Chapter Text
The River House was as welcoming as it had ever been.
Warm light spilled from its windows, laughter echoing faintly through open halls, the scent of citrus and night-blooming flowers lingering in the air. It welcomed him the way it always had—without question, without judgment.
Azriel felt none of it.
His posture remained rigid as he stepped inside, shoulders tight beneath his leathers, wings tucked too close to his back. He paused just inside the threshold, long enough to take in the space, and long enough to notice his shadows retreat.
Not fleeing or vanishing, but avoiding.
They hugged the edges of the room, clinging to corners and darkened seams where the wall met the ceiling. One brushed his ankle, then slid away again, as if the open space unsettled it. Azriel frowned faintly, irritation flaring low in his chest.
Get a grip.
The River House had always been like this, open, bright, exposed. His shadows had never cared before.
He stepped farther in. The shadows shifted again, skirting the center of the room as though something unseen occupied it.
Azriel’s jaw tightened.
It was nothing. Residual unease from the Prison. From the Dread Trove. From too many things demanding attention at once. He refused to let his instincts spiral over shadows misbehaving like skittish animals.
Still, the feeling lingered.
Rhysand stood near the wide windows, posture relaxed, hands loosely clasped behind his back. Cordial, as always, but Azriel had learned long ago that Rhys’s warmth sharpened when he was watching closely.
Feyre sat on the couch nearby, Nyx cradled against her chest. She glanced up as Azriel approached and smiled, soft, grounding, deliberately unthreatening. The baby stirred at the sound of his steps, small fingers curling into Feyre’s tunic.
Azriel inclined his head in greeting, the tension in his chest easing by a fraction.
Amren sat opposite them.
Still. Silent. Watching.
Her silver eyes tracked him openly, without pretense, and he had the distinct impression she was not looking at him, but through him, measuring whatever lay beneath the surface.
Caudron, she still unnerved him, even after all these years.
His shadows recoiled another inch, hugging the edges of the room like they’d found the only safe ground.
Azriel ignored them.
Just like he was trying to ignore Rhys.
Their argument on Solstice still lingered like an old bruise. Press on it too hard, and it aches.
Rhys had overstepped. Azriel knew that. He had spoken as High Lord, not a brother, and the hypocrisy of it still burned. Who was Rhys to tell him to stay away from Elain?
Rhys, who had stolen Feyre away in her wedding dress. Rhys, who had chosen love over politics and damned the consequences.
Azriel understood the difference. He wasn’t blind to it. Elain was bound to another male, another court. The fallout would be catastrophic.
Understanding didn’t dull the edge of it.
After centuries of wanting in silence, of swallowing every impossible hope, he had finally found something that wanted him back.
And he had been told to walk away.
Because they needed him to be careful. Useful only when it benefited them.
His jaw clenched.
He was tired of being the blade kept sheathed until it was needed. Tired of holding the line while others crossed it freely.
Footsteps echoed from the hall.
Cassian entered first, loud as ever, heat and motion rolling in with him like a summer storm. Training leathers still clung to his frame, his dark hair damp with sweat. He filled the room without trying, his presence impossible to ignore. Nesta followed at his side, posture dagger-like eyes already cutting through the space.
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
Nesta positioned herself just slightly in front of Cassian—so subtle it would have escaped anyone who didn’t know her. Cassian’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back again, restless.
They were waiting.
Nyx stirred, fussing softly, and Feyre rose with a practiced ease to soothe him. She handed the baby off to Elain, who had just entered from the adjoining room. Elain took him gently, murmuring something soft and melodic as she stepped back, giving the others space.
Azriel noticed her.
Of course he did.
The curve of her smile, the way she cradled Nyx with instinctive care, it was familiar, comforting in a way that once would have tightened something in his chest. Now…he waited to feel something.
But nothing stirred.
He looked away before the thought could linger. Whatever he had once felt belonged to a version of himself he no longer was.
And for the first time, the realization didn’t hurt as he expected.
Mor arrived moments later, sweeping in with her usual effortless confidence, smile bright, voice warm as she greeted Rhys and Feyre. Emerie followed close behind her, wings tucked neatly, shoulders squared. Her eyes moved immediately—cataloging exits, distances, angles.
They’d grown close, those two.
Azriel noted it absently as he claimed a lone chair near the edge of the room, a habit more than a preference.
A large hand clapped down on his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to jolt him.
“Brother! We missed you today.”
Cassian’s voice carried that familiar warmth that always made Azriel’s chest feel a little lighter.
“Yeah—sorry about that,” Azriel replied, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Rhys needed something before the meeting.”
Cassian nodded easily. “Figures.”
Nesta appeared at Cassian’s side moments later, his hand brushing along her spine in slow, grounding strokes. Azriel clocked how the tension in her shoulders eased immediately at the contact, how she leaned into it without thinking.
A pang of something sharp and unwelcome flared in his chest.
Jealousy.
He swallowed it down before it could settle, shame following swiftly behind.
That would never be his.
Two glasses of amber liquid appeared on the side table, along with one of water. Cassian passed the water to Nesta and shoved a glass into Azriel’s hand without looking.
The House already knew what everyone preferred.
Azriel didn’t bother savoring it. He tipped the glass back and drained it in one swallow, the burn grounding him in a way he desperately needed.
And then a voice floated across the room—airy, soft like a feather, yet still raspy—unmistakably Gwyn’s. Suddenly, he understood why Nesta had been so tightly wound all morning.
She had been waiting for her.
Azriel wasn’t sure when Gwyn had stepped inside.
Only that suddenly, she was there.
Still in her training leathers like the rest of them, dust clinging to her dark boots, copper hair imperfect where it had slipped loose from its long braid. She stood near Mor, hands moving animatedly as she spoke, expression lit with something close to excitement.
Relaxed.
Fine.
Good.
Her posture was straight but not rigid, chin level, shoulders loose. Nothing guarded in the way she held herself.
Azriel found that he wasn’t listening to her words; Cassian was still talking far too loudly at his shoulder, but to the cadence of her voice. The rise and fall of it. The way it threaded through the overlapping conversations and anchored him without effort, like a familiar rhythm beneath the noise.
“Az—Azriel.”
A calmer voice cut through the chaos.
He turned to find Nesta watching him, lips curved in a knowing smirk that suggested she’d enjoyed watching him drift entirely too far inward.
“What?” he asked flatly.
She jerked her chin toward the long table. “We’re sitting. Try to keep up.”
He rose with a muttered curse and followed as Rhys finally called the meeting to order.
Chairs scraped against the floor, voices overlapping. Cassian immediately began arguing with Mor about seating arrangements while Feyre leaned in to murmur something into Rhysand’s ear. Amren complained—quietly but pointedly—about the noise.
It was a full house tonight.
Gods, get me out of here.
Somewhere in the shuffle, Gwyn drifted closer.
Not deliberately, at least, not obviously. No one else seemed to notice.
Azriel felt it before he saw it: the subtle shift in air, the faint pull of awareness at his side. She ended up standing just in front of him, hands clasped behind her back as she listened to Rhys begin to speak.
Her fingers twitched.
Once. Twice.
Then she gave in to it, worrying her pinky against her ring finger, a small, repetitive motion she likely didn’t even realize she was doing.
The constant fidgeting annoyed him to no end.
Azriel straightened, gaze fixed forward.
“Thank you all for coming,” Feyre began, hands folded neatly in front of her. “As some of you may know, The Prison has been unstable.”
On Azriel’s left, Emerie shifted, wings rustling faintly. It was clear this was the first she’d heard of it.
Rhys stepped forward, voice smooth as he took over. “The wards have been weakening ever since Bryce Quinlan first visited us. But, as of recently, there have been some…disturbances.”
A ripple of purple mist formed at his side, and Rhys reached into it, pulling free a thick, leather-bound book.
Azriel recognized it instantly.
The same artifact he’d been sent to retrieve.
“This,” Rhys continued, holding it up, “is an object from Lunathion, brought to us by Bryce herself.”
Mor’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “So we’re just—what—trusting that this book isn’t a trap?” she asked, gesturing emphatically.
Rhys sighed, deep and long, and Feyre rested a tattooed hand against his back in silent support.
“She does make a good point,” Cassian added.
Azriel shot him a look.
That wasn’t helpful, asshole.
“If you’d let me finish,” Rhys said tightly, tapping his temple pointedly, “you’d know I confirmed she was telling the truth. With her permission.”
Nesta rolled her eyes.
“In fact,” Rhys went on, “she felt rather guilty about nearly cracking open our most dangerous prison, and since we helped her world—” he shot Nesta a pointed glance, “—she offered to return the favor.”
“And exactly where did she get this book?” Amren cut in coolly.
“And how the fuck is it supposed to help us?” Mor added.
Rhys stared at them both for a long moment before gesturing to Nesta, who sighed deeply.
“This book is old,” Nesta said, stepping forward to pick it up. “Very old.”
“No shit,” Emerie muttered, earning a glare.
Azriel heard Gwyn snort to herself before playing it off as clearing her throat.
Before Nesta could retort, Amren spoke again.
“I suppose you’ll need me to translate it?”
“I might be able to help with that,” Rhys offered mildly, stepping forward.
Amren lifted one finger, but not toward Rhys.
Her gaze then found the female to Azriel’s right.
Gwyneth.
The High Lord went silent.
Amren’s silver gaze never wavered as she pointed, the ruby ring on her finger catching the light. “You.”
The single word cut cleanly through the room.
Gwyn blinked, startled, her posture stiffening just slightly as she stepped forward. “I—sorry?”
“You will help me.”
It wasn’t a request.
The silence that followed stretched taut, every breath in the room held. When Gwyn didn’t answer immediately, Amren’s smile sharpened.
“You’re a priestess, are you not?” she asked lightly. “You read multiple languages.”
Azriel’s eyes flicked between them, instincts pricking.
“And,” Amren added, tilting her head, “you hear things others don’t.”
A statement, not a question.
Gwyn’s expression didn’t fracture, but something in her eyes narrowed, focus heated like a match. She held Amren’s stare, unflinching.
For a heartbeat, Azriel thought she might refuse.
“I could help translate it,” Gwyn said at last, voice even. The smile she offered was forced, not reaching her eyes. “If that’s what you want.”
Azriel turned sharply toward her.
What the fuck was that?
His shadows remained still, watching, yet giving no reply.
Amren’s chair scraped loudly as she leaned back, never breaking eye contact. The tension in the room tightened, thick enough to choke on. Even Cassian had gone quiet, mouth pressed into a line.
“Well—” Feyre cut in quickly, relief threading her voice as she clasped her hands together. “That sounds perfect. You and Amren can start tomorrow.”
Amren finally looked away towards Feyre. Her expression softened, marginally. Well…as much as it could anyway.
Azriel’s attention snapped back to Gwyn.
She retreated a step, then another, not as far as before. Her hands clasped behind her back, shoulders tight. Anxious.
Her scent brushed against him as she shifted—a warm floral breeze beneath sunlit air, clean and bright.
Her pinky finger brushed against his.
Soft. Barely there. An accident, anyone else would have thought.
But it lingered. Hooked briefly around his, hidden behind her back.
It was deliberate and grounding all at once.
Azriel’s breath caught in his throat.
He couldn’t remember a time someone had reached for his hands.
It was unfamiliar, the sensation different across his scars.
He didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge it at all. Just let the moment exist, steadying, but small and unseen amid the chaos.
Feyre clapped her hands together, the sound jarring. “All right. We can go over details tomorrow. Right now—” she smiled brightly, “—I’m starving.”
Gwyn withdrew her hand.
Footsteps started. Chairs scraped against polished floors. Laughter returned, fractured but genuine, as the meeting dissolved into motion.
Azriel stayed where he was a moment longer, shadows curling close.
Across the room, Gwyn quickly glanced back at him, almost questioning, before turning away.
Gwyn had lost count of how many glasses of wine she’d had.
Seated between Nesta and Azriel, she reached out without looking and accepted the fresh glass the House slid into place beside her plate.
This was her fourth—no. Fifth?
Maybe. She wasn’t sure anymore.
All she knew was that Amren was fucking terrifying.
The female was small, a grasshopper compared to Gwyn’s height, and yet she had made her want to curl into a ball and roll out of the room.
But, like the fool Gwyn was, she agreed to assist Amren. Now, she had plans for tomorrow that made her stomach twist unpleasantly every time she remembered them.
She’s going to try and kill me…maybe even eat me.
What in the Cauldron had she been thinking?
The dining room blurred at the edges, warm lamplight reflecting off polished wood, plates clinking, overlapping voices rising and falling in familiar, chaotic rhythm. The House hummed contentedly around them, refilling glasses, shifting chairs, keeping pace with its occupants like a long-suffering host to an unruly family.
“Gwyneth?”
The sound of her name pulled her sharply back into herself.
She blinked, the room snapping into focus, faces around the table, half-eaten plates, Cassian mid-gesture with a fork as he argued with Mor about something already long forgotten.
She realized she’d been staring at a framed painting across the room, the River House gardens caught in spring bloom. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been looking at it.
A quick poke to her ribs made her suck in a breath.
Nesta tilted her head, chin angling toward the head of the table.
Feyre’s blue eyes met Gwyn’s, brows creasing just slightly before smoothing back into practiced composure. Then she smiled, small but warm, intimate in a way that made Gwyn’s chest loosen unexpectedly.
It was the smile of someone who knew.
Their stories were not the same, but Gwyn had learned enough to recognize the echo of shared survival. Pain wore many different faces.
Gwyn returned the smile sheepishly. “Sorry,” she said, heat creeping into her cheeks. “I got…distracted.”
Feyre chuckled softly. “It happens.”
Cassian snorted. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
Mor kicked him under the table without looking.
“Ow—what was that for?”
“Breathing,” Mor replied sweetly.
Amren made a noise that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so sharp. “You’re all insufferable.”
“Yet you stay,” Rhys said pleasantly, smirking into his glass.
“Mhmm, Unfortunately.”
Laughter rippled around the table, light and familiar. Gwyn let herself breathe again, shoulders easing as she took another sip, slower this time.
Beside her, Azriel shifted in his seat.
She felt it immediately.
Not the movement itself, but the awareness of it, the same quiet attunement she’d felt on the roof, in the training ring, earlier in the meeting. She didn’t look at him, but she knew when he adjusted his posture, when his attention flicked her way.
She kept her eyes on her plate, fingers tightening briefly around the stem of her glass, before she made herself put it down.
She hadn't drunk this much in...well, not since she was a teen in Sangravah.
She blinked, shoving the thought away.
Azriel was acutely aware of Gwyn in a way that irritated him.
The faint scent of wine clung to her now, mingling with something warm and clean beneath it. She laughed softly at something Emerie said, and the sound threaded through the room, distinct even among the noise.
His shadows stirred but didn’t reach, didn’t retreat. They just simply…watched.
Across the table, Rhys raised a brow at Cassian, who was gesturing wildly with a piece of bread. Feyre covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. Elain quietly passed a dish to Emerie, who accepted it with a shy smile and a murmured thanks.
It was loud. Unruly, but familiar.
Gwyn and Emerie fit into it more easily than he seemed to realize.
She leaned back slightly in her chair, shoulder brushing Azriel’s arm—brief, insignificant. Still, neither of them moved away.
Azriel’s focus kept snagging whenever her attention drifted. Not all at once, but in fragments out of the corner of his vision. The way she dragged her fork idly through her food, pushing pieces apart rather than lifting them. The pause before each bite. The faint crease that appeared between her brows as if she were concentrating on something no one else could see.
She lifted her hand once, fingers brushing along her jaw, quick and subtle. Then again, slower this time, as though testing the sensation.
Azriel frowned faintly.
She caught his gaze, just for a moment.
The room seemed to warm in between paused breaths.
Gwyn looked away first, cheeks flushing, attention snapping back to her plate. Azriel exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking to the pointed tip of her ear, the slope of her nose as she turned away.
A single tendril of shadow slid up his shoulder.
You stare, Master.
He didn’t respond. Didn’t dignify it with a thought, especially since they had been so quiet earlier. Instead, he forced his attention back to the table just as Cassian lifted his glass.
“To tomorrow,” Cassian announced. “May we survive it with minimal bloodshed.”
“That’s optimistic,” Nesta muttered.
Amren snorted. “You won’t.”
Gwyn laughed, the sound seeming to slip free, light but edged. She reached for her wine then and took a longer swallow than necessary, draining the glass before setting it aside with a soft clink.
Azriel watched the motion, noted the careful way she swallowed.
The conversation surged on after that, chaotic and familiar. Plates were cleared. Cups refilled. Cassian grew louder as the hour wore on, and Mor laughed too easily. Even Amren’s sharp edges dulled, if only slightly, as the night deepened.
Feyre yawned and leaned into Rhys’s side. Azriel swallowed down the bitterness he felt.
Not tonight.
Eventually, the noise thinned.
Chairs scraped back. Goodbyes were murmured. The House dimmed its lights as if sensing the shift, easing them gently into rest. One by one, the Inner Circle dispersed, some lingering in doorways, others slipping away without ceremony.
Gwyn rose quietly. She thanked Feyre, offered a polite nod to Rhys, and waited for Emerie before stepping away.
He noticed the way her hands curled briefly into fists at her sides. The way her gaze flicked toward the doors, then away. The faint tension she carried now that hadn’t been there earlier in the evening.
She didn’t look back this time.
Azriel remained seated long after the others had gone, shadows curling close as if bracing for something. The sense of wrongness he’d felt all evening sharpened, not loud, not urgent, but persistent.
The Prison was unstable.
And Gwyn Berdara was not as unaffected as she pretended.
Azriel didn’t know how the two were connected, only that his instincts, his shadows, and the quiet ache beneath his ribs all pointed the same way.
Tomorrow mattered.
And whatever was coming would not wait for them to be ready.