A Court of Shadow and Light

by SKEptical123

Summary:

When Gwyneth Berdara gets a Solstice gift from a misterious “friend”, she has enough information to understand that it is better to leave the matter alone. For all she heard about the situation between Azriel and Elain, it is already too messed up without her interfering, and the Mother knows she needs to deal with her own issues.
But there is something inside her, a small and insistent voice, that doesn’t let her forget about it.
She tells herself that it is only her curiosity. And she almost believes in that too.

 

Azriel is still pissed off by Rhysand’s lecture about the scene with Elain at Solstice, but he knows there is no point in fighting if his brother is right. So, in order to take the Archeron sister out of his head, he decides to shut himself off from everything remotely related to love. If he doesn’t get to choose someone, he won’t have anyone at all.
Unless, of course, the Cauldron chooses for him.

Chapter 1

Gwyn was lying on her bed, with her hand lifted before her face, the delicate golden necklace hanging from her fingers. She had been like that for hours now, watching the light bring out the colors of the rose. It was so flawless, so gorgeous, she could look at it forever.

In other words, she was obsessed.

Clotho said it was a Solstice gift from "a friend" who preferred to remain anonymous, but the High Priestess didn't have to mention names. Azriel's scent was all over the jewel—and also a female's smell, one Gwyn couldn't quite recognize, although it was pretty obvious, according to what Nesta had told her and Emerie.

So... it was probably a Solstice gift for Elain. Right. What had happened, then? Had she refused the piece? Changed her mind about accepting it? Had he changed his mind about giving it to her? Why?

And, most importantly, what had made Azriel decide to give Gwyn the necklace?

If he was trying to stay anonymous, he could have given it to any other woman in Velaris—literally any other one, even a random stranger on the street. He could have returned it to the store or, for the gods’ sake, thrown it out from the fucking sky.

Why her, then? Did the Shadowsinger want her to have it for some specific purpose? Did he think that it would be less awkward because she had no meaningful interactions with Elain? Or perhaps he imagined that Gwyn lacked self-esteem and wouldn’t mind being his second choice.

That was a terrible thought for so, soooo many reasons, and Gwyn didn’t intend to look closer at them. Actually, she didn't intend to even think about them, since it would only open her can of worms.

Dropping the necklace onto the nightstand, she got out of bed and changed into her training clothes. That morning’s training session was obviously cancelled, considering everyone was still too drunk for early activities, so Gwyn would have to practice by herself if she wanted to get exhausted enough to sleep at night. She preferred the group practice, but throwing some punches alone was a better choice than dealing with insomnia or nightmares.

The priestess stopped by the door and looked at the necklace. If she was honest with herself, it would be enlightening to see Azriel’s reaction to her wearing it.

For some reason she couldn’t precisely explain, she didn’t find him to be as mysterious as everybody else seemed to. One single look at his face, and Gwyn was able to read all his thoughts as if they were written on his skin. People were willing to buy that Shadowsinger aura of his, clearly afraid of confronting it and getting hurt in the collision. But Az had taken the mask off the first time he laid eyes on her, at Sangravah, and he had never managed to wear it back. At least not for her.

On impulse, she grabbed the thing from the nightstand. Even though it was more of Elain’s problem than hers, Gwyn was dying to know Azriel’s reasons to give it to her, to see the look in his eyes when he noticed the piece on her neck.

If she ran into him, of course. Which was hardly a possibility, right? After a painful rejection, the first thought of a male was always to drown the sorrows in a glass—or a bottle—of faerie wine. Azriel’s probably blacked out on his own bed right now, she told herself, putting the gift back on the furniture. Sleeping off the alcohol. Or maybe he was in someone else’s bed, using their body to forget his disappointment.

Closing the door behind herself, she stood there in the corridor, her gaze lost in the dim light, her fingers barely touching her own throat. No, that’s not Azriel. He’s going to take it out on the punching bag. If there was something to be taken out, of course. She knew nothing about what happened between him and Elain. Perhaps it wasn’t at all the catastrophe she was imagining.

Fuck, she was going insane, developing an identity disorder, or whatever that back-and-forth could be named. So much pondering for such a small thing.

Well, no one can accuse me of not going deep into a situation, Gwyn thought, opening the door and grabbing the damn necklace again.

Chapter 2

It was icy cold in the training ring atop the House of Wind, but Gwyn had spent the last two hours giving it her all in the exercises, mostly the ones she and the other priestesses had been practicing since the beginning of the week. Her skin was drenched in sweat, even though she had already taken off her jacket and tied her hair up. Although her knuckles were red and sore, she kept punching the bag, trying to improve her footwork—and doing a terrible job.

“Fuck,” she muttered, holding the punching bag still before it hit her face. Gwyn looked at the thing as if it were to blame for her failure.

“You‘re putting all your weight on your right leg, Berdara” a very familiar voice said from behind her back. “It’s affecting your posture and hindering your footwork.” She looked over her shoulder at Azriel’s perfect silhouette as he stepped into the light of the ring, taking that incredible shape of his, contoured by his twirling shadows. “Balance your body weight between both of your legs.” He got closer to her and stopped by her side. "Just like this. You see?"

When he moved his body towards the punching bag—his head slightly lowered, his face serious in concentration, his arms and legs so powerful and precise... Azriel was a work of art, a force of nature, lethal and mesmerizing at the same time. It was spellbinding to watch him, to perceive the centuries of training and the honing of his skills.

He ceased the demonstration and looked at Gwyn, waiting for her to follow suit.

"It will take me years to do something remotely similar, Az", she replied, aligning her feet and pushing her torso forward. The punch came out weaker than it should, and her body swayed a little. "Well, let's be realistic and say decades."

"It's just refinement work, Berdara. You already know how to punch someone or something, right? Time and practice will make your movement feel much more natural. Here, let me help you." Azriel stood right behind her, so close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. "Can I touch you?" For some reason, words got stuck in Gwyn's throat, so she just nodded, but he waited until she verbalized her consent. "Yes, sure. It's ok."

Placing his right knee on the floor, Az rested his right hand on her lower belly and his left one on the thigh of her non-dominant leg. Gwyn's breath stopped for long seconds, the heat of his palms going straight to her core.

"Ok, now do it again," he said, and for a moment she didn't remember what the fuck she was supposed to...

The punch. Ok. Fine.

Lifting her arms, she focused on the punching bag and moved forward, trying to balance her weight, as he had instructed. Just before her fist made contact with the leather, Azriel applied gentle pressure on her belly and thigh, pulling her body slightly backwards. And, just like that, the movement lined up perfectly.

"I got it. Fuck, I got it!" Gwyn couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. After weeks fighting against the footwork, now she knew how to use it to her advantage.

"Yes, you did."

Azriel's hands lingered on her body for a few seconds more than necessary, and she turned to face him as he stood up. Her smile, kinda frozen on her face, faded when she noticed the unusual spark in his eyes, something like... hunger.

And then his gaze went down to her neck.

His shadows got agitated when he noticed the necklace, and Gwyn saw his jaw clenching, but Az said absolutely nothing about the gift. "That's it, Berdara," he concluded, turning his back to her and heading towards the other side of the ring to begin his own training session. "Now you can try by yourself."

Well, given his complete silence on the matter, the priestess couldn't confront him about it... a problem his shadows thankfully solved when they stayed behind instead of following him. Silently, they slid up Gwyn's hands, arms, and shoulders, until they reached her neck and kept twirling around the jewel. Like a smoke signal pointing to the elephant in the room.

"Do you like it, Shadowsinger?", Gwyn teased. When he looked back, over his shoulder, his expression was one of a man betrayed by his best friends. She held the small pendant between her fingers, and the shadows accompanied her gesture. "Some anonymous friend gave it to me as a Solstice gift."

Now Az was the one who turned to face her—arms crossed in front of his chest, upright posture, trying to keep the dignity he'd already lost.

"How did you find out it was mine?", he asked, his voice neutral.

"I would never know if your scent wasn't all over it."

He smiled a little, fixing her with that hungry gaze again.

"Is that how well you know my scent, Berdara?"

You bastard bat, Gwyn thought, feeling her skin flushing under her freckles. Tilting her chin up, she smiled back and answered instead, "I'm a High Fae, Azriel. I could recognize the scent of anyone in the inner circle from miles away. Don't underestimate my senses. And don't overestimate your charm." In the most secluded corner of her mind, she asked herself if it was true; judging by Azriel's widening grin, he was asking himself the same. "Tell me, why did you give it to me after she refused it?"

Hmm... Apparently, one sentence was enough to take that self-confidence off of his face.

She stepped closer to him, until the toe of her shoes touched the tip of his boots. The shadows kept twirling, lightly caressing her skin.

"Why did you think of me when you decided to give the necklace to someone else? Not Mor, not the High Lady, not Nesta. Not someone from the River House or House of Wind staff. Not some stranger you could use to... oblivion. Why me, Azriel?"

Both stayed silent for endless, eternal moments. The Shadowsinger's breath turned heavier, his nostrils flaring as his hazel eyes clouded.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Berdara," he declared, running away from responsibility. Running away from himself. Then, with a flick of surprise, she realized... 

"You mean it... You really don't know, do you?" Gwyn's lips parted a bit at the realization that the Spymaster, the man who could uncover any secret, didn't understand his own mind. Before Az was able to answer, his shadows traveled to the back of her neck and unfastened the clasp of the necklace. The jewel floated to Azriel, caught in the misty strands, until it reached his eye level. Then the shadows simply dropped it, defying him—the sound of the gold piece hitting the ground almost too low to hear. "Well, Shadowsinger", Gwyn stated, following the shadows' cue, just before leaving the training ring. "Good luck figuring it out."

Chapter 3

You really don't know, do you?

Gwyn's question—and the shocked expression on her face—kept coming back to Azriel's mind since the night before, over and over and over again, until it was all he could think about.

If he was being honest with himself, his head was a fucking mess after the Solstice, full of thoughts and ideas he couldn't control. It was like his body had a life of its own, walking, moving, and talking... not exactly against his will, but surely without his full participation. Az's first plan had been to return the necklace to the store, to get rid of the memory that would always surface upon seeing it. And now he could barely remember that moment with Elain, the details of the scene replaced by Gwyn's fingers playing with the pendant, the provocative tone of her voice, his shadows covering her skin and, of course, betraying him in the worst possible way. Fucking backstabbers.

When she left, Azriel picked up the jewel and looked at it for a long time, as if it would tell him what in the world made that conversation turn out so badly. The necklace became a weight in his pocket, reminding him of all the bad choices he'd made so far. However, for some reason, it didn't feel right to keep it anywhere else but there, close to him. The scent of Gwyn's sweat lingered on it, dense, feminine, intensifying his guilt.

Is that how well you know my scent, Berdara? 

It was a motherfucking irony that her scent was driving him insane.

He was so stupid, so full of shit. Five hundred years in love with Mor, who had made it crystal clear that she didn’t want more than friendship from him. After that, a ridiculous obsession with Elain, a mated female, a confused woman looking for an escape from her own feelings—and based on what? His theory about the logical compatibility between three brothers and three sisters. A Cauldron’s mistake. As if he had the authority to call Its decisions mistakes. And then, the icing on the cake, his fucking brilliant idea of taking a gift rejected by a female and giving it to another.

You really don’t know, do you?

Well, Gwyn was a safe, less problematic choice for so many reasons. Any one of them could justify why he decided to go down the steps toward the library, why the piece ended up on her neck. The truth, though, was that an inexplicable, urgent instinct guided him. But, despite his efforts to name it, the answer eluded him.

The only thing Azriel knew was that his actions had hurt Gwyn’s feelings, and that was something he couldn’t ignore. She deserved better, a proper gift, meant for her—instead of someone else’s cast-offs. Actually, it seemed unfair that she and Emerie were not invited to celebrate Solstice with the Inner Circle, since they were Nesta’s best friends and Valkyrie companions.

“If you won’t pay attention to what I’m saying, this meeting is over. My mate’s waiting for me on our bed.”

Azriel looked at Cassian, who was staring at him with a far-too-knowing smile.

“You and your mate are always waiting for each other.”

Waiting wasn’t exactly the right word, but the euphemism would spare people from embarrassment when it came to those two.

“Wrong. I don’t make her wait. At all. Except when she asks for it. Or when I want her to…”

“I don’t need the details, Cass. Let’s get back to the point, please.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “Boring,” he replied, with a sigh. While his brother started to share information about Rhys’s last conversation with Eris, Azriel thought that “boring” wasn’t as bad as it seemed—certainly not as bad as “rejected” or “used”. He wanted calmness. Peace. Maybe some numbness. Even if it meant loneliness.

But first he wanted to make things right.

“The situation is getting pretty ugly in Autumn, Az.”

Azriel kept his face neutral, trying to hide that he was not paying attention at all. Again. Fortunately, that’s what his shadows were for. They whispered in his ears a welcome recap of Cassian’s last five minutes of talking: Beron’s paranoia. Disseminated fear. Riots. Executions.

“The last thing we need now is a civil war,” the Shadowsinger added, forcing his thoughts to return to the matter. “Peace after Hybern is still too fragile.”

“Eris has to do something about his father soon. If he wants to be the High Lord, the time is now. Or there won’t be an Autumn Court for him to lead.”

“I’ll talk to my contacts and see what they can do. Maybe we should follow Feyre’s example and turn Beron’s army against him. And Rhys has to find out what Eris is willing to sacrifice in order to achieve his goals. He can’t just watch others do the dirty work for him and then sit on the throne with a fucking crown on his head.”

“If that’s what the son of a bitch expects, I hope he enjoys disappointment,” Cassian retorted. “Nobody’s going to march to his beat.”

Suddenly, Azriel remembered his conversation with Gwyn at the training ring—not the one from last night, but the previous one, when he helped her cut the ribbon.

Do you sing?

Az got up in a hurry, knowing exactly what he had to do. His mind was already calculating the entire thing, from organizing to scheduling, a huge task in a small amount of time.

“Hey, where are you going, asshole? Could you at least say goodbye or something?”

“I’m going to Velaris. There are some arrangements I have to make.” Turning to Cassian, another idea occurred to him. “In fact, would you do me a favor?”

The general must have seen the seriousness in his face, because all the tell-off and the jokes were immediately gone, and he replied, “Consider it done, brother.”

Notes:

Thank you so much for your kind comments, guys! I'm really glad you're enjoying my Gwynriel story <3
And thank you again, @Moon_On_A_String <3

Chapter 4

Of one thing Gwyn was certain: she had messed up her friendship with Azriel.

That altercation between them had been off-limits enough, with her bringing up Elain's situation into their conversation. But the fact that his shadows had stood up for her when they dropped the necklace—and, worse, that she had used it to make a point—felt like some kind of treason. He was Azriel, after all: the famous Shadowsinger, the Spymaster of the Night Court. It was disrespectful.

Which was fine for her.

He had been disrespectful first, giving her a gift rejected by another female. There was nothing romantic about Gwyn's relationship with Az, yet she had felt like a second choice, a replacement. She was resilient, had already proved so with everything she had been through—Sangravah, the Valkyrie training, the Blood Rite,— and such a tiny, unimportant thing had hurt her more than it should have.

Until that morning, when one of his shadows slipped under the door and handed her a small piece of parchment.

“Oh, thank you,” she said softly, watching it dance around her forearm for a moment.

Gwyn unfolded the note and read it:

 

Since my shadows seem to like you so much, I assumed that one of them would be a welcome messenger.

If you are kind enough to forgive my terrible mistake, I would be happy to make it up to you. Your admirers will be waiting after your shift at the library, so we can take you to your Solstice gift.

And I promise that this time it is yours and yours only.

A.

 

Although pissed off to her core, she couldn’t help but smile at the message. Yours and yours only. Something inside Gwyn’s chest tugged at those words.

The Priestess read the content over and over again, dissecting every detail, every sentence, obsessively extracting multiple meanings. Apparently, Azriel had realized—or perhaps admitted—he’d behaved poorly and was willing to make amends. However, what had he meant by “your admirers”? Had he talked exclusively about his shadows? Or had he included himself in that group when he’d stated that “we can take you”?

And, most importantly, had he intended to say those things? Or was she just reading too much into the few lines he’d written?

Which was absurdly ridiculous. First of all, she was acting like they were going on a… rendezvous, or something. Not the case. Azriel wasn’t interested in her that way, and vice versa.

Secondly, Gwyn should be concerned about the “take you” part. Take her where? Some place in the House of Wind? The River House? Or somewhere else in Velaris? The Priestess didn’t feel exactly ready for an experience so overwhelming, although she would probably be willing to give it a chance. For Az.

Focusing on real life, her eyes wandered over the shelves, scrutinizing her own work. There were five books misplaced, two of which belonged in another section. On the fourth floor. There was no point in continuing if her thoughts had drifted away all day long. Giving up, she put the books back on the cart and headed towards her room.

After a quick bath, Gwyn wrapped herself in a towel and stood still in front of her wardrobe for several minutes, trying to decide what to wear based on her assumptions about Azriel’s note. For the gods’ sake, get a grip, Gwyn, she thought to herself. It would possibly be just a moment before dinner for him to give her a different jewel, something like a book pendant instead of a rose one. She had more pressing matters to worry about than what to wear to be given another necklace. 

Yes, her Priestess’ robe would do. Having put it on, she combed her hair into a single braid that fell over her left shoulder. For a moment, the thought of wearing some makeup crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. That would be such an Archeron sisters’ thing; each one painted their faces in their own unique way, and Gwyn wasn’t them. Especially not Elain.

Leaving the bedroom, she stopped by Clotho’s desk. “I will be out for a while, High Priestess. If you or Merrill need me, I will return in time for dinner.”

Clotho’s feather floated over the parchment. No, you must not. Take your time and enjoy your life, Gwyneth. He is already waiting for you.

Well, Gwyn didn’t know what to say to that, much less to the High Priestess’s restrained smile, so she bowed her head and went towards the library’s exit.

The graceful obsidian door, with its peculiar silver veins, opened at her will, revealing the passageway that led to the stairs. As Clotho had informed her, Azriel was there, leaning against the red stone wall—his arms crossed in front of his chest and his head down, eyes on the floor. There were no packages in his scarred hands or in his leather jacket’s pockets, at least as far as she could see. He looked up at her when the door snapped open, and his shadows immediately escaped from him to reach her. She smiled at them when they twined through her braid.

Azriel didn’t say a word—he only observed her from his position, watching the silky, smoky bands touching her hair, her clothes, her skin. He seemed almost… jealous, although Gwyn wasn’t purposely attracting his precious friends.

“Hi, Shadowsinger,” she whispered, watching him too. The Spymaster of the Night Court was a dark stain by the wall, like a black hole, absorbing all light and creating a center of gravity right in front of her. Nothing evaded his influence.

“Berdara.” Az raised his arm, and the shadows returned reluctantly to him. “Sorry, they’re kind of restless today.”

Gwyn shrugged.

“I don’t mind. Actually, I think they’re… fascinating.”

The word rolled off her tongue, dense and ambiguous. The shadows waved around him, visibly happy about the compliment.

“Since they can’t stay away from you, I’m sure the feeling is mutual.” Azriel came closer, his heavy steps thundering through the empty space. He halted only a few inches from her; with almost no distance between them, she could smell his enthralling scent—cedar wood, dew, and warm skin. “Are you ready to go?”

“It depends. Where are we going?”

His smirk was dangerous. “Do you trust me?” he asked, offering his hand. Gwyn took it without a second thought. And then they were winnowing.

 

—

 

Gwyn and Azriel took form in a windy, open space. At first, she couldn’t make sense of her surroundings: from where they were, Velaris was visible from all directions, splendid sights that took her breath away. The gale whipped her robe and loosened a few strands of hair from her braid.

It was the top of some kind of building, a vast, empty space, except for a floor hatch and the parapet. She leaned over it, spotting people walking on the streets, getting in and out of stores and restaurants, talking and laughing out loud. Life happening.

The Priestess’s heart ached at the thought of everything she was missing, but at the same time she couldn’t picture herself among the crowd. She stared at the sunset lights, infinite shades of orange, purple, blue, and pink—the most amazing work of art Gwyn had ever seen. Inside the library, it was easy to lose track of time, so that view was a privilege, a moment of rare, lovely beauty.

“Our entrance won’t be as grandiose as it should.” Azriel said, right behind her. Gwyn looked over her shoulder to see him pointing at the floor hatch with his head. “But I guessed you wouldn’t want to go through so many people to get inside.”

She frowned. “Isn’t it my gift?”

For the first time since they met, she saw Az laugh—not some studied expression, some mask; an honest, wide smile, a low laugh. Such a rich, warm sound. “You deserve more than a pretty view, Gwyn.”

Gwyn. Not Berdara. Not Priestess. Not Valkyrie. Gwyn.

“How much more, Azriel?” Not Spymaster. Not Shadowsinger. Azriel.

The question escaped from her lips, unreflected, unintentional. Real. She wouldn’t take it back, though. Let him read it however he wants.

Az became serious in a heartbeat, the smile giving way for an intense gaze—the kind of look that could make a female do unthinkable things.

“More than anything I can give you,” he replied, and his shadows got agitated, as if they were protesting against the idea. That gaze ran up and down her body, and a strange thought popped into her mind: she should have worn something other than her robe. “But I’m definitely, definitely ready to try.”

Chapter 5

There were few people who would follow Azriel through the black hole of a floor hatch. Shit, he wouldn’t follow himself through the black hole of a floor hatch, especially not knowing where the fuck that place was. However, for the second time that day, Gwyn didn’t hesitate when she took the hand he was offering her.

Such a brave female. Az remembered another floor hatch—the one in that kitchen in Sangravah, where she had managed to hide the children. When he’d found her, the Priestess’s first thought had been about them, about getting the kids out safely. Even after what had been done to her body. Even with her sister dead right in front of her.

Sometimes, Azriel wished the fucking bastards were all alive, so he could hunt them and kill them again. The anger he had felt towards those motherfuckers still burned him inside out, along with the regret for not taking his time to torture them, to make them suffer.

His shadows started to whisper, bothered by Az’s feelings. And they were right. This night wasn’t one for hate. It was about Gwyn’s joy.

The Shadowsinger helped her go down the stairs—not because she needed his help, but because her robe wasn’t the most suitable outfit for such a narrow staircase—leading into an empty, dark space that could be anything. Just when he thought the situation couldn’t be more bizarre, they found themselves in a kind of attic filled with hundreds of boxes piled up haphazardly. He heard her murmuring the words written on the stickers: “ Masks. Costumes. Accessories. Wigs…”.

Mother above, don’t let her think I’m a creepy son of a bitch taking her to some weird dump, Azriel prayed, holding back a curse when they passed by a box labeled as “Rope”. Not that he hadn’t done a lot of freaky stuff in his life, nor that he didn't enjoy that kind of pleasure. But it wasn’t the impression he wanted to leave Gwyn with.

Suddenly, a very unwelcome—although extremely captivating—image came to his mind: a large bed, pale wrists tied to the headboard, a small, freckled body haloed by copper hair, and a pair of teal eyes looking at him with lust…

Az banished the scene as fast as he could when his cock got hard as a rock.

War. Battles. Bloodshed. A drunken Cassian pulling down his own trousers in front of two females in a bar to prove to them he had the perfect ass (spoiler: that shit surprisingly worked). The Spymaster in him collected all the unpleasant thoughts he was able to, in order to dissipate the scent of his arousal before it even rose.

After what seemed to be centuries, Azriel finally spotted a red door and used his free hand to open it—and that was when he realized they were still holding hands, her fingers intertwined with his. However, he didn’t let her go. It was her first time in the outside world after Sangravah, and he wanted her to feel safe, cared for. His shadows kept twirling around their hands, visibly pleased with that arrangement.

“Oh, my gods, Az,” Gwyn breathed, and he knew then they were heading to the real game now. They walked on the burgundy-carpeted corridor, passing by stunning marble sculptures of male and female faes, the balcony boxes’ wooden doors, marked with the coat of arms of Velaris, and bright crystal chandeliers.

The Priestess stared at everything with an amazed expression and a light smile on her face, until they got to the stairway that led down into the auditorium.

“What…” The words died for a moment on her lips as she registered the beauty of the venue. “What is this place?”

“This, Berdara,” Azriel replied, “is the Theater of Velaris.”

Gwyn’s gaze frenetically traveled over the space, as if she couldn’t decide what to observe first: the descending lines of chairs, with seats and backs upholstered in navy-blue velvet; the dozens of balcony boxes and their dark balustrade; the high ceiling, formed by golden arches and a stained-glass dome in all shades of blue and purple; the enormous stage, so well varnished that it shone in the distance; and the elegant black-velvet curtains. 

“Come,” he urged, pulling her hand lightly.

They went down the central aisle. Az guided her to the middle chairs of the fifth row—not so close to the stage that she would have to tilt her head back, but also not too far from it, so she could see everything perfectly.

“What are we doing?”

“Watching.”

Gwyn settled into the seat. “I think we arrived too early. There’s no one here yet.”

Az only smiled. He rested his arm on the armchair, with his palm up, in case she wanted to let his hand go. She didn’t. So he nodded to the fae hidden in a corner of the auditorium and waited while she hurried off to inform the actors that the audience was ready. Any second now. Any second…

The lights faded out. The curtains opened. By his side, Gwyn subtly gasped and squeezed Azriel’s hand. Her eyes widened as she gathered the details of the backdrop, the troupe’s costumes, and the accompanying music that swelled.

The play had seven acts, one for each court of Prythian, and he studied the Priestess’s reactions to all of them.

It started with Spring and its delicate songs about nature, the rain, the fertile soil. An actress walked across a plain, touching flowers with her fingertips and smiling at the birds hovering above her head. 

Without warning, the yellow light on the stage became gray. The joyful melody changed into a somber chorus. Two actors entered the space, both dressed up as nagas, with their dark scales and viperous faces. The actress left the scene in a flash of fear, but soon enough a tall, blonde male wearing a golden mask appeared to bravely defeat the creatures.

Azriel rolled his eyes. This was an itinerant company, so its job consisted of flattering the High Lords of all courts. It seemed, however, that they had forgotten to update the script with Tamlin’s new uncivilized habits.

By a flick of magic, the flowers grew and turned into the entrance of a cave. The fake Tamlin went around the slit in the stone wall and came back carrying a very realistic imitation of a white deer over his shoulders. He no longer wore a shirt, only a leather vest covering his bare chest.

The song descended to a low drumming when the actress returned to the stage. Her dress now looked way more revealing than the previous one. Tamlin put the deer’s carcass on the ground, and the couple engaged in a dance which got more and more intense, provocative, as the rhythm got  faster. Her hands slid down from his chest to his trouser’s waistline; his right palm pressed her lower back, and the left one touched her hair, the side of her breast, her hip, her thigh.

It was a beautiful, sensual, and passionate scene, obviously representing Calanmai’s Great Rite. Az couldn’t help but glance at Gwyn. She was sitting on the very edge of her chair, her free hand barely brushing her neckline, the other one loose on his. The Shadowsinger looked at her lips, slightly parted; at her eyes, whose irises were obscured by their pupils; at her chest, rising and falling a little quicker than it should.

All of a sudden, the Priestess stared at Azriel, capturing his body and mind. He would be locked up in that moment forever, condemned to replay her image in a loop. Gwyn’s fingers ran down to her chest, right in the center, as if she had felt something in there. And, for a few seconds, they didn’t need words to understand that both wanted the same thing.

The loud blare of a trombone broke the connection. It got them so by surprise that Gwyn jumped and retracted her hand from his. The sensation was identical to dipping it in cold water. They applauded awkwardly at the end of the first act, like students who had been caught sleeping in class.

Yet, soon afterward, the troupe kicked off the second act, a series of anthems about the sun, the warmth, and the light of the Summer Court. Tarquin was portrayed as the courageous prince who had selflessly risen to the throne after his cousin’s tragic death.

The same couldn’t be said about Beron, the High Lord who was completely ignored in the play, since he’d never allowed the company to perform in Autumn. The court, on the other hand, was gorgeously pictured in all of its reddish hues, the perfect dry leaves, and the fire that one of the actresses manipulated as she sang. Gwyn covered her mouth to hold back a gasp when the female lit up entirely, like an oil lamp or a fae torch.

After the Winter and Dawn Courts, the time had come to celebrate the indulgent pleasures of Day. Males and females in bold attire, more jewels and precious stones than fabric, staged a slow, lazy dance. Their naked skin reflected with a golden shimmer when caught by the lights; their sluggish movements turned the scene into what could be called a representation of an orgy of gods.

Despite the sexual appeal, precisely emphasized by the actor playing Helion, the highlight of the sixth act was the incredible imitation of Helion’s pegasi. The black stallions rushed over the chairs, flying through the entire auditorium. The magic used to produce those images was so skilled that Az could feel the draft caused by their beautiful wings.

The dazzling vision, though, was Gwyn getting up from her seat, her teal eyes trying to follow all the animals, a delighted laugh escaping her lips. She spun several times, and the fluttering of her robe made it seem as though she might suddenly take flight with them.

And then there was the Night Court. Azriel braced himself, knowing what would come. Darkness fell over the auditorium, the actor who played Rhys stepped onto the stage, the horde of his subjects arrived…

Except they weren’t subjects. No, they were more like monsters, very similar to… the Attor.

Right after Rhysand’s entrance, a female walked proudly towards him. Feyre. They fought side by side, fiercely combating the enemy until none of them were standing. The anguishing song that conducted the battle withered away, vanishing into some sort of lullaby—a sweet melody that the couple started to dance together to, in deep intimacy.

At that moment, faelights left the stage and seemed to multiply. They floated around the auditorium, so low that they could be touched. One of them landed on Gwyn’s palm. It was like she was holding a star. And her smile was the most precious gift in the world.

In a beautiful synchrony, the tiny points of light went up towards the high ceiling and started to rain down: Starfall, the cascade of falling stars celebrated only in the Night Court. It was confirmed when the actress playing Feyre exited, then came back wearing that white dress, crafted with a fabric that looked like starlight. 

In her arms, a little black-haired boy laughed out loud, amazed by the spectacle. They reunited with Rhys, the three of them coming together in an embrace that represented the future of the Night Court, maybe Prythian as a whole. With that, the curtains closed, ending the play and the moments of magic that they had witnessed in the past hour.

Right before the theater company’s curtain call, Gwyn looked at him, teal meeting hazel, her face completely stunned. And he knew he had achieved exactly what he wanted—to see her astonished, speechless… enraptured—when she let out just one single word: “Azriel…”

Notes:

Well, what do you think, guys? Does Az deserve her forgiveness?

I think he needs to work a bit harder...

Chapter 6

“Gods, did you see that, Az? The pegasi? And the stars?”

Azriel couldn’t help but smile as they climbed to the top of the building. He’d never been a guy to show joy, but the bliss in Gwyn’s voice and eyes was contagious, almost addictive. She was thrilled by everything, even the small details of the play, and spared no words in making it clear.

“And the songs, the singing… I felt them in my bones. Mother, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Gwyn stopped to look up at the sky—that impossible sky of Velaris, with stars that shone only there and a moon so close they could see each crater. Against that background, she was a goddess, her copper hair cascading down her back like a mantle. The freckles on her face and body mirrored the constellations, a map to guide a lost male.

“I’m glad you liked it. I could bring you here whenever you want. There are always several plays running.”

She turned around to stare at him. The corner of her lips tilted slightly upward.

“I’d love that, Shadowsinger. Thank you for bringing me here tonight.”

They stayed silent for a moment, then Gwyn walked towards him. The Priestess stopped right in front of Az, but she didn’t say a word.

“Ready to go?”, he asked, offering his hand once more.

“Actually… What if we fly back home?”

Azriel looked at Gwyn as if he could read her. It was an idea, not a request. Luckily, he was always willing to say yes to her.

“If you want us to, sure. Let’s fly.”

Az held her in his arms, and she inebriated him with her scent of cinnamon and seawater, hot and fresh. He took off with some powerful strokes of his wings, leaving the building behind.

“Why was it so empty, Az?”, she questioned him, watching the city under them become smaller. “The theater.”

“I had the ticket sales canceled. Figured you would be more comfortable without a crowd around us.”

“You told them to cancel the sales?”, Gwyn blurted, suddenly looking at him. Azriel shrugged, as if it were nothing. “And they just did?”

“There are some privileges in being the Spymaster of the Night Court. You don’t need to worry, though; they’ve lost no money.”

Which meant Az had bought all the tickets, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

“Have you ever watched that play before?”

Azriel nodded.

“When Rhys was trapped Under the Mountain, we just… nobody felt like celebrating Solstice anymore. So I used to go to Hewn City, since Velaris was still a secret, to watch them perform there. And the script was… different.”

“Different how? Feyre wasn’t in it, I suppose. Neither was Nyx”, Gwyn guessed.

“They were not. And Rhys… he was still seen as the cruel, soulless High Lord of the Night Court. As Amarantha’s whore. So tonight was a surprise for me too.”

Even as he looked ahead, preparing to land, the Shadowsinger could feel the Priestess’s gaze on him.

“I’m really sorry, Az. Rhysand is a good male. He didn’t deserve that.”

After their argument about Elain, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to give his brother credit, but Rhys was indeed a good male. A good mate, father, and High Lord.

“Well, that was a long time ago. Now people know him, know who he is.” A fucking cockblocker. “And tonight is not about him, right? It’s about you.”

Only when they landed on the doorstep of the River House did Gwyn realize…

“We’re not at the House of Wind.”

“Are you ready for the second round of your Solstice gift?” The mix of shock and amazement in her expression, the brightness of her teal eyes, brought a grin to his face. Almost automatically, Az grabbed her hand. For some reason, it seemed as natural as breathing. “Come, they’re waiting for us.”

 

***

 

“Happy Solstice!”

Gwyn’s complete astonishment when she saw the whole Inner Circle shouting it together was priceless. For a second, she stared at Azriel with a big, radiant smile, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Hi, sister,” said Nesta, pulling her friend into a hug. Gwyn’s hand slipped from his when she held the Archeron sister close. Behind them, Azriel caught Elain glaring at the Priestess—the dirtiest look he had ever seen on her face. “We’re so glad you’re here with us.”

Rhysand stepped ahead with Nyx in his arms, managing to fulfill the father and the High Lord duties at the same time.

“Azriel brought to our attention that you and Emerie are already a part of our family, so you should’ve been here for our Solstice celebration the other night. We hope you both accept our apologies.”

Emerie was right next to Mor, who had gone to Windhaven to winnow her to the party, and the Illyrian female seemed as surprised as her Valkyrie companion. Beside the decorations, the same ones from the first gathering, Rhys and Feyre had prepared a real feast, with plenty of food and wine.

“I can’t believe you did all of this for us”, Gwyn replied, visibly touched. “Thank you so much. It’s lovely.”

“Don't think too highly of yourself, Priestess. They take every opportunity to get drunk.”

All eyes turned to Elain, shocked and confused. Despite the too friendly tone, the harsh words were out of character for her.

Emerie’s face fell, but Gwyn kept her smile and lifted her chin up. “Well, regardless of the festive spirit of this family, I’m still very grateful for your kindness. Especially yours, Az. Thank you so much.”

“I feel the same way, guys. It’s very considerate of you”, Emerie recovered enough to add. “Thanks a lot.”

“You deserve it, girls”, Feyre declared, then clapped her hands and announced joyfully: “Now let’s get to the good part.”

“The food?”, Cassian suggested.

The High Lady rolled her eyes. “The gifts!”

When Azriel asked Cassian to talk to Rhys about another Solstice party, the females of the Inner Circle decided it would be only fair to buy presents for Gwyn and Emerie. After all, it wasn’t Solstice without shopping. For Em, they got a pretty handcrafted dagger with a ruby stone set into the handle, the new book of that author they loved to read, and a box of herbs for tea.

For Gwyn, they chose an aquamarine bracelet, a book about the last battle of the Valkyries, and an emerald green silk dress… it was impossible for Azriel not to imagine her freckled body inside it.

“I’m flattered and also embarrassed, Az”, she said in a low voice, only for him to hear. “I’ve received so much, but…”

“You don’t have to give us anything in return”, he answered, knowing that it was what Gwyn meant. As everybody took a seat at the table, Azriel pulled a chair for her right beside him. “We just want to see you and Emerie happy.”

“And I am. Overwhelmingly happy. Nothing would’ve been better.”

 

***

 

It was past midnight when Rhys called Azriel and Cassian to his office. On his desk were four golden envelopes, which he pointed out with his chin.

“We got invited,” Rhysand told them, sitting down in his chair and crossing his ankles over the desk.

Azriel picked up the one with his name and opened it, immediately regretting the decision. 

“I wish I could go back in time, when I still hadn’t read this fucking thing.”

“What bullshit is this?” Cassian looked at Rhys as if those summons were some kind of joke.

“The exact bullshit you just read. Beron’s going to throw a formal ball and expects us to attend.”

“Why have none of my spies informed me of this?” Az cursed, more to himself than to his brothers.

“I already got in touch with Eris, and not even he had heard about it. Which makes it clear that something is very wrong,” Rhys replied.

Very wrong was putting it mildly. There was no reason for Beron to invite Rhysand and his court to a ball, especially since the last time they’d interacted with one another—the meeting of the High Lords before Hybern’s defeat. Moreover, hiding it from the only son who’d benefit from his trust amounted to a gigantic and dangerous red flag.

“Are we going?” Cassian asked, clearly expecting a “no” in response.

“Of course we are. And it’s not an event to go unaccompanied, as you can see.”

In fact, the envelopes were addressed to the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, Rhysand and Feyre Archeron; the General of the Night Court’s armies, Cassian, and his mate, Nesta Archeron; the Emissary of the Night Court, Lucien Vanserra, and his mate, Elain Archeron; and the Spymaster of the Night Court, Azriel, and accompanying guest.

There was no invitation for Mor, but nobody would presume that she'd receive one, or for Amren, though it could have been sent directly to Varian—the worst offense someone could have committed, undoubtedly.

“It’s time for you to take your gala suits out of the closet, then. Azriel, find yourself a plus one. We have two weeks.”

A gala suit. Az hadn’t worn anything like this in probably a century or so. And a plus one? Excluding Mor, Amren, and Elain? It was a short list, with exactly two names: Gwyn, who hadn’t left the library in years, and Emerie, an Illyrian female, already hated for simply existing—neither of which he wanted to put in this kind of danger.

He did understand Rhys, though. Even knowing it would probably be some sort of trap, there was no way they could refuse this invitation. And at least their presence there could save lives, if it came to that.

“Well, that’s it. Be prepared. And Az? Choose wisely.”

The Spymaster left Rhys’s office feeling like he had to sentence someone to death. Heading to the kitchen, he poured himself a generous dose of faerie wine and chugged it, then did it again. He was totally fine with the idea of throwing himself into the fire, but taking someone else was another story.

“Az.”

He closed his eyes for one second at the soft voice calling his name. Turning around, Azriel braced himself before looking at Elain, doing his best to ignore the beauty of her delicate face and those captivating golden-brown irises.

“Elain.”

Her fingers smoothed the skirt of her light-pink dress, as if she was insecure about herself, but then the Archeron sister held his gaze and spoke out:

“Did it mean something to you?” Elain’s tone wavered, but her voice did not falter. “That moment between us at Solstice. Did it? Or was it just a mistake, like you so easily declared?”

“Of course it meant something, Elain. You mean something to me. And it wasn’t easy to keep myself from doing what I so desperately wanted.” He took another sip of the wine to make his hands stop shaking. “Believe me, I felt like I was ripping a limb.”

His words seemed to give her some courage. Elain got a few steps closer, enough for him to smell her scent of honey, earth and flowers.

“So why did you change your mind? I wanted it as desperately as you.”

Azriel stepped forward too, until their foreheads were touching.

“Because it’s wrong.” It didn’t feel wrong then, but now he had to force himself to hold her waist, to rub the tip of his nose on hers.

“He’s not my choice, Az. The Cauldron selected him to be my mate, not me.”

“So refuse the bond,” he said, following some kind of impulse. “Refuse the bond, and I will fight for you. For us.”

The last word tasted even worse in his mouth. Azriel thought about Lucien and had to swallow the guilt down. He thought about taking Elain for himself, and it seemed clear that would only work under the bedsheets.

“I will. I will, Azriel. Eventually. It’s just…”

Her words got lost as she gulped. However, he knew precisely what was crossing her mind—had always known, since the beginning of that… fragile flirting between them.

Slowly, carefully, he took a step back and let her go.

“It’s just that you feel something for Lucien, and the idea of breaking the bond is painful. You want him to be around, but your head protests against the idea of accepting a mate you didn’t choose yourself. A mate that was somehow responsible for your transformation, even though it wasn’t his intention.”

Right after the hurt she couldn’t hide, Az watched the wall Elain immediately built to keep him out. It was as if his words had broken the spell that entangled them.

“Well, at least I’m not the one who moved on so fast, right? It took you no longer than a couple of days to show up holding hands with another female—probably the first one who batted her eyelashes at you.”

Something ugly snapped inside Az, a rage that had nothing to do with her trying to offend him, and everything to do with her offending Gwyn.

“Don’t you ever talk about her like that again. What I’ve done for her and Emerie was because they deserve it. Both of them. You know nothing about Gwyn’s life, Elain.” Azriel leaned towards her, now in an intimidating way. “Instead of worrying about her, why don’t you look closer at what you want? What you feel? I’m no Prince Charming and I won’t save you from your own emotions. Do yourself a favor and stop running from this new life, even knowing it’s better than the previous one. And stop running from a male who’s willing to love you with all his heart.”

“I’m not running!”

“Oh, but you are. Do you know why the Cauldron matched you with Lucien, Elain?”

“No, I don’t know, Azriel. Please, enlighten me”, she mocked.

“Because he’s not a decision-maker. You keep waiting for people to make all the decisions for you, and it would be so comfortable if Lucien just did it, wouldn’t it? So you’d be able to complain about all the roles you have to play in other people’s lives, including the one of mate, and how unfair it is that you never have a say in them. But he’s giving you time, he’s giving you the chance to choose or reject him, and you don’t know what to do with it. So let me offer you some advice: decide. Take responsibility for your own life, instead of blaming someone else for what goes wrong in it.”

None of them said a word after that. There was nothing more to be said, really. When Azriel left the kitchen, the tears streaming down Elain’s face smelled like a rainy day, but the honesty of their conversation had exposed the truth: nothing good could ever come from the terrible idea of them being together.

Chapter 7

“Ready to go, Cass?” Emerie asked, taking a long sip of cold water.

After the rumors that some discontented Illyrian soldiers had spread in Windhaven, almost causing a rebellion, Cassian had decided to watch his men closer, in order to keep the foxes away from the chicken coop. So it was convenient for him to take Emerie home and make his presence known. But that morning he wasn’t the one who needed to go to the Illyrian camp.

“I have some urgent matters to discuss with Rhys, Em. Sorry. But Az is going to winnow you.”

“Is that ok?” Azriel inquired, taking his brother’s cue.

Emerie looked at him for a second before she shrugged. “If your shadows conclude that I’m worthy of their consideration, yes, it is.”

The female pointed to the left with her head, where Gwyn was stretching after the training session. The smoky little things were all over her, curling around her ankles, her thighs, her arms, and her collarbones. When she moved, they all moved with her in perfect synchrony. 

With one thought, Az commanded them to come back to him, although they obeyed reluctantly. If Gwyn found their behavior strange or inadequate, she didn’t give any indication of it. It was like the shadows belonged to her too, almost an inherent part of her. 

The Valkyrie only seemed to really acknowledge them when they returned to their master. She lifted up her head to meet his gaze, and both stayed like that for just a second…

Or maybe a little bit longer, because suddenly Emerie cleared her throat to get his attention.

“Shall we? Or are you going to take notes on Gwyn’s stretching techniques?”

“Well, she is overextending her right knee.”

Em rolled her eyes. “Ok, sure. At least winnowing is faster than flying, so we have a lot of time to waste here.”

Focusing on the task he had to accomplish, Azriel let Emerie hold his hand, and his shadows took them to Windhaven in the blink of an eye. They reappeared right in front of her store, the place she bravely kept in business, despite the constant hostility against independent Illyrian females.

Sometimes, Azriel only wanted to do the same thing that Cassian had done with the village where his mom died: to enter a blood frenzy and kill every male in sight.

“I love flying, but winnowing has its advantages,” she stated, reaching for the keys in her purse. Emerie opened the door and looked at him, obviously to say goodbye, but Az’s face must have warned her that he needed something else. “Would you like to come in?”

Azriel simply nodded. She led them to the small kitchen in the back of the store and served him a cup of coffee. Illyrian coffee, black and strong. They sat at the table, facing each other.

“So, how can I help you, Shadowsinger?”

Yes, Emerie was an intelligent female. Of course she would know he had something in mind.

“Beron is throwing a ball,” the Spymaster said, bluntly. “We think it’s a trap, but the Night Court has to attend anyway. And the invitation required that I take a plus one, so I would like you to be my accompanying guest. You’re well-trained enough to deal with any threats that we could possibly face there.”

“Hmm.” Em drank a sip of her tea—aniseed, he smelled—before she spoke, “Az, let me ask you something: why did you take Gwyn to the theater, but not me?”

His brow furrowed at the question. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you heard. Why did you take her, but not me?”

From all the courses their conversation could have taken, that wasn’t the one he expected.

“Did you want me to?”

“Oh, my gods, Shadowsinger. For someone who works interrogating people, you are terrible at answering questions.”

That was very true. In fact, Azriel didn’t like to talk at all—except when he was pissed off, like the night before with Elain. He had talked a lot then, perhaps too much.

“I made a mistake with her. She deserved a special apology.”

“The necklace,” Emerie replied, and Az wondered, not for the first time, if there were any secrets between the Valkyries.

“Yes, the necklace.”

“Ok.” The female put her cup on the table and crossed her arms in front of her body. Em’s stare was direct and fearless. “Shadowsinger, I’m going to speak to you like no one else possibly has, and I hope you can forgive me. So, please, don’t ask Rhys to throw me in the Prison, don’t rip my head off of my shoulders nor spend the next three days torturing me to get revenge, but… is your head really that shoved inside your ass?”

Somehow, Azriel managed to not spit the coffee out on Emerie’s face.

“Excuse me?” Truthfully, although his tone had shown some outrage, he was more shocked than offended.

“I asked if your head is really that shoved in your ass.”

For someone who imagined he was going to torture her for revenge, she didn’t seem afraid enough.

“Why would you think that?”

She shrugged.

“Maybe because you drool over Gwyn every time she’s around, and even so, here you are, asking me to go to a party with you.”

“It’s not a party, Em. It’s a fucking trap. I don’t want to put any of you in this kind of danger, but Gwyn hasn’t been out in the world for years now.” He stopped for a while before adding, “And I don’t drool over her.”

“Right. It’s me your shadows are always twirling around. They don’t do that to anyone else. Not even Mor. Not even Elain.”

Fuck. There were no secrets between them indeed.

“I can’t control them.” Azriel countered. She arched her brow. “I mean, I can. The shadows are not conscious. But they respond not only to my intentional commands, they also…” They also respond to my unconscious thoughts, even when I don’t want them to, it was what he meant to say. However, Emerie’s brow remained arched. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Em. Even if I wanted to invite Gwyn, we both know it’s too much for her, and I’d rather rip an arm or a leg off my body than make her feel as she felt back in Sangravah.”

Emerie’s expression softened at his words. “I know you would. That’s why you guided her down through a floor hatch and bought all the tickets to have the theater only for yourselves. And, no, Gwyn didn’t put it together,” she explained, noticing the alarm on his face. “I’m not naive, though, Az. It’s not difficult to see right through your she-deserved-a-special-apology facade.”

“It’s not—” he started, but she interrupted him right away—another thing, alongside the question about his head shoved in his ass, that very few people had ever seemed brave enough to do.

“Azriel.” The Valkyrie stood up from her chair and put her cup in the sink before heading towards the store. Before Emerie left the kitchen, she touched his shoulder briefly, in a sympathetic gesture. “I’ll say it once, and you do whatever you think is best with it: don’t be fucking stupid. Invite Gwyn to go to the ball with you.”

***

Gwyn was looking for some books that Merrill needed when something slightly cold and silky brushed against her nape. The touch brought a sudden and completely out-of-place sound to her lips—partly a moan, partly a sigh—, and she closed her eyes for a moment to regain control over herself.

At that point, Gwyn didn’t have to look to know what had grazed her skin; the sensation of Azriel’s shadows on her body was too familiar by now, although the feelings it awakened in her were not.

To get her attention, the shadow slid slowly down her arm and pulled her hand towards the exit of the library.

“Should I follow you?”, she asked. Another pull, so she did, passing by Clotho’s desk with a discreet wave. And there he was, ridiculously handsome in his leathers, waiting for her as if it were the most important thing in the world.

“It seems that I don’t need words to talk to you, Berdara. I send one shadow, and you already know what I want.”

There are other ways you can tell me what you want .

The thought came from nowhere, uninvited and unexpected. Mother above, she was developing a crush on Azriel—which was, obviously, evidently, clearly a very, very, very bad idea.

“What can I say, I’m just that smart,” the Priestess replied, trying to act as normal as possible. “So, to what do I owe the honor of your visit? Do you like to stand here, leaning on this wall like you are part of the decoration? Or did you just miss me?”

The second the question left her mouth, she regretted it. As normal as possible. Sure.

“What can I say, I’m just that decorative,” he echoed her words back. With a graceful move, Azriel pulled away from the wall and walked towards her, until there were only mere inches between them. Immediately, his other shadows joined the messenger one, covering Gwyn’s skin like a second robe. “But I do have something to discuss with you, actually.”

“Ok. Tell me.” Aaaaand that was how the Spymaster of the Night Court became speechless. He opened his mouth a couple of times, in an unsuccessful attempt to speak, but nothing came out. After a few moments of embarrassing silence, Az just gave up and handed her a golden envelope. “What is this?”

“Read it, please.”

It was, Gwyn finally found out, an invitation for a ball at the Autumn Court in two weeks, addressed to Azriel and an “accompanying guest”.

“Do you want me to go with you?”, she guessed, hoping that it was the case, or else she would look like a fool to him.

“I don’t. I mean, I do, but—” Rubbing his face, Azriel sighed deeply. “It’s not just a ball, Gwyn. It’s obviously a trap. This event is going to be dangerous, and I don’t want to risk your safety or your life. Besides, there will be a lot of guests. So I imagine you will feel uncomfortable, maybe overwhelmed…”

“It sounds like you really don’t want me to go with you, Shadowsinger. Am I your second choice again?”

His hazel eyes stared at her and lingered on her lips. “I tried to change it, I swear I did, but this time you are my first choice. I don’t want you there, and still I want you with me.”

“You’re not making any sense, you know?” Gwyn teased him.

“I know.” Running his fingers through his hair, Az blurted, “So, would you accompany me, Berdara?”

The Valkyrie smiled, wondering if he had ever asked a female out twice in two days. She had a feeling that he hadn’t.

“Yes, Shadowsinger. I’ll go with you.”

Chapter 8

Notes:

Moon_On_A_String's life has been crazy lately, so this chapter has not been proofread. I apologize in advance for any mistakes!
(Go read Moon_On_A_String's fic, guys!)

Some light NSFW content ahead, tho :)

“I didn’t think I would wear it so soon,” Gwyn said, looking at her image in the mirror of the High Lady’s room and admiring her green dress.

They all went to the River House to get ready for the ball, the boys and the girls, although Cassian had already knocked on the door twice to check on the females. Apparently, the brothers and Lucien had been waiting for their mates for half an hour already.

Except for Azriel, who had been waiting for his plus one, since they were not mates. Of course.

“Well, but you will,” Emerie replied with a smirk. “Because a certain Shadowsinger invited you to be his accompanying guest, right?”

Gwyn glanced at Elain, who’d stayed deathly silent all night. None of the females in the room seemed to care, though; all three of them teased Gwyn about Azriel’s invitation, unconcerned whether it would upset the second Archeron sister.

“It’s not like that, for gods’ sake. He’s a friend, and we are all going to our certain deaths,” the Priestess retorted.

“Okay, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t enjoy your friendship with him until then,” Nesta pointed out.

“With him and his beautiful eyes, those tattoos on his chest and shoulders, those shadows always touching your—”

“Emerie! What are you doing here, anyway, if you’re not going to the ball?” For the first time, all Gwyn wanted was to see the Valkyrie very, very far away.

Em shrugged. “I’m making sure you don’t miss the chance to—”

“Girls?” Cassian asked, hesitantly. “We really need to go. Now.”

“We’re ready, baby,” his mate answered. “See you in five, okay?”

And they were actually ready, at least when it came to the clothes-and-makeup part. Nesta and Feyre were as incredible as always in their black dresses, and Elain embodied moonlight in a yellowish-white gown. They all braided their hair in different styles, but Gwyn felt less exposed with her smooth curls falling over her shoulders, covering the too-low neckline and the too-deep V of the back of her dress. To make it less plain, the High Lady tied up a bunch of strands on the top of her head and decorated them with small pearls identical to the ones on her ears, neck, and wrists.

“Let’s get our males, ladies,” Feyre called, grinning at the others.

Right before they left the room, Gwyn heard a soft voice behind her.

“Gwyneth?” She turned around to face Elain, gracefully standing next to the vanity. “You’re gorgeous. I sincerely wish you and Azriel a wonderful time tonight.”

Talk about something unexpected.

Making a curtsy, although without bowing, the Valkyrie smiled at the female. “Thank you, Your Grace. There are no words to describe your beauty. I wish the same for you and Lord Vanserra. And, please, call me Gwyn.”

“I will, if you call me Elain. Also, I’m pretty sure Lucien would collapse if you addressed him as Lord Vanserra.”

 

***

 

The boys were in fact waiting for them, so patiently that Gwyn almost felt sorry for them.

Almost.

Because when Rhysand, Cassian, and Lucien laid eyes on their mates, it became clear that they wouldn’t mind being a little bit later, if they could steal ten or twenty minutes with the females in some hidden spot of the house. 

Gwyn braced herself for the moment Azriel would see Elain, swallowing down any tiny hope of getting his attention. So everything inside her lit up when his eyes passed uninterestedly over Nesta’s sister and fixed immediately on her. The male stared at Gwyn as if he could eat her alive, with such hunger and such heat that she looked down at her own body to check if it wasn’t on fire.

“Hi, Shadowsinger.” Mother, was that her voice? Low, husky, needy. “Do I look nice?”

He stepped closer, not touching her, only letting her feel his warmth, his cedar wood scent. “No, Berdara. You don’t look nice. You look absolutely stunning.”

Gwyn smiled and ran her gaze up and down his body. His all-black suit fit perfectly, surely making him the most handsome male of all Prythian—as if he already weren’t. “You don’t look bad yourself.”

“Everything to impress you.” Distantly, they heard Rhysand command everybody to winnow: Lucien would take Elain, Rhysand would take Cassian, and Feyre would take Nesta. Az held Gwyn’s hand, drawing circles in her palm with his thumb. “Ready?”

She nodded, knowing that there were many things to be ready for: the crowd, Beron, the possible trap they were getting into. He winnowed them to Autumn, but not the same place where the others had gone. 

At a distance, the sounds of the party were audible—music, voices, laughter. Around them, however, Gwyn could see only trees and darkness.

“I’ll be with you all the time, Gwyn,” Azriel assured her, and she turned her attention to him. “You won’t be alone for a single moment. I promise you. If you feel uncomfortable or scared, just tell me, and we’ll go to a quieter place. If it overwhelms you, we’ll leave, no questions asked. Okay?”

Gods, he was so, so good under the light of the moon. All dark lines, hard features, and strong tones. For a second, all she could think was about closing the short distance between them, kissing him so deeply, so fiercely, that he would forget his own name. And she could tell, from the way his tongue swept over his lips, that Az was thinking about that too.

Or maybe she was delusional.

“Okay. Thank you, Az.” 

Kiss me, Az.

Instead, he put himself together and guided her out of the circle of the trees. The buzz of movement around them increased instantaneously, unsettlingly, but Azriel’s arm was right there around Gwyn’s back, his hand a firm, solid weight on her waist.

“Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear. 

“Yes, I’m all right.”

The next hour went by in a blur. For everyone’s surprise, Beron wasn’t anywhere around, and even Eris hadn't heard of his father all day. “He may be planning a triumphal entry or waiting for everyone to arrive in order to lock the doors and set fire to this room.”

Both scenarios seemed entirely possible, although Gwyn preferred the first one. In fact, the room was splendidly decorated with chandeliers fixed on the walls, plenty of faelights and crystal pendants that shone all around. The marble floor mirrored the colors of the dresses that swept across it, as well as the precious artwork intertwined with burgundy velvet curtains, large flower arrangements, and golden columns. The reds and yellows and oranges and browns made the space cozy and elegant at the same time.

And then there was the feast. Food and drink from every court, enough to feed a small village for a year or so. Her mouth watered, but Az refused the glasses of fae wine that the waiter offered upon their arrival. “Don’t eat or drink anything.”

She noticed his eyes scanning the ballroom, listing the exits, the potential threats and weapons. The daggers the Valkyrie hid under her dress, in the sheaths attached to her thighs, seemed to become a little heavier. 

“Everybody’s here, except Tamlin. All the High Lords, their mates, their seconds and thirds in command,” Rhysand noted. “If Beron’s planning something, it’s something big. Not only for us, but for the seven courts.”

“Are we going to wait for this something big to happen?” Cassian snapped, obviously uneasy. “Should we just stay here, doing nothing at all?”

“It’s a ball, guys,” said a sexy, bass-toned female voice. “Enjoy it, just like your friend is doing.”

From behind Eris, a gorgeous female approached them. She was tall, almost taller than Gwyn, with beautiful copper-tanned skin and straight, black, shoulder-height hair. There was no deep neckline or slit in her dress, but it was so tight that it didn’t leave much to the imagination.

The friend in question was, of course, Amren, who came from Summer with Varian. She was on the dance floor, holding him close, smiling at something he said in her ear; despite that, anyone who knew her better would be able to see that she was as tense as the other members of the Night Court.

“Now you know my greatest friend here in Autumn,” Eris smiled. His expression remained serious, though, suggesting that friend meant ally. And, well, intelligent as Eris was in his political choices, no one should underestimate a person in that position. “Talia, these are Rhysand and Feyre, High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, and their Inner Circle.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Talia,” Feyre greeted, politely and with evident interest.

“I can say the same, High Lady.” The female bowed a little, then let her amber gaze fall on Azriel. Her tone became even lower with the desire she didn’t try to mask. “Hi, Shadowsinger.”

That’s my line, bitch, Gwyn thought, surprising herself with her own hostility. It was ridiculous to assert a right to a line that Azriel must have heard a million times in his five centuries of life, and even more ridiculous to feel ill-disposed towards a person she didn’t know. Azriel was not Gwyn’s to claim, after all.

“Lady Talia,” he replied with a smirk, holding the hand she offered him and planting a kiss on the back.

In a rush, his shadows jumped from his shoulders to Gwyn’s, as if trying to get away from Talia’s reach. What do you think about that, honey?, the Priestess grinned at the female’s obvious disappointment.

“You are right, Talia,” Rhys intervened. “It’s a ball, so let’s dance.” In other words: act normally.

At his command, the couples headed to the dance floor—even Eris and Talia, who seemed to need a moment to talk in private, probably about strategies or something. With a soft touch on her back, Azriel took Gwyn along, guiding them through the music played by the orchestra. His shadows split between them.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, worried about her well-being, or gods knew what. It was almost ironic that she couldn’t care less about the people around them or the supposed trap that Beron had planned.

“Sure. I’m fine. I’m great.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re pissed.”

“I’m not. I’m splendid,” Gwyn retorted.

She felt more than heard Az’s sigh.

“Please, Berdara. Talk to me.”

It was a huge problem that she couldn’t say no when he asked something with that voice, that tone.

“Were you flirting with her?”

His expression of astonishment would be funny if Gwyn hadn’t been feeling completely humiliated.

“With Eris’ friend? Of course not. Why would you imagine that?”

“I don’t know, perhaps because you smiled at her as if your greatest accomplishment in life would be to take her to your bed.”

“That wasn’t even remotely the case,” Azriel argued, blessedly ignoring the fact that she sounded like a jealous mate. “I only intended to be pleasant.”

“Oh, no, don’t tell me all the ways you intended to please her.”

Az made a low sound deep in his throat.

“That would be very disrespectful to you, Gwyn.”

She looked at him with fake indifference, the words bitter in her mouth. “We are just friends, you don’t owe me anything.”

“But she doesn’t know that. Nobody here knows. Besides,” the Spymaster’s smile became wickedly irresistible, “that’s not how fae flirt, Berdara.”

“Really?”, Gwyn replied, the sarcasm dripping from the question. “And how is it? What techniques do you use to make a move on a female?”

“Well, I compliment her first, then I tell her what her flaws are.”

The Priestess’s laugh came out louder than she expected. “Does it work, though? This approach.”

“Every time.”

Feeling bolder than usual, Gwyn lowered her voice and asked him, “Then show me, Shadowsinger. Show me how fae flirt.”

She saw in Azriel’s face that he was about to get into are-you-sure mode, but something in her must have changed his mind, because he became immediately serious. “If I wanted to flirt with you, Gwyn, I would say that your lips are beautiful.” Without letting go of her hand, the one he was holding during the dance, Az touched her lower lip with his thumb. “But do you know when they feel delicious?”

For the most ephemeral of seconds, she let the tip of her tongue brush against his skin. “I don’t. When?”

“When they’re between my teeth.” With her own knuckles, he went all the way down from her mouth to her chin, then to her neck and to her collarbones. “This dress lets me know that your breasts are attractive. But they’d be incredible against my chest.” With the hand that was resting on her back, Azriel pulled her body closer to his. “And, of course, with nothing covering them.”

At that point, Gwyn was breathing hard, and the breasts in question, now in fact against his chest, were still covered by the silk, but he certainly could feel how her nipples hardened under it.

In a slow movement, he brought her arms up and put them around his neck. His scarred hands, now free, slid down Gwyn’s naked spine until they reached the base of her back. “Your ass, Berdara, is amazing. Anyone who spends one single morning training with you can say that. It would be perfect, though,” he added, turning her in his arms, “against my hips.”

She knew he wanted to say cock—the evidence was pressing her hard enough to confirm. Her legs were trembling so much that he was the only thing keeping her on her feet.

“And your thighs…” One of his palms was on her abdomen, holding her still; the other slid from her waist to her inner thigh through the slit of her dress. “They’re soft, warm, delicate. But they’d be even better around my head.”

The image of his face between her legs made Gwyn’s lower belly ache. She heard him inhale, surely smelling her arousal, although there was nothing she could do to hide it. Her body was beyond her control.

In a sudden move, Az turned her around again, so they were once more facing each other. “That’s how fae flirt, Berdara. So now you know I wasn’t hitting on Talia.”

There was a glimpse of satisfaction in the Shadowsinger’s expression, as if her lust made him proud of his own abilities. That game, however, both of them could play.

“I believe you. And now I know how to flirt like a fae: a compliment and a flaw, right?”

“That’s right,” he murmured.

“Okay. Then I would say that your shadows are so sexy, but they get sexier when they’re all over my skin.” The dark trails started to roll over her body, and she had the impression that he was the one commanding them to. With the tips of her fingers, the Valkyrie traced the exposed part of his tattoos, the black curve peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. “Your tattoos are breathtaking, but they would take your breath away if I traced them with my tongue.”

Azriel’s lips parted and his chest rose. The power she felt at that moment was extraordinary, overwhelming. She knew that he would say, give and do everything she wanted; he would be on his knees in a second, if she asked him to. And that idea was an appealing one.

“And your wings, Az, they are so elegant, so tempting.” The Priestess reached out for one of them, although slowly, to give him time to stop her. He didn’t. Barely touching, she grazed the dark skin with her nails, running over a ridge and descending towards his back. Azriel let his head fall onto her shoulder and moaned. He moaned right in her ear, the most sensual sound she’d ever heard.

“I really, really want to take you home right now,” he whispered, his teeth slightly biting her lobe under her hair. Well, Gwyn couldn’t agree more—actually, she would be satisfied enough if they found some hidden corner around Beron’s manor, somewhere they could be alone for a few minutes. Or hours.

She was about to suggest it out loud, discarding all of her reservations, when the music suddenly stopped.

Chapter 9

Notes:

I'm sorry, but we're going from a light smut to a little bit of blood 👀

(I know, I know! I promise that the next chapter's going to be less dramatic, though lol)

When the orchestra stopped playing, Azriel wanted to scream. He had Gwyn in his arms, her hands on his body—his chest, his neck, his wings. Gods, his wings… All he could smell was her arousal, her cinnamon-and-seawater scent intensified; all he could picture was her green dress on the floor of the first room they were able to find, those pearls spread all over the place. But not the ones in her hair, no; these he would allow her to keep, so they would shine as her copper locks billowed with every stroke of his hips.

Well, the Spymaster had started a game he could not win. However, at that moment, he was more than willing to lose, if that fucking bastard hadn’t decided it was the right time for his appearance.

Az slid his hand along Gwyn’s thigh again, feeling the sheath attached to the soft flesh. She let out a sigh that almost killed him. “Keep your blades close.”

For an instant, the Valkyrie seemed utterly lost, as if he had spoken to her in a foreign language. But then she recovered and nodded, ready for whatever might come. And it was sexy as fuck.

At the other end of the ballroom, loud and high, trumpets sounded. Beron Vanserra walked firmly, haughtily through the doors, two steps ahead of his wife. The reddish-orange, furry mantle he had chosen for the occasion looked heavy, as did the golden crown on top of his head, although he didn’t show any signs of it. The strawberry-blonde hair and the blue eyes were still the same, identical to what they had been in the last centuries, even if his expression had changed into something more severe, more punitive than ever.

Everyone stopped to watch. It was a vision, indeed.

Azriel glanced at Eris, whose face remained neutral, a mask as glued to his skin as the ones that Spring once were forced to wear. Lucien, on the other side, seemed to be about to jump on his father, ready to kill the motherfucker with his bare hands. Somehow, Elain apparently had taken Az’s advice, because her arm was around her mate’s waist, half comforting, half holding him back. Or maybe holding him up.

After his endless marching/display of power, Beron reached the dais at the end of the room, the Lady of the Autumn Court following him a few seconds later. They sat on their thrones and waited for everybody to kneel. Beron’s gaze fell on the High Lords and Lady of the other courts and on Lucien, all of them standing still on their feet, bowing to no one, before he commanded, “Rise.”

The movement was so subtle that no untrained eyes would notice, but Azriel did, and so did the others of the Night Court. While the noise of bodies getting up reverberated across the place, the doors were closed. Locked. Beron’s guards got in formation in front of the dais, protecting him. Some of the guests, all red-haired and soldier-postured, moved through the crowd, taking strategic positions.

Az pulled Gwyn against his chest, defending her back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucien pressing Elain against the wall, his body hiding hers. The rest of the Inner Circle remained unaltered, although their hands were now closer to their weapons.

“I am beyond pleased to see so many known faces among you,” Beron went on, choosing his words carefully. Not glad, happy, or delighted. He was pleased. “Known not only by me, but by all the courts of Prythian. I’m proud of myself for being able to reunite all of you tonight.”

Throwing a ball, of course. Because refusing an invitation for a political meeting would be considered intelligence, self-preservation; refusing his summons for a party like this one would be hostility.

“So many of us fought side by side against Hybern, perfect allies in ripping an outsider off of our domains, to stop him from conquering our territory.”

“Hmm, what about the humans, asshole?” Gwyn whispered, so low that he was the only one who could hear it. “Saving them was just luck, I guess.”

“In Beron’s mind? Probably collateral damage,” Az replied.

“Now we live in times of peace, welcoming years of stability and good relations. And aren’t we grateful for that? Yes, I suppose we all are. However, these are not times of prosperity, nor of progress.”

Shit. Nothing good could come from that. Nothing good at all.

“So, what should we do to secure the fortune not of the courts individually, but of all Prythian? How much of our structure, of our divisions, must we change? Shouldn’t we experience our land as one?”

Experience our land? What did he think Prythians were doing after Hybern? Taking vacations?

In his mind, Azriel heard Rhys’s voice. “I just sent a message to Keir. He’s getting Hewn City’s defenses ready. Beron’s walls are up, but I can feel it’s not just here that something is going to happen.”

“Are you going to let the other High Lords know?”

“Already did. If they can communicate with someone and get their armies in position, they’ll do so.”

In fact, all of them seemed concerned, and not exclusively because of Beron’s monologue. Their eyes kept hovering over the crowd, exchanging glances with their seconds and thirds. The mated ones made the same movement as Azriel and Lucien, pulling their mates closer to protect them—except for Thesan, whose lover was the captain of the aerial legion, Peregryn, and an exceptional fighter. Likely, of course, Feyre and Nesta.

Az closed his eyes for an instant. He needed to remember that Gwyn wasn’t his mate and that she was also an exceptional fighter. With months of training, the Valkyrie had survived and won the Blood Rite, which drove him crazy with fear for her and made him so, so fucking proud. She didn’t need his protection. Not anymore, not since Sangravah. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

“I invited you here tonight, my friends,” Beron continued his speech, voice hardening and getting louder with each word, “to celebrate. Because this is the night when Prythian will become unified. This is the night when our superiority will overcome our principles, when we will stop repressing ourselves for the benefit of humans. To be someone, it is necessary to be brave and merciless. It is necessary to understand that the law is not life, but death.”

The last word worked as some sort of code that set everything into motion. Azriel was already prepared, and even then it took him by surprise when an entire army burst into the room from the doors that swung open behind Beron. It appeared to be a horde of men and women, but anyone with the slightest sense of self-preservation could feel the dangerous, evil magic force that commanded them. Not natural, not from this world.

That distraction cost him a few precious seconds. Although at least one third of the guests were, in fact, legitimate guests, the rest of the fae there formed a mass of offenders—two enemies for each of the gathered visitors. Azriel had faced worse, but he couldn’t say the same about the others. If Lucien was to fight his and Elain’s opponents, for example… Well, things wouldn’t be that easy. And that army from Hell took the situation to another level.

They had to winnow, the Shadowsinger thought. There was no way they could defeat those freaking soldiers. He held Gwyn’s hand and felt their presence fading into shadows… only to see Rhys and Feyre trying to do the same and failing.

“They can’t winnow,” Gwyn stated the obvious. Then her right hand, the one Az wasn’t holding, moved brusquely forward, her dagger flying toward Eris. He inclined his head an inch to his left, so her blade cut off one single strand of red hair… and struck someone behind him in the eye. A Hell of an aim.

Eris touched his throat, where a drop of blood stained his golden skin, realizing that the knife of the male whom Gwyn had just blinded was a second away from slitting it. Then the oldest Vanserra smiled and winked at her before he turned to his attacker and slaughtered the guy with visible satisfaction.

“We have to get out of here,” Az blurted, holding her firmly.

“Rhys and Feyre first,” the Valkyrie cut him off. “They are the—“ a pause for a strike that sent a female attacker into Nesta’s sword, Ataraxia, “—priority.”

Of course they were, Azriel knew that. However, while his shadows twirled around the neck of an enemy, breaking it easily, he couldn’t deny the horror caused by the idea of letting her stay behind.

“Gwyn…”

“Go, Azriel. Now.”

He needed to seize the opportunity. They were all in the back of the room, still distant from the worst of the attack. In a minute, though, the butchering would get to them. It was actually painful to let go of her, the kind of feeling he didn’t want to look too closely at.

Cutting his way through the panicked crowd and Beron’s impostor guests, Az winnowed Feyre the moment he put his hands on her. They landed clumsily in the living room of the River House, the High Lady’s knife stabbing the sofa instead of her adversary, staining the fabric with blood.

“Take me back there,” she ordered, as soon as she understood where they were.

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

“Azriel, take me back there. It’s an order. I won’t let my court and my allies be massacred while I hide here—“

“This is the first time I have ever interrupted you, Feyre, and I hope it’s the last one too, but we will not win that fight. We have to take as many people out as possible, and each second of this conversation means another death. So stay here, I’ll be back soon.”

He winnowed before she could say anything else, now outside the ballroom. There was no one out there, not even a soul—the whole action was taking place inside the building. With all his strength, Azriel forced the lock, kicked the wood, channeled his power through his siphons onto the doors, but nothing happened. The magic keeping them shut made his skin burn where it touched him, like some kind of acid or poison.

“Let me help, Az,” Feyre said, showing up at his side. Why had he thought that the High Lady of the Night Court would obey someone? “Go get them. Bring them here. Rhys and I will winnow the others.”

The strategist in him couldn’t ignore that logic. Wasting no time, the Shadowsinger went back inside, now finding a bloodshed in progress. Rhysand was the next one Az pulled out, and it was incredible how stupidly his honor matched his mate’s, because the first thing the High Lord asked, after realizing he’d been winnowed, was to go back inside.

After Feyre and Rhys, Azriel went straight to Elain. Despite the fact that she had killed the king of Hybern, she didn’t know how to fight and would be nothing more than a distraction for Lucien. Yet, what he found once he got to them almost made him change his mind.

“Take him, Azriel,” Elain begged when he tried to winnow her. “Please.”

Lucien obviously had fought many opponents to protect her. But there was no point in leaving her defenseless to save him.

As if reading his thoughts, the other male said, between strikes, “Don’t… you… dare.”

“No, no, no, no, no… Azriel, no, please—“

In an instant, the shadows engulfed and transported them outside, where Feyre immediately took her sister and carried her away.

“The other High Lords,” Rhys said. Or determined. “Eris.”

Of course Azriel knew the political implications of the death of a High Lord or their mate’s. The Spymaster wasn’t stupid. However, he hated to put Gwyn lower on that list of priorities. His only relief when he winnowed Eris out was that somehow the Priestess had managed to find Nesta and Cassian in that mess of blood and corpses, and now the three of them were fighting back to back.

“Talia,” Eris pleaded, holding Az’s arm before he could leave again. “She’s my second. And I have other important people in there too.”

“All of us have important people in there,” Azriel retorted. “I’ll do my best, but our people are not more expendable than yours.”

It took what seemed to be hundreds of years to winnow everybody, each fae weaker and more badly beaten up than the other as the last of them became more and more outnumbered inside, while Beron watched from the dais, looking satisfied. Lucien, Helion and two Summer counselors, Tarquin and Cresseida, Varian and Amren, Kallias and Viviane, Thesan and his lover, and finally Talia. By the time he finished the High Lords’ group, Morrigan was already there, helping with the winnowing, and Helion had thrown himself into the task of breaking the spell that locked the door—unsuccessfully, though.

When Az couldn’t find anybody else but corpses, he knew there was nothing more to be done, not in that room, not in that court. Joining the fight, he made his way to Gwyn, sending everyone and everything impeding him from reaching her to Hell.

Blood covered her from head to toe, and it scared the shit out of Azriel that he couldn’t assess how much of it was hers. He didn’t have time to ask, though; she was standing, she was fighting, and he needed to get her out. The moment Gwyn reached out to him, Az took her hand and winnowed her directly to the River House, not wanting to risk her safety any more than necessary.

Feyre and Rhys’s living room was drowned in chaos, blood, vomit and other bodily fluids. Elain held Lucien so close that his massive body hid hers while she cleaned the ugly wounds across his skin. She kept his head and half of his torso on her lap, caressing his red hair and talking to him in a low voice, softly, uninterruptedly. The other rescued fae arranged themselves as they could, suturing cuts, sending messages, and comforting their loved ones.

“Are you okay?” It was the third time the Shadowsinger asked Gwyn that, but now he hugged her so tight that the Valkyrie could barely breathe.

“Yes… Yes, I’m fine,” she answered, then leaned loosely against him. But something about that demonstration of weakness seemed wrong. Az sat her on an empty chair and started searching her body, until he touched her leg and she whimpered. “It’s ok, Az. Just go…”

The gash on her thigh was so deep that he could see the bone. Azriel had carried an almost-dead Cassian, had held his fucking intestines in his bare hands, but seeing her flesh wounded like that made his hands tremble.

“I’ll take care of her, Az. Go get Cass and Nesta.” When Gwyn let her head fall against the back of the chair, her face was paper-sheet pale. “Azriel. Look at me.” More by habit than by will, he turned his head to face Feyre, who had an already cut hand on Gwyn’s lips, giving the Priestess her blood. “I’ll be here with her the entire time. She’s going to be okay. Go.”

The Shadowsinger stared at the Valkyrie once more, then winnowed to save Cassian and Nesta, leaving his heart behind.

Chapter 10

Notes:

Guys, you are all so kind in your comments! Thank you for reading and leaving kudos! <3

Gwyn limped across the room and opened the door, creating an expectation that, she knew, wouldn’t be met. The person on the other side was not who she wanted to see, but Nesta, with a cup of tea, cookies, and a Sellyn Drake book.

“Hi, sunshine,” her friend greeted when Gwyn made her way back to the armchair of her temporary alcove in the River House. The bruise on Nesta’s cheek had gotten less purple, and so had her broken pinky. “How’s your leg? Hurting like a bitch and making you grumpy? Or do you just not want me around?”

Well, it was not that the Priestess hated Nesta’s visit. But Gwyn had welcomed and talked to everybody from the Inner Circle. Besides her Valkyrie sisters, she had been visited by Cassian, Rhys and Feyre, even Elain and Lucien—who seemed to be doing worse than her, although happier than ever with her hand in his.

Everyone except, of course, for Azriel.

She felt a silky touch on her ankle, almost imperceptible now, so used she was to it. The shadow slid up to her wounded thigh, caressing it. Its master had left in the morning after the bloody ball, to meet his informants, obviously, and gather information about… everything, actually. He didn’t show up to say goodbye, to ask if she was okay, if she needed anything. However, the Shadowsinger left one of his shadows behind, the thing following Gwyn everywhere, always hovering over her like a worried mom. And she knew how hard it was for him to be apart from them.

It had to count for something, right?

“I’m sorry, Nes. It hurts a little, but not that much anymore. Madja is great.”

“I have to agree, since she once put Cassian’s guts inside his body again.”

Gwyn chuckled, then her expression turned serious. “How did the meeting go?”

Nesta sighed, putting the treats on the table next to her friend and grabbing a cookie before throwing herself on the bed. Yes, stiffy Nesta doing something like that meant that things were bad. “As terrible as you can imagine. Beron’s still in control of Spring, and there are no signs of Tamlin—probably caged somewhere, in his beast form, under Autumn’s power. Which is the worst scenario we could picture, since Spring borders the human lands. Kallias and Viviane are devastated, and Tarquin even more. Summer just recovered from Hybern’s attack, the High Lord can’t get in touch with anyone in there, not to mention that Cresseida is still on the brink of death. Winter is also uncommunicative, which makes Viviane angry, because she kept her court safe for all the time that Kallias had been Under the Mountain, and now… nothing.”

So three courts under Beron’s command. Four, if they counted Autumn, obviously.

“What about the others?” Gwyn asked.

“Dealing with the destruction, but safe for now. Helion put some spell on the...” In a brusque move, Nesta sat up on the bed and looked at Gwyn. “Oh, my gods, you won’t believe what happened. Lucien went crazy about getting in Autumn to rescue his mother, and Helion started to support him, saying that he would do it himself if he had to. Everybody was so confused about his behavior, because that fucking rake suddenly became aggressive and as crazy as Lucien, then he just blurted that he wasn’t leaving his mate there alone with Beron.”

“His mate?” the Priestess repeated, in shock.

“Can you imagine that? He really acted like a mated male, though. And when we looked at Eris and Lucien… well, let’s say that Elain’s mate—”

“—is the spitting image of Helion.” How could anyone not notice that before? Now that she reflected on it, the similarities were pretty evident. “Mother above, I thought this situation couldn’t be more dramatic.”

“You have no idea,” Nesta went on. “Now we are dealing with a hundred High Lord’s problems: one missing, two willing to take back their courts with no army, one mated to Beron’s wife and behaving like a hallucinating male, and the rest of them trying to save what’s left of their lands—including Rhysand and Feyre, because Hewn City has seen better days.”

“And what about Eris? Those are his court and his family, after all.”

Eris also had visited Gwyn to thank her for saving his life with that blade thrown at his adversary’s eye. It was the first time they’d actually had a conversation, but something about him, about his kindness towards her, had made it easy, almost familiar. 

“Eris is… angry, to say the least. He’s furious about everything—his father’s traitorous plans, the people he lost that night, his mother stuck there with that psychopath. His brothers’ deaths, even if they didn’t get along, considering the fact that they were a bunch of motherfuckers. And Beron bargaining with Koschei, which explains that army from the depths of Hell.”

Gwyn remembered the way those soldiers had moved across the ballroom, the evilness of their magic, the excessive strength of their strikes, and the unnatural resistance to fucking dying.

“Wait, how do you know that Eris’s brothers are dead? And that Beron bargained with Koschei?”

Nesta’s brow furrowed. “Azriel told us. In the meeting.”

The Priestess froze, the cup halfway up to her mouth.

“Azriel was in the meeting? He’s already back?”

“He arrived a couple of hours ago. Why?” A couple of hours ago. Long before the meeting. And he didn’t come here to see me. “Gwyneth Berdara, is this about the fact that you were almost jumping at one another at the ball? Gwyn? Gwyn, what are you—“

Nesta tried to reach for her when she got up from the armchair and started limping towards the door. The corridors were the easiest part, Gwyn thought, imagining how she would manage to go down the stairs, but apparently that was her lucky day. Right around the corner, she ran into the Spymaster, who clearly intended to go to his own bedroom.

“Berdara,” he said, his tone flat, unemotional. “How’s your leg?”

The shadow that had been nursing her joined its equals, as if making clear that it was a stupid or hypocritical question, since Az left it behind for a reason, right?

“Healing well, thanks. And you? Are you okay?”

He shrugged, indifferent. “Fine.” They stood awkwardly silent for an instant before Azriel put his scarred hands in his trousers’ pockets and said, “I’ll see you around, then. Bye, Berdara.”

The Shadowsinger turned his back and walked a few steps away as if she was like any other acquaintance, a person who you exchange pleasantries with.

“Are you avoiding me?”

The question left her lips spontaneously, almost accidentally, but she wouldn’t take it back even if she could. Turning around again, to look at her, Azriel kept his expression neutral.

“Why would I do that, Berdara?”

In general, Gwyn liked when he called her by her surname because it was kind of a nickname. However, at that moment, she wished he just dropped it.

“I don’t know, maybe because we were teasing each other at the ball, hands and dirty talk and all that stuff.”

His hazel eyes became darker, nearly black. “It was a game, wasn’t it? I only taught you how to flirt like the fae. Not a big deal.”

Something twisted inside Gwyn’s chest, like a knot being tightened. She smiled, though, letting Azriel know that his nonchalant attitude didn’t affect her. “Right. Okay, then. At least I know how to do it now.”

His lips thinned, exposing his distress. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The Valkyrie leaned against the wall and crossed her arms in front of her chest, keeping the smile on her face. “It means exactly what I just said: that now I can use what you taught me about the matter and flirt like the fae that I am… not with you, of course. It was just a game, right? But with someone else.” Azriel didn’t reply. His jaw tightened, his wings flared a little. “Okay, have a nice day, Az.”

She went ahead, passing him by, pretending that since the beginning of that casual talk her goal had been to go downstairs. Before she could go further, though, he held her hand to stop her. 

They were close. So, so close. It took Gwyn all of her strength to stay still instead of grabbing him by the jacket. Gods, she would love to kiss him against the wall.

“You’re beautiful, Gwyn,” Azriel stated, “Beautiful, intelligent, and so fucking hot. When you were in my arms, all I could think about was getting you naked as soon as possible. But I’m not looking for something serious now. I can’t give you what you want.”

Mother, she was already wet with a few sentences, aching in all the right places. Despite that, yes, Az was being a jerk.

“Who says that I am looking for something serious? Only because I’m inexperienced?"

“You’re not inexperienced, Berdara,” he retorted. “You’re technically a virgin, unless the library is now allowing males for some extracurricular activities. And I’m not the right guy to take this from you.”

I had a lot of things taken from me, especially in the sexual department. And I can assure you that it’s not what I think you would do.

“Hmm.” She stepped closer, leaving only inches between them. “I don’t remember hearing you complain about any of this when you had my ass against your… hips.”

The growl that rose from his throat made Gwyn bite her lower lip. That vibration would be incredible on her—

“You’re not a casual-sex kind of female, we both know that. And, as I said, I’m not the right guy. You deserve a lot better.”

Smiling even wider, she drew near, his breath touching her cheek. “Are you afraid, Az? Hiding behind your assumptions about me? What about this thing between us scares you?”

His gaze lowered to her mouth, in a way that told her he could kiss her in a heartbeat. “I’m not afraid of anything. Anything. If you say that you don’t want a relationship, I’m more than willing to fuck you until your whole body goes numb. You know where to find me, don’t you?”

Gwyn knew what Azriel was doing. That vulgar way of speaking aimed to make her nervous, to dissuade her from that idea. Little did he know that it only made her feel hornier. 

Nonetheless, the implication that she would chase him like a desperate female was laughable.

“Oh, I do, Shadowsinger. But I won’t. If you decide that it’s worth a shot, then you know where to find me.”

Letting go of his hand, Gwyn reached the staircase, determined to not limp. In fact, she even swayed her hips, sensing his gaze at every step.

Notes:

Hi, guys! I hope you all enjoy my Gwynriel story (which is also my very first fanfic).

Since English is not my first language, it takes me a little longer than others to write, so be patient, please 😂🙏

A huge thank you to @Moon_On_A_String, who's proofreading my chapters and giving me amazing suggestions <3
(https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moon_On_A_String/pseuds/Moon_On_A_String)