rhys replied. Azriel had to agree — it wouldn’t have been in their nature.

“But with Jurian now a player in this conflict…” Mor said, shifting in her spot, “Miryam and Drakon, whether they like it or not, have always been tied to him. I don’t blame them for running, if he truly hunts them.”

Feyre gave a brief nod, taking in all of this information. Azriel had to hand it to her— he was impressed. For someone so young and admittedly inexperienced, she was remarkably willing to learn so much history that had nothing to do with her. History that had occurred long before even her grandparents were born. Az couldn’t possibly fathom why anyone would choose to wrap themselves in such a bloody and confusing conflict.

He caught a glimpse of a momentary shared glance between Feyre and Rhys, a small meeting of the eyes as the rest of the room continued discussing Miryam and Drakon at length. That’s why, he remembered, the evidence of his brother’s happiness shining in his violet eyes, in the protective hand he lay on Feyre’s shoulder or knee or arm, in the way he occasionally let his gaze linger on her for longer than was necessary as if to remind himself that she was, indeed, real.

“But where did they go?” Feyre suddenly said, looking to Azriel and snapping him back to the conversation. He had missed much of it, it seemed. “You found no trace at all of where they might have vanished?”

“None,” Rhys answered for him thankfully. “We’ve sent messengers back since— to no avail.”

“Then if they are not a possible ally…” Feyre said, scrubbing a hand over her face in frustration, “How do we keep those other territories on the continent from joining with Hybern — from sending their armies here? That’s our plan, isn’t it?”

Oh, this part should be fun, Azriel thought with amusem*nt, nearly considering fading into his shadows completely.

“It is,” Rhys said simply with a grim smile. “One we’ve been working on while you were away.” Feyre seemed to wait for more. Amren’s eyes were positively glowing as she tried to contain her laughter; Azriel knew the feeling. “I looked at Hybern first. At its people. As best I could.” Feyre’s face flared with concern almost immediately, but Rhys pressed on. “I’d hoped that Hybern might have some internal conflict to exploit — to get them to collapse from within. That its people might not want this war, might see it as costly and dangerous and unnecessary. But five hundred years on that island, with little trade, little opportunity… Hybern’s people are hungry for change. Or rather… a change back to the old days, when they had human slaves to do their work, when there were no barriers keeping them from what they now perceive as their right.”

Feyre was understandably furious that Rhys had gone on these trips overseas with Az, but Rhys went on to explain — with Mor and Amren’s help — how Hybern fell into a stagnation following the War due to the King’s failure to establish new trade routes outside of the previous ones that dealt with territory that went to humans once the War was finished. How that stagnation only served to feed the sense of privilege that their High Fae felt when the comforts of their human slaves were ripped away from them once humans were freed with the War, and how they have viewed the time before the War as a sort of Golden Age — and all time since then as a Dark Age.

“They’re all insane to think that,” Feyre said, echoing the sentiment they all felt around the room.

Rhys explained to her that the King of Hybern actually encouraged this narrow world view, by not expanding his own trade routes, not accepting other territories or their cultures — essentially keeping his people isolated. He explained how his people have had a long, long time to build up this resentment over what they lost in the War… and that they were ready for this, that they truly saw themselves not as conquerors, but as liberators of High Fae everywhere.

“How can anyone believe that?” Feyre asked, disgusted.

Azriel dragged one siphon-topped hand through his hair, still stiff with dried sweat. “That’s what we’ve been learning. Listening in Hybern. And in territories like Rask and Montesere and Vallahan.”

Rhys went on, explaining to Feyre what he and Azriel had been up to while she’d been away — the scheming and plotting, the planting of truth and lies in the territories across the continent — to play them against each other, to keep them busy looking at each other and not at Prythian.

As he did, Azriel’s mind once again wandered to that echo chamber inside — that long hallway only he could find. It had gone still and quiet, but something nagged at him about it. He wasn’t quite sure what, but there was something off about the other end of it. Something… ominous.

Azriel did his best to push down that passageway, but he still found himself firmly planted on his end of it. His consciousness urged him, begged him to move, to simply walk forward, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t speak here — on whatever plane of existence this path took form on — so he could do nothing but stay in this one spot, waiting. Listening. Pushing.

The urge grew more insistent — he needed to reach out, to say something, even just to reassure. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He willed his feet to move, but nothing happened. His rubbed at a spot in his chest, a spot that felt as if a hard knot of energy would simply burst at any moment—

“What of the human queens, though?” Feyre’s voice cut through his concentration, and the passageway dissolved into nothingness — the buzzing energy in his chest dissipated to a dull roar as Azriel focused on her words. “They have to be aware that no bargain with Hybern would ultimately work to their advantage.”

“Who knows what Hybern promised them— lied about?” Mor replied, leaning forward. “He already granted them immortality through the Cauldron in exchange for their cooperation. If they were foolish enough to agree to it, then I don’t doubt they’ve already thrown open the gates to him.”

“But we don’t know that for certain,” Amren countered wisely, saying what Azriel was thinking. “And none of it explains why they’ve been so quiet— locked up in that palace.”

Azriel was already shaking his head in confirmation, along with Rhys.

“It drives you mad, doesn’t it?” Feyre asked. “That no one has been able to get inside that palace.”

Azriel couldn’t help his growl, as he muttered, “You have no idea.” He had tried, multiple times. The place was sealed up tight, even to his shadows. He hadn’t been able to breach the palace for weeks on end, no matter what method he had tried.

They continued their discussion, adding to the mix the holes in the wall and Hybern’s plans to exploit them by utilizing the Cauldron to bring the wall down completely. After some back and forth, they settled on a plan to find a way to somehow patch the holes in the wall — before Hybern had a chance to bring it down. They also needed to find a way to somehow physically retrieve the Cauldron, as impossible as it seemed. It was too dangerous an object in enemy hands.

The nagging did not cease, and Azriel’s mind continued to wander back to that passageway deep inside what he mused to be his soul, urging him to find a way down it somehow. Try as he might, he had trouble putting his entire focus on planning this war.

“So,” Feyre finally said, apprehension written on her young face, “we need to find a way to patch up the wall before Hybern uses the Cauldron to break it. And fight this war before any other territories join Hybern’s assault. And eventually get the Cauldron itself. Anything else?”

“That covers it,” Rhys replied, casual as ever. As if it were easy. “As soon as a force can be assembled, we take on Hybern.”

“The Illyrian legions are nearly ready,” Cassian chimed in. The High Lord’s general, prepared for war at any given time.

“No,” Rhy said. “I mean a bigger force. A force not just from the Night Court, but from all of Prythian. Our only decent shot at finding allies in this war.”

Nobody dared to speak. Nobody dared to move, or blink, or breathe. Even Azriel’s shadows stilled.

“Tomorrow,” Rhys continued, now taking on the voice of the High Lord, “invitations go out to every High Lord in Prythian. For a meeting in two weeks. It’s time we see who stands with us. And make sure they understand the consequences if they don’t.”

Eris had never kept secrets from his family. Secrets did not breed heirs. Secrets did not make High Lords.

He now found himself keeping two, and was heavily contemplating a third.

The first, he had learned to live with.

He thought about it every single day. The decision to have mercy on his youngest brother, to ensure that he had made it safely to the Spring Court that day he defected and left home. Nobody knew the truth—not even Lucien. Eris was the sole bearer of the true events, and he was quite certain he’d take it to his grave.

It had cost him two brothers. Two had stepped into Spring Court territory and their lives had been forfeit at Tamlin’s hands that day. That had been the cost: two brothers for the price of Lucien’s life. And Eris had paid it silently.

The second, he was not at all sure he could live with. Simply because he couldn’t find a way to control it.

The bond was everything. It invaded every single scrap of his soul in the most painful ways possible, and he both loved and hated it at the same damn time. He felt like a new person — as if he had been shattered and remade into a completely different being, one who no longer belonged to himself, but to Azriel. Always, forever , Azriel.

Which is rather problematic, considering he’s a male who hates me, Eris thought bitterly to himself.

Then there was this business with Feyre and the small battle from the Winter Court.

Which brought him to potential secret number three: would he tell his father of Feyre’s powers gleaned from the process in which she was Made? Beron clearly didn’t know what immense power the girl had — the High Lady of the Night Court — or else he would already have a force hunting her relentlessly to kill her. Beron was wildly possessive of the Autumn Court fire; if he knew this girl retained that ability from the kernel of his power that he relinquished to bring her back to life Under the Mountain, he would have an absolute fit , Eris was sure of it.

But even as he sat in his seat at Beron’s direct left, listening to his two brothers rattle off their report of the skirmish on the lake at the Winter Court and hearing zero mention of Feyre’s abilities, something stopped him from speaking up.

As he leaned forward, elbows braced on the table in front of him, his back struggling to piece itself together after the ten lashings he had received, he remembered what had come after.

He had sagged there, on the spotless floor of the throne room, his brothers sneering victoriously at him as he took sole punishment for their joint failure, when his entire being was washed over with that blue. That warm, calm, flickering blue that could only have meant one thing: Azriel.

Azriel had sent it to him, Eris was sure of it. Eris hadn’t dreamt it, or envisioned it, or created it himself. No, it had been too strong, too perfectly imagined, too well-crafted. And so so whole ; it had filled every seam and stitch of his shredded body, working its way through every crack, every crevice, until all he knew was blue. The pain, the agony, the misery, the dread, the fear, the uncertainty— all of it had been replaced with the steadiness of that warm, flickering blue. His blue.

It had made Eris question, not for the first time, if Azriel knew what he was doing. If he knew about the bond, if it had snapped into place for him, if he knew who he was sending these sensations to. The whiskey, the blue of his siphons, and now…

Now, as he sat here listening to his brothers prattle on — knowing that, at any moment, Beron’s attention would turn to him to corroborate and fill in any missing gaps — he felt a brush of awareness, as if eyes were upon him, only from miles away. Yes, there it was— that prickle of cognizance down the bond, a gentle nudge of concern. As if Azriel could tell Eris had been lost in his own thoughts for quite some time now and was simply throwing him a line and saying You’re a little far out, time to come back to me.

Eris had to bite down on his scoff at the thought. As if the shadowsinger would ever say that to him.

Nevertheless, the brush was there, down the bond, whether Azriel meant to do it or not. Every fiber of wild white light in Eris’ chest begged him to go, to find his mate, to seek him out.

“And what about you?”

Beron’s snapped question at Eris broke his silent concentration on his thoughts. He effortlessly slid the cool mask of calm destruction back over his features as he turned his attention back on his father.

“Apologies,” he replied with a casual indifference. “I zoned out when these two—” he motioned at his two brothers “—started bitching and moaning. What was the question?”

Beron did not find him amusing. “I asked, what about you? How did the Archeron girl slip through your fingers?” Beron stroked the stubble on his chin. “She’s High Fae, yes, but otherwise common. Lucien having the gift he does doesn’t explain how she managed to escape you , boy.”

Eris opened his mouth to tell him. To tell him of the power Feyre held, to tell him of her title, of what the Night Court had been brewing.

Then he remembered the sheer cruelty his father had unleashed upon Lucien for daring to love a lesser faerie. The torture, the long slow death he had bestowed upon her and forced Lucien to bear witness to. The one that Eris had refused to participate in — the only time he’d ever outright refused his father anything.

He remembered Beron ordering three of his sons to hunt Lucien down like an animal and kill him — murder their own brother for sport.

He remembered the wrath Beron had unleashed upon him — upon his own heir — for refusing to participate in the torture and murder of Lucien’s lesser faerie lover. And he remembered every lashing, every beating, every scar and bruise and cut and burn. All of it.

Then he remembered what Court it would hurt if he revealed that information. The Night Court. Azriel’s Court. He had known he would eventually need to choose a side, but he hadn’t known it would come so soon. He wasn’t prepared, hadn’t thought it through.

But apparently his heart already had. Because the next words out of his mouth came without a single breath of hesitation: “She’s a surprisingly skilled fighter. Must be trained by those Illyrian brutes they have up there in those wretched mountains in the north.”

Beron grunted. “Anything else I need to know?”

Eris felt it before he saw it — a warm sensation crawling up his decimated back, urging on his naturally sped up healing processes, then spreading across him, engulfing him, crawling over him, until it peeked over his shoulders—

Shadows. Azriel’s shadows. Eris swallowed down the sob that wanted to erupt from within him, and instead bit out the two words that sealed the coffin closed on the third secret it seemed he would be keeping from his father: “That’s everything.”

He would do better than this, he promised it right then and there. Once he sat in that chair, once he wore that crown and took that throne, he would be a better leader than his father. He would rule with more compassion and understanding, more tolerance and acceptance. He wouldn’t meet the unknown with so much hatred and aggression and he had to break this cycle of needless violence.

He swore it silently, wrapped in a warm blanket of Azriel’s shadows, every crack of his broken soul filled with the warm flickering blue light of his Illyrian siphons. Eris promised that, once this throne belonged to him, he would ensure that he was worthy of it every single day.

And he would start by trying to be worthy of his mate.

With that, an idea began to take form in his mind. It was time to visit his mate’s Court. He had a proposal for the High Lord of Night.

Chapter 4: Four

Chapter Text

As if planning a war with a gaping proverbial hole in his chest wasn’t enough, Azriel also had to sit through a dinner with his family. Plus f*cking Lucien.

Enduring dinner with daemati — enduring dinner with a pair of mated daemati, exchanging their loving, longing looks all evening — plus Lucien, clearly in agony over his mate bond…

Wine. Azriel needed wine, and plenty of it. Fortunately, the House of Wind was happy to oblige, and Az aimed for the decanters on the table immediately upon his arrival, pouring himself a generous glass. He perched on the dining table with his brothers.

Feyre and Lucien chatted uncomfortably near the window; Azriel kept his eye on the male, until Cassian gasped, a breath escaping him like he’d been knocked in the gut.

Surprisingly, Nesta also joined them. Az had no idea who had persuaded the eldest Archeron sister to emerge from her room long enough to glower at them all for the length of a meal, but adding her to the mix made the entire experience feel like a bomb that was ready to explode at any moment.

Perfect, Azriel thought, suppressing his eye roll. Add to the list of reasons I do not want to be here, my brother — a seasoned Illyrian general for f*cks sake — throwing longing looks at the other Archeron all evening. Azriel drank deeply from his wine, sinking deeply into the familiar cold depths of self-loathing he loved to live in.

An odd warmth seemed to cascade through him, though — like someone had found his secret frozen hideaway and lit a comfortable fire for him there—

To keep you warm. Azriel coughed into his wine as the words floated through his mind. He wasn’t sure if they had been spoken to him by his shadows or…

He struggled to cast it aside, as Nesta made her way to the table. The words were intentional— To keep you warm. They hadn’t allowed him to settle into his usual self-hatred and cold darkness. To keep you warm. The sensation spread through him, filled him, covered him completely, until he felt… different. But not in an uncomfortable way.

“I think we’re going to need a lot more wine,” Mor said, her voice just barely cutting through his thoughts. Az couldn’t agree more.

“I’ll raid the collection,” Cassian offered quickly, and was up and gone far too quickly to be casual. Idiot, Azriel thought with a mental scoff. Lovestruck idiot. Nesta said nothing, but seemed to stiffen at his eagerness.

She’d shred him in an instant, without a second thought, Az mused.

Probably without even breaking a nail, Rhys’ voice floated through Azriel’s mind, laced with a hint of humor. Az stiffened a bit. Rhys threw him a curious look, but said nothing further.

Feyre took a seat next to her sister. “They mean well,” she murmured comfortingly.

Nesta merely ran her delicate fingers over the place setting in front of her. “I don’t care,” she replied coldly.

Amren took the seat across from Feyre just as Cassian returned, a bottle clutched in each hand. “You’re a real piece of work,” Amren said with a cringe.

Even Azriel tensed at that. The two of them, such savage creatures…

Amren casually swirled her goblet of blood as Nesta’s eyes flicked up to her, watching her like a hunter watches prey. Azriel waited for the returning blow.

“Why do your eyes glow?” It wasn’t what Az had been expecting. But then, this Archeron had a penchant for always keeping them on their toes.

“You know,” Amren replied, angling her head, “none of these busybodies have ever asked me that.”

Because we like our heads on our bodies, Azriel thought to himself wryly. Nesta merely waited.

Amren let out a sigh. “They glow because it was the one part of me the containment spell could not quite get right. The one glimpse into what lurks beneath.”

“And what is beneath?”

You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Nobody moved, or spoke, or even breathed.

Amren merely traced one red nail along the rim of her goblet. “They never dared ask me that, either.”

“Why.”

“Because it is not polite to ask—and they are afraid.”

Amren brought her eyes to Nesta’s and held her stare. To Nesta’s credit, she stared back; she did not look away, didn’t balk, didn’t flinch.

Amren spoke the thought just as Azriel had it: They’re the same.

“We are the same, you and I.” Yes, Azriel could see it now. Whatever the Cauldron had done to Nesta — whatever it had given her — it made them alike somehow. Nesta would come to play a bigger role than he had initially realized. Amren continued, “Not in flesh, not in the thing that prowls beneath our skin and bones…” Her eyes narrowed at Nesta. “But… I see the kernel, girl. You did not fit — the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not, fit. And then the path changed.” Amren nodded to herself. “I know — what it is to be that way. I remember it, long ago as it was.”

Nesta sat still as stone as Amren’s words sunk into her. Azriel’s mind raced at the implications. His wings stilled, his body chilled, but then—

To keep you warm. It echoed through him again, folding over him, as if it refused to let him go cold— as if it knew his tendency to shy away from the warmth, from the heat. He felt it swell in his chest, like a ball of pure sunlight, radiating through him, banishing the cold winds that seemed to cling to him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nesta replied flatly.

Amren simply smiled, a knowing, feline thing, and said, “When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds.”

Mother above, Azriel thought to himself, ensuring his mental shields were as solid as could be.

Rhys, thankfully, steered them in a different direction. “Amren,” he drawled, “it seems, has been taking drama lessons at the theater down the street from her house.”

She glared at him. “I mean it, Rhysand—”

“I’m sure you do,” he said, taking a seat next to Feyre. “But I’d prefer to eat something before you make us lose our appetites.”

The mood lightened, fortunately, as everyone began settling into seats. Cassian took the seat to Amren’s left, Azriel claiming the one next to him. Mor slid into the seat across from Azriel — Az did his best not to flinch at the thought of her being directly across from him all evening — and Lucien stood awkwardly as the only open seat left for him was at the head of the table.

He frowned at it, looking at Rhys hesitantly. “I— shouldn’t you sit at the head?”

Az nearly smirked. Such formality, he thought to himself, an image of Tamlin in his manor floating through his mind, the male insisting on always sitting at the head of his table. He had to suppress his laugh.

Rhys merely raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care where you sit. I only care about eating something right—” he snapped his fingers “—now.”

Food appeared, laden across the table, and Lucien took the remaining seat. The smells hit Azriel’s nose, and his mouth instantly watered as he sighed deeply. Roast meats, vegetables, breads, sauces, all of it divine…

He paused as everyone delighted in the food before them, once again finding himself standing before that echo chamber of a passageway buried inside himself. He let the smells override his senses, let them fill him to bursting, carried them into his soul… and then with one great push, he let them out, flinging them down that hallway, sending the pleasure of these smells careening down it to the other side. He wished he could do more, wished he knew if any of it mattered, if any of it made it down to whatever waited on the other end—

“You get used to it—the informality.” Feyre’s voice gently brought Azriel back to the table—to the conversation. He began heaping food onto his plate with the others.

“You say that, Feyre darling, like it’s a bad thing,” Rhys mused at her.

She rolled her eyes in response as she delicately slid food onto her plate in front of her. “It took me by surprise that first dinner we all had, just so you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Rhys responded with a grin.

Cassian snigg*red. Azriel couldn’t help the smirk on his face either; he remembered very well that first dinner with their now-High Lady. The apprehension, the hesitance, all of it. And look at her now.

“Honestly,” Feyre said to Lucien as he carefully piled food on his plate, “Azriel is the only polite one.”

Outrage, of course, from Mor and Cassian, but Azriel let a small small shine through as he lowered his head, hauling another platter closer to himself.

“Don’t even try to pretend it’s not true,” Feyre continued.

“Of course it’s true,” Mor said with an overwrought sigh, “but you needn’t make us sound like heathens. ”

“I would have thought you’d find that term to be a compliment, Mor,” Rhys mused.

Feyre took a moment to fill Nesta’s plate with an assortment of food, as Nesta hadn’t made a move; she’d watched them carefully, listening to them gibe and poke at each other.

“I understand — what you meant about the food,” she said quietly.

Feyre seemed to think for a moment, understanding finally dawning on her face. “Is that a compliment?” she asked.

Nesta simply smiled, spearing a piece of asparagus with her fork and digging in.

Feyre changed tack, turning to Cassian and asking, “What time are we back in the training ring tomorrow?”

Azriel was impressed that his brother didn’t so much as spare a glance at Nesta as he answered lazily, “I’d say dawn, but since I’m feeling rather grateful that you’re back in one piece, I’ll let you sleep in. Let’s meet at seven.”

“I’d hardly call that sleeping in,” Feyre said with a level scowl.

“For an Illyrian, it is,” Mor muttered.

“Daylight is a precious resource,” Cassian said a little too proudly, his wings rustling.

“We live in the Night Court ,” Mor argued back incredulously.

Cassian grimaced at Rhys and Azriel both. “I told you that the moment we started letting females into our group, they’d be nothing but trouble.”

Azriel let his shadows wrap him a little tighter as Rhys replied, “As far as I can recall, Cassian, you actually said you needed a reprieve from staring at our ugly faces, and that some ladies would add some much-needed prettiness for you to look at all day.”

Azriel had to hold in his snort, as Amren responded, “Pig.” Indeed, that was exactly how Az remembered it. Back in the days when all the three of them cared about was glory, wine, fighting, and f*cking their way through their immortal existence. Before Rhys only had eyes for Feyre, before Cassian’s gaze was constantly drawn to Nesta, and before Azriel…

He paused. What do I have now?

To keep you warm. The words echoed through him again. Still, he didn’t give himself the chance to think about the implication, even as the heat filled him, even as a flush crept through his cheeks. Even as those images flashed through his mind again — his scarred hands, free of his usual gloves, running lovingly over a blurred, writhing, naked body, stroking, caressing, grasping; the sound of a strangled moan echoed through him, so real , he could’ve sworn it had actually happened; silken strands of hair as they glided through his fingers; his mouth, kissing, licking, tasting, teasing, whispering—

I am yours, and you are mine. The words beat through him, whispered in his own voice , haunting him — a promise, a threat, a foretelling, a dream—?

Not dreams , his shadows were quick to remind him, as if they were keeping him on a path to an answer, but unwilling to outright give it to him.

You already know the answer, they told him gently. It was similar to what Amren had said. When he had asked her what this was, desperate for answers, gripped by echoes of pain and agony: What do you think it is? she had asked, in that all-knowing tone of hers.

“Don’t try to blend into the shadows,” Cassian’s voice was a too-sharp sound, jarring and harsh as it dragged Azriel out of his thoughts and away from those seven words, whispered in his own voice. Cassian pointed his fork straight at Azriel, and Az stiffened, his eyes widening slightly. Had he been caught? Had his scent changed? Had his thoughts given him away? He didn’t dare glance at Rhys.

But Cassian continued, “You said the same thing.” And Azriel remembered what they had been talking about, and realized that was what Cassian referred to — not the inner chaos of his mind.

“He did not,” Mor argued, and Azriel let some of the shadows around him slip away, vanishing from sight. “Azriel has never once said anything that awful. Only you, Cassian. Only you.”

If only she knew, Azriel thought to himself silently. He cursed himself — his mental shields were a mess. He only hoped Rhys’ attention had been elsewhere. How long could he possibly hope to keep this kind of a secret?

Cassian stuck out his tongue at Mor, who of course returned the gesture.

Amren scowled. “You’d be wise to leave them both at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They’ll cause nothing but trouble.”

“It remains to be seen if they’ll be joining us,” Rhys responded. This earned him a curious look from Lucien, to which Rhys only shrugged. Azriel recalled that Lucien did not yet know about the invitations — about this attempt at a meeting between Prythian’s High Lords. “You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose,” Rhys told Lucien. “Invitations are going out tomorrow, calling all the High Lords to gather to discuss this war.”

Lucien tensed, almost imperceptibly. Azriel might have been the only one who noticed. “All?”

Rhys only nodded. Azriel couldn’t be sure who brought the concern to his face: Tamlin or Beron.

Lucien paused, just for a moment. Considered. “Can I offer my unsolicited advice?”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. Bold move, he thought.

We’d be fools not to hear it, however, Rhys responded into Az’s mind. Azriel did his best to keep his face neutral, unreadable. If he can give us something, anything , that we don’t already know on Beron, I’ll gladly take it.

Rhys smirked at Lucien. “I think that’s the first time anyone at this table has ever asked such a thing.”

Mor and Cassian again stuck out their tongues, but Azriel was glued to Lucien, hanging on his next words. Indeed, to a spymaster, secrets were like air in his lungs.

Rhys waved a hand at Lucien, feigning a casualness Azriel knew he did not feel. “By all means, advise away.”

Lucien studied Feyre for a long moment. “I assume Feyre is going.”

“I am.”

The room grew a bit quieter as Lucien pressed on. This was taking a much different tack than Azriel thought it would. “Are you planning to hide her powers?”

The room now was dead silent. Not a whisper, not a breath. Azriel’s shadows stilled completely. It wasn’t quite an insult , but…

Rhys, if he suggests—

I’ve got this, brother. Rhys’ reply came before Azriel could finish his mental thought. To hell with his secret. This was too important, he realized, as he started connecting the dots himself.

A sense of irritation flared in his chest—somehow not his own, but there none the less. Annoyance at being interrupted, at not being allowed to finish his own thought.

“That was something I’d planned to discuss with my mate,” Rhys finally spoke, his voice careful and calculated, with an edge of sharpness to it. “Are you leaning one way or another, Lucien?”

Lucien considered Feyre once more, studying her. “My father would likely join with Hybern if he thought he stood a chance of getting his power back that way — by killing you.”

Rhys’ answering snarl was expected.

But Feyre spoke what Azriel had tried telling Rhys. “Your brothers saw me though. Perhaps they could mistake the flame as yours, but the ice…”

Eris has to know, Rhys, he tried again. If he knows, then Beron must know.

We’ll need to confirm it, Rhys responded mentally. I want to be sure before we go into that meeting.

Azriel felt a sudden recoil in his chest—a rebounding sense of… something. Dread? Realization? He couldn’t put a finger on it. His shadows were frantic, coiling and writhing around him.

Lucien gestured toward Azriel. “That’s the information you need to gather. What my father knows — if my brothers realized what she was doing. You need to start from there, and build your plan for this meeting accordingly.”

Mor, as expected, followed up with what Azriel thought next. “Eris might keep that information to himself and convince the others to as well, if he thinks it’ll be more useful that way.” Azriel would never forget how well she knew the male.

“Perhaps,” Lucien replied. “But we need to find that out. If Beron or Eris has that information, they’ll use it to their advantage in that meeting—to control it. Or control you. Or they might not show up at all and instead go right to Hybern.” Cassian swore.

f*cking Eris, Azriel thought for the millionth time.

My sentiments exactly, Rhys answered. But Lucien’s right. We leave nothing to chance, Az. See what you can dig up on what Beron really knows about Feyre’s abilities — and what, if anything, Eris has shared with him. We will not go into this meeting blind. I want all the cards in our hands before we even set foot into that meeting.

Azriel simply gave him a short, sharp nod.

Rhys swirled his wine, and said to Lucien, “You and Azriel should talk. Tomorrow.”

And you and I should talk. Soon. It was an effort for Azriel not to wince at Rhys’ words in his mind. He paused. Something is… different with you, Az.

Azriel didn’t respond. Lucien glanced toward him, and Azriel gave him a singular nod — all he could manage. “I’m at your disposal,” Lucien said simply.

Brilliant, Azriel thought sarcastically. Maybe I can just dispose of him altogether.

Easy, Rhys responded in Az’s mind. Do remember that he is an ally now, brother. We may well need whatever information he can provide us on the Autumn Court and the Spring Court before this meeting takes place. Nobody will say it, but we’re all thinking it: Tamlin is the other dark horse to this venture. Who knows if he’ll show up at all, or what state he or his Court are even in. Knowing Tamlin, Feyre was most likely shut out of any important meetings in Spring; Lucien most likely was not. If he’s bringing that information to us willingly, and you don’t have to torture it out of him, I’ll chalk that up as good fortune.

Rhys leaned back in his chair, his face pensive. He was brewing yet another plan, Azriel could tell. He had a sneaking suspicion which direction it was going in, but prayed he was wrong.

“There is another meeting that needs to be had—and soon.”

f*ck me, Azriel thought, slamming his mental shields back in place. He was sure his mind was about to become a chaotic mess, and he didn’t want an audience.

“Please don’t say we need to go to the Court of Nightmares,” Cassian mumbled around a mouthful of food.

Azriel held his breath, hoping much the same.

Rhys merely raised an eyebrow. “Not in the mood to terrorize our friends there?”

Azriel mentally groaned. He knew exactly what Rhys was after, and glanced at Mor, wondering if she’d picked up the train of thought yet. Rhys was going after the Darkbringer legion. Keir’s Darkbringer legion — Mor’s piece of sh*t father. Azriel ground his teeth.

Mor’s face paled; she had sensed the direction after all. “You mean to ask my father to fight in this war.”

“What is the Court of Nightmares?” Nesta’s question took them all by surprise — they tended to forget how so very new she was.

Surprisingly, it was Lucien who answered for them. “The place where the rest of the world believes the majority of the Night Court to be.” He gestured to Rhys with his chin. “The seat of his power. Or it was.”

“Oh, it still is,” Rhys said. “To everyone outside Velaris.” He leveled his gaze to Mor. “And yes. Keir’s Darkbringer legion is considerable enough that a meeting is warranted.”

Azriel began to withdraw into himself. The Hewn City brought out the absolute worst in him every single time— seemingly sent him to a place that was harder and harder to find his way back from, the cold and damp and darkness feeling more and more like home , reminding him of that cell his stepmother had kept him in.

To keep you warm. It echoed a little louder this time, the heat spreading from the center of his chest all the way through his fingertips and toes. Almost… almost as if to remind him that he wasn’t there anymore. That he was free.

Forgive me. Redeem me. Love me. Free me. I’m not worthy of any of it but I want all of it. From you.

To keep you warm. To keep you warm. To keep you warm. Azriel let the words fill every single crack of his broken soul until it chased away the cold—then immediately found that secret hallway buried in the very same broken soul and willed, without words, the feeling down it as best he could: You are worthy. Of all of it. He had no idea if it worked.

“Why not just order them? Don’t they answer to you?” Nesta’s question brought him back to the conversation gently, regardless of her sharp tone.

Mor’s face was still tight with emotion. Cassian answered, “Unfortunately, there are protocols in place between our two subcourts regarding this sort of thing. They mostly govern themselves — with Mor’s father their steward.”

Mor swallowed loudly. Azriel watched her carefully, his mouth a tight, thin line.

It’s too far, Rhys. Azriel didn’t care about his secrets at the moment; his brother needed to know what crossing this line meant.

I’m aware of what it means, Az. We need them. You know it, I know it. Cassian knows it, too. If we keep thinking with our hearts, we’re all dead when Hybern comes. He paused. They’ve already shown us they have no problems with violating personal liberties, Az. What they did to Feyre’s sisters said enough.

“The steward of the Hewn City is legally entitled to refuse to aid my armies,” Rhys explained to Nesta out loud. “It was part of the agreement my ancestor made with the Court of Nightmares all those thousands of years ago. They would remain within that mountain, would not challenge or disturb us beyond its borders… and would retain the right not to assist in war.”

Which he’ll do, Rhys, Azriel threw out to his brother mentally. You know this. Last time you ‘met’ with Keir, he walked away with a shattered arm. Entertaining as it was, I doubt he’ll be in a particularly forgiving mood.

Oh, he won’t be, Rhys answered with a hint of humor. Which is why you’re going to help me bring something to the table to bargain with. Something Keir wants desperately—bad enough to forgive one silly little broken arm.

Azriel blinked.

“And have they—refused?” Feyre asked.

Mor nodded. “Twice. Not my father, but… there were two wars. Long, long ago. They chose not to fight. We won, but… barely. At great cost.”

You leave when we’re finished here. I want you working on this every available moment you can. You have two days. I’ll give you the details shortly, Rhys said into Azriel’s mind.

“We leave in two days,” Rhys said out loud.

“He’ll say no,” Mor argued. “Don’t waste your time.”

“Then I shall have to find a way to convince him otherwise,” Rhys replied.

Mor’s eyes flashed — with a mix of anger and hurt. “What?”

Cassian shifted. Azriel sunk a little further into his shadows. Amren clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“He fought in the War,” Rhys continued calmly. “Perhaps we’ll be lucky this time, too.”

“I’ll remind you that the Darkbringer legion was nearly as bad as the enemy when it came to their behavior,” Mor replied angrily, pushing her plate away from her. She seemed to sense that she had been backed into a corner.

“There will be new rules—”

“You will not be in a position to make rules, and you know it,” Mor snapped at Rhys.

Rhys merely swirled his wine. “We’ll see.”

Feyre looked helplessly at Cassian, but he shook his head at her, so she wisely kept her mouth shut.

Mor then whirled on Azriel—he had expected her to. He was surprised it had taken her so long. “What do you think?”

Rhys said nothing into his mind, allowing him to make his own decision. Of all the times for him to choose not to be a busybody…

“It’s not my call to make.” It was true. He was no general. He was no High Lord. He was nobody important. He dealt in shadows and secrets—that was his identity.

“That’s a bullsh*t answer,” Mor flung back at him.

Azriel tried not to let the hurt show, but he was sure he failed. He shrugged, reinforcing his mask of cold and calculated indifference once more.

To keep you warm. Azriel sighed as the blessed heat bloomed through him, somehow reminding him that it was, indeed, a mask , and that the real him was still underneath.

“You don’t need to come, Mor,” Rhys said casually. Azriel raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I’m coming. It’ll make it worse if I’m not there,” she replied, her tone still sharp and laced with anger. She drained her wine. “I suppose I have two days now to find a dress suitable to horrify my father.”

That roused a few chuckles around the room, and the mood began to lighten.

Azriel relaxed back into his seat, the wine he’d consumed relaxing him into a nice buzz, his stomach comfortably full.

Want to hear my really terrible idea that could backfire in about a million different ways? Rhys’ voice in his mind was also slightly drunk and amused.

At this point, I don’t think you could shock me, so shoot for the stars, brother.

I already have you chasing down information in the Autumn Court regarding Feyre’s powers, yes?

Azriel merely nodded once, just barely.

And what did Keir want — still wants — more than anything, badly enough to arrange marriage via his own daughter to secure it?

Azriel paused. Tell me you’re joking.

What does he want, Az? Answer the question.

Yeah, he wants an alliance with the Autumn Court, but Rhys—

I’m not thinking of marriage, so don’t go jumping down my throat, brother. However, if you were to, say, persuade a certain Autumn Court heir to join us at our meeting with Keir, and ask him to promise an alliance with Autumn… See what his asking price is. For the Darkbringers, there’s not a lot I’m not willing to pay.

Azriel mentally sighed. f*cking Eris. You know his asking price is going to be something unpalatable, Rhys.

I know. As I said—

What about Mor. Have you even thought about the fractures you will inflict upon our family just by doing this?

Rhysand’s eyes flickered, a few of those dazzling stars winking out. We have to win this war, Azriel. We have to win this war, and it’s preferable that it not cost any of us our lives.

I understand that, but… is the victory worth the price, Rhys?

To Rhys’ credit, he hesitated before answering. Yes.

Aren’t I also supposed to be monitoring the invitations going out to the High Lords regarding the meeting? Azriel asked. Gauging initial reactions, measuring expected attendees, anticipating possible allies? Spreading it a little thin, aren’t we, brother?

Rhys snorted down the mental line they spoke between. That’s grunt work, Az. Send your shadows to do it. This business in the Autumn Court is important; I want it seen to personally . Leave for Autumn as soon as you can. Locate Eris, go from there. I trust you, Az. Do what you need to do to get him to that meeting. Just make sure he’s there. As soon as he agrees, and you figure out what he wants in return, let me know. And… find me when you return. Azriel’s breath hitched in his throat. I’ll take your reports in person.

Azriel nodded, already dreading that conversation. So, to be clear, you want me to find out if Eris knows about Feyre’s powers, find out if he’s told Beron about Feyre’s powers, find out what Eris’ asking price is in exchange for an alliance with Keir in order to persuade Keir to pledge us the Darkbringers, all while also keeping an eye on the initial reactions to the invitations going out to the High Lord’s meeting and gauging potential allies. Oh, and also, the meeting in the Hewn City is in two f*cking days. That about sum it up, brother?

Indeed. Let me know if you get bored. Rhys hid his wry smile while Azriel’s stomach felt leaden.

“Let’s train at eight tomorrow,” Feyre said to Cassian, the normalcy returned to the room, everyone none the wiser about what Rhysand and Azriel were planning. “I’ll meet you in the ring.”

“Seven thirty,” Cassian countered with a conciliatory grin. Azriel kept a careful eye on Mor, still pondering just how badly this unholy alliance with Eris , of all people, would crack their family apart — how deep did her loyalty run? How deep did all of their loyalties run? How far were they willing to go to win this war?

“Eight,” Feyre argued back flatly. She turned then to Nesta. “Care to join?”

“No.” Saw that one coming, Azriel thought.

Feyre merely shrugged, reaching for more wine. Her next sentence took everyone by surprise, but especially Azriel. “I want to learn how to fly.”

Azriel was almost too busy openly gawking at his High Lady to notice the wine that Mor had spewed all over him from across the table.

Feyre gestured at the Illyrians at the table. “I want you to teach me.”

“Really?” Mor blurted.

“Well, that explains the wings,” Lucien mumbled.

“What wings?” Nesta asked curiously.

“I can—shape-shift,” Feyre answered carefully. “And with the oncoming conflict, knowing how to fly might be… useful.” She jerked her chin at Cassian, who was now openly appraising her— considering. “I assume the battles against Hybern will include Illyrians.” Cassian nodded. “Then I plan to fight with you. In the skies.”

The silence that echoed in the room was telling.

Their High Lady certainly had balls of steel. Azriel considered it for a moment, logistically. Learning to fly was a process , and that was for true Illyrians — those born with the wings, with the muscles and instincts for flying. Add in the fact that Illyrians usually learned how to fly at a much younger age…

Cassian let out a breath. “I don’t know if it’s technically even possible — time-wise. You’d have to learn not only how to fly, but how to bear the weight of your shield and weapons — and how to work with an Illyrian unit. It takes us decades to master that last part alone. We have months at best — weeks at worst.”

Feyre looked a bit put out at that.

“Then we’ll teach her what we know until then,” Rhys said, his eyes hard. “I’ll give her any shot at an advantage — at getting away if things go to sh*t. Even a day of training might make a difference.”

They still weren’t considering the most important part: that Feyre wasn’t a child. Most Illyrians learned to fly as children, like Cassian and Rhysand had. Like all normal Illyrians did. Azriel, on the other hand…

“I’ll teach you.” Azriel found himself saying the words before he’d even made up his mind to do it — his face softening at the memories of being dumped at Windhaven at the age of eleven, undertrained, and never having learned how to fly. Every child training there had already learned; Azriel knew nothing—not how to fight, or fly, nothing.

“Are you… certain?”

“Rhys and Cass were taught how to fly so young that they barely remember it,” Azriel replied by way of answer.

“We’ve taught plenty of younglings the basics,” Cassian argued.

But Azriel shook his head, shadows dancing about his wrists. “It’s not the same,” he explained. “When you’re older, the fears, the mental blocks… it’s different.”

He felt himself sliding back—back into that cold dark dungeon cell his spiteful father had kept him locked away in, the damp creeping into his bones, into his tendons, into every f*cking nervel—

To keep you warm. Azriel breathed a sigh of relief as the words settled in him, the heat like a warm blanket enveloping his soul — a lifeline in the dark, guiding him back to the light. A tether anchoring him to the present, keeping him from drowning in his past.

“I’ll teach you,” Azriel said again, more sure this time—thanks to the strength he drew from the warmth that rippled over him, through him, chasing away the haunting memories of that dungeon cell and replacing them with those words, echoing through him: To keep you warm. “Train with Cass for a few hours, and I’ll meet you when you’re through.” He added, for Lucien — who, to his credit, did not so much as flinch at Azriel or his shadows, “After lunch, we’ll meet.”

“Thank you,” Feyre replied. She turned to her sister then. Oh, this ought to be good, Azriel thought wryly. “The King of Hybern is trying to bring down the wall by using the Cauldron to expand the holes already in it. I might be able to patch up those holes, but you… being made of the Cauldron itself… if the Cauldron can widen those holes, perhaps you can close them, too. With training—in whatever time we have.”

“I can show you,” Amren chimed in, for Feyre’s benefit. “Or, in theory, I can. If we start soon— tomorrow morning.” She seemed to consider something, and before Azriel could figure it out, she said to Rhys, “When you go to the Court of Nightmares, we will go with you.”

Azriel nearly choked. Feyre rounded on Amren. “What? The thought of Nesta in that place—”

“The Hewn City is a trove of objects of power,” Amren explained. “There may be opportunities to practice. Let the girl get a feel for what something like the wall or the Cauldron might be like.” Azriel was ready to staunchly object, when Amren cut him off. “ Covertly. ”

Nesta said nothing, for a long length of time. They all waited—for her refusal, for her snappy rebuff, anything.

She merely asked, “Why not just kill the King of Hybern before he can act?”

It was silent—for an uncomfortable moment. Mother above, Azriel thought. An idea wriggled in the back of his mind, attempting to break free, and he slipped his mental shields down just far enough to throw one last kernel of a thought to his brother, mind to mind. We need to know what she is, Rhys. What the Cauldron gave her. A hesitant pause, but Azriel could tell Rhys was listening. I don’t even know where to start looking to be honest, but we need to start somewhere. She came out… different. If you want, I can—

No, Rhys’ reply came quickly, but gently. You have enough to handle for now. Focus on the Autumn Court, the meeting in the Hewn City, and the High Lord’s meeting—starting with the Autumn Court, with Eris. That’s where I want your focus. Leave Nesta to me, and Feyre. And… Cassian.

They both loosed a breath then, a silent prayer that Nesta didn’t shred the delicate heart wrapped in centuries of steel that was their brother.

“If you want the killing blow, girl, it’s yours,” Amren said softly, a slight bite in her voice.

“What happened to the human queens?” Nesta asked. Her subject changes were giving Azriel conversational whiplash.

“What do you mean?” Feyre asked.

“Were they Made immortal?” she clarified, her question pointed at Azriel.

Again, he cursed himself that he hadn’t been able to pierce the shadows inside the palace that the human queens were holed up inside. He hadn’t been able to send his shadows in, hadn’t been able to penetrate the shadows that lay within and spy from the inside, hadn’t been able to shadow-walk inside and observe, nothing.

His siphons flared with his anger. “Reports have been murky and inconsistent. Some say yes, others say no.”

Cassian leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “Why?”

Nesta’s eyes went right to his. When next she spoke, it was to all of them, but her eyes never moved from Cassian’s gaze.

It reminded Azriel too much of that image, flashed before his eyes when his shadow had placed that one singular tear upon his tongue in Amren’s loft. Eyes on me.

Images of his own face, his mouth hung open and head thrown back as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through him — so visceral, Azriel could’ve sworn it was real — as his chest heaved and he gasped for air. Hands sliding through his hair, down his sweat-slicked chest— teeth grazing the pulse point in his throat, setting his heartbeat ratcheting higher— The absolutely feral and guttural moan that ripped up Azriel’s throat, unable to be contained or bit down— the echoing moan of another, laced with what sounded suspiciously like his name— Then two strong hands framing his face and pulling his gaze to theirs, the firm command: “Eyes on me. I want to watch you.”

Eyes on me. I want to watch you. The sheer intensity in that statement, in that gaze… Azriel’s co*ck twitched painfully in his pants, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could feel the ghost of a hand that wasn’t his own there. He couldn’t remember the last time he came while looking someone directly in the eye. Come to think of it… Never. I’ve never done that, he realized with a start, his heart stumbling over a beat. It was too… personal. Too intimate.

“By the end of this war, I want them dead.” Nesta’s voice was like a crack of lightning, startling him enough that he had to fight the urge to wince. He hoped his scent hadn’t shifted to arousal—and if it had, he hoped no one had noticed. “The king, the queens—all of them. Promise me you’ll kill them all, and I’ll help you patch up the wall. I’ll train with her—” a gesture in Amren’s direction “—I’ll go to the Hewn City or whatever it is… I’ll do it. But only if you can promise me that.”

“Fine,” Feyre said to her sister. Azriel’s shadows whispered to him, More. Feyre wanted more. “And we might need your assistance during the meeting with the High Lords—to provide testimony to other courts and allies of what Hybern is capable of. What was done to you.”

“No.” Nesta’s reply was quick and flat. And unwavering.

Is it necessary? Azriel asked his shadows.

It is, they responded. She will be needed. In more ways than this. Azriel kept his face neutral.

“People’s lives might depend on your account of it,” Feyre pressed. “The success of this meeting with the High Lords might depend upon it.”

Nesta tensed, gripping the arms of her chair. Azriel’s eyes narrowed on her. “Don’t talk down to me. My answer is no.”

“I understand that what happened to you was horrible—”

“You have no idea what it was or was not. None,” Nesta’s voice was laced with cold wrath, enough that even Cassian braced next to Azriel, prepared. “And I am not going to grovel like one of those Children of the Blessed, begging High Fae who would have gladly killed me as a mortal to help us. I’m not going to tell them that story— my story.”

Azriel’s shadows twined around his wrists—a warning. Of what, he didn’t know.

“The High Lords might not believe our account, which makes you a valuable witness—”

But Nesta was already shoving her chair back from the table, tossing her napkin onto her plate. “Then it is not my problem if you’re unreliable. I’ll help you with the wall, but I am not going to whor* my story around to everyone on your behalf.” She was already on her feet, color staining her face, when she thought to add in a menacing hiss, “And if you even dare to suggest to Elain that she do such a thing, I will rip out your throat .”

Her eyes carried over every person in the room. The threat—extended beyond just Feyre. The implication was clear. It seemed their High Lady wasn’t the only Archeron with balls of steel.

Nobody spoke as Nesta left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Nobody stopped her. Azriel didn’t— couldn’t— bring himself to glance sidelong at Cassian. He didn’t need to look to know the devastation that warred within his brother’s too-tender heart.

Feyre simply slumped in her chair, defeated, as Mor dropped a bottle of wine in front of her and said, “It’s fine if you drink directly from it.”

Azriel reached for his own wine, but as his fingers grazed the cup, he could have sworn he tasted the ghost of whiskey in his mouth instead.

The f*cking itching was the worst.

Eris could withstand the pain, the torture, all of it. It had become so indelible, so engrained at this point it was almost boring. But the damn itching…

He knew he should be thankful for it. It meant he was healing; it meant his body was stitching itself back together, piece by piece, cell by cell. But in these quiet moments by himself, when he wasn’t distracted, when his focus wasn’t consumed by something else, the itching pervaded his senses and it was like a new kind of hell.

Things were off with the two brothers he had taken with him to capture Lucien and Feyre. What he had first assumed was simple idiocy and a penchant for missing important details now seemed to be… something wholly different.

Their account of events almost seemed… forced. Rehearsed. Planted, he later thought to himself, suspicion creeping in. He had caught up with them both on their patrols, doing his best to remain casual as he probed for answers as to what exactly they recalled about the scuffle on the ice.

They had told him the exact same story. Down to the very last detail, down to the very last word.

Eris puzzled over it as he returned to his room in the Forest House, carefully stripping off his jacket and shirt. He was in front of the tall mirror, inspecting his healing itching back, when he felt it.

Cold dread, it’s icy fingers creeping down his neck. Not panic, but more… self-exile. Yes, that was it. Self-exile, to a familiar imprisonment of darkness — of anonymity.

Wherever Azriel was, Eris realized, whatever he was doing… he was sinking into his own familiar misery.

No, Eris thought in a rush. No, you don’t belong there. Not in the cold. Not anymore. Wreathing his hand in a gentle flame, he clenched his fist and pulled it inward—into himself, into his soul, as best he could, where that wild ball of uncontrollable white light dwelled within his chest—and cast it down the bond as he said, To keep you warm.

The cold eased. The dread as well. Eris breathed a shaky sigh of relief as he dragged a hand through his red hair, casting a cursory glance around his room. He looked toward his fireplace, empty and dark, and flicked a hand toward it. A steady fire erupted within, and Eris dragged an armchair directly in front of the flames, where a small table already sat.

He trudged over to the collection of liquor and wine bottles he kept, a veritable personal mini-bar, and almost reached for wine, but he paused as he eyed an unopened bottle of whiskey. He usually didn’t go for the stuff, but he remembered the sensation of it barreling through him, cast sloppily down the bond from Azriel — knowingly or unknowingly, Eris still didn’t know — and he plucked the bottle from the trove with a half smile and made his way to his chair, ignoring the glasses altogether. Tonight, it would be straight from the bottle.

Eris sunk into the chair, releasing a heavy sigh, as he opened the bottle and took his first long drink. He chuckled lightly. Azriel was right; the sh*t was divine.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, towards the fire, soaking up the radiating warmth. Letting in into all of him, pushing as much of it down the bond as he could.

This would be his evening, he decided. This fire, this whiskey, and this vigil — the vigil he would stand over his mate, to ensure Azriel stayed warm, whatever he was doing.

He would be okay with this, he guessed. If this was all he was to be allowed, as close as he would get, then he would give it everything he had to give. He wouldn’t be happy , of course. He’d never be happy, not with scraps, not with pieces, echoes, fractions. It’s not the way the Mother intended mates to be. Mates were intended to be equals in every way, two halves of the same soul residing in two bodies.

As the time passed—as Eris sat longer with this inside of him—he started to realize how much he needed Azriel. He needed him like air in his lungs or fire in his veins. He thought, just momentarily at the beginning, that he might have been able to deny it, to reject it. But the sheer overwhelming force of it—

Eris felt a pull on the bond, on the warmth he had been casually soaking up into his own body. He sat up a bit straighter, willing as much of it as he could down the bond. Take it. All of it. To keep you warm. He felt the hesitance, the momentary pause on the other end—as if Azriel wasn’t sure about pulling on the strength of those four words. To keep you warm. He had heard them, loud and clear.

Eris choked on a sob, his body wracked with a violent shake. The urge to go to him was so very primal and instinctual, and nearly impossible to fight. Eris gripped the arm of the chair hard enough to gouge into the leather, scarring it permanently.

To keep you warm. Eris heard the words echoing down the bond, felt Azriel gripping on to them like a lifeline—felt him draw on the warm fire Eris sent to him, flowing continuously for him. Always, for him.

Eris began to relax, taking a few deep breaths—and a few long drinks—and he was just easing back into his chair when the smells began to wash through him.

He let his head fall back heavily as the sensation of the most exquisite meal began to wind its way through his senses—well-seasoned vegetables, delectable roasted meats, freshly baked breads… Eris laughed, alone in his chair, at how strongly the phenomenon hit him. How well Azriel captured the simple sensations and pushed them down a bond he very well might not even have.

Eris leaned forward, laughter still a ghost on his lips, as he drank deeply from the bottle again, letting it dangle from his fingers as his head hung down, his arms braced on his knees. The implication was so clear, it wrenched Eris’ heart practically out of his chest as a few errant tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes and fell to the floor: Thank you.

He had nothing to thank Eris for. But he didn’t know that yet. Might never know that.

Eris leaned back in his chair once more, his legs stretched out before him again. The alcohol coursing through him mixed deliciously with the fire in his blood. Kept him warm. His eyes slipped close, and his mind searched—for Azriel.

It was like looking through a dense fog, or frosted glass. He began to understand—the wild ball of white light, so uncontrolled and aimless, the dense and ceaseless fog that refused to clear no matter how hard he looked for Azriel, no matter how hard he tried to blink it away.

The bond hadn’t snapped into place for his mate yet. It was half a bond at this point.

Eris shoved that aside and searched anyway, seeking him in his mind. Even if only to catch a single thought, one chance to hear his voice. He caught a glimmer of amusem*nt, and smiled—imagining him right across from him, his amusem*nt infectious, a raised eyebrow, a playful smirk.

Eris settled back into his chair, perching the bottle of whiskey on his knee, the itchiness of his healing back wholly forgotten. His eyes still closed, his body eased now into Azriel’s sense of peace, his sense of comfort and familiarity. The way he steadily pulled from the warmth Eris sent to him.

f*ck, I could die here, he thought to himself. Sharing your peace, being your warmth—

The contentment stuttered, and the thought resonated through Eris clear as day in Azriel’s voice: What do I have now?

Eris’ smile faltered; this wasn’t what he wanted. Yes, he had wanted— needed— to hear his voice, but not like this.

Almost as if in answer, before Eris had the chance to shove more of that willful warmth down the bond, Azriel pulled greedily on it—pulled with a fierceness that surprised Eris, and he didn’t withdraw from where he was, buried deep within his thoughts, as close as he could get.

He saw the flashes that Azriel pulled along with the warmth, the ones that Eris himself had crafted with his own mind, and his breath caught in his throat. Azriel’s exquisite, scarred hands—blessedly cool to the touch—trailing over Eris’ sweat-slicked skin, the perfect antidote to the fire that raged just beneath the surface. Eris’ body shivered, the ghost of a touch he could practically feel dancing over his bare chest, fingertips tracing his collarbone, lazily running up the length of his neck, glancing off the shell of his pointed ear—his lips parted, his breath coming quicker and shakier—and then those same fingertips plunging into his hair, grasping hungrily, undoing him altogether.

A groan escaped up Eris’ throat as the images continued to assault him through Azriel’s mind, his co*ck growing uncomfortably hard in his pants. He was terrified to move, lest he break this spell that seemed to connect them in this moment—this wild moment he couldn’t even believe was happening.

This was what he was thinking of right now, in this exact moment. What do I have now? That had been his question. Me. You have me, Eris thought desperately, his mind fogged with need and longing. You have all of me, any of me, as much of me as you want—

He sucked in a harsh breath as the image shifted; now it was Azriel’s mouth on him, everywhere and still not enough—Eris wanted more of it. More of him. He drank in Azriel’s kisses greedily—his teeth biting into Eris’ bottom lip, the mix of pain and pleasure—before they were gone, his mouth moving down Eris’ neck, his tongue a sinful sensation even in this realm where none of this was actually happening—and yet all of it felt so real—

I am yours, and you are mine. The whispered words in Azriel’s voice that Eris had imagined in one of his worst moments—Azriel pulled them through himself now willingly, like replaying a memory. Eris’ eyes widened, his soul fracturing apart into a million shards and reshaping into one that fit seamlessly into all the cracks of his soul—of Azriel’s. He thought himself too broken, too monstrous, too dark for such a significant thing.

I am yours, and you are mine. Eris had no idea who was replaying the words now, who was willing them to echo here, in this private space between them, who wanted them to be true more.

You already know the answer. Eris’ attention snagged on this new voice; it was Azriel’s and yet… not. His shadows , Eris realized with a sudden jolt. He had no idea the bond could extend this far, suddenly desperate to hang on to the level—the depth—he had achieved so far.

What answer do you already know, Azriel? Eris felt like he was groping around in the dark blindly, just aimlessly searching for some sort of tether to pull himself closer. Azriel’s thoughts were… so melancholy , Eris realized. He was pensive, and there was something else. An underlying sense of… fear. Yes, there it was. Eris could taste it on his own tongue. Fear of what? What on earth would the shadowsinger have to be afraid of?

But then—just as suddenly as it had all compounded upon itself—the spell broke, and Azriel’s attention was drawn elsewhere.

Eris released a long loaded breath, and took a deep drink from the bottle he clenched in his hand like a lifeline.

He looked down at himself. The armchair with its deep gouges in the shape of his fingertips. The light sheen of sweat that coated his bare tanned chest as it rose and fell with his quick breaths. His half-hardened co*ck straining in his pants, which felt like a f*cking prison at present.

f*ck me , he thought. He’ll be the death of me. He took another drink, rolling the flavor around in his mouth.

He was so busy musing on this drink that his mate preferred so much that he almost missed how Azriel’s attention seemed to almost narrow imperceptibly. As if… as if his focus was trained on something important.

Eris’ brows bunched together as he leaned forward, like he thought it would help him hear better. He laughed at himself, shaking his head.

Rhys, if he suggests—

Azriel’s thought was short and sharp, and Eris wished he had finished it. He could only imagine that Rhysand—self-important prick that he was—had probably cut him off before Azriel had gotten the chance. Eris bit down on his frustration. But if he were thinking it, why did it seem like he had been speaking to his—

Eris has to know, Rhys. Eris’ heart all but stopped beating at the mention of his name. If he knows, then Beron must know.

Eris didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. He knew exactly what they were discussing, and the realization crashed over him, dread pooling in his stomach like acid.

That was why his brothers’ stories seemed too well-crafted, seemed rehearsed—they had been planted. By the High Lord of Night—a daemati. Eris cursed himself for being such a fool for not seeing it before.

Azriel’s words finally sunk into him, the tone of distrust they were spoken with. Eris’ entire body felt as if it had been pulled apart, piece by piece, and laid out for the shadowsinger to inspect—to decide if he was worthy or not.

His next thought delivered Eris’ judgment—the one he supposed he deserved all along.

f*cking Eris. He spat the words with such disgust, such revulsion. Eris’ throat tightened painfully, and he considered withdrawing from Azriel’s thoughts altogether, considered abandoning this foolish quest for redemption in the eyes of the male the Mother chose, for some reason, as his equal in this life.

No. No. He had made a promise. To be worthy of his throne, to be worthy of his mate. He knew neither would be an easy task, nor would they be painless. He had endured worse. He had endured Beron. Eris ground his teeth.

Brilliant, Azriel’s thoughts floated through Eris’ mind once more, with a hint of sarcasm. Maybe I can just dispose of him altogether.

Eris rolled his eyes. No need to wonder who he meant with that comment. But Eris stayed rooted there, as deep as he could go, buried in Azriel’s mind as he took another long drink from the bottle in his hands and slid the dwindling remains onto the table near his chair, settling back and letting his eyes fall closed once more—resuming his silent watch over the mate who loathed him.

Azriel’s focus seemed to tighten once more, his dread increasing just slightly. Eris’ attention to him narrowed—considering.

Eris anticipated the moments of self-doubt, the sinking sensation of cold—these seemed to be so familiar to Azriel that they were comfortable to him. Almost like they were second nature. He turned to them without even realizing he did it. Eris willed all the warmth he could draw into him down the bond, allowing Azriel to pull as much of it as he needed to chase away the cold, and yet…

This cold was different. Flashes of images came with it—memories. A small winged child, thin and freezing, in the darkest, dankest, most miserable dungeon cell Eris could possibly imagine—

Rage ripped through him. White hot roiling rage that rebounded and recoiled and he had to work quickly to tamp down on it as he realized he was deep inside of Azriel’s mind. For those were whose eyes he was seeing through: Azriel’s. The small Illyrian child—Azriel. Locked in a dungeon cell as a child . No windows. Freezing.

Eris shook his head. No. You don’t belong there. Not anymore. He pushed every ounce of warmth and light he had to give down the bond. To keep you warm. Azriel didn’t hesitate. He pulled and pulled and pulled, and Eris let him—he’d let him take every bit until it snuffed him out completely, if that was what it took.

Forgive me. Redeem me. Love me. Free me. I’m not worthy of any of it but I want all of it. From you.

Eris gasped, suddenly unable to draw up his own breath. He fisted his hand into his own hair. How had he gotten that? That had been Eris’ own private thought , in one of his worst moments of pain. How—

His eyes flew open. The shadow that twined around his wrist, as if pulling his hand away… his answer. He remembered—he swallowed hard— that day. As that last lashing had fallen, the lone shadow that had carried away one singular tear.

“You took it to him?” Eris asked. His voice seemed too loud; he hadn’t spoken in what felt like hours. He didn’t know why he bothered to now. He didn’t speak the same language as the shadows, not like Azriel did. “Did he… did he send you?” Eris had to choke out the words.

But just as he realized the shadow had no way of answering him, an echo down the bond—muffled, muted, as if from far away, but Eris could still make out Azriel’s voice: You are worthy. Of all of it.

Eris hung his head. He felt… devastated. Unsure of whether he was thankful or outraged at what the Mother had chosen to bestow upon him. Whether he thought it a gift or a curse. Worthy. He would never have said it if he knew who was on the other end, who he spoke to, who he drew his warmth from, Eris thought with a stab of shame. It didn’t count. Not this way.

No, Eris had to truly earn it. Face to face. With all the cards on the table. He had a few ideas on how he’d do it, he just had to finesse the execution—

Last time you ‘met’ with Keir, he walked away with a shattered arm. Entertaining as it was, I doubt he’ll be in a particularly forgiving mood. Azriel’s thought caught Eris’ attention, and he sat up a bit straighter, wincing as a bolt of pain shot down his back. He felt the familiar brush of what he had come to know as Azriel’s shadows against the sensitive healing skin there, and a half smile ghosted his lips. Azriel’s shadows. Sent here. For me. He shook his head.

Keir. The implication of Azriel’s thought sunk in at last; they meant to seek out help from Morrigan’s father, from his infamous Darkbringer legion. Which meant visiting the Hewn City, a place where the shadowsinger was nearly as infamous as the Darkbringers were, both for his ability to extract information and for his ability to exact pain.

Understanding dawned on Eris. This explained his earlier sinking into self-doubt, as well as the cool mask of indifference that Eris could feel him sliding over himself now. He was assuming a role—one that had come to be expected of him by his Court.

Eris wanted to scream. Does nobody in your so-called ‘family’ even f*cking know you? It didn’t seem that they did; it seemed that all of them—most especially Rhysand, the self-serving asshole—was content to let Azriel continue to pay through the nose with his own sanity and happiness and self-worth in order to keep that blasted Court of theirs running smoothly.

This is not who you really are, Eris tried telling him down the bond, unsure if he could really understand him or not. The real you is underneath it all, and I see it. He felt Azriel pull his warmth from him, and Eris let him have it—always, for him.

He felt Azriel settle into an odd sluggish sense of hazy quiet peacefulness, and just as Eris was puzzling over what it was, his eyes fell on the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the small table next to his chair in front of the fire. Drunk—he was slightly drunk. Eris laughed, leaning forward just enough to catch the bottle in his hand. He hoisted it in the air—a toast—and took a swig.

At this point, I don’t think you could shock me, so shoot for the stars, brother. Azriel’s thought reverberated through Eris’ mind, clearing away some of the fog from the alcohol almost immediately. He leaned forward, bracing—listening.

A pause before the next thought—the next piece of the conversation that Eris could only hear half of—came rippling down the bond. Tell me you’re joking. Eris’ attention immediately tightened. What insane idea had Rhysand concocted now? What grand plan of needless danger had he devised for his spymaster this time? Eris had to suppress his snarl.

Yeah, he wants an alliance with the Autumn Court, but Rhys—

Eris seethed, unable to suppress the snarl now. Could this arrogant prick not let him finish one single f*cking thought? Was he that self-important—

Eris blinked. An alliance with the Autumn Court. They meant Keir, they had to. Eris pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration; the concentration was killing him.

f*cking Eris. You know his asking price is going to be something unpalatable, Rhys.

Eris rolled his eyes again, the frustration increasing. One of these days, he swore, he was going to make sure Azriel was at least able to say his name without the word “f*cking” before it, as charming as the extended moniker was—

What about Mor. Have you even thought about the fractures you will inflict upon our family just by doing this?

Eris blinked at that. They still didn’t know. Didn’t know the full extent of what had happened that day, still only knew the version of the story that made him the villain.

And of course Rhysand was willing to do whatever it took to win, even if it meant trampling his own so-called ‘family’ to get there. How is he the hero and I’m the villain? he thought incredulously to himself, not for the first time.

… is the victory worth the price, Rhys?

Eris couldn’t help the shiver that overtook his body. The price had better not include his mate’s life, or Eris would hunt down the High Lord of Night himself, and carve out his black heart with his own two fire-kissed hands just to remind the bastard that he never deserved someone as pure and good as the shadowsinger.

So, to be clear, you want me to find out if Eris knows about Feyre’s powers, find out if he’s told Beron about Feyre’s powers, find out what Eris’ asking price is in exchange for an alliance with Keir in order to persuade Keir to pledge us the Darkbringers, all while also keeping an eye on the initial reactions to the invitations going out to the High Lord’s meeting and gauging potential allies. Oh, and also, the meeting in the Hewn City is in two f*cking days. That about sum it up, brother?

Eris sat stunned in silence. What the f*ck? There was almost too much for Eris to pull apart in that thought, but… Eris’ heart began to race.

He’d be coming here. Azriel would be coming here. He would have to. For the information he sought—on whether he knew about Feyre’s powers (he did) and whether he had told his father about them (he hadn’t)—he might send his minions, the darkness, but this business where Rhysand wanted to use Eris like a pawn in some utterly moronic and predictable power grab to sway Keir to pledge his Darkbringer legion to their side…

He’ll have to seek me out. Face to face. To discuss it. Eris didn’t know if it thrilled him or terrified him. The male did still call him ‘f*cking Eris’, after all…

And then there was this last bit, about a meeting Rhysand wanted to call—a meeting of the seven High Lords of Prythian, by the sounds of it. Brilliant game was Eris’ first reaction. Completely brilliant. He couldn’t recall the last time it had been done, if ever. All that power in one room, the most powerful minds in their lands…

It’ll be a f*cking riot, if everyone can’t keep their heads on their shoulders and their co*cks in their pants, he thought amusedly. The sheer number of godsdamn scandals amongst High Lords—

Eris sighed, taking another drink from the woefully dwindling bottle. Too much. It’s too much, he thought of the weight of all that Rhysand was putting on his spymaster’s shoulders. Azriel was cunning and brilliant, of course; more than capable, and yet… Eris shook his head. He wished he didn’t have to bear so much weight to begin with. Especially not now that he was so deep in his mind, could feel all the places that weight made him buckle and bow.

Another tug on the bond, needy and insistent—Azriel, greedily soaking up Eris’ warmth like a cat stretching out in the sunlight. Eris smiled lazily, letting him take and take, only—

He inhaled a sharp, shaky breath, the images Azriel pulled with the heat assaulting his addled, drunken senses. Similar to the ones from before, and yet wholly different. Azriel’s hands on Eris’ body this time were quicker, more persistent. Hungrier. They still stroked so heartbreakingly lovingly over his scars and imperfections, yes, but as one slid into Eris’ sweat-damp hair and the other trailed down and down until his cool fingers were wrapped around the hard length of his co*ck, Eris couldn’t help the unrestrained moan that tore up his throat.

“f*ck,” he groaned, his hips bucking of their own accord as the images continued their dilluge on his senses, his co*ck unbearably hard and begging for release. Eris hastily and sloppily undid the buttons and stays of his pants, his length finally springing free. He fisted himself and stroked once, twice, his lips falling open as his breaths came fast and ragged, the images continuing to be dragged straight from him down the bond to Azriel, whose mind he was currently buried in—whose body he wished he was currently buried in. Yes, he thought. Yes, think of this—not wars, not cold dungeons, this. Just let me burn for you. Undo me, please, I am begging you.

Eris’ hand sliding through the sinfully silky blue-black strands of Azriel’s hair, fisting them, yanking his head to side as he grazed his teeth over that tender pulse point in his throat—gods, his heart rate was wild , only serving to send Eris spiraling further into madness. Oh, the filthy things he would whisper into his ear. One hand teasingly brushing his thumb along the underside of Azriel’s shaft—already hard and throbbing for him—before gripping and stroking him in earnest. Eris stroked himself harder, faster, his breath catching in his throat, his own pleasure building so rapidly he thought he’d come completely undone too quickly and it would all end too soon. He never wanted this to end.

It was Azriel’s absolutely untamed moan that snapped his control, watching Azriel’s head falling back and his mouth hanging open as his sweat-slick tattooed body writhed and waves of pleasure began to slam into him. But Eris wrapped his hand around the back of his neck, bringing Azriel’s gaze back to his own before the crest of Azriel’s pleasure had the chance to hit. Eyes on me. I want to watch you. And holy f*cking gods, was his mate a sight when he came.

Eris’ body seized up completely as release slammed into him harder than the mountain he’d recently had dropped on him as he stared into Azriel’s hazel eyes on that imaginary plane of existence and watched him come apart in Eris’ hands—as Eris got to be the one to drink in his pleasure like a thirsty man in a desert, and he drank down every last f*cking drop . A strangled, “ Azriel!” escaped up his throat with his own org*sm as his breath was knocked from his chest, which was now dotted with the warm and real evidence of his activities.

Never. I’ve never done that. It took Eris longer than a few shaky breaths to figure out what Azriel’s thought meant, but then it struck him: he’d never looked someone in the eye as he came. Eris could feel what Azriel felt about it: too personal. Too intimate. Too close.

Eris couldn’t disagree more. He wanted to look him in the eye every single time as he brought him to that edge and tumbled over it with him. He looked entirely too exquisite not to watch him every single damn time.

Eris stared dumbly into the fire for a few moments, the logs cracking and popping, then glanced down at himself. He felt… sated and yet not. He undeniably wanted more. He wanted all of him. Flashes of fantasy would never be enough. Eris waved a hand, his chest and abdomen suddenly clean of his own spilled seed. He was working—haphazardly—on tucking himself back into his pants when an unfamiliar scent drifted to him down the bond. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but gods , was it bewitching.

Desire pounded through his veins, fresh and new, and he felt himself go rigid. Arousal—it was Azriel’s arousal. His mate’s arousal. That was this mouth-watering scent, sweeter and headier than he’d ever smelled in his entire existence—

It was gone, as quickly as it had come—as quickly as Eris felt he had come. He sat back in with a sigh. What the f*ck is wrong with me? he thought to himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair and taking a drink from the nearly empty bottle. He was a wreck over this male, and there was no controlling it.

He would be coming to Autumn soon, though. Seeking him out, for this fool's bargain of Rhysand’s with Keir. Eris drained the last of the whiskey, dropping the empty bottle with a thunk on the table next him. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth, the last bit of it for the night, and pushed the taste of it down the bond as he rose from his chair and shuffled to his bed, pulling his pants off and leaving them in a heap on the floor.

As Eris collapsed and tangled himself in his sheets, even exhausted as he was, sleep was a struggle that night. His fingers were haunted by the silky smooth feel of Azriel’s luscious hair; his mouth, haunted by the rapture of Azriel’s plundering kisses, both gentle and soft and also hungry and hard; his ears, haunted by those perfect moans of pleasure that Eris could drink down like wine, those gasps as his pleasure spiraled higher and higher, the way he cried out wildly as he came undone completely.

No, sleep was a struggle that night. And it wasn’t until he had found furious release twice more that he even fell asleep at all.

This bond would, indeed, be the ruin of him.

Chapter 5: Five

Chapter Text

It was a good thing Azriel had risen early—though he had expected at least some time to himself before being hauled out of his apartment earlier than he would have preferred by Rhys. Again.

Honestly, his brother was much less of a busybody before he was a happily mated male.

Azriel awoke with a spectacular headache that he supposed had very much to do with the consumption of far too much wine at dinner the previous night. His dreams had been full of blurred, naked, writhing bodies and roiling, lustful, simmering gazes.

And promises. I am yours, and you are mine.

He groaned. It would be a long day, indeed.

He had planned to do the requested reconnaissance in the Autumn Court for at least a few hours, then meet his High Lady for her flying lesson before lunch. After his meeting with Lucien, he would be free to resume his snooping in the Autumn Court for the rest of the day. He had too much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it.

Finding Eris would be easy, he knew. Convincing him to join them in the Hewn City—and convincing himself not to rip the male’s throat out once he inevitably became unbearably insufferable at being asked for a favor from the Night Court— that would be Azriel’s real challenge.

f*cking Eris, he thought for the millionth time, agitatedly running a siphon-topped hand through his disheveled hair as he strapped Truth-Teller to his side.

Still not thrilled with my idea, I take it? Rhys’ voice echoed through Azriel’s mind, and Azriel did his best not to be annoyed at his lack of privacy.

I’ll do my very best to drop the first half of his nickname when I meet with him shortly, brother, Azriel replied with a hint of sarcasm.

Slight change of plans, Az. I need you to pick up Amren and drop her off at the House of Wind for Nesta. Start Feyre’s lesson early, if you don’t mind. A pause. Azriel didn’t reply. Please, Azriel.

I thought the Autumn Court business was of the highest priority, Rhys.

It is. You can go after your meeting with Lucien this afternoon. There will still be plenty of time. The pause this time was too long. Too telling. Azriel.

Rhysand. Azriel put more force than he intended into the word, but he backed down almost immediately. Fine.

Az—

I said fine. I’ll go. And with that, he slammed his mental shields into place as tightly as he could, wrapped the shadows around himself tightly, and stepped through them to Amren’s loft.

Azriel didn’t know why he was cross with his brother. He couldn’t explain the insistence he felt to get to his work in the Autumn Court; he only knew it was important that it be seen to immediately.

Maybe he had been out of line. The urgency he felt at getting to work in Autumn was no excuse to be short and imprudent with his High Lord.

Azriel sighed, squashing the pull he felt toward the work, and stepped through the darkness and into the light of Amren’s loft.

Inside, he found her comically in much the same position he had when he’d come here the last time: hunched over in the middle of the floor, surrounded by books. She had continued to work on translating the Book of Breathings in every moment of her spare time, that much was clear.

At least someone gets to do what they’re supposed to do without being bothered, he thought bitterly for only a heartbeat. He walked towards her, tucking his wings in tight so as not to jostle anything.

She didn’t so much as flinch at his arrival. Quite the opposite, in fact; she’d been expecting him. She didn’t so much as blink, nor did she look up as her first words of the day to him hit him like a fist in the gut. “Those fools must truly be so enamored with each other and themselves to have not sniffed you out yet, boy.”

Azriel nearly missed a step as his heart stuttered, just for a moment. But he kept his voice smooth and his face neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Amren looked up then, her eyes burning holes in him where he stood. “Do you say that for my benefit, or for your own?” She tilted her head to one side, as if assessing him. “And a mental fortress to rival the wall, honestly , shadowsinger—”

She paused, her mouth hanging open. Azriel had never seen her at a loss for words , not in his entire life. He hesitated where he stood.

“You haven’t spoken to him yet.” Her words weren’t harsh or accusatory; simply a fact stated, in that way that only Amren dared to state them. Nevertheless, Azriel’s face hardened, and he met her eyes with nothing but ice in his own, a cold stare that said very plainly: this is none of your business.

Amren only half-smiled in return.

Azriel took the few resolute steps to reach her and extended his hand. “I came to escort you to the House so you may begin your lessons with Nesta. If you’re ready…” She rose and met his eyes, but before she had the chance, he continued. “And I’d appreciate it if we never spoke of this again.”

“I can help you—”

“ How? ” Azriel snapped, the tension and lack of sleep a tinderbox in his chest that finally felt ready to explode, his eyes wild and arms and wings splayed out. “ How can you help me? And do not suggest talking to him about this, because I am not— ”

“Why?” Her question brought him up short. Shadows coiled around his wrists, his shoulders, the tips of his wings—stroking, whispering, but… not echoing her sentiment. They wait, his shadows whispered instead. They wait, they wait, they wait for us.

“I— I don’t know,” he whispered in answer to her question. Lie, lie, lie, his shadows whispered in his ears. He didn’t need the reminder—he knew why he didn’t want to speak to his brother about this. But he didn’t want to voice it out loud, least of all to Rhys’ second. “I don’t—” Azriel shook his head, staring at the floor. “I don’t even know where they are, Amren. Who they are. We’re on the brink of a war that may very well tear Prythian to pieces.” He ran his hands through his hair, the rest of his statement not needing to be said: They could die. He could die. Both of them could die.

“You never said the word,” she replied, her voice even and her eyes narrowed.

“What?” Azriel’s voice was confused, but he knew very well what she meant.

“You never said the word. You—” She tilted her head again. “You haven’t even thought it, have you?”

Azriel thrust out his hand to her once more, his face hardening once more and his tone going cold. “I came to escort you to the House, per Rhys’ request,” he ground out through gritted teeth, feeling like an idiot for ever having opened his mouth in the first place. “If you’re ready—”

“You can say it, Azriel. They are your ma—”

Azriel lunged, wrapping his hand around her wrist with the shadows already half around himself, and plunging them into darkness before the rest of the word could leave her mouth.

Not today , he thought, as they soared through the darkness of the space between worlds. He couldn’t bear to hear that f*cking word today.

He dropped off Amren without so much as a word or a second glance before wrapping the darkness around himself and re-emerging in the courtyard where Cassian and Feyre were training.

He was surprised to find Nesta there as well, though he didn’t let it show as the shadows fell away from him, instead saying to Feyre, “I need to start our lesson early.”

They wait for us, his shadows whispered to him again, bunching around his shoulders. Azriel rolled them away. Not now, he said back. They dissipated, just a bit.

“Right,” Feyre said, obviously seeing through his lie. “No problem at all.”

Cassian scowled at both of them, which Azriel dutifully ignored as Feyre walked toward him, unwrapping her hands as she did. Her face went vacant for a moment, then a flush crept across her cheeks; a conversation between mates, Azriel realized, down a mating bond.

The word ripped through the hollow in his chest, painful and unexpected. His shadows swarmed about his wings, resuming their fevered whispering, They wait, they wait, they wait for us—

Azriel spread his wings, flinging the shadows away. “The pine forest will be good—the one by the lake,” he said to his High Lady, opening his arms for her.

“Why?”

“Because water is better to fall into than hard rock,” Cassian replied for him, crossing his arms over his chest.

Feyre stilled as Azriel scooped her body into his arms and flapped his wings once, kicking up the courtyard dirt.

Cassian narrowed his gaze, and Feyre threw him a cursory, “Good luck.” Azriel chose that moment to launch into the sky, Feyre’s amusem*nt rolling over him and chasing away his own tension from earlier.

It was made all the more sweeter as they both caught the unmistakable sound of Cassian’s barked curse, though neither of them said a word.

The flight to the lake was, blessedly, an easy silence—one Azriel took the opportunity to work out his own muddled mind and chaotic mess of thoughts.

Amren was—as much as he loathed to admit it—right. The mental shields Azriel spent his time keeping in place were exhausting him. Combined with the lack of sleep, thanks to the absolute deluge of images and thoughts and feelings and sensations constantly barreling into him at all hours of the day and night, he felt like a bowstring strung too tight—ready to snap at even the slightest bit of pressure.

And this war—planning this war, executing this war—would be nothing but pressure. He couldn’t weather this alone; he needed help.

Two days, he decided. After the meeting in the Hewn City, he would confide in his brother.

He landed at the shore of the lake, surrounded by pine trees and granite, the scenery pristine and peaceful. “I dropped Amren off at the House on my way in,” he told Feyre as his feet touched the ground. “I told her to get to the training ring immediately.” He couldn’t help the half smile. “After a few minutes, that is.”

Feyre snorted, stretching her arms out. “Poor Cassian.”

Azriel huffed. “Indeed.” Poor Cassian, my ass.

Feyre shifted on her feet, the gray rocks beneath her boots shifting with her, and Azriel waited for her to summon her wings. “So…” she said.

“In order to fly,” he responded drily, “you’ll need wings.”

Her face flushed in momentary embarrassment. She rolled her wrists, the joints cracking. “It’s been a while since I summoned them,” she said.

Azriel’s steadfast gaze did not leave her, studying her posture, her face. “Do you need me to turn around?” he asked, one dark eyebrow raised.

Feyre winced. “No. But… it might take me a few tries.”

“We started our lesson early,” he responded. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

We’re running out of time, his shadows whispered. They wait for us. For you. Azriel’s stomach clenched.

“I appreciate you making the effort to pretend that it wasn’t because I was desperate to avoid Cassian and Nesta’s early-morning bickering,” Feyre said.

“I’d never let my High Lady suffer through that,” Azriel responded, his face lacking the amusem*nt he meant to inflect. His thoughts were still snagged on what his shadows had whispered to him. We’re running out of time.

“Are you… ready to meet with Lucien this afternoon?” Feyre asked, rubbing at a spot on her shoulder.

Azriel angled his head just a bit. “ Should I be preparing for it?”

“No, I just…” Feyre shrugged. “When do you leave to gather information on the High Lords?”

Right. Rhys hadn’t told her that he had asked Azriel to have his shadows do that. That he had called it grunt work. That Azriel would, instead, be in the Autumn Court, quite possibly committing some of the worst cardinal sins within their own Inner Circle that he possibly could and blowing it to all hell in order to win.

“After I talk to him,” Azriel answered, the lie slipping easily from his tongue. He knew she was merely buying time—and he waited for her to summon her wings.

Feyre blew out a breath. “Right. Here we go.”

Is the victory worth the price?

To his brother? To his High Lord? The answer was yes. He had paused before he said it, but he had still said it. Would Azriel have said the same?

Not every price is paid with gold or steel, his shadows whispered to him. Some are paid with the very fire of the soul, and you do not realize how high they were until everything is burned to ash. A pause, as they hovered over the empty hollow of his chest. And you still would have paid it.

Azriel reigned in his shock—he had rarely been so unsettled in his very long life. But something in the way it was worded caught his attention, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. His brows bunched together. Some are paid with the very fire of the soul… everything is burned to ash…

Feyre’s wings appeared, and Azriel’s attention went to them instead. “The frame needs to be a bit thicker,” he observed as her shape-shifting magic created the Illyrian wings. “Strengthen the muscles leading to it.”

She followed his lead, guiding her magic as he told her what to do—where to add and where to take away, where to smooth and where to toughen up.

By the time Azriel felt she had it just right, sweat slid down her back and her lungs were gasping for breath. “Good,” he said, then cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I know you’re not Illyrian, but… amongst their kind, it is considered… inappropriate to touch someone’s wings without permission. Especially females.”

He realized he had said it just as her eyes minutely narrowed, zeroing in on the word. Their kind. Azriel let it linger; he had long since stopped considering himself a part of Illyria. Never Illyrian, never High Fae. Barely a part of the Night Court, merely on the outskirts, always in the shadows.

I do not belong to anyone, he thought.

Not true. You belong to me. The responding thought slammed into him so hard, it was an effort to reign in the gasp—almost a sob—that nearly ripped up his throat. His chest wanted to splinter into pieces.

“Oh—oh. Go ahead,” Feyre said, and it took Azriel a moment to realize she was responding to his request to touch her wings—to inspect them.

“I need to ascertain if they feel right,” Azriel explained, more to buy himself time to right his own breathing than anything else.

“Right,” she said, turning her back to him. He was thankful for it; she didn’t see the emotion welling in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched as his throat tightened. You belong to me. He ran his hands lightly over the wings, grasping certain areas to get a feel for the muscles beneath certain areas, the supporting structure beneath others. You belong to me. The words haunted him, dancing through his veins like the sweetest wine until he felt drunk and dizzy on them. You belong to me.

He slid on the mask of collectness, stepping back around to face Feyre. “It’s—amazing,” he murmured. “They’re the same as mine.”

“I think the magic did most of the work,” she replied almost sheepishly.

But Azriel shook his head. “You’re an artist—it was your attention to detail.”

Feyre blushed at the compliment, bracing her hands on her hips. “Well? Do we jump into the skies?”

And explain to Rhys why his High Lady is black and blue after only one lesson? he thought, amused.

“First lesson: don’t let them drag on the ground,” Azriel replied instead.

Feyre blinked, as if realizing that her wings were, indeed, resting on the ground. “Why?”

“Illyrians think it’s lazy—a sign of weakness,” Azriel replied. “And from a practical standpoint, the ground is full of things that could hurt your wings. Splinters, shards of rock… They could not only get stuck and lead to infection, but also impact the way the wing catches the wind. So keep them off the ground.”

Feyre dutifully lifted her right wing up off the ground; the left, however, remained drooping on the rocks.

“You need to strengthen your back muscles,” Azriel pointed out. “And your thighs. And your arms. And core.”

“So everything, then.”

Azriel replied with a small smile of amusem*nt, “Why do you think Illyrians are so fit?”

“Why did no one warn me about this co*cky side of yours?”

Azriel couldn’t help it as his smile grew. Oh, you have no idea. “Both wings up,” he said instead in a commanding tone.

She tried again, wincing and fighting, but still failed to get the right wing raised off the ground.

“Try spreading them, then tucking in, if you can’t lift it up like that,” Azriel supplied.

She followed his guidance, hissing in pain as she spread both wings, bracing her feet apart for balance as the wind ripping across the lake tugged at her.

“Now fold inward,” Azriel said.

Feyre snapped her wings closed, throwing herself off balance and tumbling forward.

Azriel caught her before she fell to the stones, gripping her beneath her shoulders and hauling her to her feet. “Building your core muscles will also help with the balance.”

“So, back to Cassian, then,” she said, almost dejected.

He nodded. “Tomorrow. Today, focus on lifting and folding, spreading and lifting.” Azriel spread his own wings, reveling in the wind that kissed them as he did. “Like this.” He demonstrated the movement slowly, flaring his wings wide, tucking them in, flaring them again, angling, tucking them, over and over.

Feyre sighed, but dutifully followed his movements, her face set in concentration as she did so for the rest of their lesson, leaving Azriel to his admittedly messy thoughts. You belong to me.

Give me a name, he begged his shadows, pleading. Please. A name, a place to start, anything. Give me anything.

You must be ready, they whispered.

Azriel was befuddled at that. Ready? How could one possibly be ready ?

I’m ready, he replied brashly. I’m ready. Give me a name. Now.

Say the word, they responded. Azriel’s mind stilled, every thought eddying out of it. He didn’t need to ask what word they meant—he already knew.

He didn’t reply. Maybe he wasn’t ready after all.

Azriel finished his notes on his meeting with Lucien—his writing an untidy, frustrated scrawl—and sent the pages into the space between worlds, guiding them to Rhys. He let down a layer of his mental shields, expecting a response from his brother, and waited.

This is good, Az. Rhys’ voice finally came through, colored with the barest hint of surprise at Azriel’s thoroughness. He gave you more than I expected. Especially with regard to Tamlin.

I wasn’t planning on going easy on him, Azriel responded. But he seemed to want to be… helpful.

I can tell. A pause. How are things at the House?

Azriel clenched his jaw, tightening a fist. He was sitting at the desk in the room he usually used when he stayed at the House of Wind, the blessed silence and solitude a welcome relief.

Azriel?

Feyre’s lesson went great this morning. I gave her a salve for the muscle soreness. It should help.

That’s not what I asked. A pointed silence. Why don’t you stop by before leaving for Autumn?

Azriel was already moving, shoving away from the desk and aiming for the door. He passed no one on his way up the stairs, winding his way through the House.

No time. You need this done before we head to the Court of Nightmares, yes?

I’m aware of the time constraints, but Az—

He was already emerging outside, his shadows chased away in the sunlight beaming down on the courtyard. I’ll be back, brother.

Azriel—

But Azriel had already slammed his mental shields back into place and launched himself into the sky, waiting for the precise moment he was beyond the House’s wards and pulling what shadows he could around himself.

“Who the hell does he think he is ?” Beron seethed, the paper clenched in his fist so hard, Eris was surprised it hadn’t been ground to dust by now.

A meeting of the High Lords of Prythian. It was a brilliant move, he had to admit, even when he already knew it was coming. He wondered who had come up with this strategy. No doubt it had been crafted as part of a group effort; the benefit of having trust in your Court was that you had multiple minds working toward the same goal, and this was the result. Beron would never have that.

Eris made a mental note of it. It was something he added to the ever-growing list of things he would change once he took the throne.

His morning had been much of this— stroking the ego of his father after he received the invitation to this meeting of the High Lords of Prythian. His reaction had been expected, Eris supposed. Beron thought himself above such things. He was the oldest, but far from the strongest, despite what he thought of himself.

His coddling of Beron’s over-inflated sense of self-importance made it difficult to tap into his bond with Azriel— his morning, it seemed, hadn’t been much better from what Eris could gather. While Eris had dealt with his own egocentric High Lord, Azriel had done much the same.

Eris suppressed his simmering rage at the High Lord of Night—how he used his spymaster, how little true regard he seemed to have for a male he had the audacity to call ‘brother’. The interrupted thoughts, the barked commands, the impossible tasks Rhysand expected of him…

Eris clenched his balled up fists behind him, doing his best to relax his shoulders.

And that feeling that had overridden Azriel so strongly earlier. Eris had heard it—loud and clear—down the bond: I do not belong to anyone.

Eris hadn't even thought for a moment before flinging his response without a moment of hesitation back to him: Not true. You belong to me.

He hadn’t expected Azriel to hear it—not without a bond snapped into place. But he had. He’d heard it. And it had rocked him to his core—made his thoughts truly such a mess that even Eris had trouble following them.

Awareness like lightning shot down his spine, straightening it instantly. Every hair on his body rose, goosebumps breaking out across his skin. Eris shifted uncomfortably on his feet where he stood dutifully in front of his father, hands clasped behind his back, and it took everything he had not to give away his discomfort as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“As if he’s some sort of King ,” Beron spat, still raging at Rhysand’s invitation. “As if he’s some sort of God . Arrogant asshole—”

He continued his tirade as Eris shifted once more, this time enough to afford him a glance—just a peek—over each shoulder. It felt exactly like Azriel’s shadow had, only… more. Much more. He felt eyes on him—

He stifled the gasp that nearly escaped him, willing his face to maintain neutrality. He was here. In the Autumn Court. Azriel. He felt his nearness like a brand on his skin, and in this room… Eris shifted again, feigning boredom at his father’s endless string of profanities as he searched— There. Yes, he was using the shadows in the room to spy , exactly as Rhysand had instructed—exactly as he’d promised his High Lord he would.

Beron flung the wrinkled, heavy parchment at Eris’ feet. “The audacity of him,” he snarled

Eris slid the mask of the Heir of the Autumn Court on effortlessly. He would need to play the game carefully—not arousing suspicion from either his father, nor from Azriel, whom he knew was watching.

“It’s an empty gesture.” He waved a lazy hand toward the paper at his feet. “They’re floundering. They need an army for a war they started without the means to fight.” He shrugged. “But at the same time… What harm is there in simply going? Going does nothing. Going is not making promises, or swearing alliances or allegiances.” He paced casually, as if he were thinking it over. Beron’s beady, wrathful eyes followed his movements carefully.

They weren’t the eyes he felt on every pore, every inch, every nerve that felt raw and exposed with each step he took—laid bare, knowing that his mate watched him.

“I have no wish to aid in the losing side, boy,” Beron said with a bite. His voice had at least come down a bit.

“Nor do I, father,” Eris replied, keeping his own tone steady. “However, our options are limited at this point. Need I remind you that, vast as the Autumn Court forces are, we cannot stand against all of Prythian.” Eris winced, waiting for the blow to fall as his back faced his father.

The moment dragged on, but then… “Send word the Autumn Court will be in attendance. If for no other reason than I need to lay eyes on this Archeron girl myself .” He huffed; Eris did his best to withhold the shock from his face. “I need to see what is quite so special about a simple girl that foiled my best sentries and my godsdamned heir for Cauldron’s sake. It seems I must do everything myself these days…”

He sneered at Eris, and Eris withstood the distaste. It was better than lashings, he supposed.

“If that’s everything, then…” Eris trailed off; he didn’t dare leave before being dismissed.

Beron narrowed his eyes at his son. “Something is… different with you.”

Eris’ blood chilled, his body tensing. He felt the eyes on him from the shadows sharpen, suddenly more interested, but he schooled his face into the lazy disinterest he had worn for centuries, and forced his voice into a lazy drawl. “And what could possibly be different, father? The same incompetent brothers, the same arrogant Courts who will fall to their own hubris, the same food, the same wine, the same vacant expression on mother’s face, the same border patrols…” He gestured toward the door. “Which I should get back to, with your permission.” He added a lazy, self-satisfied grin for good measure.

Beron peered at him curiously, considering. But waved a hand, dismissing him.

Eris waited until he was well out of the room before releasing the tense breath he had held for what felt like a lifetime , and winnowed to the border to find Azriel—to find his mate.

Azriel lounged on the low branch of a massive oak tree, one leg hanging down while the other was propped up, his wings drooping, twining shadows between his fingers while he waited.

The other Courts? Azriel asked them.

The invitation was well-received in the Court of Day, his shadows whispered back. Winter is hesitant. As is Summer.

And Spring? Azriel asked, already knowing the answer.

No word from the High Lord of Spring. A pause. Rumors.

Azriel sighed. Find me more. Shadows skittered away—off to do his bidding.

Azriel leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The cold sense of solitude began to creep in again—it usually did when he was doing this type of work, when he wore this mask. As if… as if he had no true home.

You belong to me. The responding kindling of warmth spread through him in earnest, flaring in every corner of his soul. His shadows danced over him, quicker now.

They come, they come now, they come, they whispered to him quickly—excitedly.

Azriel opened his eyes just as four Autumn Court sentries winnowed into the clearing to his right—along with Eris.

f*cking Eris, Azriel thought to himself, rolling his eyes. But the raging fire that now burned in his soul was a maelstrom of heat that nearly made him gasp with the sheer magnitude of it.

You belong to me you belong to me you belong to me—

“Well it’s about time,” Azriel said, inspecting the siphon on his left hand, his voice bored. He tried not to let the radiating warmth temper the irritation coursing through him. No, he had had a sh*t morning, a sh*t day, and was now spoiling for a good verbal sparring match, and if nothing else, the asshole in front of him could, at the very least , be counted on for that.

“If I had come to do anything other than talk, you’d be in trouble, Eris,” Azriel continued, his mouth curling up on one side. At least I didn’t call him ‘f*cking Eris’. I’d call that personal growth. He slid off the branch, landing silently on the loamy ground. “It took you nearly an hour to find me. Might be time to retrain those sentries of yours,” he added with a smirk.

Eris didn’t immediately respond, instead studying Azriel with an… odd sort of intensity. It lasted for less than the span of a breath before that annoyingly smug smile slid into place and he drawled, “Perhaps I had more important things to tend to this afternoon, shadowsinger, and put you precisely where you belong on my list of priorities, yes?” The words jarred Azriel. Precisely where you belong. You belong to me. He shrugged it off as mere coincidence, the similarity of the words.

“I can’t be expected to come running every time one of you…” Eris gestured toward Azriel, toward his wings. “ Illyrian brutes find yourselves lost and wind up in Autumn Court territory, now can I?”

Azriel bristled. f*ck, he forgot how much he hated this asshole. The arrogance, the co*ckiness, the self-importance… Yes, the similarity was definitely coincidence. No way this prick could be anything other than exactly that: a prick of massive proportions.

Look look look look, his shadows were frantic, shivering over him and whispering, a cadence of the same word.

Eris sighed dramatically, a bored expression on his face. “I suppose you came here for a reason?”

Azriel tilted his head, a feline expression of violence on his face. “Perhaps I came here to kill you.” His siphons glowed a bright blue, his power pulsating and ready to do his bidding; the Autumn Court sentries behind Eris made to draw their weapons, but Eris held up one hand, stopping them.

Look look look look look look—

“Perhaps I came to kill you, and you came right to me ,” Azriel whispered, his siphons gleaming with power. Eris’ eyes were—

On his siphons, Azriel realized. He stared at Azriel’s siphons with an almost… wistful expression. Azriel blinked. He had just threatened the prick, and Eris just… stood there and said nothing.

Look look look look—

Enough , Azriel hissed at his shadows. I am looking. What is it I am meant to see ?

A long pause. You are not ready.

“Leave us.” Eris’ voice drew him up short. He waved away his sentries—who looked like they knew better than to protest—and they winnowed away.

“What do you want, shadowsinger?” Eris’ voice was flat—distant, almost. Azriel’s brows scrunched in confusion; this was a much different male than he’d been a few minutes ago.

“What’s wrong, Eris?” Azriel asked in a taunting tone. “Daddy keeping you on a tight leash these days? Must be tough—being the chosen one and all.”

And being a self-serving prick who couldn’t care less about anyone but himself, Azriel thought silently.

Eris closed his eyes for a long moment—uncomfortably long. Long enough to make Azriel wonder what his game was this time.

“If you have a point, then get to it,” Eris said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

f*ck diplomacy, Azriel thought bitterly. I hate asking this asshole for anything.

But he ground his teeth, leashed his power, and did his duty. He would always do his duty—for his Court, for his brother.

Annoyance flared from that echoing hallway deep within himself—annoyance that wasn’t his own. He could’ve sworn Eris scoffed from across the clearing, but he covered it up with a cough.

“I’m here on behalf of Rhysand,” Azriel began, tucking his wings and clasping his hands behind his back. “He wanted me to approach you about a… mutual opportunity of benefit.”

Another scoff— definitely a scoff this time. “Your High Lord wants a favor,” Eris said, finally looking up. “Just say that.” He paused, again assessing Azriel with that odd sort of intensity before continuing. “What does he want? I believe the matter of the war is to be discussed at this little meeting amongst the High Lords, yes?”

“We’ll be attending a War Council in the Hewn City tomorrow evening.” Azriel didn’t say much more beyond that; he was sure Eris could piece together the rest.

“Ah, the Darkbringers ,” Eris said after a few moments. “I’m to be a bargaining chip for Keir, then?”

“Name your price, Eris,” Azriel growled. He didn’t know if he could take much more of the male, though, granted, he seemed to be markedly different with nobody else around…

You belong to me. Azriel hadn’t summoned the echo of the words this time. No, they’d been pushed his way, and washed through him with enough force that he winced, his breath catching in his throat.

—

“Name your price, Eris.” Azriel’s voice was filled with so much vitriol, it grated Eris’ already frayed nerves.

He’d expected to show up here, meet his eyes, and have some grand “ah-ha!” moment with his mate. All he had to do was see him, and he was sure he could get the bond to snap into place for Azriel.

But it… hadn’t. He looked at Eris precisely the same. Talked to him with the same tone of distrust and distaste. Eris wanted to rip his own f*cking hair out. How could the Mother be so cruel ? So vindictive ? He wished it had never snapped into place for him either. He wished he could spend his life alone entirely. Better alone than this.

A self-serving prick who couldn’t care less about anyone but himself, Azriel had thought of him. If only he knew—if only he knew how he’d gladly lay down and die for Azriel right this very f*cking second. How much he had begun to care about his Court—

And suddenly, Eris knew his price.

“My throne,” he said. “That’s my price.”

Azriel raised one dark eyebrow, the gesture effortless on him and sinfully sexy. “Care to explain?”

Eris looked up into the tree line. How to play this one? As a power-hungry heir who simply didn’t want to wait to take their place on the throne? Or as an observant successor who grew tired of watching his small kingdom suffer under its current oppressive ruler?

Eris decided on a mix of both.

“I’m sure you’re already aware that Beron’s rule over the Autumn Court is not… popular amongst our people. He isn’t exactly personable, and to be frank, he’s terrible at the job. He’s old. His time has passed.”

“We’re not assassinating your High Lord for you,” Azriel said with a grin. “As entertaining as that may be.”

Eris chuckled. “No. No, I’m not asking you to.” He took a breath, knowing he could trust his next words with this male—with his mate. “I’ll do it myself, when the time is right. I’m his heir, the power will shift to me. I’ll make sure of it.”

Azriel blinked. “And you want us to support you.”

“Now you’re learning how to play the game, shadowsinger,” Eris replied with a half smile. “I trust your High Lord doesn’t want me to tell the old bastard of those special little gifts his lady possesses, hm?” Eris held up one hand, wreathing it in flame momentarily before snuffing it out. “If she’s capable of Autumn’s fire and Winter’s ice, I can only assume she took the others as well when she was Made. That makes her quite a threat indeed in Beron’s eyes.”

Azriel growled in response, the threat clear. Eris hated it, but he needed to be sure that he took the deal.

“You support my bid from my throne—whether that be when I wrest it from my father’s unwilling fingers or take it from his cold dead hands—and I will happily play the role of one bargaining chip for your Court to make a play for Keir and his Darkbringers.” Eris spread his arms out, just slightly. It was a brilliant play; he was happy with it, now he just had to get Azriel to take it.

Azriel angled his head, studying Eris as if seeing him in a new light. Just look , for f*ck’s sake, Eris begged. Just look hard enough, and see . He didn’t understand it—why it didn’t just snap , right now, this very second.

“Do we have a deal?”

Azriel laughed, and the sound was like Eris’ own personal symphony. How long had he begged to hear that laugh in person? “Let’s not call it that—I don’t think you’d appreciate the customs surrounding deals in the Night Court.” He walked toward Eris, and every thought eddied from his mind. “Besides…” Azriel placed one siphon-topped hand on Eris’ shoulder as he stood next to him. “It’s not my deal to agree to,” he said, his mouth so very close to Eris’ ear. A single pat on his shoulder—it took every ounce of restraint for Eris not to respond to his nearness. “It’s Rhysand’s deal. I’m merely a messenger.”

Azriel paused then, and they stood shoulder to shoulder for some of the longest moments Eris had ever lived in his very long life.

Azriel kept walking, his footsteps receding behind Eris now. It was probably stupid of him to keep his back turned to the male, but he didn’t care.

“See you in the Hewn City, chosen one. We go tomorrow evening. You can discuss the remaining details with Rhys.”

Eris whirled on his feet. “Azriel—”

But his mate had already stepped through the shadows and disappeared—taking most of Eris' heart with him.

Eris winnowed into his room and sent a ball of fire into his fireplace that was too big and wild, and black smoke curled outward, singing the edges of the curtains nearest the great stone fireplace.

“f*ck!” he bellowed into the empty room, plucking up a glass and filling it with wine. He swirled it once, and drank deeply—the taste felt wrong. Sour, almost. He threw the entire glass into the fire, where it exploded with impact.

He stomped to the bottles of wine and liquor, shaking with rage or regret he wasn’t sure, picking up another bottle—this time, of whiskey. He had had them bring him three more after that night he had spent with the one bottle—he wanted to always have it on hand now.

He poured a generous amount into a crystal glass, holding it up in the air.

“Is this what you want?!” he shouted. “That this is all I can apparently drink now, yes?” He took a long drink from the glass, hating how much he loved the taste. “Is that it, then? Is it not enough that my heart is so godsdamned full of you that it barely belongs to me anymore? You need to control my tastes as well?” He didn’t know if he was laughing or crying.

He felt a hesitant pull down the bond, the implication clear: Is everything alright?

“No!” Eris shouted, his voice cracking on his broken sobs. “No, everything is not f*cking alright ! Centuries of solitude, and there you stood, and you just— just—” He walked to his desk, dropping himself into his chair. “Just stared at me! So no, everything is not alright, you blind, beautiful, cruel, winged fool ! You should’ve just killed me today! It would’ve been less painful, I assure you!”

Glass and paper crashed to the floor as Eris swept his arm across his desk, sending everything on it in one great tidal wave to the paving stones of the floor. Eris propped his feet on the now-empty desktop.

“The chosen one.” He scoffed. “The Great Heir of Fire. Next in line for the all-powerful throne of the Autumn Court and you…” He shook his head, considering the glass of amber liquid in his hands. “Oh, you undo me entirely, no power in the world could ever stand against this . So what the f*ck am I supposed to do about you?”

As if on cue, one lone shadow coiled itself around his wrist as he swirled the glass of whiskey. Eris huffed out a single laugh. “It’s a shame you and I don’t speak the same language, you know. Because I would have words for you if we did.” The shadow paused, listening to him. It was maddening ; his blasted shadows listened to him, but the male himself could barely look at him without sneering.

Eris leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall until it rested against the back of the seat. He felt the shadow wisp over his arm, settling over his chest—over the uncomfortable home of the exploding ball of blinding white light. His bond—with Azriel.

He felt him there, on the other side of the bond, trying to break his way through with a heartbreaking amount of effort. He was trying so hard. He had no idea who stood on the other side, no idea it was the male he had just spent the afternoon cursing and rolling his eyes at.

“The Mother is a cruel bitch, you know that?” Eris spoke to the shadow as it soothed him—soothed that aching, willful, heedless light in his chest. All force and no direction. “I suppose this is my penance, then. For the centuries I’ve been a miserable asshole.” He huffed. “What is it, ‘f*cking Eris’, yes.” He shook his head, draining the glass and dropping it on his desk.

He stared at the empty glass, then glanced down at the shadow hovering just over the buttons of his brown jacket. “I don’t suppose you’re morally objectionable to my getting riproaring drunk tonight until I can’t feel anything, hm?” He paused, staring at the shadow. He could almost hear it, as it slithered over him, whispering in that odd language that only Azriel spoke.

“I don’t understand you, remember?” he said to the ball of darkness, irritated but unwilling to rid himself of this piece of Azriel—possibly the only real piece he’d ever get. It hugged against him, reaching dark tendrils into his chest, spearing down into those filaments of brilliant unbound light within him. As if to say Go deeper.

“Not tonight,” Eris muttered. “I think I’ve had enough torture, thanks.” He leaned his head back, closing his eyes—reveling in the cool touch of the shadow on his heated, angry body. Is this what it would feel like, he wondered? To have Azriel’s body on his own, to have Azriel’s body for himself—that wind-kissed body that haunted and taunted him—would it feel like this, he wondered?

The mantra that echoed down the bond nearly broke him. I am yours , and you are mine. Mine mine mine mine mine mine—

Eris groaned, leaning forward and snatching the crystal glass from the desktop once more before he snapped his fingers, summoning the bottle he’d already opened to him and pouring another hefty glass.

“Well, seems you’re in luck, friend,” he told the shadow, taking a long drink that went down smooth. “It looks like I’m not done torturing myself tonight after all.”

He gestured toward his chest—toward the tendrils it had speared into him just moments ago. “Show me your little trick again.”

Azriel felt unsettled.

And usually—when he felt unsettled—that meant either something was about to go very very wrong, or something already was very very wrong.

Eris’ asking price had been, predictably, outrageous, but not in the way Azriel thought it would be. He had expected… different. Something far more sinister and personal.

But what he’d asked for… it almost seemed—well, not exactly selfless. He was still getting a throne out of it, Azriel reminded himself.

Maybe it was the way his demeanor had changed after his sentries had departed. Maybe it was the way he had stared at Azriel’s siphons just a little too long, or the way he hadn’t reacted one bit when Azriel had threatened to outright kill him. Maybe it was the way he’d closed his eyes for a long moment—as if in anguish—when Azriel had called him a ‘self-serving prick who couldn’t care less about anyone but himself’ in his own thoughts , as if… as if…

As if he had heard it. Not just heard it, but as if it had somehow hurt his feelings.

Azriel’s shadows wound around him tightly as he lay in the upper boughs of an ancient oak tree in a different grove than the one from earlier. He had to hand it to Autumn—they had gorgeous scenery. Az loved the trees. It made escaping very easy—all he had to do was fly up to the top of a tree and lounge. He didn’t miss the snow-blasted mountains of Illyria one bit, as he watched the sky fade from deep orange to pink to purple to deep blue, fading and fading, dragged under by the weight of the night.

Yes, he could see himself here easily. It suited him, much more than the Night Court ironically.

The crisp autumn wind ruffled against his wings, carrying the scents of oak and cinnamon and tickling something in his memory, but he couldn’t place it.

Azriel breathed deep, searching inside for that hallway—that blessed echo chamber. His day had been trying ; he sought the only source of comfort it seemed he had left.

What rebounded back to him shocked him so much he nearly fell out of the tree; he flapped his wings once to steady himself.

Anger. So much anger, he could find no beginning or end to it, but also… sadness. Yes, anger laced with sadness, the very essence of personal anguish. Azriel fumbled for some way to move himself, to push himself down the hallway to the other end. But he stayed stubbornly still and unmoving.

He grunted with the effort, wanting to say something at least. He pulled— that , he knew he could do. The way he had come to know he could pull warmth from the other end in his coldest moments. So he pulled now, as if to say I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. Is everything alright?

The response he got was clear: a rush of emotion, flashes of smashed glass and splintered wood, a rush of fire, a throat raw from shouting—

Azriel threw himself into barreling down that hallway, needing to reach the other side. Please, he begged, they need me, please.

His shadows swarmed as the day gave way completely to the darkness. You are not ready, they whispered back, the gentleness grating on Azriel’s desperation.

“I am ready !” he shouted at them, teeth bared in anger. He was sitting up now, arms gesturing wildly, siphons flickering with his rage. “Let me go ! How dare you keep them from me!” Azriel fisted his hands in his hair, close to ripping every bit of it out at the root in frustration. “What do I have to do ?” he whispered. “Just tell me what to do— ”

You know what you must do.

“No. No, that’s bullsh*t ,” he spat, plunging down into himself with icy determination and throwing himself into the task of, at the very least, soothing the ache he felt coming from the other end of that echo chamber.

He called up the memory—the desire, he supposed—of those seven words, played perfectly in his own voice. I am yours, and you are mine. He willed them into every crack and crevice of his soul, letting them fill him to bursting. I am yours, and you are mine. He didn’t shy away from it this time; no, this time, he leaned into it.

I am yours, and you are mine. I am yours , and you are mine. Mine mine mine mine mine—

Azriel gasped, his hand clutched to his chest. It had been a tug, but of a different sort. A summons. Rhys. Summoning him home.

He had no idea what time it was, or how long he’d been here. If his brother was calling him back home, he had news—he wouldn’t summon him just for a report of his movements and progress.

Azriel sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t relish the thought of leaving, and he didn’t know why, but he also didn’t disobey.

So he sunk back into his shadows, letting them consume him wholly and carry him home, and his last thought before he left the Autumn Court struck him as darkness took him away—Eris hadn’t called him “shadowsinger” before he’d left the clearing earlier.

He’d called him “Azriel”.

Az didn’t know why, but he felt like that was important.

Chapter 6: Six

Chapter Text

“His throne?”

Rhys’ voice was incredulous; Azriel couldn’t blame him. Rain pelted the windows as they hovered in the sitting room of the townhouse. It was late. Everyone was asleep, except for Azriel and Rhysand.

“Yes. His throne.”

Rhys’ eyes were narrowed, aimed out the window and observing the mostly empty street in front of the townhouse. His hair was disheveled and he was dressed down, already in clothes clearly meant for sleep. Azriel still wore his Illyrian leathers and smelled of the Autumn Court, having come here straight from there.

Rhys ran a hand through his hair. “And he doesn't want us to take out Beron for him,” he said for the tenth time.

Az shook his head. “Eris was clear about that. He said he’ll do it himself, when the time is right. All he wants from us in return is our support in his bid for the throne.” Azriel shrugged. “We give him that, and he’ll promise an alliance to Keir. It should soften him up enough for us to secure the Darkbringers.”

Azriel didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He had slid on that familiar mask of cold and indifference before he’d come here. He didn’t agree with this plan at all, but his place was not to have an opinion. His place was to do. To follow orders.

“And Beron?” Rhys asked, his face lined with hard concern.

Azriel knew what he meant.

“Beron is not aware of Feyre’s abilities at all,” Azriel responded. Rhys’ shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Eris has kept that information to himself.”

Rhys shook his head. “Why, though?”

Azriel scratched his forehead with a thumbnail. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. Maybe Mor had it right. Maybe he’ll use that information himself—”

His shadows shuddered around him, whispering frantically. Wrong wrong wrong—

“Az?” Rhys’ voice sounded tired. Strained.

Azriel sighed, closing his eyes for a long moment—remembering how Eris had done the same thing earlier in the clearing. He opened them, blinking furiously a few times.

“What did you need to tell me, Rhys?” Azriel kept his face hard and cold, his voice smooth and impersonal.

Rhys studied him curiously, but eventually spoke. “Cassian and Feyre are going to the Prison in the morning.”

“What?” Azriel was gobsmacked. Half a day gone and it seemed his brother had come up with yet another terrible idea.

Rhys chuckled. “It was actually Feyre’s terrible idea, thank you very much.”

Azriel brushed off the mental intrusion, his thoughts racing much like the storm outside the windows. “What could she possibly want to gain from the Prison, of all places?”

“She’ll be going to speak with the Bone Carver,” Rhys responded, his eyes somewhat haunted. “And Cassian…” He sighed. “Cassian has answers of his own he wants from the Carver, I think. He’ll never admit to it, but…” Rhys’ eyes met Azriel’s, and he said a single word. “Nesta.”

“I see,” Azriel responded, keeping the edge of bitterness from his voice. He’d never begrudge his brothers their happiness, but… it chafed. “And what does Feyre think there is to gain from the Bone Carver?”

Rhys smiled slyly. “She is going to tentatively ask what the Carver’s price is for aiding us in the coming war.” He laughed a bit, but Azriel didn’t feel his amusem*nt.

Azriel shook his head. “More prices to be paid.” Not every price is paid with gold or steel. Some are paid with the very fire of the soul, and you do not realize how high they were until everything is burned to ash. And you still would have paid it. The words his shadows had whispered to him dragged up through his memory, haunting and pulling at him again and again.

Rhys’ brows furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

Azriel’s face hardened, and he slammed his mental shields closed as tightly as he could, his eyes angry. “It means you’re a busybody who needs to stop poking around in other people's heads, brother,” he snapped, instantly regretting the words and his tone. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been sleeping and—” He sighed. “I'm sorry.”

Rhys nodded, his eyes reproachful. “You’ve been on edge since Feyre’s return, Az,” he said observantly. Not quite prying, but… inviting. He wanted Azriel to start the conversation. “We’ve fought wars before, hell we’ve won wars before—with much narrower odds.”

Azriel shook his head. “I'm fine, Rhys.” His tone was flat—emotionless. His shadows echoed what he already knew he needed to do: lie, lie, lie, lie…

Why? he asked them. Why was it important to withhold this from his brother—from the one person he had always trusted?

Not brother—High Lord, they whispered. Shock echoed through Azriel’s body, and it was all he could do to keep it from his face. Not brother—High Lord? What the f*ck was that supposed to mean?

“Az?” Rhys’ voice was like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the stormy skies of his chaos of thoughts and emotions.

“It’s late, Rhys,” Azriel managed to choke out. “I should get some sleep; I’ll be back out first thing in the morning, if that’s your command. Return to your mate.”

“Az—”

He didn’t wait for a response, though. He pulled the shadows around him and stepped through the blessed quiet of that space between worlds and re-emerged in his apartment, collapsing to his knees as he could still taste that last word he’d said to Rhys in his mouth.

It tasted overwhelming. Too much. His shadows stroked every inch of him, gently and lovingly, urging him, Let it in, let it in, taste it, sense it, feel it, follow it—

Azriel pushed to his feet, flinging them away and plodding to his small kitchen. He rifled through his cabinets, sparse as they were, searching for the one thing he knew he always kept here.

His fingers closed around a bottle of whiskey and he could have cried in relief. He ripped it open, and just as brought it to his mouth—

A surge of heat, strength, the pull in the aching hollow of his chest. Azriel scrunched his eyes closed, the mouth of the bottle brushing his lips.

Let it in let it in let it in—

It wasn’t his shadows now. It was an echoing chant, coming from that blasted hallway buried deep in his soul, the one he couldn’t rip out of him even if he tried.

Azriel sunk down to the floor of his darkened kitchen, the only sounds the rain pounding outside and his sawing breaths, in and out and in and out.

Let it in, Azriel. Let me in.

“I can’t,” Azriel gasped. “Please—”

The flashes came, the images barreling through him. Torrents of flame through a jeweled wood—Autumn wood, Azriel realized with a gasp, the wood he had just been in. “No,” he breathed.

Yes, his shadows whispered. They gently wrapped around his wrist, lowering the bottle until it hit the ground with a note of finality—the sound an echoing beat of his undoing, his unraveling.

It’s time, they whispered. Taste it. It was a gentle command—to allow him to ease into it. Every inch of him shook with violence, trembled with a fear he hadn’t known since before he had learned to speak the language of his friend the darkness.

“Show me,” he whispered out loud, his voice shaking.

You must be ready.

“I am—”

You must be ready, his shadows persisted, coiling, bunching over his chest—that aching hollow spot. The place that pulled, the place that felt as if something had been missing something. You must be ready, and this… it must be open. A long pause. It may hurt. At first.

Azriel laughed drily, humorlessly. “I thought it was supposed to be some joyful thing.”

Not every price is paid with gold or steel. Some are paid with the very fire of the soul. Azriel’s stomach clenched, finally letting the words sink into him, letting the meaning wash through him.

“And I will still pay it,” he whispered back. Not a question; a statement. “Even when everything is burned to a—”

Azriel stuttered on the words. Burned to ash. Burning wood, burning leaves, burning dense underbrush. “Oh gods.”

Let it in. Do not fight it. The urge to wash away the taste of the word—the taste of the images—was so strong, but Azriel resisted, letting them wash through him, letting them fill the empty spaces he had reserved for solitude for so long.

How am I expected to live like this? The words choked out in agony, but the voice… it was clearer this time—deeper. The further Azriel leaned into it, the clearer things became.

Do not fight it. The same warning from his shadows, but gentle. Let it in. Taste it. Feel it. Follow it. Follow it home.

I am yours— The images cleared further— His own lips, brushing the tip of a delicately pointed ear. —and you are mine. His own hands, gliding through silken, red strands of hair that felt like divinity against his scarred, ungloved hands. Azriel shook his head fiercely, his breaths short and sharp. “No—”

Do not fight it. Follow it home.

His chest swelled, unbearably tight with tension. The barrage of sensations and images continued to flow through him. His urge to stop them warred with his desire to step out of the dark—to no longer live his life wanting.

To keep you warm. Azriel let out a single, loud, choked sob—the voice was so clear to him now, how had he not recognized it before? And the image that came so easily to him now: perched in a worn armchair before a smoldering fireplace, legs stretched out before him, all that red hair unbound and gleaming, chest bare—gods, had he always had that many scars?—pouring every last ounce of fire he could down the bond to Azriel throughout that entire night. No matter how much Azriel had pulled and pulled and pulled… he had been there, waiting with more.

Azriel covered his face with both hands, his eyes clenched shut.

Do not fight it. Let it in. Follow it home.

Azriel shook his head, his palms digging into his eyes. “It’s too much,” he managed to gasp out between his sobs.

It is just enough. Do not fight it. Let it in. Follow it home.

“Don’t—”

But more came—so much more. The blurred, naked, writhing body that had haunted Azriel in his sleep—the one that brought him more passion than he’d ever felt in his entire existence—no longer blurred, like blinking away the fog at last. It had been his body, twined perfectly with Azriel’s, his hands that knew Azriel’s body so incredibly well that they knew how to bring him to the very edge of a rapture so blissful it felt torturous. He drank in his lips, his tongue, like a male in a desert who hadn’t seen water in weeks, hungrily and without hesitation, burying every last bit of his own soul within the depths of his body without even wondering if he could ever retrieve it. An heir to a throne, and he worshiped Azriel’s body as if it were the only deity, king, or lord he’d ever kneel to—the thought only served to drive Azriel even wilder with need, with desire, and just as he reached that knife’s edge, those words: Eyes on me. I want to watch you.

The ghost of the climax that overcame Azriel’s body—tangled with his—staring into his amber eyes was like a tidal wave where he had only ever felt splashes before. His chest felt as if it would simply burst at any moment—as if a hard knot of something lay there, waiting. His lungs felt too small, his breaths too short, his skin too tight. His eyes burned, the tears that flowed freely from them washing down his face, down his leathers.

Do not fight it. Let it in. Follow it home.

Azriel’s moments of darkness, his moments of hesitation and desperation—they had all been soothed and comforted from the other side by him. You don’t belong there, not anymore. You belong to me. “It’s not—” Azriel gasped, his voice choking on the words, his head shaking at the implication. “It’s not possible, we’re supposed to be equals, we’re supposed to be—”

You are his equal, are you not?

“No,” Azriel breathed, gathering his knees to his chest, the open bottle of liquor next to him forgotten. “I can't be. I’m a— a bastard, while he’s an heir to a throne, I—” He shook his head again. A sinking feeling—like acid running through his veins. “f*ck. Rhys.”

Like water through tissue paper, his voice flowed through his again—his thoughts. His desperation, like knives to Azriel’s soul. His Court, his family, they’ll make him choose. Them or me. And he’ll choose them. And it will destroy me all over again. That is my destiny: to be destroyed, repeatedly. Another slash of fire, more burned, ripped flesh. The burnt flesh that Azriel had smelled—his flesh. Rage ripped through Azriel like he had never known before, rage with no beginning and no end, rage that anyone had dared to lay an unkind hand on his—

Think it. Think the word. You’ve already tasted it, now think it.

Azriel’s lips trembled, his eyes welled with too many tears to see clearly. The rain outside pounded the empty streets—he was alone here. He could think the word—he could think it. His chest was a weight he could barely stand, barely tolerate.

Do not fight it. Let it in. Follow it home.

He was alone, he told himself. He could do it. He didn’t have to say it, he merely had to think it.

He found himself standing before that hallway deep within the yawning chasm of his soul, his feet glued to the floor.

“All I have to do is think it?” he whispered tentatively, his voice shaking and cracking. “Just… think it, and I can send something back?”

Yes. All you have to do is think it. Let it in. Do not fight it. A pause. He waits. For you.

Azriel’s breath hitched, his eyes clenching shut. He had been waiting this entire time. He nodded, concentrating. He focused his entire existence on that hallway—the bond, he realized with a start, wondering how it had escaped him all this time…

His mate bond, he thought to himself with crystal clarity as his chest swelled, ready to burst the very next time he laid eyes on his mate—he knew—and the ghost of a smile crept across his lips, and he cast a single thought down that bond: I’d choose you, Eris. I’d choose you every time.

Eris sat in the chair at his desk, wide-eyed and gasping, his chest heaving with every breath he took.

The single shadow had peeled itself off of his chest, now coiling lazily about his wrist as Eris looked down at it, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“Neat trick, friend,” he breathed, a small laugh escaping him as the words he could have died for still rang in his ears, in his bones, in his very soul.

I’d choose you, Eris. I’d choose you every time.

Chapter 7: Seven

Chapter Text

Azriel was an anxious mess as he paced his room in the House of Wind the next afternoon. His mind was everywhere—Lucien, only a few rooms away, the godsdamned brother to his mate ; Elain, also a few rooms away, Lucien’s mate; the information that Feyre and Cassian had come back from the Prison with; Cassian, pissy and irate at being left behind this evening, with no idea that it was no mere coincidence, no drawing of straws, that had decided his fate; Nesta, and the swirling curious power she’d obtained from the Cauldron that Azriel could see plainly in her eyes, that he’d never seen before; Rhys, unaware of the implications of the bomb he was about to drop on their family with this unholy alliance he was forming tonight; and of course…

Azriel stilled. There was his own role to consider in it. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing himself when he realized he had just tamed it, and then promptly mussed it all to hell again.

A calm stillness—a gentle caress of warmth—flowed to Azriel down the bond, soothing the edges of his frayed nerves. He took a few deep breaths, slowing his heart, soaking up the warmth.

His pacing had ceased, an expectant half smile on his face, and he whispered into the stillness, “Thank you.”

You never have to thank me, Azriel, Eris’ voice down the bond lit every nerve in Azriel’s body on fire simultaneously, and his eyes fluttered closed as the smile spread across his face.

Azriel couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, escaping his throat. He felt giddy—drunk, dizzy with the electricity that zipped through his veins. But he needed focus, now more than ever. The Court of Nightmares was his playground. And it was not a place one should walk without their wits.

He opened his eyes and moved to tap his siphon—to unfurl his Illyrian armor—and his smile faltered. Almost time to put on our masks, chosen one. The glimmer of amusem*nt from Eris sparkled down the bond at the nickname. I don’t like that we’re on different sides for this.

Azriel didn’t say it quietly—or hesitantly. Eris’ surprise was still evident; Azriel could feel it. He had expected Azriel’s rejection of the bond, still expected it to some degree.

I know who you are underneath it all, Azriel. And you know who I am underneath it all. They may not know, but we know. We both have roles to play tonight. It’s okay—

I just want to be certain. My shadow won’t be able to go with you, there are too many eyes there—

Azriel—

The connection will be broken. I won’t be able to push anything back—

Azriel. The command in his voice brought Azriel up short. You understand you are going to see me tonight, yes? A long pause. A weighted silence. The bond will… snap into place. For you. Eris said it quietly. Reverently.

Heat flooded Azriel’s face. Of course. He felt like an idiot for not remembering it sooner. The one thing he hadn’t accounted for—the one thing he possibly could never account for.

It will be like an open line after that. I won’t need assistance from your shadow, though I have to admit… he’s become rather good company.

Azriel laughed again, as he tapped the siphon on one hand and his full scaled Illyrian armor crawled over his body and he rolled his shoulders, stretching his wings.

Please don’t encourage them. They’re insufferable enough as it is, Azriel responded, mentally rolling his eyes. He strapped Truth-Teller to his hip, and added, Does it… What does it feel like? When it snaps into place, I mean.

Eris didn’t respond for a long time, and Azriel thought maybe the connection had been severed—maybe the shadow he had sent to watch over his mate had been chased away, and his thought hadn’t reached Eris. Without a fully formed mating bond, his shadows forming a channel for them to be able to communicate was the only way they were doing it now—and only after Azriel had accepted the bond. After he’d been ready.

But after a long few moments, Eris finally responded as Azriel straightened out his hair for the millionth time, I don’t think I could ever explain how it feels. Not really. I’m just… I’m sorry that it has to be under these kinds of conditions. For you. It’s not how I would have wanted it, Azriel.

Didn’t yours snap into place with Cassian’s sword in your gut? Eris’ laughter echoed through Azriel’s ears like a song written for his soul alone, and Azriel’s heart soared as it rang through every fiber of his body. I think this will make us even, chosen one.

Can you tell me again? Before we have to do this?

Azriel smiled—a small, private smile. His hands, his fingertips, ached for the silken red strands of hair, the smooth fire-kissed skin, that he’d only ever felt in dreams, in promises. He was dying for the real thing.

I’d choose you, Eris. I’d choose you every time. A ripple of calm satisfaction shivered down the bond. Can you tell me again? Before we have to do this?

You will always belong, Azriel. With me. You will always belong with me.

Azriel felt the words sink into him like a stone, and nothing had ever felt so right. He’d never belonged before—not to the Illyrians, not to the High Fae, barely to the Night Court. If anything, he felt like he belonged more to the shadows that clung to him more than anything else. But this… yes, this had been meant for him, and the moment he had accepted it, he’d unlocked some sort of undercurrent of inner strength he’d never known before. He’d finally stepped into the light. He’d finally taken what was his , without feeling as if he shouldn’t be allowed to.

He’d put himself first. He’d put his own happiness , his own joy , first.

It’s time. Eris’ voice was gentle, but insistent. Azriel took a deep breath in, and exhaled. Another. Another. No matter what happens, no matter what we have to do or say, or what roles we have to play or masks we have to wear—

I am yours, and you are mine, Azriel finished for him, the seven words unlocking that undercurrent of strength until it rushed through him with undulating power and his siphons were glowing with it.

Yes, Eris replied, his pride and appreciation shining brightly down the bond. Yes. No matter what. I’ll be with you, okay?

Azriel took one more long shaky breath. Okay. I’m ready. He wasn’t. But there was no other choice.

Another surge of warmth flared through his body, his senses filling with that blessed heat—

—and the connection broke. It was the worst kind of silence Azriel had ever suffered in his entire life.

Azriel was still wearing a stupid smile and reveling in that sacred warmth as he passed the family library where Elain’s scent made his steps falter—and Lucien’s voice made them halt altogether.

“You—you left your room.” Lucien’s tone was filled with such anguish that it tore at Azriel. This was Eris’ brother. This was family. How differently Azriel now felt about the male, differently than he’d felt when he’d met with him to discuss what he knew about Spring and about Autumn—about his father and his brothers. About Eris.

How different things were now.

Azriel drew his shadows closer to him, wrapping them around himself and concealing him from sight. He closed his eyes and searched—searched for a pool of darkness within the library he could use to see.

He opened his eyes—now nestled in the shadow of a low-lying table laden with books and a tea service.

Elain looked awful , and Azriel felt cold shame sluice down his spine. With all the spy work he’d been preoccupied with, he’d barely checked in on her of late. His protectiveness over the middle Archeron sister made sense to him now—the mate of his mate’s brother. Yes, he could see the lines drawn clearly for him. Much as could see them with Feyre, long before she had become their High Lady.

Lucien took a few tentative steps toward Elain, where she sat staring out of the window, her pale pink gown hanging off of her, her skin wan and golden-brown hair hanging loose down her too-thin back. Azriel grit his teeth as he watched from the shadows; she was wasting away before all of them—the way Tamlin had allowed Feyre to do. Perhaps not haunted by the same demons, but suffering the same fate.

“Is… is there anything I can get for you?” Lucien’s tone was hesitant, but heartbreakingly gentle.

Azriel noted the balled fists at his sides, the way his jaw feathered as he observed her thin frame, the near-cosmic effort he put into holding himself in place. It killed him—to not go to her. To not help her. To not fall to his knees and offer the entire world for her.

Azriel could, at last, understand it. Every bit of it.

Lucien glanced toward the tea on the low table nearby—the very same table that housed the pool of shadow that Azriel now used to observe their interaction.

“I’m going to assume that one of those cups belongs to your sister,” Lucien said, gesturing to the table. “Do you mind if I help myself to the other?” His tone was aiming for casual, Azriel could tell, but he was nervous. Anxious. Azriel could hear his galloping heart even from where he stood in the hall.

Lucien crossed the plush rug to the table, poured himself the tea, and perched in the chair opposite the one usually occupied by Nesta.

“There’s a plate of biscuits. Would you like one?” he asked, a little bolder this time. He wanted her to eat. She was frail— too frail.

After a painfully long minute dragged on, and Lucien looked ready to give up and leave altogether, Elain finally slowly turned her vacant brown eyes from the window.

“Who are you?” The question did not take Lucien by surprise. He answered with the smooth grace of one who was raised amongst royalty—like Eris had been, Azriel realized.

“I am Lucien. Seventh son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.”

Azriel’s face flushed. The Court my mate will inherit, he thought with a rush. What did that mean for Azriel? He hadn’t gotten that far yet. Had barely begun to scratch the surface of any of it—

“Lucien,” Elain said, her voice cutting Azriel’s mental train wreck off before it could run away from him. Her eyes seemed to focus on the male then, and Azriel could have sworn a chill ran over Lucien as she spoke his name. “From my sister's stories. Her friend.”

“Yes.”

Elain blinked slowly—realization dawning on her. “You were in Hybern.”

“Yes.”

“You betrayed us.”

Azriel pitied him—for having to stand there, for having to have this conversation with so many ears listening.

“It—it was a mistake.” His voice was brimming with regret and pain.

But Elain’s eyes were cold as ice. “I was to be married in a few days,” she said, her tone flat and emotionless.

Lucien rasped out, “I know. I’m sorry.” Azriel knew he felt unbridled anger—Azriel would have, were he in Lucien’s place. Hearing those words, from his own mate’s mouth—he would have felt rage. He credited Lucien for instead apologizing.

Elain looked away again—back out of the window. “I can hear your heart,” she said simply.

Lucien looked devastated. How was he to respond to that? He didn’t speak, instead choosing to drain his cup of tea.

“When I sleep,” Elain muttered, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She tilted her head to one side, seeking some answer perhaps. “Can you hear mine?”

“No, lady, I cannot.” Azriel shook his head. He knew she wasn’t truly asking him. Something bristled at him about the way Elain spoke—something about it seemed… He sighed. He couldn’t place his finger on it.

“No one ever does,” Elain whispered. “No one ever looked—not really. He did. He saw me. He will not now.” Her thumb brushed over the iron engagement ring, still sitting upon her finger from the mortal man who had been her betrothed before she’d been Made. The one who had hated the fae.

Azriel had never pitied anyone more than he pitied Lucien in that moment.

Steps signaled that others approached—Feyre and Nesta appeared in the doorway, and Azriel tensed for the blow Nesta was sure to deliver.

“Get out,” Nesta snapped, in that harsh, sharp tone she wielded with expert precision.

Lucien rose from his chair, defeat already written across his face before they had even set foot in the room. “I came for a book.”

“Well, find one and leave.”

Lucien glanced to Elain, still staring out the window, and headed straight for the door, but paused before he reached the frame. “She needs fresh air.”

“We’ll judge what she needs,” Nesta replied with a sneer.

Lucien addressed Feyre, reigning the temper Azriel just knew was brimming under the surface. “Take her to the sea. Take her to some garden. But get her out of this house for an hour or two.”

And with that, he turned to walk away, not waiting for a response.

But just as Azriel prepared to pull back out of his vantage point in the room, Feyre suddenly looked at each of them, some realization coming over her, and said, “You’re moving into the townhouse right now.”

Neither sister objected. Lucien did not object.

Azriel staunchly objected—mostly to the timing. The pull to get to the Court of Nightmares—to Eris—was undeniable. This was just another added task on his agenda before he could get there.

Lucien turned to walk out of the library then, and Azriel pulled out of the pooled darkness quickly, reeling himself back into his own body and re-emerging from the shadows where he dwelt in the hallway just as Lucien turned the corner to pass by him.

Lucien paused as he saw the shadowsinger, his face a mess of contemplative turmoil and bottomless misery. His eyes were lined with silver unshed tears that refused to fall—out of anger or stubborn force of will, Azriel didn’t know—and his jaw was set in defiant resolution.

Azriel remembered Eris’ bitter words, before he knew they were Eris’. They will not break me. He saw the sentiment echoed there on Lucien’s face, the same Autumn fire in his eyes. They will not break me.

“I’ll look out for her—if you’d like,” Azriel found himself saying to the broken male who stood before him.

Lucien’s surprise barely registered as he huffed a small laugh, scratching his forehead with a thumbnail. “And why would you do that, shadowsinger?”

“Let’s just say…” Azriel hesitated, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Let’s just say family looks after family. Let’s just say that I owe it to someone.”

Lucien looked at him then, considering. His mind had probably gone to Feyre. Let him think it, Azriel thought to himself. He’d never know the real reason why—the real compulsion behind the offer, behind the act of kindness.

“She needs to eat,” Lucien said, his voice quiet and pained.

“I know,” Azriel replied.

“And she needs to get out into the godsdamned sun ,” he continued.

“I know,” Azriel said again.

A long moment of pause consumed them—an uneasy agreement passed between them.

“Thank you, shadowsinger.”

“Don’t mention it, Lucien.” Azriel threw him a half smile as he passed him. “Seriously. Don’t. The other Archerons would have my balls if they knew.”

Lucien’s light laugh eased a bit of Azriel’s inner sorrow for the male as he turned a corner—and ran smack into a red-faced Feyre already barking orders to get her sisters and Lucien moved down to the townhouse. She was none the wiser of the deal he’d made with Lucien to watch over his mate.

The move was frantic and rushed. They were all pressed for time on their visit to the Hewn City.

Bedrooms had already been assigned, and the townhouse had grown much, much more crowded. Too crowded for Azriel’s tastes; this was why he kept an apartment—for when he needed his own space, his own solitude.

As he flew from the House of Wind down to the townhouse with Elain in his arms, he wondered briefly where he would be tonight—after all of this business in the Court of Nightmares was over and done with. The very thought of being alone each night, knowing his mate existed and was out there… it felt every kind of wrong. No, they belonged next to each other, his senses told him. They belonged together , inexorably intertwined for the rest of existence.

The thought made a shiver of nervous excitement run down Azriel’s spine.

Azriel landed at the townhouse, Elain still quiet. She’s been silent and unblinking the entire flight down. His shadows had been chased away, making their strong dislike of her well-known to him before disappearing. He’d been confused by it, but not enough to puzzle over it now. That would be a riddle to pull apart later.

He landed on the street as opposed to the roof, and carried her through the front door, placing her gently on the carpet in the foyer. Elain peered up into his face; she seemed so small in comparison to him. Small and breakable. Entirely too breakable.

“Would you like me to show you the garden?” Azriel asked, keeping his voice even and gentle and smiling just faintly.

To Azriel’s surprise, she didn’t object, didn’t balk or flinch—she nodded, just once.

Azriel offered her his arm, which she took, and as she looked down at his scarred, siphon-topped hand, she whispered, “Beautiful.”

Embarrassment flushed Azriel’s cheeks; he was sure he’d get teased mercilessly for that comment later, but the way she observed his siphons reminded him of how he’d pushed that same exact color down his bond to Eris in his time of need, how Eris had clung to that color as a lifeline before Azriel even knew who he was.

Azriel dipped his head in thanks, and led Elain through the back doors and into the garden, now bathed in the late afternoon sunlight.

Azriel had held true to his promise and kept Elain in the garden for the rest of the afternoon. He’d used his time to finish his reports on his findings in the Autumn Court for Rhys and soak up the much needed sunshine—and still his nerves in anticipation of their impending visit to the Court of Nightmares.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Azriel’s nerves frayed more bit by bit. He felt the icy cold dread wash through him more and more as it drew nearer… But, as if he knew, Eris pushed his fire down the bond to Azriel, that echoing sentiment a rallying war cry stronger than anything he’d ever felt in his entire life on any battlefield: To keep you warm.

Eris would not let him slip into the killing calm that the Hewn City demanded of Azriel and never return. He would not allow him to don his mask of cruelty and indifference and never remove it. He was there, endlessly reminding him of who Azriel was underneath all of it.

Azriel gathered it all—the entirety of that new undercurrent of strength he had discovered in accepting what was his—and wrapped it around him like his own personal armor as they all ventured to the Court of Nightmares.

Gods , he hated this place. The cold, the rock, the people, the carved pillars depicting scaled beasts—the very beasts Azriel fed with his victims— all of it. Azriel’s face was hard and emotionless as he approached the dais topped with a single throne.

f*ck. One throne.

Azriel took up a flanking position next to Mor, who’s expression was much the same as Azriel’s—joyless, flat, pitiless. She hated this place as much as he did. Azriel felt a deep stab of shame over what he’d do to her tonight. The chasm that would rip open in their family due to his action. The orders he had followed.

As Nesta and Amren approached next, Azriel felt it slam into him—the pull. Only much harder than usual. Eris was here. It was a struggle to keep his face hard, to keep his eyes flat and joyless. f*ck, how was he supposed to do this? His heart pounded as he reconsidered everything. There was no way he could sit in a room with Rhys, Feyre, Keir, Mor, possibly Nesta and Amren, and Eris, and have his mating bond snap into place while keeping a completely straight face and smooth expression. His chest grew impossibly tight at the thought of it, his breaths becoming impossibly small and weak. He’d always had a sh*t poker face, and this was just—

Azriel. Every thought ebbed out of his mind at Eris’ gentle command—his push of his words from earlier. You will always belong. With me. You will always belong with me. Just breathe. Breathe, Azriel.

As if his body obeyed the command, insistent on heeding his mate’s words, Azriel silently released the breath he’d been holding for what felt like too long, and slowly dragged in another, releasing it and pulling it another. His body warmed, his thoughts calmed, and his muscles loosened.

Nesta and Amren peeled away, also flanking the dais now, and Rhys and Feyre approached as Azriel spotted Keir in the crowd before them, sneering toward both Azriel and Mor. Azriel gave him the most murderous glare he could summon, and was pleased when the male at least had the common sense to pale a bit.

Rhys held out his hand for Feyre as they ascended the steps of the dais, guiding her directly into the single throne. To her credit, Feyre kept her back straight and head held high, a tiara of raven feathers atop her head.

The crowd gasped as Feyre took the throne, and Rhys merely perched on the arm.

“Bow.” Rhys bellowed the command—not as his brother, but as the High Lord. Of this Court—the Court of Nightmares.

Their faces were a mix of open shock and wary distaste as they all dropped to their knees. Azriel did the same; he was well-accustomed to this song and dance.

Rhys’ voice was dangerously calm as he said, “I will interpret the lack of two thrones to be due to the fact that this visit came upon you quickly, and I will let you all escape without having your skin flayed from your bones as my mating gift to you. Our loyal subjects.”

Nervous eyes darted to Azriel. They were all well aware of who would be doing the flaying, should such an order pass through the High Lord’s lips. Azriel let a savage smile shine briefly, and the terrified eyes quickly averted from him once more.

“Surely, my love,” Feyre said in the perfect semi-smug drawl to match Rhys’ energy, “they would like to stand now.”

“Rise,” Rhys commanded.

The crowd, along with Azriel, rose to their feet. From the silent stillness broke three separate, strangled gasps from the crowd, and it took Azriel a moment to understand what, exactly, was happening. Until Feyre spoke next.

“Do you wish to have this back?” she asked quietly, running her finger down the smooth arm of the throne—bored, uninterested.

Daemati , Azriel remembered. It seemed a few over-eager courtiers had attempted to test out the High Lady—to disastrous effect. A whimper elicited from the back of the room; Keir scowled over his shoulder.

Rhys purred to his Court, “Don't you know that it’s not polite to touch a lady without her permission?”

The choking gasps, the desperate whimpers of pain—it fed something dark inside of Azriel. Dragged up the memories of pain he had the power to inflict, pain he reveled in inflicting, symphonies of pain he could conduct for days if he needed to without stopping. That cold, hungry monster inside of him cracked open an eye, yawning awake, hungry.

You don’t belong there anymore. You belong to me. With me. It drew Azriel up short—cut his bloodlust off at the knees. He had never found a power on earth stronger than his wanton bloodlust before. It seemed he had now, he realized.

“Play nice,” Feyre taunted, and the gasping whimpers stopped—replaced now by three separate flurries of motion. One person had winnowed away entirely, another had fainted, and a third was now clinging to the person next to them in fear. Azriel had to withhold his smirk; Play nice, indeed, he thought inwardly, impressed once more by the balls of steel on his High Lady.

Amren and Nesta approached the dais, drawing Azriel’s attention. This was part of the plan, meaning it was now in motion. His heart sped up just a bit as he kept a careful watch on the entire room.

Amren dipped her head to Rhys, and to Feyre. “By your leave, High Lord.”

Rhys waved his hand lazily. “Go. Enjoy yourselves.” He jerked his chin to the crowd. “Food and music. Now.” A barked command.

That was, of course, obeyed instantly.

Amren and Nesta were gone within a few heartbeats to go tinker with the magical trove of objects kept within the Hewn City—to give Nesta the opportunity to ‘practice’ fixing the wall, whatever that meant. Azriel still had no idea exactly what it entailed, but Amren was insistent, so he didn’t argue the point any longer.

The crowd began milling about in earnest, and Rhys curled a solitary finger at Keir and said, “The council room. Ten minutes.”

Keir’s eyes narrowed to slits at the order, and his face paled a bit.

Mor’s expression gave nothing away, though Azriel knew her well enough to know that she was in complete turmoil, as her mother stood next to Keir as well. Still, she remained stone-faced and emotionless. These people were strangers to her at best, enemies to her at worst.

Azriel’s heart lurched into his throat, his nerves completely shot and useless. His lungs, he was positive, had left the mountain altogether. It was an effort of epic proportions to keep his steps smooth and unhurried after Rhys offered Feyre a hand and they rose from the throne, and Azriel and Mor followed them to the council room.

Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe. Azriel carried the words with him with every step he took.

He had been in this council chamber more times than he cared to count, and still, Azriel could concentrate on none of it. Not the tall domed ceiling, or the gargantuan black glass table in the center of the room.

He walked in a daze as Rhys took the seat at the head of the table, and Feyre the seat at the opposite end. There were two chairs apiece on each side of the table. Mor unthinkingly claimed one, and Azriel took the one next to her. Keir took one on the opposite side, leaving the one next to him empty.

Only Azriel and Rhys knew who that seat was for.

f*ck, the pull was overwhelming— like nothing Azriel had ever experienced. Eris was close, Azriel could tell, just from how much his body burned with the need to seek him out. He was very close—close enough that Azriel could smell him, could practically taste him on his tongue. His fingers itched to feel him—

Stop, stop, stop, they mustn’t know, they mustn’t know, his shadows whispered as they swirled around him.

Azriel reigned in his wild emotions, pinning them all into that hard knot in his chest—the one that felt ready to burst out at any given moment, the one that had felt like the heaviest weight for the past day.

Rhys leaned back in his chair lazily, swirling the wine that had been served moments ago.

“I know why you’re here,” Keir said. No prelude, no pretense. He cut through the bullsh*t and went straight for the throat.

It didn't, however, phase Rhys. “Oh?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Keir surveyed all of them with disdain. “Hybern is swarming. Your legions—” he cast a sneer in Azriel’s direction, at the Illyrians he represented “—are gathering.” He steepled his fingers atop the dark glass table. “You mean to ask for my Darkbringers to join your army.”

Azriel’s stomach clenched; the further they careened down this path, the more Azriel felt like he could hear the very fabric of their little family tearing more and more.

Rhys merely sipped from his wine. “Well, at least you’ve spared me the effort of dancing around the subject.”

Keir boldly held Rhys’ gaze—unblinking. “I will confess that I find myself… sympathetic to Hybern’s cause.”

What the f*ck? Azriel was glad he had centuries of practice down here at reigning in his emotions. Is he f*cking kidding? Azriel pinned Keir with an icy stare that promised a long, slow destruction. Mor shifted in her seat.

“You would not be the only one,” Rhys countered slyly.

Keir frowned up at the faelights dancing in the chandelier above them. “There are many similarities between Hybern’s people and my own,” he said casually—observantly. “Both of us trapped—stagnant.”

Azriel’s rage was close to boiling over. Is this asshole kidding?

But it was Mor who cut in. “Last I checked, you have been free to do as you wish for centuries. Longer.”

Keir didn’t even look at her, didn’t even acknowledge that his daughter had spoken. Azriel’s white hot rage was an uncontrollable tempest, ready to do his bidding as his siphons glowed and burned. “Ah, but are we free here?” Keir mused. “Not even the entirety of this mountain belongs to us—not with your palace atop it.”

“ All of this belongs to me, I’ll remind you,” Rhys responded coolly.

Keir nodded a bit. “It’s that mentality that allows me to find Hybern’s stifled people to be… kindred spirits.”

“You want the palace upstairs, Keir, then it’s yours,” Rhys replied, crossing his legs elegantly. “I didn’t know you were lusting after it for so long.”

Keir’s answering snakelike smile set Azriel’s teeth on edge. “You must need an army rather desperately, Rhysand.” His hateful eyes once again fell to Azriel. “Are the overgrown bats not up to snuff anymore?”

“Come train with them and you’ll learn for yourself,” Azriel responded in a lethally soft voice.

Keir only sneered back, earning himself a hateful glare from his daughter.

“I have no doubt,” Rhys cut in, his voice bored, “that you’ve already decided upon your asking price.”

Keir’s eyes fell upon Feyre then, and he looked—too long. “I did.”

Wrong move, asshole, Azriel thought to himself as Rhys’ dark power filled the room, setting the chandelier to tinkling and the very rock itself rumbling. “Tread carefully, Keir.”

Keir only smiled—a touch too bold for Azriel’s liking. “What would you give me for a shot at this war, Rhysand? You whor*d yourself to Amarantha—but what about your mate?”

Entirely too bold, Azriel thought wickedly, as nothing but cold death filled Rhys’ face as he spoke, rumbling darkness gathering behind his chair. “The bargain our ancestors struck grants you the right to choose how and when your army assists my own. But it does not grant you the right to keep your life, Keir, when I grow tired of your existence.”

Just as Azriel anticipated the surge of cold bloodlust—that wanton need for pain and destruction , the kind of enjoyment only the screams of agony could bring—he was knocked breathless by an entirely different kind of wanting.

Raw desire surged through him, the pull pounding through his veins like liquid fire pooling in that ball of gathered crystallized something buried within his chest—within his soul.

He comes now, he comes, prepare, prepare, prepare, his shadows whispered to him.

Azriel suppressed his shock, suppressed his shudder, suppressed his relief , and his joy , and his terror.

Deep marks gouged into the table by invisible claws—a show, for Keir’s benefit, from Rhys.

Azriel’s blood felt like it was boiling in his body, his bones melting and his muscles turned to weak pliant mush. He was so godsdamned close , Azriel could taste him . It was driving him absolutely mad.

“But I thought you might be… hesitant to assist me,” Rhys went on calmly. He snapped his fingers. “Bring him in.”

You are ready, his shadows whispered.

The door opened of its own accord—

—and the heavy ball in Azriel’s chest exploded into the most brilliant white light, a million filaments of blinding shining light that filled every space in Azriel’s soul, including the ones he had always thought too broken, too scarred, too monstrous. Every single space was touched by it, consumed by it, as his eyes finally met Eris’.

The strands began to wrap, twisting together until they had tangled and reached and he saw them twining together with Eris’—forming a solid tether, layer by layer, strand by strand, as he took each step to his seat.

Gods , his scent. It hit Azriel fully then, as the bond snapped into place, and it was sublime— it was transcendental in the way it snared Azriel with a heady desire, pooling it low, almost feral inside of him . Azriel didn’t know how he’d sit through this meeting with it in his nose and not do anything—not say anything. His mouth watered as it washed through him, that perfect white rope of light snapping into place, leading to him , leading him home. That mixture of oak wood and cinnamon, the sight of all that unbound red hair as it gleamed under the faelights— f*ck, Azriel’s fingers curled into fists as they itched to plunge into that hair—

As much as I’m enjoying this absolute assault on my senses— Azriel nearly let a small gasp escape as Eris’ voice came down the bond, so perfect and clear now that it was in place as it was meant to be — do try to reign it in, Azriel. At least a little. f*cking hell. A laugh shimmered down the bond, sending jolts like lightning zipping through Azriel’s bloodstream. Just take a breath. It’s a lot, I know. Just… breathe.

Rhys remained the picture of casual calm as he sipped his wine, unaware of the ground that had shattered beneath Azriel’s feet just then, how his life had completely changed course in a matter of moments. “Welcome back, Eris,” he drawled. “It’s been what—five centuries since you last set foot in here?”

Mor’s eyes went from dread at Eris’ arrival… to hurt and betrayal at Rhys’ casual welcome of him to the meeting. Azriel’s stomach turned sour just a bit—he had predicted this. He knew this was coming.

He couldn’t keep his eyes from Eris for long, though he at least fashioned them into a mask of cool disdain for the benefit of the room. His mate took the seat on the opposite side of the table—the one next to Keir. Azriel’s stomach sunk.

Appearances and masks, Azriel, he said down the bond. Don’t forget that. We have roles to play, just here. Just for this. We can do this.

I hate this, Azriel responded with vehemence. We belong on the same side. We belong together.

I know, Eris replied wistfully. I know.

“It has indeed been a while,” Eris replied to Rhys, not even acknowledging Keir.

Do they suspect? Azriel whispered to his shadows.

They were quick to answer. No. Azriel relaxed just a bit. His body still burned with need, with hunger, with raging desire that he had never felt—

“You once wanted to build ties to Autumn, Keir,” Rhys said, setting down his goblet of wine. “Well, here’s your chance. Eris is willing to offer you a formal alliance—in exchange for your services in this war.”

Offer him nothing you value, Eris, Azriel speared down the bond. Keir is a snake. I can’t stand the thought of you having to work with him at all. If I had known—

Oh, don’t worry about me. I can definitely handle a weasel like Keir, shadowsinger. Azriel’s mental chuckle at the nickname sparkled down the bond.

Keir simply leaned back in his chair, considering. “It is not enough.”

Asshole, Azriel and Eris both mentally muttered at the exact same time.

Eris snorted out loud, pouring himself a goblet of wine from the decanter on the table. “I’d forgotten why I was so relieved when our bargain fell apart the last time.”

Rhys shot Eris a warning look, but Eris just drank from his goblet, ignoring it.

“What is it that you want, then, Keir?” Rhys’ voice was a taunting purr.

f*ck, Azriel realized, connecting the dots from their earlier conversation. f*ck. No.

What is it? Eris’ tone was one of concern.

Velaris. He wants access to Velaris. sh*t. sh*t sh*t sh*t.

“I want out. I want space. I want my people to be free of this mountain,” Keir said simply.

“You have every comfort,” Feyre countered. “And yet it is not enough?”

Of course, Keir ignored her, as he ignored all women. The arrogant bastard. “You have been keeping secrets, High Lord,” he crooned with a hateful grin, steepling his fingers once more on the snarled table. “I always wondered—where all of you went when you weren’t here. Hybern answered the question at last—thanks to the attack on… what is its name? Velaris. Yes. On Velaris. The City of Starlight.”

Azriel wanted to rip the filthy bastard's throat out. Mor had gone completely still next to him; he was taunting her, and enjoying it.

“I want access to the city,” Keir said. “For me, and my Court.”

“No,” Mor answered, the word echoing and bouncing through the room. But it wasn’t her decision to make, and Rhys…

Rhys was not objecting. He was not refusing. Azriel could’ve cursed his brother out right then and there. Too f*cking high a price, brother! he raged internally. Stop paying such prices just to win godsdamned wars! We’ll find another damn way!

The tension in the room could’ve been cut with the thinnest of wires. Feyre’s face was filled with the same unbridled fury that Azriel now held in check in his own roiling thoughts—only hers played out across her face as her eyes went out of focus. A silent conversation between mates—an argument, Azriel was sure.

“There would be conditions,” Rhys said simply after a few long moments.

Azriel nearly choked on his own anger. Mor opened her mouth to speak again, but Azriel laid his hand—his scarred, brutalized hand—atop hers to stop her. There was nothing either of them could do, not in this.

Mor snatched her hand away from him as if he’d burned her. Burned her. Azriel sat there, his eyes burning and throat tight, and felt himself sinking into that cold place of dark solitude, the one he’d emerged from at age eleven—wreathed in shadows that he had tamed and learned to speak with. That was his place, and he was a fool for ever believing different. f*ck his brother and his lofty belief in paying any price for victory—Rhysand never ended up being the one to pay it. More often than not, Azriel ended up paying it, as he paid it now—

That’s enough. The words were laced with anger, but also warmth—with fire and joy and light that raced down the bond and flowed into Azriel’s cold body. He looked up at Eris then, who chuckled softly at him—at Mor’s rejection of him, for show. That is enough , Azriel. Eris’ voice was insistent, but gentle. You do not belong there any more. That is enough. I will not sit here and let you rip yourself apart like this. Not anymore.

He didn’t tell me about this, Azriel’s reply was laced with every bit of betrayal and rage he felt but couldn’t express outwardly. He filled his gaze with icy rage and cast it at his mate across the table—when he wanted to cast it to his left, to his own brother. I knew he met with the Palace Governors, but— How could he? I don’t— I barely have a home, but Velaris —

Your home is with me, Azriel. Eris dipped his head, just slightly, at Azriel from across the table. You will always have a home. Your home is with me.

Azriel’s heart swelled at the words, and it took everything he had to keep his face stony and his eyes dry.

“I want unrestricted access,” Keir said to Rhys. Azriel nearly flinched at the thought.

“You will not get it,” Rhys replied, thankfully. “There will be limited stays, limited numbers allowed in. To be decided later.”

Mor turned to Rhys then, her eyes pleading. Begging. Azriel knew it was a useless gesture. Rhys had set them on this course—and coerced Azriel into helping.

Keir finally looked upon his daughter—her anger, her despair, her agony. And the bastard smiled.

Don’t. It was only Eris’ voice that kept Azriel glued to his chair. We’re almost done, Azriel. It’s not worth it. Don’t do it.

He doesn’t even want to get out of here, Azriel snarled back. He doesn’t give a sh*t about getting out of this mountain. He only cares about torturing her.

You’re absolutely right, but killing him now means everything falls apart. The alliance, the war, all of it. A long pause. Please. His voice was pleading now. I only just found you. I need us to both make it through this alive. We have a life to live together after this, and I want all of it, Azriel.

Azriel ground his teeth together, staring the haughty male across from him down with icy wrath, his nails digging into the arms of his chair.

Please , Azriel. We’re so close.

Warmth surged through Azriel’s body—as if he sat before a warm fire himself. The ghost of warm, soft lips brushing his ear, whispering the words—the sensation shot down the bond like lightning, igniting every nerve, battling for dominance in his body with the warring rage seeping through like sludge.

“Done.” The single word from Rhys’ lips seemed to sting Azriel’s flesh, a note of finality—a point of no return.

Breathe, Eris repeated down the bond, his eyes on Keir but his attention wholly focused inward—on Azriel. He dumped so much warmth and light down the bond to smother the wrath and darkness that Azriel barely felt the numbness that tried to creep in—tried, and failed. His nerves felt like molten fire, his skin like it glowed with radiant light. Just breathe, he repeated—and Azriel’s body obeyed, tugging long breaths in, and exhaling the anger out, bit by aching bit. Breathe for me. Just breathe.

“There is one more thing,” Feyre ground out, her voice cold. “One more request.”

Azriel was surprised when Keir actually acknowledged her. “Oh?”

“I have need of the Ouroboros mirror,” Feyre said icily. “Immediately.”

Eris’ rebounding shock down the bond was sharp and jarring. Did you know about this?

No. Azriel searched his frazzled memories—all of the information he had taken in over the past day. Well, partly. I knew she sought an item from Keir, but not what it was. Why? What is the Ouroboros mirror?

Both Keir and Mor grew suddenly much more interested in Feyre’s request. Eris didn’t respond down the bond, his face one of boredom, but his eyes glued to Keir.

“Who told you that I have it?” Keir asked quietly. Was that… surprise in his voice?

“Does it matter?” Feyre snapped back. “I want it.”

“Do you even know what the Ouroboros is ?”

“Consider your tone, Keir.” A soft warning from Rhys.

A momentary pause, until Keir leaned forward just slightly, bracing his arms on the glass table. “The mirror…” A small huffed laugh under his breath. “Consider it my mating present,” he said with a venomous croon. “If you can take it.”

f*ck. f*ck f*ck f*ck—

Eris. What is the Ouroboros mirror?

He didn’t answer, still riding the edge of concern as Feyre asked, “What do you mean?”

But Keir pushed away from the table, getting to his feet, his smirk one of a hunter with his prey in his sights. “To take the Ouroboros, to claim it, you must first look into it.” He breezed toward the door. “And everyone who has attempted to do so has either gone mad or been broken beyond repair. Even a High Lord or two, if legend is true.” He shrugged casually—carelessly. “So it is yours, if you dare to face it.”

What the f*ck? Azriel practically shouted down the bond.

Keir paused on the threshold as the doors opened of their own accord once more. To Rhys, he said, “Lord Thanatos is having… difficulties with his daughter again. He requires my assistance.” Rhys waved a lazy hand. As close to dismissal as he’d get.

Keir jerked his chin toward Eris. “I will wish to speak with you—soon.”

Azriel seethed at the implication—at the thought of this arrogant asshole getting absolutely anything from his mate. He deserved nothing— not Eris’ attention, his assistance, his armies, his goods, nothing.

If it’s the cost of helping to keep you alive in this disastrous affair, then I’ll gladly pay it, Azriel. Azriel took one long, deep breath as Eris merely sipped his wine and Keir left the room. A heavy silence hung in the air. His next words down the bond nearly made Azriel flinch. This part will be… hard.

I know. Azriel hated it. Hated the hint of self-hatred tinging his voice. Masks, Eris. Masks and roles, that’s all. I’d still choose you. Every time.

I’m the villain in their story. Unfortunately, we can’t change that right now if we want to win this war. You need Autumn, and it won’t happen if I pull off the mask now.

I know, Azriel repeated, steeling himself.

Eris set down his goblet, the perfect picture of smug arrogance, as he said, “You look well, Mor.”

“You don’t speak to her,” Azriel forced himself to bite out softly.

Eris threw him a bitter smile. “I see you’re still holding a grudge.”

“This arrangement, Eris, relies solely on you keeping your mouth shut,” Rhys cut in smoothly.

Eris huffed out a short laugh. “And haven’t I done an excellent job? Not even my father suspected when I left tonight.” His voice was filled with such icy vitriol, his expression so self-satisfied—it was a battle for Azriel to match the effort he was putting into the show, into the performative effort.

Feyre’s face was both curious and furious as she glanced between her own mate and Azriel’s as she asked, “How did this come about?”

“You didn’t think that I knew your shadowsinger would come sniffing around to see if I’d told my father about your… powers?” He huffed a laugh. “Especially after my brothers so mysteriously forgot about them, too. I knew it was a matter of time before one of you arrived to take care of my memory as well.”

Alarm shot through Azriel. Rhys had done this? And sent Azriel on essentially a wild goose chase—to see if Eris knew, if Beron knew? Had he planned to do the same thing to—

Yes. He did. He couldn’t get to me in time. The answer to Azriel’s question—

Eris tapped the side of his forehead. “Too bad for you, I learned a thing or two about daemati. Too bad for my brothers that I never bothered to teach them.”

What do you mean he couldn’t get to you in time? A silent revelation played across Feyre’s face, but no answer came from Eris down the bond. Eris—

My father had already gotten his hands on me. To— punish me.

Azriel recalled the bits and pieces that had barreled through him in Amren’s loft—the pain, the anguish, the grief.

Yes. Eris’ answer was soft. An acceptance of a fate he had long ago considered his. Azriel bit down on the rage that turned his stomach to acid, that willed his hands to tear out Beron’s f*cking throat.

“Of course I didn’t tell my father,” Eris continued out loud, casual as ever, drinking from his goblet once more—Azriel was impressed with his ability to play his part in this. He did it incredibly well. Azriel’s own efforts paled in comparison. “Why waste that sort of information on the bastard? His answer would be to hunt you down and kill you—not realizing how much sh*t we’re in with Hybern and that you might be the key to stopping it.”

“So he plans to join us, then,” Rhys said. A statement, but a probing one.

“Not if he learns about your little secret,” Eris responded with a smirk.

Mor’s face—devastated with hurt and betrayal—began to dawn with understanding now. “So what’s the asking price, Eris?” she asked, leaning forward. Azriel braced himself—these would be the most difficult waters to wade through, he knew. Mor. “Another little bride for you to torture?”

Eris’ eyes flickered for just a moment with the male underneath—the real one. Azriel’s alarm was almost palpable. But Eris recovered quickly, pivoting with a vicious calm as he said, “I don’t know who fed you those lies to begin with, Morrigan. Likely the bastards you surround yourself with.” He sneered directly at Azriel.

Azriel couldn’t bring himself to do anything back—all of it felt wrong. The masks, the roles, the opposite sides of this f*cking table they sat on, the distaste and sneers and icy stares—

Mor snarled back at him, “You never gave any evidence to the contrary. Certainly not when you left me in those woods.”

You have to do more, Azriel. Azriel wanted to wither under those words, but he knew Eris was right. He had sat here stone-faced for most of this meeting, and it was beginning to become obvious. I know this isn’t— I’m so sorry. Eris’ voice down the bond nearly broke on the words. I’m so sorry, Azriel. I hate myself for asking it of you. But you have to do more. You have to play the role. Please.

“There were forces at work that you have never considered,” Eris responded to Mor coldly out loud, a touch of the pain from his mental words to Azriel leaking into his tone. “And I am not going to waste my breath explaining them to you. Believe what you want about me.”

Azriel hated the sound of that one sentence slipping from his lips.

“You hunted me down like an animal,” Feyre cut in. “I think we’ll choose to believe the worst.”

The villain, Azriel thought to himself. He really was the villain in their story.

Eris’ face flushed, both from Feyre’s words and Azriel’s thought. “I was given an order. And sent to do it with two of my… brothers.”

“And what of the brother you hunted down alongside me?” Feyre asked. “The one whose lover you helped to execute before his eyes.”

Enough, Azriel wanted to scream. It was enough. They tore into Eris like they were starving and he, a buffet.

Eris slammed a hand flat down on the table. “You know nothing about what happened that day. Nothing. ”

Eris. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Steady anguish flowed down the bond from Eris and he didn’t respond. Eris. Nothing.

“Indulge me,” Feyre said simply.

You owe her nothing, Azriel said to him, his tone savage and protective. But Eris stared down Azriel’s High Lady—and she stared right back. Two forces that refused to balk. You owe them nothing , Eris—

“How do you think he made it to the Spring border,” Eris said quietly. “I wasn’t there—when they did it. Ask him. I refused. It was the first and only time I refused my father anything. He punished me.”

Azriel’s emotions swirled like a riptide within him—shock, rage, sympathy, all of it guided by the inexorable pull that he could feel pulsing in his ears, in tune with his heart, a steady beat commanding him, guiding him home.

“And by the time I got free…” Eris continued, his face confirming what Azriel had long suspected—he cared for Lucien. He’d saved his life. And by keeping him at arm's length—keeping him away from Autumn, away from Beron—he knew he kept him alive. “They were going to kill him, too. I made sure they didn’t. Made sure Tamlin got word—anonymously—to get the hell over to his own border.” He picked at the cuff of his jacket, averting the eyes that Azriel knew were lined silver with tears. “Not all of us were so lucky in our friends and family as you, Rhysand.”

Azriel’s soul ached for his mate—for the sh*t hand of cards he’d been dealt in life.

Not to worry, shadowsinger. I feel like my luck might be turning around after all.

Azriel’s chest swelled with pride—for Eris’ resilience, for his persistence, for his willingness to do what needed to be done, even when he had to do it from the shadows and take no credit—

Much like someone else I know, Eris said with a hint of his own pride.

“It would seem so,” Rhys replied to Eris, his voice bored and unamused. Azriel bristled—how his brother remained unmoved, uncaring—

He’s protecting his Court, Azriel. At whatever cost.

He’s being a first rate asshole about it. About all of it.

That may be true. But you may also be extremely biased at the moment—

“What is the asking price,” Feyre repeated Mor’s question.

“The same thing I told Azriel when I found him snooping through my father’s woods yesterday,” Eris replied. Azriel shivered at the sound of his own name on Eris’ lips—

Mor’s head whipped around to glare at Azriel, and he steeled his face into stone—unflappable and unyielding. He didn’t acknowledge her at all, instead keeping his eyes on Eris—on his mate.

Do it, Eris said gently down the bond. Put everything you can into it. I will have centuries more to say your name, to worship your body, to keep you warm, to be your home . It’s okay. We have time. This is nothing, this is a few moments compared to the entire lifetime we will have, Azriel. It’s okay. He nodded, just barely—the smallest dip of his head at Azriel that no one saw.

Azriel willed his voice into icy resolve as he announced, “When the time comes… we are to support Eris’ bid to take the throne.”

Eris’ face paled—the knowledge finally made public that he intended to oust his own father. But he recovered quickly as he said, “The request still stands, Rhysand, to just kill my father and be done with it. I can pledge troops right now.”

Feyre looked absolutely gobsmacked at the casualness with which he spoke of outright assassination of his own High Lord. Azriel tried to imagine it—Eris, as High Lord of the Autumn Court. His mate. A High Lord . Where would it leave Azriel?

But the second he asked himself the question, he already knew the answer—

“Tempting, but too messy,” Rhys replied to Eris. “Beron sided with us in the War. Hopefully he’ll sway that way again.”

“He will,” Eris promised, elegantly running one finger down a gouge in the table in front of him. “And will remain blissfully unaware of Feyre’s… gifts.”

“Promise Keir nothing you care about,” Rhys told him, waving his hand. A dismissal.

Eris rose gracefully to his feet. “We’ll see,” he said simply. Azriel willed every ounce of resolve he could muster into his veins and his voice as Eris drained his wine and cast a cursory glance over Mor. “I’m surprised you still can’t control yourself around him. You had every emotion written right on that pretty face of yours.”

“Watch it,” Azriel growled the low warning.

Eris looked between Azriel and Mor, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “I wouldn’t have touched you,” he said to Mor, her face pale and wrathful. “But when you f*cked that other bastard—” Vicious snarls ripped from both Rhys and Feyre’s throats. “I knew why you did it.” Mor shrunk into her chair, and Azriel had the sneaking suspicion he didn’t know all the details about what had happened that day. That maybe Mor did . “So I gave you your freedom, ending the betrothal in no uncertain terms.”

“ And what happened next? ” Azriel asked, forcing his voice into a savage snarl.

He almost instantly regretted it as the ghost of a shadow passed over Eris’ face. “There are few things I regret. That is one of them. But… perhaps one day, now that we are allies, I shall tell you why. What it cost me.”

“I don’t give a sh*t,” Mor answered, her voice quiet—broken. She’d given up. She pointed at the door. “Get out.”

Eris sketched a bow. “See you at the meeting in twelve days.” And he headed for the door.

Azriel lunged for the white rope of light, that tether binding him to his mate. Eris—

Don’t worry. I won’t be far.

And he left the room, the door closing behind him—the distance between them—like poison in Azriel’s veins.

Eris didn’t stay within the Hewn City. He couldn’t stand the gaudy decadence of the place—the way the stone pressed in on him, the smell…

No, he’d barely taken two steps beyond the closed doors of the council room behind him before winnowing away from the Hewn f*cking City—

—and directly to Velaris. To the rooftop of a modest apartment building. He chased Azriel’s dizzying scent of night-chilled mist and cedar clear across the Night Court all the way to this exact spot—with astonishing accuracy.

Eris braced his hands on his knees, releasing the shaking breaths he had held in, releasing the volcanic eruption of emotions, releasing the tension, releasing all of it.

Panic surged down the bond from Azriel as he frantically grappled for that white tether of solid light binding them together. f*ck, he was unraveling , and Eris had been forced to leave him there, however momentarily.

I’m still here, Azriel, Eris cast down the bond—now perfectly settled into place. I’m not far, I promise. I am not leaving. I will not leave without you. Ever.

Where did you go? His voice was both exhausted and petrified, and it nearly broke Eris entirely. He had mustered every ounce of his willpower to master a casual swagger out of that godsdamned council chamber without scooping his mate into his arms and carrying Azriel out of there with him.

It was too much— too much to ask of him. It had been overwhelming , the moment that unwieldy ball of exploding light in Eris’ chest—reaching in every direction—had suddenly and with harrowing force begun to spiral and swirl, like a vacuum of light, twining and twisting and reaching toward the light exploding from Azriel until a solid tether had braided itself together. Their light—tangled together, inexorably enmeshed for all of time. That was why the light had felt like all force with no direction, Eris had realized in that moment. It had been waiting—for him.

Eris cleared his head enough to straighten his spine, looking around so he could answer Azriel’s question. I don’t really know, actually. The roof of some apartment building, I think, close to a river.

A pause, then a faint glimmer of amusem*nt from Azriel sparkled down the bond. Eris could’ve died; it was so much better than the dread from moments earlier. That would be my apartment. How did you find it?

I followed your scent. It’s… Eris dragged his hand through his unbound red hair, disheveled and tangled. … strong, to me. Now that the bond is in place. Staggeringly strong. Eris’ senses lit up as he recalled how he’d spent the past hour drowning in that scent, and he didn’t bite down on the powerful shiver that rolled down his spine.

A sharpened sense of arousal speared down the bond, and it only pushed Eris further into that wild space of hungry need. Will you stay? Wait for me? Azriel’s words were hesitant. Even after all they’d already been through this unbearably long evening… he still doubted.

I’m not leaving, Azriel. I’ll wait as long as I need to.

It might be a while—

I don’t give a damn. I will wait. For you, I will always wait.

A long weighted silence filled with such heartbreaking appreciation from his mate—like Azriel truly believed he would never deserve something as simple as someone who would wait up for him. It hit Eris worse than Cassian’s sword in his gut had. There’s a green door there, Azriel finally said. I never lock it. The stairs will take you down into my apartment. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

Eris turned his head, spotting the door. Azriel?

Yes?

You did well tonight. I’m sorry you had to do it at all, but… you did well. The echoing exhaustion was heavy; Eris ground his teeth, fighting the urge to tell him to f*ck all the others and come home, to put himself first for a change.

Eris trudged toward the green door. I’ll be here. Just… He hesitated, his hand hovering on the worn brass knob of the door. Just come home soon, okay? Another shiver ran down Eris’ spine as he opened the door, Azriel’s scent pouring out of the dark narrow passageway beyond and slamming into his senses like a tidal wave, cascading through him, urging the pull into a near-frenzied hunt, almost ripping his resolve entirely to pieces. I’ve had a good while to think about this—this night. With you. He took each step, desire pouring through every single inch of his body, pounding with the rush of the fire in his veins. He could feel Azriel’s shaking breaths, his racing heart, in response as it shivered down that exquisite rope of brilliant white light bonding them together—forever. We may have all of time together to look forward to, but make no mistake, Azriel— Eris reached the bottom of the stairs — I do not intend to waste one single second of the time I get with you. Emerging in the small apartment, swimming in Azriel’s scent, Eris paused for a moment—just a brief moment, letting himself be pulled under that sea of cedar and dark winds and fresh snow. I do intend to have you—completely and entirely—undone and unraveled, repeatedly, in my hands, in my mouth, on my co*ck, on every surface I can take you. Mine. And with that, Eris unleashed every bit of deepest darkest want pent up inside of him down that tether between them without a single ounce of restraint.

Azriel’s responding frenzied borderline feral lust met Eris’ exquisitely— a war of shadows and fire, barreling into each other with dominance and desire, prepared to banish centuries of loneliness and chase away the sting of so many rejections and broken promises. This—this was what he’d been missing, Eris realized. This was what had made it all worth it. He’d do it all over again, every single second of it, to get to this outcome.

I’ll see you soon, chosen one. Azriel’s voice was a breathy whisper—a plea, a promise of what was to come.

I’ll be waiting, shadowsinger.

Chapter 8: Eight

Chapter Text

“Az, find Amren and Nesta and see if they’re ready to leave. I think we’re done here.” Rhys’ voice sounded too loud in the suddenly quiet council chamber—too jarring.

Azriel barely heard him. He was digging deep within himself, mentally and frantically struggling to find some sort of purchase on that tether of whitest light leading him to Eris. He had been just there—just on the other side of the door, and then nothing. A flood of panic had taken over so quickly, a surge so primal and instinctual that it had Azriel nearly crawling out of his skin—

I’m still here, Azriel.

“Az?”

I’m not far, I promise. I am not leaving. I will not leave without you. Ever. Azriel’s tension eased as Eris’ voice washed through him, but only slightly. His mind raced with everything that had just happened, everything that had just been revealed—all the questions that swirled like an uncontrollable vortex through him, one after another after another.

He felt… tired. Azriel had never been more exhausted in his long life, never felt more drained. But at the same time…

He’d never felt more alive.

“Azriel.” Rhys’ voice was stern and uncompromising. Azriel’s eyes were hard as they snapped to Rhys’ penetrating violet gaze—now cast upon him like a commander, not a friend. Not a brother. “Find Amren and Nesta. Now.” His eyes slid to Mor, who sat beside Azriel vacant-eyed and still as death. “Mor. Go with him.” His words were clipped and unkind.

Azriel rose quickly from his seat and took quick hurried steps toward the door. Mor did not follow. Azriel turned to look back at her, Rhys’ eyes still on her.

“Mor.” Rhys gentled his voice a fraction, but when Mor’s eyes finally snapped to him, they were an icy glare, her brows pinched together hard and unbending.

“I’ll go,” Azriel supplied. “It’s fine.” He turned for the doors, which opened on a ghost wind for him and closed silently behind him. He paused just outside of them, his wings restless and shadows twining around him.

Where did you go? Azriel could barely get the words out down the bond—the pull was enormous, too big to fit inside of his body, it felt like. The instinctual need to seek out Eris was overriding everything else—overriding even his anger with Rhys, his overwhelming exhaustion, everything. His body shook with it, his mind raced with it, his very soul chanted it to him: go go go.

I don’t really know, actually. The roof of some apartment building, I think, close to a river. Surprise rippled through Azriel. He knew exactly where Eris had gone.

He cast a cursory glance over both shoulders, ensuring the hallway was empty, before he let the small half smile slip across his face as he headed toward the throne room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled out of joy in this wretched place. That would be my apartment. How did you find it?

His steps were purposeful as Eris’ response came. I followed your scent. It’s… A long, heavy pause—a twinge of desire. …strong, to me. Now that the bond is in place. Staggeringly strong. What had been a small twinge turned quickly to a rising tide of arousal that shot down Azriel’s spine. He fumbled a step, his wings flaring as he nearly lost his balance.

Azriel asked his next question hesitantly. He’d never asked it of anyone before, and though Eris had already said he wouldn’t leave, none of it felt real. Everything had happened so quickly and under so much heavy cover that he felt… uncertain. Will you stay? Wait for me? He felt like an idiot as soon as the words escaped him in thought. Wait for him. Him—an Illyrian bastard. Eris—a High Fae heir, practically godsdamn royalty. Of course he wouldn’t—

I’m not leaving, Azriel. I’ll wait as long as I need to.

Azriel felt dumbstruck. It might be a while—

I don’t give a damn. I will wait. For you, I will always wait.

Azriel clenched his eyes shut, heat flooding his cheeks and his throat tight. He’d never understand what fluke occurred to pair such a person with him, but he’d praise the Mother for it every f*cking day for the rest of his life, as long as he lived, that it had happened this way. There’s a green door there, Azriel told him after a long moment. I never lock it. The stairs will take you down into my apartment. I’ll be there as soon as I can. His steps quickened as he tried to picture it: Eris, in his sparse kitchen. Eris, in his pitiful living room. Eris in his bedroom. Eris—the Heir of Fire—in his bed.

Azriel?

Yes?

You did well tonight. I’m sorry you had to do it at all, but… you did well. Azriel’s chest swelled with pride. He thinks I did well. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had told him that without it sounding… perfunctory. He wound through the dimly lit hallways, nearly to the throne room.

I’ll be here, Eris said eventually, his anticipatory arousal ratcheting higher by the second, cresting higher and higher. Just… He hesitated, and Azriel held his breath, his eyes wide and his steps stalling again—frozen in an empty hallway. Just come home soon, okay? Azriel nodded, as if Eris could see it. He willed his steps forward—

Until an avalanche of electrifying desire shot down the bond and went straight through him like an arrow, his brain short-circuiting and his breath quickening. I’ve had a good while to think about this—this night. With you. Eris’ voice was deep and demanding as it wound through Azriel’s mind, every syllable as if it stripped him bare right where he stood. Azriel’s eyes fluttered, half-hooded now, lost in the the fog of lecherous bolts of primal need that pounded through him in waves, each one throbbing with every step that Eris took down the dark passageway that Azriel had walked a thousand times into his own apartment. We may have all of time together to look forward to, but make no mistake, Azriel, I do not intend to waste one single second of the time I get with you. Azriel’s mouth hung open as Eris let down every single defense he had so carefully constructed for their ruse this evening and it was like being hit with a torrent of his hunger that he had so clearly held in check the entire time. I do intend to have you—completely and entirely—undone and unraveled, repeatedly, in my hands, in my mouth, on my co*ck, on every surface I can take you. Mine. The words—the absolute feral way in which Eris said them—combined with the way he unwittingly sent down the bond all the things he fully intended to do to Azriel the very second he arrived home had his co*ck throbbing and eager and nearly abandoning everything entirely to get to it immediately. His desire was out of control—a war of shadows and fire bathed in pure white light that thrilled him in the best way.

He reigned himself in, remembering that Rhys and Feyre waited for him, that Mor was falling apart, that Amren and Nesta quite possibly had revelations of their own. That the world continued on around him.

I’ll see you soon, chosen one. He could barely manage the words—they came out a breathy rasp, laced with hardly-restrained longing.

I’ll be waiting, shadowsinger. Waiting. For him. A thrill of excitement ran through him as he adjusted his absolutely aching co*ck and made it to the throne room, where he found Amren and Nesta, just outside of it. Good. He had no desire to interact with the throng of Nightmare courtiers.

Nesta turned bored eyes upon him, but Amren’s…

Amren’s eyes narrowed, and widened almost immediately. Alarm flared.

Does she know? Azriel asked his shadows. He already knew the answer.

Yes, they whispered back. But not who. We can keep most from scenting the bond, but… A pause. This one is different. She cannot be fooled. This one is different.

Azriel bit down on his fear; she didn’t know who. That was the important part, he supposed.

“Where is Rhysand?” Amren asked, curious eyes boring holes into Azriel.

“The council room. Time to leave,” he ground out through gritted teeth. He did not wait for a reply, and instead turned quickly and led them back the way he came. The click of footsteps behind him told him they followed.

They reached the council room with little trouble, Azriel keenly aware of every shift of his muscles, every twitch of his wings, every tick of his jaw or glint in his eyes. f*ck, he was so tired, certainly tired of playing the game. He wanted nothing more than to go home.

The doors again opened on that same phantom wind and the three of them breezed in. Mor still sat stone-faced and vacant-eyed, her mind probably far, far away from here at this point. Feyre and Rhys seemed to be having a heated conversation down their own mate bond.

Rhys surveyed them all once they were in front of him. “Our business is concluded. I see no reason to linger.” His eyes shifted to Amren. “Are you finished here?”

Amren only smiled like a cat. “I suppose we shall have to be.” She gestured—a signal, that she was fine with leaving as well.

Feyre and Rhys rose from their seats. Mor did not so much as move until Azriel said to Feyre, “The mirror?”

Mor’s eyes snapped to Feyre as she winced and shook her head just slightly. “Not worth the risk. Not tonight. We’ll worry about it another day.”

Azriel nodded as Amren and Nesta moved toward Feyre and Rhys, gripping a hand each. Mor winnowed out without another word, the rest of them following directly after.

Cassian was already in the sitting room with Lucien when they arrived, and was barely halfway to Mor when she whirled on Rhys, her face broken and angry tears seeping from her eyes.

“Why?”

Rhys stared back at her, his face unreadable. It left a bitter taste in Azriel’s mouth, that his brother was all too willing to trade in the peace—the safety—of his own family solely to win a war.

Azriel felt a cold brush on the wall of his mental shields. Rhys—wanting in. Azriel recoiled, but peeled away just enough to let him speak.

Say nothing. Azriel’s anger began to boil once more.

Rhys merely yielded a single step. “Eris found Azriel—our hands were tied. I made the best of it.” He swallowed, his face barely contrite. “I’m sorry.”

The faces of everyone else in the room—frozen and vacant. Azriel assumed Rhys was filling them in, mind to mind. With a lie. Azriel seethed. He had been sent to the Autumn Court, to lure Eris out, to goad him into the f*cking alliance. Rhys had made him part of a lie, and Azriel wasn’t sure why, but… it made a portion of his previously unbreakable loyalty in his brother waver and shake, just a fraction.

Azriel was prepared for what came next, but still had no idea how to react when it finally fell in on him—as Mor’s face whipped to him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He held her gaze without a single wince, without a single restless rustle of his wings. f*ck Rhys for making him a co-conspirator in this. “Because you would have tried to stop it. And we can’t afford to lose Keir’s alliance—and face the threat of Eris.” Lie lie lie. The only thing they really needed was the Darkbringers, and Azriel still felt they could have gone about obtaining them a different way—or done without them altogether.

It had to happen, Az. Keir wouldn’t have helped us any other way, and Beron would have never agreed to ally with him. We had to go through Eris for that, whatever his price, and telling Mor that I sent you there with intent puts us at risk of losing her—and losing control of the Court of Nightmares altogether. Eyes on all the players, brother.

Is that what I am, then, Rhys? Azriel swallowed. Just a player in your game? Your playing with peoples f*cking emotions—

“You’re working with that prick,” Cassian cut in, understanding dawning on his face. The disgust in his eyes speared Azriel straight through the chest. In one swift move, Rhys had managed to turn the only family Azriel had against him. Cassian shook his head in disapproval, moving to Mor’s side and placing a hand on her back. Azriel noted the way she didn’t recoil from Cassian, not the way she’d done from him in the Hewn City. “You should have spiked Eris’ f*cking head to the front gates.”

Azriel bit down on the instant protectiveness that swelled in him—fierce protectiveness over what was his. His mate. This entire situation was quickly spiraling out of his control, but he held his exterior of cool indifference as Lucien crossed his arms, considering. “I have to agree with Cassian. Eris is a snake.”

A snake that saved your f*cking life, Azriel instantly thought, but he held his tongue. Clearly Rhys hadn’t filled him in on that part of the conversation. Of course he wouldn’t; he wouldn’t relay anything that painted Eris in any sort of positive light.

It’s not relevant to our current dilemma. What’s with the sudden sympathy for the Autumn Heir, Az? What happened to ‘f*cking Eris’?

Azriel didn’t respond, instead choosing to harden his features further and guard his thoughts a little closer.

It’s okay, Azriel. Let me be their villian. Eris’ voice down the bond shot alarm bells through every corner of his mind. Stop panicking, f*cking hell. He can’t hear me.

How? Azriel asked immediately, willing his eyes not to dart to his High Lord for signs—whether he could or couldn't.

I don’t know exactly, but if I had to guess… A pause. Daemati delve into the mind. The bond is a connection of the soul. This line—this tether between us—it isn’t a connection of minds that someone like him can pick apart and get to. It’s a connection of two souls.

Azriel didn’t know how to respond to something like that. A connection of the soul. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. He forced me into a lie I didn’t ask to keep.

I know. Eris’ voice was tender—a gentle brush against Azriel’s completely devastated nerves. You’re doing well. Let me be their villian, it’s okay.

We’re supposed to have an alliance—

Alliances are as good as the shallow words they’re formed on, you know this. You’ve been playing Court politics as long as I have.

“Your whole family is despicable,” Amren said to Lucien from where she lingered near Nesta in the archway. “But Eris may prove a better alternative. If he can find a way to kill Beron off and make sure the power shifts to himself.”

“I’m sure he will,” Lucien responded. Azriel nearly paled at the thought. Not just Eris murdering his own High Lord—his own father—but assuming all that power—

Eris’ light laugh sparkled like spring rain down the bond. Don’t you worry, shadowsinger. I have no immediate plans of regicide just yet. His voice was quieter with his next words—more serious. But we both know it has to happen. Eventually.

Azriel’s mind reeled at the thought of it. Where does that— He couldn’t even ask it.

Where does that leave us? Eris supplied for him. I’m not really sure, to be honest. I’ve thought a lot about the day I’ll assume that f*cking throne, what my life will look like as High Lord of Autumn, but… not once did I ever think I’d have anyone to share that life with.

“It’s not about Eris.” Mor’s tearful wobbling words cut straight through Azriel’s heart like daggers. “It’s about here.” She waved her hand, gesturing to the house, the city. “This is my home, and you are going to let Keir destroy it.”

“I took precautions,” Rhys said, almost defensively. “Many of them. Starting with meeting with the governors of the Palaces and getting them to agree never to serve, shelter, or entertain Keir or anyone from the Court of Nightmares.”

Azriel had surmised as much, but still—was it enough? Mor blinked. Cassian’s hand moved to her shoulder and lightly squeezed; she still did not recoil from the touch, and Azriel still replayed again and again the way she had recoiled from his in the Hewn City.

“They have been sending out the word to every business owner in the city,” Rhys continued, “every restaurant, shop, and venue. So Keir and his ilk may come here… but they will not find it a welcoming place. Or one where they can even procure lodgings.”

Mor merely shook her head as she whispered, “He’ll still destroy it.”

Cassian slid his arm around her shoulders, his gaze hard as he studied Rhys—until his eyes slid to Azriel, more distaste brimming there than Az had seen in a long, long time. “You should have warned us.”

“I should have,” Rhys cut in before Azriel had to respond—before he had to react under Cassian’s withering stare. But Rhys did not sound sorry. He did not sound remorseful. He did not sound as if he wished he could take any of it back. Azriel’s siphons glowed as his anger began to crest higher and higher.

He’s protecting his Court, Eris said quietly.

Would you have done it? Azriel asked his mate. Any of it? Would you have done it, were it you in his place?

Eris took a long moment to respond. I’ve never had family that I loved fiercely enough to want to protect like that. And the closest I’ve ever been to it… His mind drifted to Lucien—Azriel could see it, plain as day, through his eyes, through the bond. I don’t know. I can’t say whether I would or wouldn’t have done it. The prices we pay to protect the things we love don’t always make sense.

Azriel was reminded again of those words his shadows had whispered to him. Not every price is paid with gold or steel. Some are paid with the very fire of the soul, and you do not realize how high they were until everything is burned to ash. And you still would have paid it. The words stung his skin now, stung his throat and his eyes and his tongue the longer he turned them over and over in his mind.

Feyre, ever the peacekeeper, finally stepped in. “We’ll set limitations—on when and how often they come.”

Mor just shook her head again, eyes still on Rhys. “If Amarantha were alive…” The words hit everyone in the room like a blow. Too far. It was too far. Azriel could feel the cracks splitting their family further apart. His shadows writhed at the mention of her name. “If she were alive and I offered to work with her—even if it was to save us all—how would you feel?”

Azriel couldn’t believe Mor had stooped to this level—to bring up this. Never. They had never dared to dredge up what Rhys had sacrificed for just shy of fifty years to protect them all. Just the thought of it had even Azriel’s anger toward him washing away like the tide—how could any of them hold anger when he’d done all of that to protect them from her? His shadows gathered in angry bunches around him, uncontrolled and wild.

Feyre approached Rhys, their fingers twining together. “If Amarantha offered us a slim shot at survival,” Rhys said, voice hard and eyes unflinching, “then I would not give a sh*t that she made me f*ck her for all those years.”

Every last one of them flinched, Azriel included. He was half wreathed in shadow, his siphons gleaming and pulsating.

“If Amarantha showed up at that door right now,” Rhys continued in a snarl, his finger pointing toward the foyer, “and said she could buy us a chance at defeating Hybern, at keeping all of you alive, I would thank the f*cking Cauldron.”

Mor shook her head fiercely, angry tears slipping from her eyes again. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Enough. Azriel blasted the word at Rhys, his shadows now a snapping, angry pool of raging darkness around him, half hiding him from sight.

This will break us, Azriel thought, not sure if he sent it down the bond or kept it to himself—the pain overwhelming him. The responding sense of warmth—of comfort—that flowed through him, sent by his mate no doubt, was answer enough.

Amren stepped between the two, both of them towering over her. Her eyes glinted bright. “I kept this unit from breaking for forty-nine years. I am not going to let you rip it to shreds.” She faced Mor, imperiousness in her features. “Working with Keir and Eris is not forgiving them. And when this war is over, I will hunt them down and butcher them with you, if that is what you wish.” Mor said nothing, but Azriel’s sense of wrathful protectiveness surged, a vicious snarl nearly ripping up from his throat. He’d never let it happen. He’d—

Would he fight his own family, if that was what it came down to? The thought brought him to a grinding halt.

“My father will poison this city.”

“I will not allow him to,” Amren responded simply.

Mor did not respond, and Amren now turned to Rhys, who looked— ruined. Rhys looked utterly ruined, in the way that he had laid ruin to all of them. “You’re a sneaky bastard,” Amren said, her tone uncompromising. “You always have been, and likely always will be. But it doesn’t excuse you, boy, from not warning us. Warning her, not where those two monsters are involved. Yes, you made the right call—played it well. But you also played it badly.”

Very f*cking badly, Azriel thought savagely, not caring if Rhys heard it or not. He was tired, agitated, and ready to go home. Not to his apartment—but to who waited for him there.

Shame passed over Rhys’ face, and it satisfied a small part of Azriel’s rabid anger. “I’m sorry.” But the words were for Mor—and Amren. Not for him. Never for him.

Amren assessed them both, and Mor shook her head in an exasperated sort of acceptance.

“This is war,” Feyre said, her voice raw and rough with emotion. “Our allies are few and already don’t trust us.” She looked each of them in the eye, landing on her mate last, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “You all have been to war and back—when I’ve never even set foot on a battlefield. But… I have to imagine that we will not last long if… we cleave apart. From within.”

Precisely what Azriel had been thinking and dreading since they had started uncontrollably careening down this reckless path to begin with. “She’s right,” he said.

Mor wouldn’t meet his eyes—wouldn’t even look at him. The rift between them had grown too wide, something valuable had been broken. Guilt and shame ate away at him, but he weathered it—as he had always been commanded to weather it.

It shouldn’t be your constant burden to bear. Eris’ tender thought wrapped around Azriel like a warm hand, like soft fingers interlaced with his own. He didn’t respond—afraid to break open the dam of words inside of him, to unleash the torrent he barely held back in his achingly tired body, the body that itched every second to leave, to go.

Amren stepped back to Nesta’s side. Cassian looked at Feyre then, asking, “What happened with the mirror?”

Azriel had nearly forgotten about it—the Ouroboros mirror. It seemed like an afterthought. It paled in comparison to the impact of everything else that had happened.

Trust me, shadowsinger, I did not forget about that. No good will come from the mirror. Whoever told your High Lady to seek it out sent her on a fools mission. Eris sounded gravely serious. Azriel made a mental note to ask him more about this damn mirror later—whenever he got out of this hellscape.

Feyre shook her head. “Keir says it’s mine, if I dare to take it. Apparently, what you see inside will break you—or drive you insane. No one’s ever walked away from it.”

Cassian swore bluntly.

“Exactly,” Feyre said.

It’s true, Eris echoed. That much, I do know. That mirror is a cursed object—one of many I’m sure that lie within the Hewn City. Though I am curious how Keir of all f*cking people came to possess it.

“My father spoke true about that,” Mor added, straightening her black gossamer gown. “I was raised with legends of the mirror. None were pleasant. Or successful”

Cassian frowned. “So what—”

“You are talking about the Ouroboros.” It was Amren who cut in. Feyre blinked, understanding dawning on her face. Amren’s voice slipped lower—more dangerous. “Why do you want that mirror?”

Azriel immediately felt the hairs on the back of his night raise in alarm at the change in her—in her voice, in her demeanor. It was palpable. But Rhys merely slid one hand causally into a pocket. “If honesty is the theme of the night… Because the Bone Carver requested it.”

Amren’s nostrils flared. Alarm shot through Azriel, his siphons glinting under the faelights as they filled with his raw power, prepared to do his bidding. Only now, there was more of it. So much more, thanks to that secret undercurrent of power he’d unlocked in accepting what was his, in accepting his own destiny—in accepting his mate.

Azriel. Eris’ voice seemed more distant than usual.

“Your old friends say hello,” Cassian drawled from his place where he leaned against the archway.

Amren’s face tightened, her eyes narrowing a fraction more and swirling with pools of quicksilver as Nesta glanced between them carefully. Azriel slipped further into that calm space of controlled lethality—his power fully awake and barely restrained. Waiting—for one threat, one command.

Azriel, that’s enough. Eris’ voice was louder, more insistent. Commanding. I understand you’re hurt, but this is not—

“Why did you go?” Amren asked.

Feyre looked ready to answer, but her eyes caught on Lucien—and hesitated. The room was tense. Too tense.

Lucien—jaw clenched in frustration at the lack of trust, perhaps—excused himself to his room upstairs. Azriel did not relax, not even a fraction. His muscles were tight and his siphons flared with every ounce of power he had available.

“We had some questions for the Carver,” Cassian finally said, his smile a vicious slash on his face. “And we have some for you.”

Amren’s eyes flared—hazy smoke-filled orbs of power. “You are going to unleash the Carver.”

Azriel sank into the pool of darkness that writhed around him, his head filling with the silence of the killing calm, angling himself to slowly move behind Amren, out of sight.

Azriel, stop. Eris’ command was a dull roar down the bond.

Azriel, be ready. Rhys’ command was a separate murky insistence. The two commands—battling for dominance. His High Lord and his mate—his brother versus his destiny. Two warring sides of the coin that was his heart, his soul.

“Yes,” Feyre replied simply.

“That is impossible.”

“I’ll remind you that you, sweet Amren, escaped,” Rhys countered in an even, smooth tone. “And have stayed free. So it can be done. Perhaps you could tell us how you did it.”

Az…

Azriel.

Azriel did his best to shut out the two males absolutely shouting in his head as his shadows danced over him. His jaw clenched painfully, but he ignored it; his body felt strung so tightly it could snap at any moment. Cassian had moved closer to Nesta—Azriel marked that too. Mor’s body was also suddenly tense and alert—prepared.

Cassian met Nesta’s eyes, just briefly, and tilted his head. A silent order—one that Nesta obeyed, and she stepped to Cassian’s side—

—just as Amren replied, “No.”

Azriel’s siphons flared, and he slowly pulled Truth-Teller from his side, the metal biting into his hand and sending him further into that space where he could easily remember all the ways to delight in suffering, all the ways to draw it out, to savor it—

Remember who you are, Azriel. Eris’ voice was soft, but somehow it cut through him louder than any command or shout. Remember who you are, beneath it all. Is this a price you are willing to pay?

“It wasn’t a request.” Rhys’ voice was even and uncompromising.

You know what to do, Az. If this doesn’t go the way we want it to—

Remember who you are, Azriel.

Stop. Azriel wasn’t sure who he said it to—maybe both of the males who were shoving their words through his mind, as they both silenced.

“Feyre and Cassian spoke to the Bone Carver,” Rhys continued. “He wants the Ouroboros in exchange for serving us—fighting Hybern for us. But we need you to explain how to get him out.”

“Anything else?” Amren’s voice was too calm for Azriel’s liking—too sweet.

“When we’re done with all of this, then my promise from months ago still holds,” Rhys answered. “Use the Book to send yourself home, if you want.”

Amren stared up at Rhys, and Azriel tensed, leaning forward slightly, wings flared just a bit—prepared to leap at any sign of trouble.

“Call off your dog,” she said in her most lethal voice. She bared her teeth at him, but he only stared back, his face cold and hard.

Azriel felt attention shift to him—and anger flared down the bond, presumably at the casual way in which he’d been referred to as a ‘dog’. Rhys’ dog. If only he knew it wasn’t at all the first—

I know it’s not the first f*cking time, but I swear to the Mother if it’s not the godsdamned last, Azriel… Eris’ irritation was a maelstrom. You are more than just a nobody meant for following orders and sitting and staying—

Eris—

—no, I am not done, you are a godsdamned shadowsinger, does that asshole even realize how f*cking rare that is? Does he realize how special you are? And just to use you as a tool for violence is ridiculous—

Eris—

—I am not done. The f*cking arrogance, to take someone that monumental and reduce them to this and allow them to be called a f*cking dog, and have the audacity to call them a brother, are you f*cking kidding me—

Eris.

What?

Azriel had to bite down hard on the emotion that swelled in his chest—that tightened his throat. His thoughts were racing and loud. You think I’m… special? He said it quietly—hesitantly.

But the resounding response was loud and proclamatory. I think you're devastatingly special, in ways that nobody on this planet deserves. Myself included. But I’m going to do my very best to try.

Rhys remained where he was—causal, effortless, unruffled. “Why won’t you tell us?” he asked Amren. Cassian had slid Nesta fully behind him—out of Amren’s path entirely.

Azriel stayed where he was, Truth-Teller a weight in his hand as Eris’ words swirled through his soul. I think you’re devastatingly special.

“Because the stone beneath this house has ears,” Amren answered, “the wind has ears—all of it listening. And if it reports back… They will remember, Rhysand, that they have not caught me. And I will not let them put me in that black pit again.”

Azriel felt a solid shield of magic settle around them—felt the brush of it against his senses.

“No one will hear beyond this room,” Feyre said. Her shield, then.

Amren simply surveyed the books around them, thinking. Her brows pinched together. “I had to give something up. I had to give me up. To walk out, I had to become something else entirely, something the Prison would not recognize. So I—I bound myself into this body.”

Azriel’s brows bunched, as Rhys asked the question burning in his own mind. “You said someone else bound you.”

“I lied,” Amren replied. “To cover what I’d done. So none could know. To escape the Prison, I made myself mortal. Immortal as you are, but… mortal compared to—to what I was. And what I was… I did not feel, the way you do. The way I do now. Some things—loyalty and wrath and curiosity—but not the full spectrum.” Her silver eyes had taken on that faraway look, as if her mind had gone to a place somewhere else—somewhere distant. “I was perfect, according to some. I did not regret, did not mourn—and pain… I did not experience it. And yet… yet I wound up here, because I was not quite like the others. Even as—as what I was, I was different. Too curious. Too questioning. The day the rip appeared in the sky… it was curiosity that drove me. My brothers and sisters fled. Upon the orders of our ruler, we had just laid waste to twin cities, smote them wholly into rubble on the plain, and yet they fled from that rip in the world. But I wanted to look. I wanted. I was not built or bred to feel such selfish things as want. I’d seen what happened to those of my kind who strayed, who learned to place their needs first. Who developed… feeling. But I went through the tear in the sky. And here I am.”

Azriel’s shadows were buzzing around him—writhing and hurried and coiling.

What is she? he asked for possibly the millionth time.

It… it is not known. Not here, they answered. This one is different.

“And you gave all that up to get out of the Prison?” Mor asked quietly.

“I yielded my grace—my perfect immortality,” Amren answered. “I knew that once I did… I would feel pain. And regret. I would want, and I would burn with it. I would… fall. But I was—the time spent locked away down there… I didn’t care. I had not felt the wind on my face, had not smelled the rain… I did not even remember what they felt like. I did not remember sunlight.”

Azriel’s breaths quickened with each word she spoke as they dredged up every awful memory—that cell, the damp, the quiet, the cold, the whispering darkness before he learned to speak its language. He felt his heart pounding, the blood rushing in his ears.

You are out, Azriel. Eris’ words grounded him, reminded him that he was not eleven any longer—that he was not small and fragile, that he was— You are free. You don’t belong there anymore. You belong with me. Always. He felt the jagged edges of his nerves begin to soothe, his ragged breaths begin to slow. That’s it. Just breathe. Azriel’s shadows began to pull away, willed into a calmness by Eris’ words as Azriel exhaled his anxiety with each breath. That’s it. Just keep breathing it all out.

“So I bound myself in this body,” Amren continued. “I shoved my burning grace deep into me. I gave up everything I was. The cell door just… unlocked. And so I walked out.”

A price paid for freedom. Azriel’s freedom had not been so easily bought. He had paid for his by becoming friends with the darkness that smothered him, by learning their language and embracing their whispers. By leaning into that awful cold emptiness, instead of being afraid of it.

“That will be the cost of freeing the Carver,” Amren finally said. “You will have to bind him into a body. Make him… Fae. And I doubt he will agree to it. Especially without the Ouroboros.” A thoughtful silence fell. “You should have asked me before you went,” she said, her voice sharp. “I would have spared you the visit.”

Rhys swallowed loudly. “Can you be—unbound?”

“Not by me.”

“What would happen if you were?”

Amren stared at Rhys for a long moment. Stared at each of them in turn—each in the eye, one at a time, before finally settling back on Rhys. “I would not remember you. I would not care for any of you. I would either smite you or abandon you. What I feel now… it would be foreign to me—it would hold no sway. Everything I am, this body… it would cease to be.”

The only one who knows would cease to be, his shadows whispered to him. Azriel hated that the idea was… tempting. Amren was the only creature his shadows could not hide his mate bond from; would it really be so bad if she no longer remembered?

She is your family. Eris’ words were tender. And we cannot hide forever. He was right—of course, he was right. Azriel felt a stab of guilt for ever thinking it. Eris’ mental sigh washed through him. I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. The godsdamned pull is—

Like being ripped out of your own body? Azriel cut him off, a hint of amusem*nt in his tone. I know, I— He clenched his fist around the hilt of Truth-Teller, reigning in the tide that threatened to tear him from the room. Beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead with the sheer effort of it. Soon. I promise.

“What were you?” Nesta’s question cut through the tension of his thoughts like a knife. She had emerged from behind Cassian and now stood at his side.

“A messenger—and soldier-assassin,” Amren replied, fiddling with one black pearl earring. “For a wrathful god who ruled a young world.”

“Was Amren your name?” Nesta asked, curiosity brewing in her eyes.

“No.” Amren's gray eyes swirled with smoke. “I do not remember the name I was given. I used Amren because—it’s a long story.”

The room was tense, waiting—begging—for the story, until soft footsteps thudded from the stairs—

“Oh.” Elain looked startled to see them all—she hadn’t heard them, thanks to the shield Feyre had held in place. Feyre let the shield drop as she went instantly to her sister, who hovered near the stairs, gripping the pale blue silk shawl covering her nightgown.

“Do you need anything?” Feyre asked hesitantly.

“No. I…” Elain’s eyes were vacant—as if she were still half-asleep. “I was sleeping, but I heard…” She shook her head, blinked at them all—their formal attire. “I didn’t hear you.”

Azriel surged forward. “But you heard something else.” Pieces began to click into place.

The Cauldron chose her, his shadows whispered. To see things others do not. She sees, she sees, she sees.

She seemed about to nod, but instead stepped away. “I think I was dreaming,” she murmured faintly. “I think I’m always dreaming these days.”

Not dreams, his shadows whispered.

“Let me get you some hot milk,” Feyre said gently, placing one hand on her elbow to guide her into the sitting room.

But Elain just shook her off, and instead headed back for the stairs. “I can hear her—crying.”

“Who?” Feyre asked, gripping the banister as Elain hovered on the bottom step.

“Everyone thinks she’s dead,” Elain continued as she kept walking. “But she’s not. Only—different. Changed. As I was.”

She sees, she sees, she sees, his shadows whispered, the mantra in his ear like an itch he couldn’t reach to scratch—the answer just there, on the tip of his tongue.

What does it mean? Azriel practically shouted, but his answer didn’t come from the shadows.

It’s a puzzle, Azriel. One that doesn’t need to be solved right this second. Eris’ voice was just as tired as Azriel felt—tired of this night that felt like it would never end, this night that had kept them apart for long enough, kept this veil of masks and roles and lies between them. This wall that he felt ready to tear down with his bare hands.

“What did you see?” Azriel found himself asking, if not to satisfy his own curiosity as much as to clarify the murkiness of the way she spoke.

Elain had paused halfway up the stairs, and now slowly turned to look at him. “I saw young hands wither with age. I saw a box of black stone. I saw a feather of fire land on snow and melt it.”

What the hell? It made even less sense than before. He had only more questions, and the pull in his chest strengthened—pulling him home.

You won’t solve it tonight, shadowsinger. A gentle caress—a touch, light as a velvet—brushed Azriel’s soul. You’ve done enough. And I’m growing impatient. The light chuckle that shimmered like morning dew down the bond made Azriel’s very heart soar, made the pull intensify that much more.

Feyre and Nesta exchanged a worried glance, their expressions conveying clearly their fear—that Elain had simply gone mad. Azriel knew this wasn’t truth. No, not mad, just… something else.

“It was angry,” Elain whispered. “It was so, so angry that something was taken. So it took something from them as punishment.”

Come home, Azriel. It’s time. Eris’ voice was pleading now, open and raw and desperate. His blatant craving—for Azriel’s voice, for his smell, his touch, his laugh, his smile, his body, his whispered desire, his hunger, all of it—barreled through him, obliterating his resolve entirely. You have put everyone else before yourself since the moment you learned how.

Feyre faced him then, her eyes brimming, her palms face-up—exposed. He’d never seen her so… hopeless. “What does that mean?” she asked, her tone beseeching.

It will all still be there for you to solve tomorrow. And I will help you solve it, if you wish. Every puzzle, every battle, I will stand with you and weather it all if that is the place you bless me with. But for this one moment, I'm begging you to choose yourself. Choose what you want.

Feyre’s eyes were on Azriel as the words tumbled through him.

What do you want, Azriel?

He didn’t hesitate—not for a single breath—as he released his resolve to stay entirely and let his shadows embrace him completely, and he followed that warm, brilliant, white strand of light all the way home.

Eris felt more out of control than he’d ever felt in his life. And that was saying something for someone who’d been alive for over five centuries, was the godsdamned General of the entirety of the Autumn Court’s forces, the heir to the Autumn Court throne, and knew how to play politics with the most cut-throat snakes out there thanks to who his father was.

Undone. He’d been undone by a hazel-eyed Illyrian who clearly had no idea that, regardless of their obvious title disparities—which Eris didn’t give one single f*ck about—Eris would gladly burn the entire world down for a single chance to have his f*cking fingers tangled in Eris’ hair. Yes, completely undone. He’d had exactly one male lover in his entire life, and he’d been young, drunk, and inexperienced, so it hadn’t been memorable—so Eris was also nervous, on top of everything else. He paced Azriel’s dark apartment, anxious and agitated and unable to sit still.

The barrage of emotions Azriel had gone through all night, the continued assault of revelations and betrayals and feelings he had had to bite down…

Call off your dog. Eris still seethed with an undercurrent of rage at that. A f*cking dog. He could rip out Rhysand’s arrogant throat with his own hands for not correcting them, for letting them call him that.

Eris hastily undid the top few buttons of his shirt, his jacket already unbuttoned and hanging open, and took a few steadying breaths. Gods, it smelled like divinity in here. It felt like he had been drowning in it for hours, letting it toss him back and forth in this sea, serving only to heighten the already wild sense of desperate need he’d been riding for too long now.

What do you want, Azriel? he’d asked him. Azriel hadn’t answered. Perhaps Eris had been a fool to hope. Perhaps this had all been for nothing. Perhaps what he wanted—what he really wanted—wasn’t this.

Eris sank back against the wall next to the doorway leading to Azriel’s bedroom, hanging his head. He scrubbed both hands over his face, dragged them both through his complete mess of hair, but—

Just as awareness shot through him like a holy bolt of pure electricity, lighting up every one of his nerves, Azriel emerged from the deepest darkness Eris had ever seen—siphons gleaming that sacred shade of blue, Truth-Teller gripped tightly in one hand, chest heaving, and eyes alight.

Eyes that locked directly on Eris’ the second he had emerged from his shadows.

The hardness in Azriel’s face vanished the second their gazes met—the wrinkle between his brow disappeared, the indifferent iciness melted away. His hazel eyes became churning pools of wanting, of tenderness, of desire. All the things he’d been forced to lock away all evening—possibly all his life. He let all of the carefully constructed defenses crumble and let everything show.

“You waited.” Those two words slipping from Azriel’s lips had Eris melting straight into the crust of the earth. He had never heard him use such a tone—such an intimate and vulnerable tone. This was a tone for lovers—for people who trusted each other.

“You came,” he replied. He half believed he wouldn’t, as time had slipped on. Azriel took a single, purposeful step, then faltered, looking down to the hand that still held his knife—as if he’d forgotten he still had it. He looked around momentarily, flustered—and cast it away from him, straight onto the ground.

Eris barked out a laugh. “A magic knife, and you just threw it on the floor.” He shook his head, unable to control the smile that spread across his face as Azriel took the few steps now to close the distance between them. He hovered there—just inches away, his eyes dancing and bright. Eris couldn’t help his runaway heart rate, or the stupid smile that still played about his lips as Azriel drank in every feature of his face.

Without looking away, Azriel reached up and tapped the flickering siphon centered in his chest, and the impressive dark scaled Illyrian armor he’d been wearing slithered away from his body, his seven siphons now reduced to just the two—one atop each of his hands—and revealing a simple white shirt with a deep V that hung open and untied, exposing his chest, and his typical worn leather pants.

Eris’ eyes raked down his body hungrily, the fire in his veins bringing his blood to boiling in next to no time, and by the time his eyes made their way back to Azriel’s his playful smile had turned decidedly more devilish. He raised one eyebrow as he said, “Neat trick.”

Azriel huffed a laugh as he rolled his shoulders, stretching his wings. “I’ve got a few neat tricks, I suppose,” he replied. Eris leaned his head back against the wall, his body still pressed against it, and marveled at the wings—the reds and golds, the build, the power. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on them, to find the exact spot that he knew would make Azriel come hard enough to see f*cking stars.

But Azriel’s eyes met his again, the world beyond them grinding to a halt as Azriel tentatively lifted one hand, and his fingertips traced a gentle sweep from Eris’ temple down to his jawline. They hovered there, and Eris’ eyes fluttered closed as the sensation of it obliterated him entirely, and he leaned into the touch, savoring it, an appreciative noise escaping up his throat. Azriel’s fingers played about his jawline, his thumb stroking a long lazy line back and forth that had Eris practically shattering already.

“You waited,” Azriel repeated once more.

Eris’ eyes flew open, finding Azriel staring at him as if he halfway didn’t believe this was really happening. Eris slid one hand up Azriel’s exposed chest—the perfectly sculpted muscle shuddering beneath his touch, the scent of Azriel’s arousal sharpening greatly—and rested it just below the base of his throat. Azriel’s breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling faster, and it pleased the f*ck out of Eris that he could drag this reaction out of his mate so easily.

“As I said,” Eris replied, “for you, I will always wait. I would have waited—”

But his words died on his tongue as Azriel swept his hand around to the back of Eris’ neck and brought their lips together—fused them together, in the most euphoric, splintering kiss that Eris had ever experienced. It was perfectly tender, this first meeting—Azriel’s lips were softer even than Eris had imagined they would be. His fingers splayed into Eris’ hair at the nape of his neck, and it was like dying and going to heaven. Azriel’s body pressed into his own, every cool inch of him meeting every fire-kissed inch of Eris—cold shadows meeting fiery steel.

A soft whisper escaped from Azriel then—a breathy whispered, “Please” against Eris’ lips—and some leash of restraint snapped within them both. That one whisper falling from his lips shot down Eris’ spine and a shudder rolled over him. Azriel’s tongue danced along the seam of his lips, and Eris opened for him, groaning into his mouth as theirs tongues twined together and Azriel ground his body into Eris’, pressing him into the wall behind him.

Eris fisted his hand into the front of Azriel’s shirt, his other hand snaking around him, pulling him in impossibly closer. Azriel’s hand plunged into Eris’ red hair, a deep moan escaping Eris as Azriel ran his hand through it—a moan that Azriel was intent to swallow completely himself, as his other hand roamed and traveled, drinking in every inch of his mate that he could get to. His mouth slanted over Eris’, his tongue plundering and sweeping, and Eris’ every breath felt like it was laced with molten fire.

Azriel’s hand suddenly clenched in Eris’ hair, solidly gripping a fistful and yanking his head to one side. The sudden gasp of pain he elicited quickly turned to a string of low curses laced with deep rasping moans as Azriel’s mouth trailed a line of lingering searing kisses across his jaw and—achingly slowly—working his way to the tender hollow behind Eris’ ear.

Azriel hovered there for what felt like eons, his breath on Eris’ ear like sweetest torture that he’d gladly endure for all of time. “While this disheveled look suits you, chosen one, I think I'd quite like to see you in something else.” Azriel’s low whisper sent Eris’ eyes rolling back, his hips grinding forward to meet Azriel’s hard body. Eris felt the cool whisper of shadows brush against the tender inside of one of his wrists, and the hand slid back, back, back—until it was firmly anchored against the wall to his side.

He stared down at the string of shadows now holding his wrist—just slightly away from his body and to his side, against the wall—with a dumbfounded expression as he felt the pressure of Azriel’s body pull away from him. He surged forward on instinct to seek it out once more, but could move no further thanks to the restraint of that strand of shadows. He struggled, not understanding—

—until he looked back up at Azriel, who now stood just out of his reach, and wore a sinfully devilish smirk, his fingers dancing as shadows twined between them.

Eris’ eyes darkened, half-hooded pools of frenzied need. “I see,” he replied. “And what exactly is it you’d like to see me in?” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and pulled it into his mouth, his teeth biting down into it gently; Azriel traced the movement hungrily with his eyes, his body leaning in just barely.

When he found Eris’ gaze again, he shook his head, his fiendish smirk renewed. A flick of his delicate fingers, another brush of cool shadow along the sensitive flesh of Eris’ inner wrist—and his other hand now found itself bound against the wall, much the same as the first. His blood pounded liquid fire through him, his lust swam heady and thick, clouding every logical and rational thought in his tightly strung body.

“Well,” Azriel said slowly, his voice a deep rumble that Eris felt all the way from his head to his toes, “considering I am a shadowsinger—” He flicked his deft fingers once more, and tendrils of shadow slithered over Eris’ shoulders, effortlessly guiding his unbuttoned jacket down his arms, right past his shadow-restraints—until it bunched on the floor. “—I’d say the only appropriate answer would be my shadows, yes?”

Eris glanced down at the discarded jacket and then back up at his mate. “Your shadows?” he asked, his mouth hanging open as more tendrils of darkness slithered over him, too many to count now, working the buttons of his shirt, the stays and tie of his pants—all of once—their cool touch overwhelming him. Eris writhed where he stood as they deftly and expertly slid the shirt from his arms and discarded it in much the same manner as they had his jacket. His pants hung open at his waist.

His eyes were clenched tightly closed, his head thrown back, so he wasn’t prepared for the moment Azriel’s hands we’re back on him, now hungrily raking down his bare chest as his mouth once again greedily claimed Eris’ and he growled against Azriel’s lips, “Give me my hands, shadowsinger.”

Azriel pulled Eris’ bottom lip between his teeth, biting down. The flash of pain was exquisite; Eris moaned loudly, pushing his hips forward, his throbbing co*ck aching for any friction he could find. Azriel laughed low and dark, one hand sliding up Eris’ chest to grip his chin firmly as he turned it to one side and he brought his lips to Eris’ ear. “Ask nicely,” he whispered, his tongue darting out and tracing the shell of Eris’ ear, sending a rolling shudder down his spine, his body undulating with need. He could already feel release building in his body, and his co*ck was still in his f*cking pants. He whimpered as his body rode the craving, the wanting harder than he’d ever felt it before.

“Please,” Eris choked out, as Azriel’s mouth began a bruising path of biting kisses—each one soothed almost instantly by the lave of his tongue—down Eris’ neck, across his shoulder, down his chest, each one making it harder and harder to remember what he had wanted to ask for. “Please, I want to touch yo—f*ck, Azriel.” His words were lost as Azriel’s mouth found one taut pink nipple, his tongue dancing around it once, twice, before sucking it into his mouth and sending Eris soaring into a high he'd never actually experienced before. His teeth bit down—lightly, but the edge of pain mixed with the sweet bliss of pleasure was sheer perfection, and Eris couldn’t stop the moans and cries that escaped him. His hands pulled and fought against the shadows restraining him, but they stayed stubbornly in place.

“Give me my f*cking hands,” he managed to rasp out between groans of ecstasy, and Azriel smiled against the flesh of his chest. He flicked his hazel eyes upward, casting his lust-glazed glance at Eris through his thick lashes.

“What happened to those well-bred High Fae manners, chosen one?” he asked with a sinful slash of a smile and one last flick of his tongue over the sensitive bud, before both of his hands slid slowly down the plane of Eris’ chest, his torso, not hesitating a single bit as he slid them beneath the waistband of both his pants and his undershorts and pushed them down his legs.

Eris groaned as his co*ck sprang free, finally. He kicked his pants away from him as Azriel took a step back, his eyes—swirling with hunger—greedily drinking in every inch of Eris’ naked body. “You are a work of f*cking art,” Azriel whispered, his voice a mix of lustful and awestruck.

“Give. Me. My. Hands.” Eris growled the words out, his need turning feral and wild now. Azriel smirked and lunged forward, slamming Eris back against the wall with one hand gripped tightly around his throat, his wings flaring behind him. Azriel brought his mouth to his ear once more.

“Beg me,” he whispered. And before Eris could string together the words, Azriel’s warm hand had wrapped around his co*ck, and Eris let out a strangled groan, his legs trembling and body seizing.

“Holy gods, Azriel—” Azriel fisted his shaft and began stroking him slowly, and Eris felt like he’d come undone entirely already—like he might burst into flames or dissolve into darkness, he wasn’t sure which. He instinctively went to lift his arms—to touch him, to do something—and groaned in frustration at finding them still bound.

“Beg me, chosen one,” Azriel whispered again in his ear as his hand worked his co*ck more intently, stroking with perfect pace and pressure. His thumb swiped over the head of Eris’ co*ck, gathering the leaking beads of cum there, and worked them over his shaft. Eris writhed and shook in his grip, completely at his mercy.

“f*ck me, Azriel—”

“Oh, I plan to, but you’ll need your hands for that, now beg me,” Azriel’s voice was a low savage command in his ear as the hand around Eris’ throat tightened minutely, but Eris was lost in a sea of heady wanton pleasure like he’d never known in his life. The bond between them burned with such brightness he was blinded by it, and his desire overshadowed everything else.

“Please,” he managed to finally gasp out—only because he didn’t want to come like this, not without his hands on Azriel. “Please,” he begged as Azriel pulled his face back enough to look him in the eye, his hand still mercilessly working his co*ck, the other still gripped around his throat. “Please give me my hands. I want to touch you. I need to touch you.” His voice was a low, shaking timbre laced with every one of his deepest desires.

Azriel merely smiled, his hand stilling on Eris’ co*ck, as he said, “Much better.” As Eris felt the shadows sipping away from his wrists, Azriel sunk to his knees before him, and before Eris had even a moment to prepare himself, Azriel licked one long slow line from the base of his shaft to the tip of his co*ck, all the way along the bottom, that had Eris nearly coming apart entirely.

“f*cking hell, Azriel,” he hissed out. Azriel gripped the base of his co*ck and took him into his mouth then, his warm wet glorious mouth.

His hands finally free, Eris plunged them into Azriel’s thick blue-black hair, the strands like silk against his fingertips, and Azriel moaned at the touch, the sound of it shooting straight into Eris’ balls. He gripped Azriel’s hair as Azriel worked him, his head bobbing up and down.

“You’re so f*cking incredible, you know that?” Eris panted out, gripping a fistful of Azriel’s hair as he watched and doing his best to restrain himself—not to f*ck his mouth like a complete feral animal.

But then Azriel’s hand moved to Eris’ thigh, gripping it hard, his nails digging in, and he took Eris in deeper—his co*ck bumping the back of Azriel’s throat—and Eris nearly jumped at the sensation of it, moaned at the rapture of it.

Eris caught the mischievous glint in his hazel eyes—the way they danced as he did it again, taking Eris in deeper, nearly every inch of his thick co*ck, allowing Eris to push himself into his mouth with a touch of force, noting the way Azriel groaned in response, the way his eyes fluttered, the way his nails dug in further in his thigh.

“Is that what you want, shadowsinger?” Eris asked, pistoning his hips again—another forceful slam of his co*ck down Azriel’s throat. They both groaned at the sheer ecstasy of it. “You want me unleashed, is that it?” Another slam of his hips—more twin moans of pleasure, as Azriel’s eyes widened. “You want me to f*ck that gorgeous mouth of yours, hm?”

Azriel’s arousal heightened so dramatically, Eris was practically swimming in it at this point. He slid his hand over Azriel’s, where it rested against his thigh. “You tap my leg if it’s too much, yes?” He tenderly brushed his knuckles down Azriel’s cheek. “I may want to do the absolute filthiest things imaginable to you, but I do not want to hurt you, okay?” Azriel nodded, and Eris slid his hand back into his black hair.

Eris began to move his hips, and Azriel met him with each fierce stroke. Eris’ pleasure reached that limit, that capacity he usually reached when he had to stop himself from becoming a complete f*cking caveman, and his hands fisted in Azriel’s hair.

“f*ck, Azriel,” he moaned, his breaths hot and fast, and his hips ground forward, his co*ck shoving down Azriel’s throat, the tight space feeling like divinity against him. Azriel’s other hand snaked around and gripped Eris’ toned ass, pulling him deeper. “Do you know—” Another slam as he held Azriel’s head in place, a bruising grip on his hair. “—how long I have wanted this?”

Over and over, harder and harder, he f*cked Azriel’s mouth savagely and more uncontrolled than he had ever done with anyone before—and Azriel took every single inch, tears streaming down his face and he gasped and gagged around Eris’ co*ck.

“Gods, I’m so f*cking close,” Eris gasped, his pace brutal and unforgiving as he pounded into Azriel’s mouth again and again, his hand on the back of his head willing his co*ck impossibly deeper down Azriel’s throat. He felt his body tense, his climax just a breath away—

Come down my throat. Make me swallow every f*cking drop. Azriel’s words, in the heady space of the bond, sent Eris over the edge and his release crashed through him as he cried out Azriel’s name, buried to the hilt in his mouth as his body seized and wave after wave of rapturous ecstasy rolled over him.

Azriel licked him through his climax until his co*ck was entirely spent, running his mouth down the entirety of his shaft and swirling his tongue over the tip before withdrawing, leaving Eris shaking and momentarily seeing stars.

Azriel hadn’t so much as glanced back up at Eris before Eris had hauled him up to his feet, turning him now so his back was against the wall. Azriel’s wings flared in surprise, and Eris framed his face with both hands, slanting his mouth over Azriel’s and kissing him deeply, tasting the evidence of his own release—further deepening his want to chase Azriel’s release even more.

Eris pulled back, glancing down at Azriel’s clothes, still out of breath from his earth-shattering org*sm. “Something seems wildly out of balance here.” He snapped his fingers, vanishing Azriel’s shirt and leather pants, leaving him in his tight black undershorts.

Azriel looked down at himself and huffed a laugh. “I’m not the only one with neat tricks, I see.” But Eris’ attention snagged on the coverings on Azriel’s hands—they were simple, non-bulky, covering most of the backs of each of his hands with a loop around his wrist and around each middle finger to anchor them in place, each with a blue siphon blazing in the center.

But he had intended to vanish them as well. And they had not gone. He looked at them, brows pinched together in confusion. Azriel glanced at them too, the amusem*nt fading from his face just a bit. “These…” He gestured to them. “They can’t be touched by your magic. They must be removed by me.” He said it quietly—reverently.

“So remove them,” Eris said simply. But he saw the fear that swirled in Azriel’s hazel eyes—the way he looked down. Eris couldn’t stand it. He placed two fingers beneath his chin, bringing his eyes back up where they belonged—on him. “When I said you are devastatingly special, I did mean all of you.” He caught Azriel’s hands in his own, running his thumbs over his palms. “These included.”

Azriel’s eyes brimmed with emotion as he hesitated for only a moment before sliding his hands away and delicately working the gloves off of each, slipping them off until his hands were free—bare. Never, in all the interaction they’d had over the centuries, had Eris ever seen the shadowsinger without gloves.

Azriel bunched them into one hand—the siphon-topped gloves—and then unceremoniously tossed them onto the floor. Eris’ lips twitched, unable to hold in the laugh that escaped. “All-powerful magic-containing Illyrian siphons, and you just threw them on the floor.”

Azriel shrugged, a smile pulling at his lips. “Technically, I’m the one with the magic. The stones just help me harness it. Without me, they’re just rocks. Pretty rocks, but still just rocks.”

Eris pulled Azriel’s hands to him then, guiding them over his chest, savoring the way they felt like this as they glided over his skin like softest velveteen. He caught one with his own, bringing it to his mouth and peppering every single scarred square inch with soft, featherlight kisses.

Azriel hummed in response. Eris took Azriel’s middle finger, kissing lightly all the way to the fingertip, then wrapped his lips around the digit and sucked it into his mouth. Azriel’s responding groan—the way his hips thrust into Eris, the hardness of his erection digging into Eris—stirred the hunger anew.

Eris chuckled darkly as he ran his tongue along the length of Azriel’s finger. “You didn’t truly think I was finished with you already, did you, shadowsinger?” Azriel swallowed hard, Eris tracking the exquisite movement of the powerful column of his throat—remembering how perfectly that throat had taken his co*ck only a handful of moments ago. He hardened again almost instantly just thinking of it.

Azriel raked both hands up through Eris’ hair, his fingernails dragging deliciously across his scalp, and Eris practically purred at the sensation. Before he could react, Azriel had pulled his body in close, wrapped them both in the cool touch of complete shadow, and turned, falling backwards through empty darkness with Eris’ body laid on top of his.

A momentary rush of panic flooded through Eris—at the darkness, at the feeling of falling through nothingness. He grappled at Azriel’s body, clinging to him desperately as Azriel laughed low and dark in his ear before his back hit the pillowsoft surface of his own bed. He had shadow-walked them less than ten feet through darkness—falling—to his own bedroom.

Eris’ heart was racing as his body settled over Azriel’s, his chest heaving. It was nothing like winnowing—it was more like… like walking in the dark empty spaces between the stars. “That was—” He swallowed, still struggling to catch his breath.

Azriel brushed Eris’ red hair out of his face, amusem*nt still playing about his mouth as he gazed up at him. “Is the great Heir of Fire afraid of the dark?”

Eris glared darkly at him, but it faded quickly as Azriel’s hands skated up his sides, over his shoulder blades, down his back—

—and lingered over the raised jagged scars that crisscrossed over the entirety of his back. The amusem*nt was chased away as Azriel’s eyes darkened with hints of rage, his jaw tightening. “I could rip his f*cking throat out for this.”

“Don’t bother. He’ll die soon enough I suppose, thanks to this unholy alliance I’ve struck within your Court.”

“Eris.” Azriel’s voice was sharper, and caught his attention. Not ‘chosen one’, not ‘Heir of Fire’. No, he’d used his name. The way it sounded on his lips—

“Say it again,” he whispered—pleading.

Azriel’s face softened, his eyes widening. One hand hovered at his back, and the other came to cup his jaw, bringing him down—bringing him closer. Azriel brushed his lips against Eris’ as he whispered it again. “Eris.”

Eris’ eyes fluttered closed and a small whimper escaped him. “Yes,” he whispered back. Gods, it was like f*cking rapture to hear his name slipping from Azriel’s lips like this. He laced his hands through Azriel’s hair, savoring the feel of the silky smooth strands sliding through his fingers, the way Azriel’s body ground up against his as he did it.

“Azriel,” Eris whispered against his lips, just before Azriel pulled him down, their mouths crashing together in a storm of tongues and teeth and heat where Eris didn’t know where he ended and Azriel began. He reached between them, groaning in momentary frustration at meeting the fabric he’d forgotten he’d left on Azriel.

Eris snapped his fingers, and the very second Azriel’s length sprang free, Eris had his hand wrapped around it. Azriel jolted, his body arching into Eris’ grip and his head thrown back, mouth hanging open. It f*cking satisfied Eris, but he wanted more.

“f*ck, Eris, godsdamnit—” Azriel clawed at Eris, his nails digging into his shoulders, his back, his arms. It served to spiral him further into the wanton need he was quickly sinking into. Eris stroked him wildly, working every hard inch of him without respite.

Azriel gripped a fistful of Eris’ hair, dragging his mouth to his own until they shared breath. “I want more,” he breathed in an absolutely feral rasp that had Eris’ core heating to a wild blaze. “Gods, I want all of you Eris—”

“Then take all of me, Azriel.” His response was immediate, as his hand worked a brutal and unforgiving pace on Azriel’s co*ck.

The words were barely out of his mouth before Azriel gripped Eris, overpowering him with every one of those impeccably honed muscles and flipping him—pinning him beneath his body as Eris let out a gasp of surprise.

Eris had no moment to catch his breath, as Azriel hooked one of Eris’ legs with a powerful arm and hoisted it up. The muscles in his leg burned in the best way, and Azriel looked back at him, his eyes seeking an answer to a question. “I need—”

Eris snapped his fingers again, a small jar of lubricant falling a short distance through the air into his awaiting palm. Azriel took it from him, shaking his head with a small smile on his lips. “Neat tricks.” Eris smiled back at him, self-satisfied.

Azriel brushed his mouth along the inside of Eris’ thigh, and all rational thought or amusem*nt fled from his mind as liquid ecstasy began to build in his core. His eyes fluttered closed, Azriel’s breaths trailing fire along the sensitive skin in the wake of his mouth, his tongue.

Eris pushed his hips forward, seeking any sort of friction he could find—and there were Azriel’s well-oiled fingers, slick and warm, pushing lightly against that tight ring of muscle—hesitant and gentle.

Eris’ eyes opened, and Azriel’s eyes were on him—his face pressed into Eris’ leg that he gripped on to, his lips parted. “Relax for me, Eris.”

He obeyed, his eyes swimming in that hazel oblivion— “Good”—as Azriel’s finger again pushed forward, more insistent this time, and Eris ground his hips against him, his finger slipping inside fully.

“Fuuuuck,” Eris groaned, the feeling overwhelming him as Azriel’s finger began to move. Eris’ co*ck was already throbbing and leaking where it lay against his stomach, release already building within him. “f*cking hell, Azriel—”

“Gods, I can’t wait to f*ck you,” Azriel growled, his predatory tone ratcheting Eris’ pleasure higher and higher. “You are so f*cking exquisite.” He slipped another finger inside of him, driving deeper, crooking them just perfectly and hitting that one spot—

“f*ck, Azriel, dont f*cking stop,” Eris begged him, a panting, moaning, writhing mess beneath him. Sweat glistened over his body, and he felt as if his release would completely tear him apart from the inside out.

Azriel hitched his leg higher, perching it on his shoulder, the burning of his muscles barely even noticeable with how lost in his pleasure Eris was. Azriel gripped the back of his neck, angling his face toward his own. “Look at me,” he breathed. Eris opened his eyes, his hands fisted in the sheets. “That’s it. I want to watch you come undone, lover.” He stroked that spot over and over, Eris’ climax like a gathering hurricane. “Come for me, Eris.”

His voice, his words, his eyes—but for some reason, most of all, the way he’d called Eris ‘lover’ is what sent Eris toppling over the edge and into the blissful arms of sweet crushing oblivion for the second time as he came with near violent force, painting his own stomach and chest with an unbelievable amount of his own seed as his body seized and shook.

Azriel stroked him through his org*sm, wringing every last drop of his pleasure from him and savoring each second of it, barely holding himself back. Eris maintained enough of his mind to wave his hand at the mess he’d created, vanishing it instantly, before Azriel resettled himself between Eris’ legs—one still hoisted up and propped on Azriel’s shoulder.

He aligned himself, calmly stroking his own oiled co*ck a few times, exhaling deeply through his nose. Eris was ready—he was so f*cking ready, he was grappling at Azriel, pulling at him, willing him to get on with it as he hesitated there.

“Eris.” His name on Azriel’s lips was like a whispered prayer—quiet and reverent. Eris’ eyes were on him instantly—caught in that hazel wave of enchantment, a trance that snared him instantly. His hips pushed forward just slightly, the blunt tip of his co*ck breaching that tight ring of muscle. Azriel released a long low moan, his hand moving to Eris’ hip as he pulled back just a bit, slowly working his way deeper with each thrust.

“Holy gods, Azriel.” Eris choked the words out, tangling one hand in Azriel’s hair, his eyes still locked on his mate’s as Azriel pushed into him inch by inch, groaning his satisfaction and shaking with restraint. “Yes,” he gasped, his mind swimming, struggling to comprehend the fullness, both foreign and at the same time so, so f*cking right.

Azriel stilled once he was seated all the way inside, buried as deeply as he could possibly be, his body draped over Eris as he pushed a few sweaty strands of red hair out of his face. His eyes were burning as his lips hovered barely a breath away from Eris’ and he whispered, “Tell me where I belong.”

Eris didn’t hesitate as he whispered back, “With me. Mine.” The bond between them quaked with the declaration, thrumming under the power of it. Azriel pulled back and thrust deeply into him, a strangled moan ripping up his throat. Eris swallowed, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth. “And tell me—” He steadied himself with a breath. “—where I belong, Azriel.”

Azriel’s eyes darkened with a savage and predatory kind of desire—one side of his mouth curling up into a devilish half smile as his wings flared behind him. “You are mine—“ His hips pistoned forward, the force of it glorious and nearly pushing Eris up the bed. “—and you belong with me.” The bond filled every dark and empty corner of Eris’ soul with brilliant white light, never to be cast in sorrow or emptiness again.

“Yes.” It was the only word Eris was able to cry out before Azriel unleashed himself, his thrusts powerful and punishing, burying himself over and over up to the hilt within Eris’ body as if he never wanted to emerge again. The bond sang between them, the white light shimmering and bright as a spring morning, fresh and untouched by man or beast. “f*ck, yes, Azriel. Give me everything.”

Azriel growled at his words, wrapping his free hand around the base of Eris’ throat and slowing his pace, hugging Eris’ elevated leg to his body in effort to plunge himself ever deeper. “Gods, you feel so f*cking good,” Azriel groaned, “And you are all mine.” He accentuated the two words with two exacting thrusts that sent Eris’ pleasure spiraling higher at seeing this perfect, polished, smooth-as-stone warrior come completely unraveled right before his eyes.

His pace increased once more, and Eris was right there with him. His mouth hung open, wings flared behind him, head thrown back just slightly—

“f*ck, I’m so close,” Azriel panted, his breaths coming quicker now, his chest rising and falling more rapidly as his eyes fluttered closed and his hand tightened around Eris’ throat.

Eris leaned up as far as he could, wrapping a hand around the back of Azriel’s neck and dragging his face down. “Eyes on me,” he managed, though it came out much more forceful than he intended. Azriel obeyed, his hazel eyes snapping open—swirling pools of building release, a hazel ecstasy held back by just a few delicate layers. Eris nodded. “That’s it. Yes. Don’t look away.” Azriel’s thrusts were a fever pitch now, his climax so close Eris could taste it himself.

And just as he was about to crest that wave, Eris brushed his knuckles along the soft inside edge of Azriel’s wing. Azriel’s release barreled into him with the full force of an exploding star as he cried out Eris’ name and his co*ck spasmed—his body shook violently, curled over Eris’, and Eris held onto him as if he would never ever let go.

Eris ran his fingers down Azriel’s sweat-slicked back as Azriel practically collapsed over him, releasing the leg he’d been holding of Eris’, both of them struggling to return to a normal heart rate and Azriel reigning in his breathing as he emptied himself completely into Eris. Their foreheads were pressed together, breaths mingled and gasping.

Azriel tucked a few sweaty red strands of hair behind Eris’ ear as he eased himself out, the feeling more jarring than going in—but Eris was caught in Azriel’s hazel gaze once more, the tender gesture of him pushing the hair out of Eris’ face, wiping the beads of sweat away from his brow as he lifted up just slightly to take him in fully.

“So I understand there’s a whole thing about the exchange of food or something of that nature,” Azriel panted against him, and Eris tensed—he hated himself for it, but he tensed. But Azriel’s next words shattered his doubt completely. “But in case you haven’t already been through my kitchen already, there’s nothing in there except for whiskey and cobwebs, and I’m a sh*t cook anyways, plus I had more pressing concerns on my mind, so bear with me while I figure that part out—”

Eris’ sudden laugh cut him off, and Azriel looked mock offended at it. “Oh, don’t you worry shadowsinger, I happen to be an excellent cook. I would be more than happy to cook for you.”

Azriel’s shock rolled over him as he gaped openly. “How are you an excellent cook?”

Eris clutched at his chest at the mock blow to his heart. “I’ll have you know, you overgrown bat, I am a fantastic f*cking cook thank you very much.” Azriel was giggling uncontrollably now, and Eris shook his head at him. “‘How are you an excellent cook’ he asks,” he muttered, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Honestly, you think one can be General of a damn army and not know how to cook?” Azriel held up his hands in mock surrender, his amusem*nt still sparkling down the bond.

He smiled then—a tender, gentle smile—before placing a delicate kiss made for lovers on Eris’ lips. Eris’ very soul burned for that kiss—for all that it stood for. All the things he had told himself for centuries that he needed to learn to live without: joy, contentment, peace, happiness, true friendship, a soul-bond. Beyond all hope, he had not been abandoned. Beyond all hope, he had not been lost. Beyond all hope, he was not so past redemption that he no longer deserved freedom—it was here. This. This was the taste of freedom, he realized. This kiss.

“What are you thinking about?” Azriel asked, his finger running through Eris’ hair, twirling the strands around his fingers. Eris practically purred in response; how many times had he dreamed of this—wanted this?

He smiled back, his fingertips dancing along Azriel’s lips. “I was thinking about freedom.”

Azriel looked at him thoughtfully. “It was one of the first thoughts I heard from you. When you were begging to be freed.” His warm hand slid to cup Eris’ jaw. “I will find a way to do it, Eris. I promise I will.”

Eris just shook his head, gripping Azriel’s chin between his thumb and pointer finger and letting the bond surge bright and warm between them. “You don’t understand, Azriel—you already did.” He pulled him in for another soft kiss—one of a million more, he promised him silently—as their chests brushed, and deeper, the bond beneath it grew brighter, ever brighter. “I’m already free.”

Chapter 9: Nine

Chapter Text

Azriel collapsed across his huge bed next to Eris—huge, to accommodate for wings, though its size now served another purpose—after that first mind-shattering joining. Gods, he couldn’t remember a time he ever came that hard. He had already been completely lost in a violent sea of pure ecstasy, but the moment Eris had brushed his fingers along the inside of his wing, Azriel had been shattered and remade and the only name he could remember was Eris’.

He drifted for a while there, Eris’ warm body curled into his chest with Azriel’s wing draped over him—simply… drifted. Eris brought Azriel’s scarred fingers to his lips, brushing soft kisses across each finger, tender featherlight touches that felt surreal across the scars that he kept covered almost all of the time.

Everything was still. No shadows whispering riddled prophecies in his ears for him to decipher, no Rhys buzzing in his mind with an endless string of commands for him to follow—his shadows were still, the sleeping city was still, everything in the entire world felt like it had gone still for him to savor this moment of most impactful perfect peace.

“Are you alright?” Eris’ voice was hesitant—shaky and hesitant. Azriel opened his eyes. The moonlight glinted off his mate’s red hair, spilled across Azriel’s bed like a cascade of liquid fire. Foolish as it was, Azriel wished to keep him here forever—Courts be damned, High Lords be damned, petty politics and bullsh*t and wars and masks and lies and all of it be damned. He wished the sun would never rise and the shadows and night would finally reign supreme, so this one night could last forever. He’d never have to burn it into his memory because it would never have to end.

He smiled softly, laying one scarred hand against Eris’ chest—feeling his steady, thrumming heart beating beneath his palm, in perfect time with his own. “I’m…” Azriel tried to think of a word. Words seemed so lacking to describe what was happening to him. He felt pulled apart and recrafted—as if every fiber of him had been taken apart, piece by piece, nerve by nerve and cell by cell, and remade into something wholly different. As if… as if he’d been remade into something that was no longer driven by his own desires and dreams and wants, but rather driven by his—by Eris’. Whatever he wanted, Azriel would deliver, whatever he desired, Azriel would ensure. He sighed.

Eris huffed a laugh, his amber eyes sparkling with amusem*nt as a smirk played about his lips—still slightly swollen from colliding repeatedly with Azriel’s over the course of the night since he’d come home. “The infamous shadowsinger of the Night Court—at a loss for words.”

Azriel shook his head as Eris giggled at him, the sound like a perfectly aged whiskey swimming through his veins. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, as unfamiliar to him as the feeling of peace that bloomed in his chest. He ran his hand through Eris’ hair, seemingly unable to keep his fingers out of the satiny red strands. Eris sighed deeply at the touch as Azriel watched his face relax, watched his eyes slide closed, tried to memorize what he looked like like this—no hard lines, no furrowed brows, no burdens or worries. Free.

“Is this what you want, Eris?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d fully decided to say them, but the doubt still creeped in. He needed to hear it.

Eris’ eyes flew open, but his body stayed still. His brows pinched together in confusion, even as a slight smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “I thought I made it pretty obvious what I want.”

Azriel shook his head. “I don’t mean… that.” He gestured to their naked bodies, legs still tangled together underneath his wing. “I mean…” He paused, not entirely sure he wanted an answer—not entirely sure he wanted the obliteration of what it would feel like if Eris rejected the bond. “I mean this.” He placed his hand back over Eris’ chest, over where that bond shone bright and strong and true—truer than anything Azriel had ever known in the entirety of his long and lonely life. His eyes drifted, not meeting Eris’.

But Eris firmly gripped Azriel’s chin with his thumb and index finger, forcing Azriel’s gaze back to his. “I want all of it.”

Azriel’s eyes burned. “Eris—”

“All of it, Azriel. And before you give me your very detailed list of reasons that it will be difficult and complicated, I’m going to stop you right there, because I don’t give a damn.” Azriel opened his mouth to argue, and Eris moved the fingers on his chin and pressed them gently to his lips. “No, I am not done. I know your fears, lover.” Azriel’s eyes widened, his core heating instantly at the name, and Eris smiled, a devilish glint in his eyes. “Yes, I’m calling you that now, and yes, I know exactly what it’s doing to you. I know your fears, and your reservations. And I’ll say it again—I don’t give a damn. I want it all. We’ll figure it out. Together—because that’s how we’re meant to do things.”

His fingers moved from Azriel’s lips around to his jaw, tracing light lines there. “May I speak now?” Azriel asked with a small smile.

“Yes you may.”

Azriel took a deep breath. “This meeting in less than two weeks—the High Lord’s meeting—”

Eris groaned, burying his face into Azriel’s chest. “No, you may not speak if it’s about that f*cking meeting.” He lifted his head back up. “New rule: We’re not talking about all the sh*t we have to deal with after we leave this apartment in the morning until we have to leave this apartment in the morning, deal?”

Azriel blinked. “That’s— a lot of sh*t, Eris.”

He grinned. “Excellent. Less talking—” He slid his hand between their bodies, and before Azriel could blink again, Eris firmly gripped his co*ck—already hard and aching from the way Eris had called him ‘lover’. “—and more… not talking.”

Azriel let out a strangled groan, his eyes snapping shut at the warmth of Eris’ hand. Eris gave him one long hard stroke, and Azriel’s lips parted as he whimpered.

“No more talk of meetings—” Another stroke. “—or alliances—” Another. Azriel’s moan was desperate as his hips shoved forward. “—and definitely no more mention of any godsdamn High Lords.” His voice had slipped deeper—hungrier.

Azriel’s body felt like it was coming unstitched with every stroke of Eris’ fire-kissed hand on his throbbing co*ck. He pushed his hips forward, aching for more of the friction he needed.

“Now, do you think you can abide by those rules, lover?” Eris asked, his voice slipping through Azriel’s senses like silk as he gently nipped at Azriel’s collarbone, setting Azriel’s heart racing as a powerful shudder overtook his body, pleasure rolling down his spine in a great wave. Eris continued to stroke him and Azriel panted in his ear, his hand coming to rest in his fiery red hair, fingers tangling in the silken tresses.

“And if I were to say no?” Azriel asked, eyes still closed in rapture but an impish smirk on his face.

He felt Eris smile against his shoulder, and his low laugh slipped seductively through his senses before he said playfully, “You Illyrian brutes, I swear. So difficult to train.”

Within the span of another breath—with all the speed and grace of the High Fae—Eris had pushed himself away from Azriel and positioned himself between his legs, behind him. Azriel made to turn his body, but Eris shoved him back face first into the bed. “Oh no, I’m not listening to you talk about f*cking meetings.”

Azriel’s blood heated as Eris pressed his face down into the rumpled sheets strewn across his bed, his fingers pressing into his scalp then dragging slowly down his neck, his spine, between his wings. His wings flared in response, and Eris let out a growl, his hands skating across Azriel’s hips and tugging them roughly up and back against his own, until Azriel was on his knees as Eris knelt behind him.

“f*cking hell, Azriel,” Eris groaned, his hips grinding against Azriel’s ass, his erection rubbing teasingly between Azriel’s cheeks. Azriel fisted his hands in the sheets of his bed, his moans muffled as his face dug into the bedding. “I’m f*cking ruined forever now that I’ve seen this. I’ll never be able to do another single thing without thinking about this.”

His hands marveled over every inch of Azriel’s flesh, trailing fire in their wake, and Azriel was dying inside. He felt his release already beginning to build, not at all caring about the sheer vulnerability of the position he was in. He wanted more.

“Gods, the things I want to f*cking do to you,” Eris growled, the restraint evident in his voice. His hand trailed up Azriel’s back, betweeen his wings, then clawed a brutal path down, his nails tearing a delicious trail of sweetest pain laced with pleasure that swam through Azriel’s senses.

Azriel turned his head, his cheek pressing into the bed, and gasped out the two words he half-hoped would be his undoing: “Do them.”

Eris’ grip on Azriel’s hips turned bruising, but he still seemed to hesitate, so Azriel added another word, one more word he knew Eris wouldn’t be able to ignore, a word to send him over the edge: “Please.”

He felt Eris lean down, felt the bite of his teeth at the crest of one toned cheek before Eris’ tongue licked away the sting. “You’ll be the death of me, you know that?”

But before Azriel could even think of a witty reply, every thought emptied from his mind as Eris’ warm tongue slid between his cheeks, teasing that tight ring of muscle, while his hand snaked between Azriel’s legs, shoving them apart and wrapping around his co*ck. His strokes were hard and insistent, his tongue equally so as it flicked and delved and Azriel began to unravel into an undulating moaning mess in Eris’ hands.

“That’s it, lover,” Eris purred against him, his tongue pushing into him and making Azriel see stars as he cried Eris’ name into the sheets, his fists balled so hard in the fabric his knuckles were white. “Yes, scream my name,” he continued, his voice half-feral now. “My name. I want everyone to know who can do this to you.”

“Gods, Eris,” Azriel screamed, his hands grappling at the the sheets as Eris’ hand slid back and forth over his co*ck, each stroke coinciding with a push of his tongue deeper into him as Azriel’s shoulders sank further into the bed, his hips lifting higher to grant him further access. But just as he felt himself begin to crest that transcendent peak of pleasure toward his climax, Eris backed off his pace, his pressure, and Azriel’s legs shook with his need for release. “f*ck, Eris, I can’t—”

“Oh yes, you can,” Eris growled, and then his mouth was replaced with a wet, well-oiled finger, and it slid easily into Azriel and Azriel’s vision swam. “I want you to need it.” His finger slid out nearly to the tip, and then sank all the way in as his other hand continued stroking his co*ck, and the combination of sensations was enough to make Azriel feel like he was being lit on fire from the inside out. “I want you to need nothing else but this.” His finger’s pace increased to match the pace of his stroke, and Azriel writhed, his hips moving in sync with Eris now as he moaned and screamed nonsensically into the sheets. “I want you incapable of thinking of anything else but this.”

“Please, Eris,” Azriel begged, his words coming out as choked muffled rasps. “f*ck, please make me come.” He was delirious with hazy need, lost at sea and completely at Eris’ mercy and willing to let him do whatever he wanted if it pushed him over the edge he had him riding so hard.

Eris chuckled darkly behind him. “Look at that. Even a brute can learn manners,” he said, as another finger slid into Azriel. A strangled moan ripped up Azriel’s throat, his breathy pleas falling faster from his lips now. “So are you going to abide by the rules, then?”

“Yes,” Azriel breathed, grappling at the rumpled sheets as his pleasure began to build to that existential crescendo once more as Eris’ fingers moved in and out of him, his strokes hard and perfect on his co*ck.

“No more talk of meetings or alliances or High godsdamn Lords until morning, yes?” he asked almost conversationally as he continued working Azriel to the peak of his climax, the heated pressure of it building as his back arched and his wings flared.

“Yes, f*ck, Eris, now please,” Azriel screamed, his vocal chords pushed to their limit, hips bucking wildly as they ground back against Eris’ movements. Sweat was pouring across the back of his neck, the drops rolling down across his jaw or into his hair. The thick scent of their arousal was drowning him and he couldn’t see or think straight.

Eris planted a startlingly soft kiss at the base of his spine, the ends of his hair brushing Azriel’s skin and sending goosebumps skittering across his flesh. “Gods, I adore the sound of you f*cking begging me,” he whispered. “And the sound of you screaming my name,” he continued, placing another gentle kiss as he slid another finger in and drove deep. Azriel’s body shuddered, so close to release he could taste fire on his tongue. “Do you want to come by my fingers, lover?”

“No.” Azriel’s answer came swiftly—

—and so did Eris’ response. “Thank the damn Mother, because I’m dying to f*ck you.” He eased his fingers out, their absence like a cold unwelcome wind, and his strokes stopped as well. Azriel replaced Eris’ hand on his co*ck with his own, and it paled in comparison; he didn’t know how he’d ever get himself off again—Eris had ruined self-pleasure for him forever. Eris chuckled behind him, no doubt catching the thought down the bond.

Before he could lament the absence for too long, weight shifted behind him again, and Eris’ hands slid up Azriel’s hips, up his back, between his wings, his nails dragging all the way back down to rest on his hips. “Look at you. Perfect. f*cking perfection.” Azriel felt the slick tip of his hard co*ck, now teasing where his fingers had just been, and his hips undulated, seeking. Eris gripped them hard, holding them firmly in place. “So damn eager,” he said, amusem*nt in his voice.

“Please,” Azriel begged again, every seam of him coming undone with the sheer strength of his need for release. His entire body gleamed with sweat, and he felt strung so tight he could snap at any moment. “Please, Eris.”

When he finally pushed his hips forward the slightest bit, just past that ring of tight muscle, Azriel’s body seized with the ecstasy of it. Eris ran a gentle hand up his spine. “Relax, lover.” Azriel’s body obeyed, and he opened for him as Eris slid further into him, one hand on his hip and one hand planted on his spine between his wings. The deep moan he released with each inch he buried reverberated all the way into Azriel’s soul and shook him in ways he’d never felt before. “Holy gods, Azriel, you feel like f*cking nirvana.”

“f*ck, yes, Eris.” Azriel melted into it as Eris sank all the way into him. The fullness was overwhelming but in the best way Azriel had ever felt in his life. He’d f*cked women, sure—more women than he cared to count. But this… giving up his carefully crafted control, giving up his dominance, letting go of all of it and putting himself in a position of powerlessness… it was intoxicating. “More,” Azriel gasped, his breaths ragged as his hands twisted in the sheets. “Please, Eris—”

“I’m not trying to break you just yet, Azriel,” he breathed, his words and voice still gentle as he let Azriel adjust, the hand between his wings rubbing idle, sweet, sweeping lines up and down his spine. But Azriel moved, pushing his hips back with enough force that Eris hissed. “f*ck, what are you—”

“I am not f*cking breakable,” Azriel ground out, planting his hands in front of him to leverage himself back. The pain was secondary, a sweet undercurrent to the overriding pleasure, and he needed more. “Do not treat an Illyrian like some soft-handed f*cking mortal.”

Eris’ grip on his hip turned truly bruising—Azriel could feel the imprint of each of his fingertips like a brand, possibly burned into his flesh forever. His other hand slid up into his Azriel’s hair, burying it in the black strands until he had a fistful of sweaty, blue-black silken locks twisted in his fingers and he gripped them. Hard. Azriel writhed under the edge of the pain, unable to even breathe properly.

Eris folded his body over Azriel’s, his warm breath on the backs of his wings almost painfully divine as he whispered, “As you wish then, lover.” He pulled his hips back, and unleashed a powerful thrust—achingly deep—with enough force that Azriel let loose a strangled cry. “f*ck, Azriel, you’re so f*cking tight.” He pumped into him again, harder this time, and again. His fistful of Azriel’s hair tightened, but Azriel barely felt the pain of it. It was secondary to the tide of ecstasy he was riding as Eris took him—wholly and completely—and his climax was like a raging violent storm held back by the thinnest of veils.

Eris bit down—hard—on the back of Azriel’s neck before he straightened behind him, releasing his hair but gripping his hips, drilling him mercilessly and wildly now. Azriel was sure his unrestrained moans could be heard throughout all of Velaris as Eris drove into him—marking him, claiming him. He was coming completely undone—feral and primal—and Azriel was coming apart beneath him. “Gods you look amazing taking my co*ck, you know that?” he growled, as he raked his nails down Azriel’s back, tearing the flesh as he went, and landing a hard slap on his ass. Azriel choked on his gasp, his hands reflexively letting go of the bedsheets he’d been gripping on to at the sting of it, his wings flaring outward completely.

Eris slid his hand down Azriel’s body, wrapping it around Azriel’s throat and hauling him closer, slowing his pace. The angle shifted, hitting a spot that had Azriel thrusting his hips back, steadying himself with a hand on Eris’ thigh and wrapping the other behind him, fisting Eris’ hair as he leaned his head back on Eris’ shoulder.

Eris’ hand on Azriel’s hip slid up his body, until he held a firm grip on Azriel’s chin and turned his head inward, and they locked eyes as Eris continued to move inside of him. “Together,” he whispered breathlessly, as the bond in Azriel’s chest glowed bright. His half-hooded amber eyes glowed with fierce Autumn fire at Azriel, and Azriel was struck with a thought that he was terrified to say out loud. “As we’re meant to do all things, Azriel. Come with me. Just look at me, and let go with me.”

“Eris, I—”

Eris deftly slid one hand between Azriel’s body and his wing, while the other wrapped around his co*ck. Azriel’s eyes widened and he nearly closed them as Eris began to stroke him, his pace syncing with how he rolled his hips inside of Azriel. “Don’t you dare look away from me,” whispered. “I don’t ever want you to look away from me.” His pace quickened, his breaths coming quicker and sharper—his own release so close, Azriel could taste the sparks of flame on the breaths they shared. Azriel’s own climax was just a heartbeat away, a near-deafening crescendo he knew was about to crash through him. “That’s it,” Eris whispered, brushing his lips on the corner of Azriel’s mouth, where Azriel tasted liquid fire, “Just let go, Azriel. Let go.”

“Eris, I—”

“f*ck.” Eris’ body tensed, and his amber eyes turned every shade of orange and red and gold—true fire, if Azriel had ever seen it—as his climax began to roll over him, and he planted three fingertips at the base of the inside of Azriel’s wing and dragged them outward in a decidedly deliberate sweep that pushed Azriel over the edge as well. Neither of them looked away as Eris spasmed and seized, pouring every last ounce of himself into Azriel as his hand on Azriel’s co*ck wrought every bit of pleasure from him in turn, both of them moaning and shaking—but refusing to look away.

Eventually, their breathing began to slow, and Eris removed his hand from Azriel’s spent co*ck, wrapping it firmly around his stomach and sliding out of him carefully and gently. Still, they did not look away. The thought was on the tip of Azriel’s tongue, but it felt completely foreign to him—chaotic lands he’d never ventured in before.

Slowly—deviously slowly—a lazy smile crept across Eris’ face as he gazed down at Azriel with affection in his eyes. “Gods, you look incredible coming apart in my hands, you know that? I’m not sure how I’m supposed to go about doing ‘chosen one’ things now with this in my memory.” He was still breathless, his face still stained with color.

Eris pressed his forehead to Azriel’s, his eyes suddenly brimming with silver unshed tears. “What’s wrong?” Azriel asked, his brows pinching together.

Eris smiled again—a tight, thin line—and sniffed once, swallowing hard. A few tears escaped the corners of his eyes, but still… he did not look away. Azriel would have usually felt like he was intruding on a private moment—to see a male like Eris shedding tears. “I’m…” Eris trailed off, shaking his head, his eyes wide—with fear, Azriel realized with a start. “I’m terrified,” Eris went on, confirming Azriel’s suspicion.

“Of what?”

He pressed a painfully gentle kiss to Azriel’s forehead before answering. “I’ve never had anything to lose. Life’s pretty easy… when you don’t have anything to lose, but—” His arm tightened around Azriel’s stomach, his presence surrounding Azriel like a warm fire on the coldest nights in Illyria. “—but now I do. I have something to lose. And it’s f*cking scary.”

It was there—right there, on the tip of Azriel’s tongue. And he wondered… he wondered if it was on the tip of Eris’ tongue, too. But he didn’t know what it was, or how to word it, so instead, he swallowed it down, and said, “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not that breakable then, right?”

He smiled then—really smiled, and it made Azriel’s heart soar. To chase away that haunted look, to rid Eris of the fear that Azriel would not always be here… it was worth it, to swallow that thought swirling in the back of his mind, to bury it for now. He’d find it again later. They had time, he reminded himself. They had all the time in the world.

“Indeed,” Eris replied, kissing him more fully now, and Azriel savored it—the slide of his tongue against Azriel’s, the skate of his hand up and down Azriel’s bare abdomen. “It is a very good thing you are not that breakable,” Eris murmured against his lips.

“So, if we’re not allowed to talk about—” Azriel stopped himself with a warning look from Eris and let out a small laugh. “—other things, what exactly are we to do other than completely ravage each other all night, chosen one?”

Eris smirked. “I assume your shower is also big enough to accommodate wings, yes?”

Azriel’s shower was, in fact, big enough to accommodate wings—and, coincidentally, also big enough to accommodate two people.

They f*cked in the shower. Eris tried not to, he really did. But the second he stood before Azriel—naked, watching hot water run down his gloriously toned and deliciously winged body—he hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself or Azriel’s co*ck out of his mouth. No.

He could still sense Azriel’s surprise when he’d sunk to his knees before him—Heir to a throne, and he’s on his knees before an Illyrian bastard—but he didn’t give a f*ck about titles and bullsh*t. He wanted to shake the doubt from Azriel’s head himself, but instead he’d decided he would show him. Azriel was a male of actions, not words. Actions were how that arrogant prick Rhysand was slowly losing Azriel’s loyalty without even realizing it, and it would be how Eris would make Azriel believe how much Eris cared for him, how much he lo—

He stopped himself as he stood before Azriel’s fireplace in his undershorts and nothing else, his fingers hesitating their dance as he played with the flames in the hearth.

How much he—

“We should sleep while we have the chance.” Azriel’s voice interrupted his thoughts, as his arms slid around Eris from behind, light kisses being placed upon his spine that caused a shiver of goosebumps across his flesh.

He smiled as his fingers resumed their dance, manipulating the flames before him—shaping them, guiding them, growing them and shrinking them, sweeping them this way and that way. “I believe we’ve tried a few times now, shadowsinger. We always end up… not sleeping.”

Azriel held out an open glass bottle of whiskey before him. “Ah, but I have the cure for that.”

Eris shook his head, laughing, but took the bottle from him. “Is this a major food group for you?” He took a long drink—it’s undertones were exactly the same as what Azriel had sent him down the bond when—

The fire before him swelled—a whirling ball of flame, angry and red, liquid drops dripping into the hearth, until vines like whips formed, snapping out at him black as night—

You decide. Five or ten?

Ten seems adequate.

“Eris.”

He unbuttoned his jacket and removed it. His shirt soon followed. His knees hit the floor, his resolve crumpling completely. His brothers smiled down at him, victorious. ‘Heavy is the head that will one day wear the crown’—

“Eris.”

Snap. Whistle. The familiar slash of fire across his brutalized back, the acrid smell of his own burned flesh as it hit his nose—

“Eris.” Azriel’s hands on each side of his face turned him from the fire. The bottle in his hand was gone, carried away by Azriel’s shadows. “Eris, that’s enough.” His voice was gentle, his thumbs stroking over his jaw as Eris’ eyes came back into focus. Azriel’s face was pained with concern. “That’s enough, it’s okay. Everything is okay. You’re here, with me, and everything is okay.”

His words sunk into Eris’ consciousness, and he looked back at the fire. It crackled away in the hearth—normal size, normal color. No angry black whips or dripping molten.

Azriel pulled him to his body, wrapping his arms around Eris, stroking his hair, his back, any part of him he could reach. Eris clung to him like a lifeline—like a rock in a storm. “I’m sorry,” Azriel whispered, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve remembered.”

“It’s fine,” Eris said, his voice feeling hoarse and throat raw. “It’s fine, I just—”

“You weren’t expecting it.” Azriel’s fingers grazed down Eris’ back—down the myriad raised white scars there, the stories etched in flesh, tales of his torture. Azriel’s body stiffened. “I’ll f*cking kill him.” His voice was cold and full of malice.

Eris pulled back. “No,” he said firmly. “No, it has to be me.” Azriel’s eyes were cold and narrowed—angry. This was the face the Hewn City feared. “It has to be me, Azriel,” he repeated. “We both know it. We all know it. I’ll do it. His life is mine to take.”

Azriel hesitated—but nodded, only once. “And his power…” He trailed off, a world of uncertainty in his eyes.

He doesn’t think he is worthy of an heir, much less of a High Lord. The thought felt like acid in Eris’ heart. He braced a hand against Azriel’s jaw, and Azriel leaned into the touch. “It changes nothing,” Eris said simply.

Azriel huffed a light laugh. “I’d say it changes quite a bit, Eris,” he said, his voice resigned to some grim fate he already saw in their future. But Eris refused it.

“It changes nothing,” he said more firmly. “Nothing.”

Azriel nodded, but Eris could see it in his hazel eyes: he wasn’t convinced.

Eris slid his hand into Azriel’s, pulling him toward the bedroom. “Let’s go to bed. Plenty more time to worry about our problems when we wake, lover.”

Azriel smiled softly at the name, a faint blush flushing his cheeks as he brought Eris’ hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss across his knuckles. “Alright. But we have to actually sleep this time.”

Eris chuckled as he walked backward toward the bedroom, watching as Azriel trailed behind him—the soft smile that still played about his lips, that perfect blush that stained his cheeks when Eris called him ‘lover’, the reverent look that passed over his face every f*cking time he kissed any part of Eris’ body…

He’d protect this. No matter the cost, he’d fight like hell to protect this. No matter the person—be it his own father, Rhysand, the Autumn Court, the Night Court, f*ck, he’d take on all of godsdamn Prythian if he had to. No one would take this from him.

He yanked back the bedding and climbed into Azriel’s massive bed. There was something to be said for an Illyrian’s bed—so much space. He stretched out on his back, delighting in the burn of his overworked muscles, and tucked an arm behind his head. Azriel stood at the edge of the bed and stared at him, that small smile still on his face.

Eris raised one eyebrow questioningly at him, and Azriel chuckled, shaking his head. “This is something I could get used to.”

Eris smiled back. “You better.” He stretched out his other hand for Azriel. “Now come here.”

Azriel had slept soundly, for the first time in months. He awoke slowly, for the first time in months.

His head hadn’t been full of the churning nonsensical bullsh*t he needed to plan and think on and consider all night. It had all been completely drowned out by the sound of Eris’ heart as Azriel slept sprawled across his chest, his wings outstretched over the both of them as Eris ran his absentminded hand through Azriel’s hair.

That’s how Azriel had drifted off to sleep—with his mate’s fingers in his hair and his heartbeat filling his head. That’s how he’d stayed asleep. And he wasn’t sure, but he thought it might’ve been how he awoke, too. Even his shadows had quieted, twining lazily around the both of them throughout the night, not a whisper to be heard.

The sunlight filtered in through his bedroom window, washing the room in the early morning hues of a brilliant golden dawn. Azriel lifted his head, turning it to look up, to look at—

f*ck, this male was perfect. It hit him as he watched Eris sleep peacefully in his bed, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, his red hair spilled across Azriel’s white sheets like liquid fire, burnished auburn in the morning sun, one hand resting on Azriel’s outstretched wing like a blanket—like his own personal shield.

Azriel slowly reached up, moving a few pieces of Eris’ red hair away from his face, marveling at the way it practically glittered with interlaced gold in the morning sunlight. He didn’t stir—didn’t even so much as shift in the slightest. He slept peacefully. Azriel laid his hand on Eris’ chest, remembering the way this male—this male, not just High Fae, but High Fae f*cking royalty—had crawled into Azriel’s bed the previous night, held out his hand, and said ‘now come here’. As if… as if he belonged here. Azriel hadn’t said much after that, already speechless by enough, but that…

For some reason, it had shaken awake some part of Azriel’s soul he had thought long dormant—some part that felt things like… like affection. Like earned loyalty. He knew blind loyalty and honor well—he’d learned them in Illyria, and they were imprinted in his bones. He also knew duty and blind faith—he learned those serving Rhys, and had been happy to do so.

But Eris seemed to be different from these males Azriel had surrounded himself with for most of his existence—been practically raised by. He knew that words were as useless as the air used to speak them into existence, and trusted people about as much as Azriel did, which was not very much. So he knew the impact that things like last night would actually have on Azriel—things like crawling into Azriel’s bed as if it were a perfectly normal thing for him to do, holding out his hand and beckoning for him like he’d done it a million times.

Azriel’s shadows stirred—they had brought news. They swarmed to him, and—consequently—brushed across Eris as well, who’s fire-kissed skin was less accustomed to the cool touch. Eris took a deep breath, and Azriel knew he’d wake soon.

What is it?

News from the other Courts. Regarding the meeting of the High Lords of Prythian.

Azriel clenched his jaw. So this was how he’d start his day. Might as well. Make it quick and painless.

Helion Spell-Cleaver, of the Day Court, has accepted. Thesan, of the Dawn Court, has accepted on the condition of neutral territory. And Kallias, of the Winter Court, has accepted only so long as he may bring with him a guard that is armed.

Azriel’s body tensed. Eris was beginning to stir. We said no weapons.

Yes, master, they whispered to him, still crawling over his and Eris’ bodies, as if they couldn’t tell the difference. He is aware, and he still insists.

Azriel rolled his eyes. And… and Spring, Summer, and— and Autumn? He nearly fumbled on the words.

Even his f*cking shadows seemed to hesitate—seemed to consider who they currently coiled over, who he had sent them to protect. Tarquin, of the Summer Court, is considering, but has sent no reply. No word from the others.

Azriel only nodded once.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Eris grumbled. Azriel’s head snapped up to him. His eyes were still closed, face still serene as he lay flat, sprawled out against Azriel’s bed with his face cast in the morning sun.

“What?” Azriel nearly choked on the word.

He watched as Eris’ hand left its resting spot on his wing and rubbed at his eyes, then as he blinked in the morning sunlight, his amber eyes burning bright. He looked down at Azriel, smiling. “Good morning.”

Azriel stared at him, dumbfounded. “What do you mean you can hear me?” he sputtered.

Eris frowned. “I believe the response you were looking for was ‘Good morning, breakfast?’, to which I reply, ‘Sounds delightful.’” He looped his fingers through a stray shadow, and to Azriel’s complete f*cking surprise, the damned thing twined and twisted around Eris’ finger as if it were Azriel’s own.

Azriel slowly lifted up to rest on his elbow. “How…” He shook his head, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “How did you do that?”

Eris wore a small smile as he watched the shadow dance around his fingers, and his eyes slid to Azriel’s. “Do what?”

“Command them.”

Eris blinked. “I didn’t command them, they just…” He lowered his hand to where more of the inky strands of darkness crawled over them both, and several more wrapped themselves almost playfully amongst Eris’ fingers. “I don’t know. They just like me, I guess. I figured you told them to do it.”

Azriel just shook his head again. “I sent one. To watch over you when we’re apart. And that was days ago. But this—” He gestured to where the filaments of shadow contentedly swirled over Eris’ skin, practically sighing into him. “I didn’t command this. And what do you mean you can hear me. You’re not—”

“A shadowsinger?” Eris lifted an eyebrow, an impish half grin on his face. “Oh no, that title is all yours, lover. I didn’t say I could understand you, but I can most certainly hear you.” He shrugged. “Most of it just sounds like nonsensical gibberish to me, though I have started to pick up a few words here and there now that I’ve heard it enough.” Eris smiled—a self-satisfied smile, confident in his ability to crack a code, to solve a puzzle.

But Azriel just stared at him, eyes wide and hands still, blinking a few times.

Eris snorted a laugh, pushing up into a sitting position and sending the shadows skittering. “Oh don’t look so surprised. It’s a dialect, just like any other, right? Do you know how long I’ve studied language?” He ran a hand through his sleep-tossed hair, the locks glinting burnished red-gold in the sun filtering in through the window and falling over his shoulders.

Azriel was stupefied. He’d spent centuries around the same group of people—one of them a godsdamn daemati—and not one of them had ever formed this sort of… relationship with the shadows that wreathed him in constantly. It had always felt like a wall, separating him from other people. How had Eris managed to not only get beyond it to the inside, but also already begun to understand it entirely on his own?

He was still picking it apart in his reeling mind as Eris swooped in, planting a line of deliberate, slow, sensuous kisses along Azriel’s shoulder, washing the thoughts out of his brain as easily as water down a drain. “So,” Eris murmured against his skin, “let’s try this again. Good morning. Breakfast?”

It dragged a smile from Azriel, and his eyes slid closed as a shiver of pleasure overtook his body. “Sounds delightful, however, unless you plan to have whiskey for breakfast, you’ll find that this apartment is not as well-stocked as the average palace, chosen one.”

Eris brushed another kiss—this one just beneath Azriel’s ear, that tender hollow that made his blood heat and the breath catch in his throat—before he replied, “Ah, but I have the cure for that.”

Eris climbed out of Azriel’s bed, untangling himself from Azriel’s legs and wings carefully until he stood at the edge facing into the warm rays of sun pouring in through the window, stretching his arms over his head. Every muscle rippled, his joints popping as he sighed deeply. Azriel stared, caught between awe and lust.

He turned then, holding out a hand for Azriel—exactly as he had done the night before. “Shall we, shadowsinger?” His amber eyes sparkled as Azriel raised one dark eyebrow at him—a silent question. “I owe you a meal, and it is conveniently also breakfast time, which just so happens to be my favorite meal of the day,” Eris continued, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Two birds, one stone.”

Azriel’s chest swelled with warmth as he slid his hand into Eris’ and allowed himself to be pulled out of bed—and directly into Eris’ warm, toned chest. He slid both arms around Azriel and Azriel melted into the embrace like night chased away by the dawn. He unfurled his wings, extending them around both of their bodies, the sun's rays gilding the thin membranous skin in brilliant reds and golds.

Eris turned his head to look at them, smiling at their miniature cocoon as Azriel ran the tip of his nose down Eris’ jaw line. “Gods, Azriel,” he breathed, his eyes wide and tone reverent. “You’re a f*cking masterpiece.”

Azriel smiled as he planted a delicate kiss at the corner of Eris’ mouth. “What happened to ‘overgrown bat’?”

Eris laughed, the sound rumbling through Azriel’s chest and singing through his soul as Eris faced him again, pressing his forehead against Azriel’s and breathing deep—breathing in this quiet, perfect moment that Azriel wanted to imprint on his heart forever. He could die here, he realized, and he’d be content. He ran one hand up the length of Eris’ scarred back, twining his fingers through his tangled red hair, holding him in place—holding him close. Together, as we’re meant to do all things. Eris’ words from the previous night, filled with so much passion and heat… they’d felt right. Like a puzzle that had finally found a solution—like being here, like this, with him.

It bubbled back through the surface of his thoughts again—that one thing he’d thought before, that one thing he thought he knew how to put into words but really didn’t. It made him warm beyond belief, made him both anxious and calm, both still and not. He felt it come up from the very core of his soul—from where that bright white light existed, tying him to this perfect male forever—up through his throat, to the very tip of his tongue—

Az. We received word from Day, Dawn, and Winter. I assume you already know. We need to plan our next moves regarding Autumn. I want a firm ‘yes’ from Beron, and if Eris can’t deliver us that, then we need to remind him of the terms of our agreement and his usefulness. We can talk more after your lesson with Feyre. I’m meeting with Mor now.

Rhys’ voice was like ice water down Azriel’s spine, jolting him out of the warm bubble of joy he’d been hazily drifting in. His body stiffened, and Eris pulled back, concerned etched in his features. “What is it?”

Azriel sighed, his tone tight and clipped. “Rhys.”

Eris' arms tightened around Azriel possessively. He took a deep breath. “How long?” Azriel knew what he meant. How long until we return back to our roles and masks for a while?

“A few hours. Feyre is training with Cassian, then she trains with me.” Azriel shrugged. “I have nothing until then.”

Eris smiled widely, dropping a kiss on the tip of Azriel’s nose. “Then you are all mine until then.” He worked his way out of the bubble of wings and arms, catching Azriel’s hand and dragging him along to the kitchen. Azriel chuckled the entire way—at being herded through his own apartment.

Eris deposited Azriel on to a low countertop and got to work, his snapping fingers summoning everything from eggs and sausage to fresh fruits and tea. Azriel watched him work, stealing small touches and sensuous slow kisses with every chance he got, his hands drawn to Eris like moths to a flame.

Azriel barely thought anything of it by the time he sat in a chair at the small table in the sunniest alcove in his apartment as Eris hesitantly placed a plate of food in front of him, his hand shaking as he withdrew it and sat. Azriel’s eyes followed the movement, but Eris shoved his hand beneath the table quickly, his eyes darting away—nervous, Azriel thought. He’s nervous. He’s actually afraid I won’t accept this—that I’ll think again, and reject it.

Eris seemed to hold his breath, his face etched with raw anxiety. Azriel looked down at the plate, piled with a meal tenderly prepared for him—for him—by his mate. An offer. A promise.

Azriel slowly but deliberately picked up his fork, speared a well-seasoned plump piece of sausage, and slid his other hand beneath the table and wrapped it around Eris’. Eris’ eyes met Azriel’s as Azriel took his first bite, accepting the offer.

Azriel felt it in his chest, the moment that first bite hit his tongue. The bond seared into him, burning into place permanently—never to be removed, never to be destroyed. Forever a part of him, forever buried in his soul, forever the axis around which he would revolve. His fingers laced through Eris’, squeezing tight. Eris squeezed back, his eyes wide, his pupils pinpricks of black in a sea of fiery amber as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Azriel smiled, shaking his head. “You never have to thank me. Not for this.”

Eris fiddled with the braid sweeping down the right side of his head for the sixth f*cking time—the damned thing was not cooperating with him. His fingers were still shaking, his chest blooming with the radiating blast of cool, echoing darkness that had settled there like a brand when Azriel had accepted the meal he’d prepared for him.

He’d accepted. Gods, Eris had half expected him to hesitate, realize the implication, and back out altogether. One night of great sex was one thing, but to accept a mating bond was wholly something else. And after the way Azriel had looked when they’d discussed Beron—however briefly—the previous night, that crushing look of hopelessness on Azriel’s face, like he could never see himself having a real future with a future High Lord…

But he’d accepted. Eris’ heart soared as the pool of cool, shadowy dark that swelled in his soul—darkness that soothed and felt exactly like Azriel’s shadows—sang and whispered to him. It had carved a home for itself in him the moment Azriel had accepted, the feeling both shocking and overwhelming to Eris, and he knew it would never be undone, never be ripped out. No, this was intrinsically a part of him now. As he wanted it to be.

“Godsdamnit,” he cursed under his breath, as the braid he’d been fighting with in his hair unraveled for the sixth time. His jacket hung open, his shirt sleeves unbuttoned, as he contemplated just cutting all his hair off.

“Don’t you f*cking dare,” Azriel said, coming up behind him and picking apart the remnants of the braid, clearly catching the last thought Eris had had. “You cut off your hair, and you’ll have me to contend with.”

His fingers were deft as he dragged them through Eris’ hair once, smoothing the strands, then worked up the braid quickly, pinching the end as he pulled the rest of Eris’ thick hair back and wrapped it all with the worn strip of supple brown leather that dangled from between Eris’ teeth into a semi-tidy bun—nearly identical to the ones Eris had done himself countless times.

Eris stared at him in the mirror, both eyebrows raised questioningly. “Don’t tell me Illyrians sit around fires in war camps braiding each other’s hair.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, snorting a laugh as he turned Eris to face him and absentmindedly began buttoning Eris’ shirt cuffs. He was already in his Illyrian fighting leathers, every inch of them hugging every delicious toned muscle that Eris had spent the night worshiping and would be happy to worship for the rest of time.

“Beron hasn’t sent a reply,” Azriel muttered as he finished with one cuff and moved to the other. “Rhys is getting antsy about it.”

It was Eris’ turn to roll his eyes. “Rhysand needs to remove the stick from his ass and give it a rest. He’s already non-officially agreed to it. I’ll seal the deal today. He’ll be there. Even if I need to drag him myself.” Azriel nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. Actions, Eris reminded himself. Azriel was a male of actions. He’d prove it by ensuring Beron was at the meeting—as well as every single one of his f*cking brothers. “What other Courts have committed?”

“Day is already in. Dawn and Winter, though with conditions. Summer is considering. No response from Spring yet.”

Eris snorted. “I wouldn’t expect Tamlin. His Court is in shambles after the chaos your High Lady wrought there.” Azriel had finished with his shirt cuffs and now moved to his jacket, straightening the collar and smoothing the lines. Eris laid a hand over Azriel’s, stilling his movement. “Is this an anxious habit, or should I expect this kind of treatment every time we're getting ready to leave?” A gentle half smile crept across his face.

Azriel sighed. “Maybe a little bit of both?” His voice was trepidacious, his siphons flickering atop his hands. His wings rustled nervously behind him. “I’m… sending my shadows with you. Not enough to be noticeable by anyone, but… they’ll—” He winced. “—hide the scent. Of the bond.”

Eris’ throat tightened, anger flaring somewhere inside of him, and he let his hand fall to his side again. Azriel continued as he buttoned Eris’ jacket, “They seem to like you anyways.” He was quiet as his fingers worked the buttons clear from the bottom to the top, his hazel eyes thoughtful. “I assume we’re not… telling anyone,” he finally mumbled, the last two words barely discernible, his eyes cast downward.

It felt like knives in Eris’ f*cking soul that he couldn’t strongly disagree. He wanted to—badly. He didn’t want to hide this most important piece of himself away. But he understood the risk all the same—risk to the freshly formed alliance with Keir, risk to the alliance between himself and Rhysand, tenuous and fragile, that would be upended if the pompous asshole that for a single second that Eris was out to steal his spymaster away from his Court.

But f*ck, the look of defeat in Azriel’s eyes—

“Only for now,” Eris said firmly, framing Azriel’s face with each of his hands. “But not indefinitely.” Azriel didn’t look convinced, and it struck a nerve in Eris—made him pissed. His shadows swarmed his shoulders, whispering that strange secret language in his mind that only he could understand. “Knock it off,” Eris snapped—and the shadows stilled, quieting themselves. “I’m serious, Azriel. I refuse to be the High Lord that history remembers for having a mate that he kept secret for centuries—forever confined to the shadows. I don’t give a f*ck if that’s what you’re used to, it is not the fate that I believe you to be deserving of. For right now, yes, we need to plan our moves carefully so that we may both live to see the end of this godsdamned war, but after?” His face softened, his thumbs sweeping across Azriel’s jawline. “After—lover, that’s when our life together truly begins. And I do intend to make it a long, full, and very happy life—one that does not include being secret anything to each other, yes?” He smiled then—the soft, private small he reserved only for Azriel.

Azriel swallowed, his eyes brimming, and his hands came to rest on Eris’ chest. “I'd choose you, you know?” He practically whispered the words, but Eris felt their impact deep in his soul, where the bond lay etched within him—they resonated as loudly as they did the first time he heard them, that first time Azriel had declared it, that first time he’d accepted this bond between them. “If I had to choose, I’d choose you. Every single time, Eris. Without question. I don’t have any idea what that would look like for me, but I suppose…” He took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. “I suppose we’d figure it out. Together. As we’re meant to do all things.”

Eris nearly choked on his own emotion—because he could see it. He could see it—what it would look like to have both his throne and his mate. Azriel was not made for sitting on pretty chairs and wearing pretty crowns the way a loveless political marriage would—like his own parents. No, Azriel was made to stand at his side, to protect him and his people, but to stand in the light with him, not work beneath him from the darkness. He would never rule alone, but Azriel would never be less than him—he was Eris’ equal in every way, and always would be.

Eris brushed his lips against Azriel’s as he whispered his agreement, “Together. As we’re meant to do all things.”

Azriel found it extremely difficult to leave his apartment to meet Feyre for her lesson that day.

But as he stood in the sunlight, tasting the breeze and teaching her how to gauge currents and downdrafts—how heat and cold could shape wind and speed—his mind and body felt… different. He felt like an altogether different male.

He knew his shadows did their job well, concealing the scent of his mating bond—Feyre didn’t give him a single sideways glance, though she did seem as though she were dying to ask him about the events that had unfolded in the Hewn City the previous night.

Azriel remained quiet—reserved. He instructed her with precision and without distraction.

She asked if he’d spoken to Mor since the previous night, and he simply told her he had not. No explanation, no lengthy discussion. He almost chuckled—he was sure his behavior made little sense to anyone. He had longed for Mor for the better part of five centuries, and it had gone unrequited, but the very second his axis had shifted, that fascination had died completely. Nobody held a candle to the male who held him in an absolute chokehold, not anymore.

Still, Mor’s friendship could very well have been shattered irreparably by what Rhys had forced him into—the actions and lies he’d forced Azriel to take part in as part of the deals he’d made with regard to these new alliances. She may never speak to him again, and once it came out that the male who had left her to die, beaten and brutalized, was Azriel’s mate… well, Azriel wouldn’t blame her for hating him for the rest of their existence, as much as it would hurt. She’d draw a line, make Azriel choose, thinking for sure that he would still chase her—

—except Azriel couldn’t think of a single thing he’d choose over Eris. Not even Rhys.

Feyre seemed reserved as well throughout the lesson, despite the not-casual glances she cast frequently toward Azriel. She’d practically limped toward him when he’d gone to meet her—had likely worked her frustrations out in a bone-jarring session with Cassian. Azriel could understand that. He’d done the same plenty of times, Cassian and Rhys as well.

Always happy to volunteer if you need to work out any of your frustrations, lover. Eris’ sensual voice drifted down the bond like a lazy whisper caressing Azriel’s ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down his body beneath his leathers.

He angled away from Feyre, stretching his wings, so she wouldn’t see the small smile that spread across his face. Snoop. Don’t you have important ‘chosen one’ things you should be doing right now?

Eris’ low laugh slipped through Azriel’s senses like silk. I distinctly remember telling you that the sight of you coming apart in my hands would make it difficult for me to do all my ‘chosen one’ things, and wouldn’t you know… I was right.

Azriel huffed a near-silent laugh that he covered with a snap of his wings. You’re terrible.

Amusem*nt glimmered down the bond. The worst. When do I get you to myself again?

That depends. Is Beron ready to commit to the meeting yet?

Eris practically growled in frustration. He’s cagey today, but I’m working on it. Come find me later this evening?

Azriel hesitated. In Autumn?

Eris chuckled. That’s where I reside, so yes.

I’m pretty sure I’d be recognized at the Forest House. I can’t exactly go traipsing through there, Eris. Beron has the place extremely well-guarded.

I won’t be at the Forest House. Just come find me. You’ll see. I’ll see you soon. Azriel felt one last brush against the bond before Eris’ voice—before his presence—faded back into the background of his mind.

His brows pinched together in confusion as he turned back towards Feyre, helping her wordlessly with her form as he turned it over in his mind—going to Autumn for an evening. For a night. Rhys would be furious if he knew why. Azriel had spent plenty of nights away from the Night Court as a spy, but not for… this reason. It wouldn’t be difficult to slip away; he was never expected to stay in one place, not with the work he did, and he half-believed his family was actually surprised when he showed up to eat a meal with them all.

His shadows bunched and skittered over him, whispering excitedly. News from Summer, master.

What is it?

A contingent of troops readies to set out from Summer on foot. They will leave soon.

Azriel reigned in his shock, keeping his face neutral. Where are they heading? He already knew the answer.

South. To Spring. Whispers of assistance for a crumbling Court. Spring is in open revolt, and Tamlin has not been seen since the day he returned to his manor after the lady Feyre’s departure.

Azriel nodded, secretly hoping that Tarquin, of all people, would be able to reign in Tamlin—if for no other reason than that he hoped Rhys wouldn’t have to do it for him. He knew what the result would be, should that happen, and he didn’t particularly relish the idea of torturing Tamlin in the deepest reaches of the Hewn City for days as Rhys watched him do it.

“You already agreed. All that’s left is sending a formal missive that we will be there.” Eris grit his teeth as he said the words. He stood before his father—draped across his ostentatiously ornate throne—with his spine ramrod straight and his hands fisted behind his back. He could still feel the ghost of Azriel’s fingers in the braid running down the right side of his hair, and he used it as fuel to will himself into a perfect calm.

Beron waved a lazy hand, not even sparing Eris a glance. “A hasty decision. I’m reconsidering—exploring all of our options.”

Eris’ eyes narrowed minutely, but he kept his voice neutral. “And what are our options, father?”

Beron did look at him then, but did not answer his question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “Where were you last night?”

Eris blinked, giving nothing away. “With the hounds. Another one gave birth to new pups. You know I’ll always be there for a new pup.”

Beron’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening. “You and those godsdamned smokehounds…” He sighed deeply, shaking his head. “I want to know who has agreed to this ridiculous meeting before deciding anything. I will not tie myself or my Court to the losing side of a f*cking war started over a pissing match between two infants fighting over the same c*nt. I’ll gladly join with Hybern and obliterate them all and dance on their corpses if that is how this plays out—without a second thought.” He pointed one long finger at Eris, looking down at him with so much disdain Eris nearly cowered before him. “You find out who had already agreed to the venture, and I’ll decide from there.”

Eris dipped his head in a bow. “Of course, father.”

“And Eris?”

Eris looked up at him once more, fighting the urge to flinch. “Yes, father.”

“Do not disappoint me again.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “See to your sentries. You’ve been neglecting your rotations, and it shows.”

Eris bowed again, lower this time. “Yes, father.” He turned and stalked out of the throne room.

Every single scar on his back burned with each step that he took, searing him down to the bone, as Azriel’s shadows wrapped around him like a cool blanket—tendrils reaching deep into each individual scar, reminding him of what was in the past, behind him, and what now lay before him in his future. He just needed to live long enough to see it.

“I’ve got time before I head to meet with Keir and Cassian about the Darkbringers. I was hoping to check in with you.” Rhys’ voice was smooth—non confrontational, but still held an edge of barely-restrained irritation.

“I’m fine, Rhys. Though you should know that my spies reported that Tarquin is readying to move troops south to the Spring Court, presumably to assist Tamlin in the wake of what Feyre did there.” Azriel stood on the balcony of the House of Wind with Rhys, the smell of salt and citrus drifting on the breeze from Velaris twisting through his senses and setting him at ease.

Rhysand blinked, his brows pinched together. “Why would he split up his own forces in a time of war? That kind of maneuver is risky in such an unpredictable era.”

Azriel shrugged. “He’s young. Inexperienced. He doesn’t have the forethought to know better, or the advisors to guide him in a different direction.”

Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “I actually wanted to talk about you, Az. Though I thank you for the information…” He trailed off, looking back up at Azriel, his features open and soft. “I’m… sorry—that it had to come to that. With Keir, and with Eris.”

“It didn’t have to. You chose it.” Azriel said the words flatly, with little inflection or emotion, but Rhys winced.

“We’re out of options, brother. And we’re out of time. I’m doing what I can—”

“I don’t need your reasons, Rhys,” Azriel snapped, cutting him off. “I need to know how you’re going to make it worth it. You forced me into possibly sacrificing some of my oldest friendships—some of my deepest loyalties—for these alliances. I don’t need your contrition, I need your initiative. Move in the right direction, and I’ll support you, you know this. I always have, Rhys, I just…” Azriel sighed, running one hand through his hair. “Consider the price, Rhys, please. Not just for you, but…” He trailed off, his chest blooming with the searing heat of his bond—his tie to Eris, pulsing in time with his heart. “For other people, too.”

Rhys crossed his arms over his chest, studying Azriel closely. “Initiative. In the right direction,” he said slowly.

Azriel nodded. “Yes. And please consider the cost. I know you want to win this war, Rhys, but we also need to be worthy of winning by the end of it.”

Rhys seemed to consider these words for a few long moments of silence as the wind whistled past them, the sounds and smells of Velaris carried on it twined around them both.

“Feyre has Madja coming to evaluate Elain at the townhouse. I thought you’d like to know, seeing as how you are… fond— of her.” Rhys chose his words carefully.

Azriel rolled his eyes. “There is nothing wrong with Elain.”

Rhys huffed a laugh. “Personally, I agree with you. But seeing as how none of us can quite figure out what the Cauldron did to her, Feyre is grappling for answers wherever she can find them.”

Azriel scrubbed a frustrated hand across his face. The answer to that puzzle was just there, on the edge of his mind, if only he could reach out and touch it…

“Whatever it is, it worked, Az.” Azriel’s eyes snapped to Rhys, who was eying Azriel, head co*cked to one side. Azriel raised one dark brow questioningly. “You seem… more well-rested than you have in months.”

Azriel kept his voice playful. He shrugged, a devious smirk on his lips. “A sh*tty night, a hot shower, and a bottle of single-malt is a great cure for insomnia, brother.”

Rhys snorted, smirking back at him. “You sure it has nothing to do with the unmistakable bite-shaped bruise you’re sporting on the back of your neck?”

Azriel’s face flooded with warmth. f*ck. He knew exactly what Rhys had spied—that hard bite from last night that Eris had laid just below Azriel’s hairline, low enough to not be completely covered by the sweep of his hair, but high enough to not be completely covered by his leathers—

“No judgment here, Az,” Rhys said, holding up both hands. “We’re all entitled to our… vices.” The way Rhys said the word had Azriel’s hair standing up on end—it was dripping with judgment. He assumed Azriel had picked up some meaningless warm body to distract him for the evening. His anger boiled over, and he opened his mouth to defiantly set that record straight—

But he bit down on his pride as he remembered that these alliances were fragile, and depended on all of the working pieces in play—including his. “Not all of us have loving mates to go home to every night, brother. We make do with what we have.” Azriel nearly choked on the words—they felt like spoiled milk in his mouth. He fought back the urge to retch just to be rid of the taste of them.

Rhys smiled—a secretly smug, self-satisfied smile—as he clapped Azriel on the shoulder. “I suppose not.”