Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Azriel carried his silence as a second skin.

The House of Wind was his sanctuary, once—above the world, and away from everyone, who never expected him to talk or smile except when absolutely necessary. However, tonight, the River House was selected for the Inner Circle meeting. It was intimate, familial, and cozy.

Velaris sparkled through the windows, glass and shining stone, the Sidra running through the center of the city like liquid silver. Laughter wafted from the riverwalks. Lights burst everywhere, gilding the cobblestone streets in amber.

But none of it touched him.

Azriel stood in the doorway of the study, his wings folded close to prevent them from touching the fragile archway. His shadows wrapped themselves at his feet, still but fidgety. He had been standing there for five minutes now—unmoving, unobserved.

Until Rhys mentioned it, never looking up.

"You're brooding more loudly than usual."

Azriel didn’t bother hiding his eye roll as he entered. “I’m preparing.”

"Preparing for what, precisely?"

The folly of politics.

Rhysand glanced away from the papers on his desk, his fingers tucked under his chin, steepled together. A knowing, infuriating grin twitched at his lips. “So, you've heard."

"I heard that Eris is demanding a meeting." Azriel's tone was neutral. "No Cassian. No diplomacy. Just me."

"Just you," Rhys affirmed.

Azriel's jaw clamped shut. "Because I despise him."

"Because you know him better."

Azriel's wings unfolded, feathers rustling. Shadows grew denser, curling over his legs like smoke.

"Stop flattering him." Azriel's voice was cutting. "He does not deserve it."

Up the corridor, Nesta's laughter echoed through—sharp, amused. Cassian's voice came afterward, too deep for his shadows to detect.

Their connection radiated like sunlight.

Azriel was silent.

Rhys, happily, did.

"Tomorrow you'll be leaving. After dinner."

“Exactly convenient,” Azriel replied wryly. “A sendoff feast before being handed over as entertainment for Eris.”

"He called specifically for you, Az."

"I know."

"It's strange, but you never killed him."

Azriel's corner of his mouth twitched. "Not for the lack of chance."

Rhys's violet eyes narrowed, cutting through the air. "Be honest. If you really wanted him dead, we would be having this conversation."

Azriel's silence was sufficient answer.

Rhys waved him off with a head movement. “An hour for dinner, okay? Make an effort to appear less as if you're plotting murder.”

Azriel's own smile was icy. "No promises."

The dinner table shone under the light of faelight orbs, polished and oak-hewn, set with fine glass and gold-edged plates. The air was perfumed by rosemary, spiced wine, and the salty tang of the river wafting through open windows.

Feyre was at the head, a hand covered in paint on top of Rhysand's, a gentle laugh emerging as she heard Cassian argue with Nesta about the placement of the silverware.

Amren, as ever, sat alone—at the far end, sitting like a crow, scanning idly through a thin, leather-bound book with an intensity which guaranteed no one would disturb her.

Mor reclined to Feyre's right, spinning her wineglass between the stem, a dangerous, cutting smile on her lips.

Elain had moved to a place beside the windows and was staring outside at the river, but her eyes frequently returned to the table.

Azriel slipped into the chair opposite her, wings folding neatly. His shadows slid up the leg of the table, wrapping themselves under the tablecloth.

"You're particularly cranky tonight, I notice," Mor commented, swirling the wine. "Above and beyond your usual."

Azriel didn't say a word. He picked up his glass, the wine glowing, dyeing his fingers red.

“Elain,” interrupted Cassian, ever the peace-maker, “I’ve heard you’ve been intimidating the gardeners once again. New rose varieties?”

Elain smiled gently, but her glance flashed—fleeting, exact—to Azriel then returned to Cassian. "Only mildly. Azriel's been assisting."

The table paused for a moment's breath.

Mor's eyebrows rose. "Azriel. Gardening. Seriously, we are in the end times."

Azriel's lip curled. "Caring for a rose isn't much different from caring for a blade's edge."

A weak smirk flashed across Feyre's lips. "Still poetic, even when you're being grouchy."

Azriel did not blush. But his shadows gave him away, darkening for a moment before smoothing out again to stillness.

“Talking about thorns,” Rhys drawled, “we must toast. To Azriel’s diplomatic torture.”

The punch connected. Cassian's smirk was biting.

"To Eris Vanserra," he declared, lifting his glass mock-seriously. "May he ever be an insufferable ass."

"To that," Mor contributed, but her tone contained more venom than laughter.

Azriel lifted his glass, his movement languorous. “If he's killed, it wasn’t my doing.”

A ripple spread through laughter.

Elain was, however, too vigilant to him.

So was Feyre.

"You never liked him," Mor said, tilting her glass. "Even prior to... everything."

"He gives me every reason," Azriel replied suavely.

The truth.

"Is that why you're always volunteering to see him alone?" Feyre's comment was offhand. Too offhand.

Azriel took a sip of his wine. "Because Cassian would initiate a fight, and Rhysand would be left to clean it up. Take it as a favor."

Rhysand laughed. "Such a selfless man you are."

"Indeed," Azriel whispered.

His fingers touched his knee once beneath the table.

His shadows tightened further.

Cassian hunched over. “You know, it’s ironic. Despite the vitriol, you're incredibly calm after each session. One could almost say… immune.”

Azriel's teeth flashed. "One might, but you'd be mistaken."

Mor's golden eyes narrowed. "I hope so. He's still a bastard."

“Agreed,” his voice was silk and steel. “And still, he lives.”

The subtlety of his words escaped them.

Feyre's fingers touched against Rhys's, the bond between them vibrating.

"Be cautious, Az," she whispered.

"Would you prefer we send one of our people with you?" Rhysand suggested, though his smile betrayed him.

Azriel skewed his head. "He requested shadows and quiet. Not a procession."

Cassian snorted. "Not even for your delightful company?"

Azriel's shadows tightened. "He knows better than to try to charm me."

"Do you?" Amren questioned, keeping her eyes glued to her ledger.

The table stilled.

Azriel didn't live up to it.

He just smiled. Sharp. Cold.

Elain's voice pierced through the tension, gentle but purposeful. "How long will you be gone?"

Azriel's eyes turned to her, impassive. “As long as necessary.”

Mor grumbled, "Poor guy. Being stuck with Eris's ego again."

He drained his glass.

Feyre stood, changing the atmosphere. "Let us walk the garden. Before the evening takes the heat."

Cassian extended his arm to Nesta, and she accepted it with a huff and a quick smile. Mor followed them, still cursing under her breath about “damn Autumn bastards.” Rhysand hung back, running a hand over Feyre's spine, speaking softly to make her laugh.

Azriel stood last.

Elain touched his sleeve as she walked by.

“Be safe,” she said quietly.

“I always am.”

As the Inner Circle moved into the evening, Azriel moved after them. Wings closed, shadows on leash.

But within—within, the truth smoldered like embers.

He would meet Eris tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The clearing was erroneous.

Azriel didn’t have to be told by his shadows. The trees stood too still, the air too thick, as if it had been held too long. Even the wind was missing, as if the forest had decided it was better to observe than move.

It was always this way.

Stifling. Anticipatory. As if the earth recognized what happened here bore little relation to politics or alliances.

He should’ve turned back.

Nine times, he'd visited this gods-damned clearing. Nine times within the last year, slipping through the gaps between worlds to discover this place hidden away, buried deep within the heart of Autumn. There were no paths to it. No wards on the border flared. The earth itself appeared to guard the secret of the cabin.

But it was never a secret for long.

Since Eris never was willing to let it be that way.

Azriel's jaw clicked and he took another step closer, the gentle snap of the twig under his boot louder than it ought to have been. Intentional. He could have been stealthier. He allowed the sound to be there.

Let him know he was approaching.

"Two months," a voice whispered in the dark. "No word. I was afraid you forgot."

Azriel never blinked.

But his shadows did.

They tightened further against his boots, curling up with angry familiarity. Not at the voice. Not at all. At himself, maybe. For having come. For wanting. For making it more difficult than it had to be.

He spun, slow as the motion of unsheathing a blade, to the voice which had tormented him within his dreams since last Solstice.

Eris Vanserra burst from the woods like a flame that could not be extinguished.

His copper hair drawn back at his nape, golden eyes flashing with knowing contempt. Dark red leathers, richly embroidered bronze, and the faint sheen of armor underneath. A sword at his side, unattended.

It was only an act. A show. But he knew his crowd.

Azriel's lip curled into a sneer.

"You don’t send word. You don’t confirm the hour. I’m the one who forgot?"

The bite in his words was still sharp, but less deeply so than before. A dull, empty blade, now honed from use.

Eris's smile was slow, dangerous, infuriating.

"You're quite skilled at pretending to be upset at me."

Azriel's shadows moved stealthily across the floor, creeping towards him, a reflection of the anger he would never exhibit.

“Who said I’m pretending?”

But to his own ears, the threat sounded empty. They both knew it.

Eris's smirk grew stronger, lazy and infuriating. He knew full well what Azriel would not tell him. The bastard was too smart for his own good.

He despised it.

Sensed how easily Eris could read him, the way he so easily peeled away the shields Azriel built over decades. Resented that every barb they exchanged was less like a dagger and more like breathing.

That was the drawback of routine.

It became pleasant.

And that was dangerous.

Azriel's wings fluttered, an agitated shimmer. He could still turn aside. Still avoid the shame of wanting to remain.

But then Eris spun.

"Come on inside," he replied, already walking toward the cabin. "I prepared dinner. Or I burned it. We'll see."

It was there.

The tone changed with precision.

Not cynical. Not sarcastic. Just... relaxed. Comfortable.

As if this—this odd, covert cease-fire of theirs—was the norm.

Azriel's shoulders rolled back, tension bleeding into reluctant ease. He ought to be angry. Ought to bite his teeth into the insult of being summoned without summons, expected without invitation.

Anger was simpler than acknowledging he had been waiting for this as well.

That his shadows had curled uncomfortably every evening since the last one.

The fact that he had come tonight, after two months of radio silence, was not due to duty or politics or strategy.

He missed him for that reason.

But acknowledging that was unimaginable.

So Azriel did what he always did.

He followed.

Chapter Text

Inside, it was warm. Not court-warm, nor perfumed or sterile. The warmth was that of oak logs embers on the hearth, iron skillets and roasting meat. Rosemary and cloves ran through the air, punctuated by the sweet familiarity of Autumn wine.

Azriel never checked for traps.

He hadn’t in months.

He knew Eris wouldn’t kill him here.

It was much too impersonal.

He shrugged off the top of his leathers and hung them in the same place he always hung them, standing there in a loose black shirt. His wings stretched a little in the narrow space, shadows curling languidly over the rafters.

"You’re cooking now?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I attempt," Eris replied, already sitting, sliding two goblets across the scarred table. "And don't forget, I know at least three ways to poison a Shadowsinger."

Azriel picked up the goblet, inspecting it with mock suspicion. The wine was dark, nearly black in the firelight. He took a measured sip.

Dry. Smoky. Perfect.

"You’ll need to be more subtle."

Eris’s lips twitched. "Oh, Azriel. You’ve seen subtle. This—" he gestured broadly at the modest table setting, "this is restraint."

Azriel took the seat opposite. Their knees bumped beneath the table. Neither moved.

The chessboard was already set. Carved bone, every piece a snarling beast of black or white. Azriel didn’t bother feigning surprise.

"You always start with black."

"You always lose with white."

Azriel moved his pawn as easily as drawing a blade.

"How’s life under Beron’s boot?"

Eris's smile cut sharp. "A daily delight. And you? Still polishing Rhysand’s halo?"

Azriel huffed a breath. Close to a laugh. "Don’t mistake pretty for clean."

Eris’s bark of laughter filled the small space. "Azriel, I’ve fucked you. I know exactly how clean you’re not."

The vulgarity should have stung.

Instead, it settled between them like a shared secret.

Dinner was as expected.

The roast was too done on the edges, but soft underneath. The bread spent a breath too long in the oven, its crust flirting with burnt. The wine—gods, the wine—was flawless.

Azriel ate in silence, precise as ever.

Eris watched him with the same sharpness he gave the chessboard. Like reading a language only he could understand.

"You’re chewing like you’re back in the war camps," Eris drawled. "Do I need to remind you there’s no rationing here?"

"I like efficiency."

"So you keep saying." Eris leaned in, elbows braced. "But sometimes, Azriel, slow is better."

Azriel’s fork paused mid-air.

Weighted words. Intentional. Measured.

He didn’t bite.

Not yet.

"You’re quieter tonight," Eris noted, moving his knight with casual grace.

"I’m always quiet."

"Not with me."

Azriel’s lips twitched. Barely.

Eris’s grin was slow. Vicious.

It felt familiar now. Safe, even.

"You know," Eris said, twirling his wine, "I think I’ve grown fond of these evenings. You, sitting there, glowering. Pretending you don’t enjoy this."

"Who said I enjoy it?"

"The fact you’re here. Again. Despite every reason not to."

Azriel’s gaze held steady. "Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment to put a blade through your throat."

Eris’s smile turned feral. "Perhaps. But even then, you’d do it gently."

Azriel hated the way his throat tightened.

Worse still, Eris noticed.

They played. They ate. They traded barbs with the ease of soldiers sharpening blades.

Azriel hated how effortless it had become.

How the silences no longer felt like traps.

Eris reached across the table, thumb brushing a crumb from Azriel’s sleeve. His fingers lingered, indulgent.

Azriel let him.

"What are we doing?" Azriel asked, soft as a blade’s whisper.

Eris’s smile flickered. "Surviving."

"We’ve been meeting in secret for a year."

"Eleven months and sixteen days," Eris corrected smoothly. "But who’s counting?"

"And still no one knows."

"Not until my father rots in the ground."

Azriel’s wings twitched. His shadows stirred, restless.

"You think Rhys would care?"

"I think Rhys would see it as betrayal." Softer now. "So would Mor. So would Cassian."

"And you?"

Eris stood, his chair scraping back.

Azriel’s shadows coiled, but not in warning.

Eris rounded the table, slow, deliberate. He crouched beside Azriel’s chair, golden eyes locking with his in infuriating patience.

"I’d call it necessary. I’d call it mine."

Azriel’s breath caught.

Eris didn’t reach for him.

Didn’t push.

But the space between them was thick with what neither dared say.

Azriel could feel it, that tether beneath his skin. Not a mating bond—but something older. Quieter. Forged from secrets and stolen nights.

A connection neither wanted.

Yet neither could sever.

Azriel’s fingers traced the goblet’s stem.

Almost empty.

It would’ve been easy to sit still. To let it pass.

But Azriel was never one for easy.

Deliberately, lazily, he let the goblet tilt.

It slipped from his hand.

Glass shattered against stone.

Wine bled across the flagstones, dark as spilled blood.

"Oops," Azriel murmured, voice a velvet blade.

"Let me get that."

He slid from his chair, onto his knees.

Eris didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

But Azriel caught it—the sharp inhale. The way Eris’s fists clenched at his sides.

The air sparked.

The performance was over.

The rules had shifted.

For once, Azriel was the one setting them.

The world narrowed to this:

Knees on stone.

Shadows curling.

Eris’s eyes, molten gold, burning.

The moment before the fall.

Chapter Text

Azriel’s knees kissed the stone floor with a hollow clack, swallowed by the hush of the cabin. Cold licked up through his bones, but he didn’t flinch. The goblet lay shattered beside him, ribs of glass gleaming like bone. Red wine bled into the ancient cracks, slow and steady, a dark sacrament.

He didn’t reach for the shards.

No. His hands found a better altar.

They slid up Eris’s thighs, long fingers curling with deliberate force, pressing just shy of pain. Enough to bruise. Enough to remind Eris that Azriel was not fragile. Not a fucking relic to handle with reverence. The gift of his submission was sharp. Purposeful. Teeth bared beneath silk.

Above him, Eris stood still as a statue.

But Azriel could feel it. The tension coiling under that mask. Breathing measured. Watching too closely. Waiting—for Azriel to break. For himself to give in.

Azriel tipped his head back, slow, deliberate. Shadows coiled, forming a dark halo. He looked up at Eris as if through the crown of his own defiance. The table loomed above, half-swallowed by firelight. But Eris—Eris was carved from that flame. All sharp lines, molten-gold eyes banked beneath a mask of cold control.

But Azriel knew better.

“I didn’t drop it by accident,” he said. His voice was a rasp, the kind born from swallowed screams, nearly devoured by the crackling hearth.

Eris’s throat bobbed. A flicker.

“No?”

Azriel smiled. Slow. Cutting. “No.”

He reached for the silver buckle at Eris’s waist, fingers deft, ruthless, precise in the way he slit throats. No fumbling. No hesitation. Each breath measured. Each motion deliberate.

A gift. Given freely.

Eris’s hips shifted—not a flinch. A crack in the veneer. His hands braced against the table, knuckles whitening, jaw locked.

But he didn’t stop him.

That was the truth of it. Eris never stopped him.

Azriel freed him with a rough tug. Eris’s cock, already hard, flushed and leaking, jutted against the firelight. Azriel didn’t bother with pretense. He wrapped his hand around the length, squeezing. Not gently. Never gently.

There. The pulse beneath his palm. The tremor in Eris’s breath.

Azriel leaned in.

The first kiss was a brand, heat pressed against the tip—soft only in the way a blade might kiss the skin before it cuts.

Eris hissed, sharp, vicious. “Fuck, Az.”

Music. Azriel’s favorite song.

His tongue dragged a stripe up the underside, slow, savoring. Salt. Heat. Eris. His lips parted wider, breath steady even as his throat stretched, accommodating. Shadows slithered up his own neck, coiling tight, mimicking the sensation of being filled. Always mirroring. Always aching.

Eris’s groan—low, broken—shivered through the stillness.

“Gods, you love this,” Eris managed, voice fraying at the edges. “Shadowsinger. On your knees. For me.”

Azriel hummed around him.

Eris’s hips twitched forward, chasing the vibration. Azriel didn’t stop him. He took him deeper, jaw aching, throat flexing. Power, offered freely. A different kind of control.

Eris’s hand found his hair, threading through, grip tightening as instinct warred with restraint. Azriel let him.

The obscene wet sounds of his mouth echoed beneath the table, mingling with the ragged drag of Eris’s breathing. Spit slicked his lips, dribbled down his chin, his shadows lapping at it greedily.

“Look at you,” Eris growled. “Messy. Beautiful. My pretty little secret.”

Azriel’s cock strained painfully against his leathers. Not from lack of touch—but from need. A need to be seen beyond the blade. Beyond the title. To be wanted as a man who could fall apart.

“Mine,” Eris said, voice wrecked. “All mine.”

Azriel moaned around him. His throat worked, his tongue curled. Eris’s control snapped.

Hips surged forward. A brutal rhythm. Azriel let himself be used, let himself choke, throat stretching—but never surrendered. His fingers bruised Eris’s thighs, grounding them both.

Eris’s snarl was feral.

But his thumb stroked Azriel’s cheekbone. A single point of care amidst the wreckage.

Azriel’s vision blurred.

He was going to come untouched.

The chair scraped violently as Eris stood, yanking Azriel up by his hair. The air sucked out of the room as Azriel coughed, spit-slick lips parted, breath ragged. Shadows flared wild around his legs, feeding on the frenzy.

“You knew exactly what that would do to me,” Eris rasped.

Azriel’s smile was all teeth. “Yes.”

The world spun.

Eris slammed him onto the dining table. Plates shattered. Wine spilled like blood, soaking into Azriel’s skin. His wings flared, arching high as he braced himself. Leathers torn aside, no ceremony, no patience.

The air kissed old scars.

Eris’s hand mapped the lines of his back, fingers curling around his hip—not to restrain, but to anchor.

“You’re always ready for me,” Eris murmured, slicking his fingers with spit and wine. “Like your body remembers you’re mine.”

Azriel’s throat worked. “You think you talk more than Rhys?”

A breathless laugh. “Keep that mouth open. I’ll shut it next.”

Two fingers breached him, sharp and perfect. Azriel’s spine bowed, a hiss tearing free. Shadows danced, twisting against firelight.

A third finger pressed in.

Azriel bit down on his forearm, desperate to muffle the sound clawing out of him.

“No,” Eris said, dragging Azriel’s arm away. His tongue licked over the bruised skin, slow and deliberate. “You don’t get to be quiet. Not for this.”

Azriel’s cock throbbed against the table.

Eris lined up behind him.

And thrust in.

Azriel screamed.

Not pain.

Release.

Eris filled him, every inch claiming. The table groaned. Wine and sweat slicked Azriel’s skin, every movement carving deeper into him.

But amidst the ruin—Eris’s hand curled around his waist, thumb stroking the jut of his hipbone. A tether. Not chains.

Azriel’s face pressed into the wood, friction against his cock sparking white-hot pleasure. His wings trembled, torn between flight and surrender. Eris pinned him, anchored him.

“You take me so fucking well,” Eris gritted. “Perfect.”

“Harder,” Azriel gasped.

And Eris obliged.

Skin against skin. Firelight devouring them. Azriel’s wings arched, the table scraping against stone. Eris’s teeth sank into his neck, a brutal brand of possession.

Azriel shattered.

His climax tore through him, violent, consuming. His seed spilled across the table, body convulsing as he gasped for air.

But Eris wasn’t done.

He fucked Azriel through it, relentless, rhythm faltering as his own orgasm overtook him. His hips stuttered, burying himself deep as he came.

Warmth bloomed inside Azriel. Not conquest. Not victory.

A tether.

They collapsed together, breathless, bodies slick, trembling. Eris’s hand never left his waist, thumb still tracing circles.

The cabin was silent but for their breathing.

Azriel’s shadows curled around them, no longer snarling—but cradling.

Possessive.

Loved.

No words.

But none were needed.

Eris pressed a kiss to Azriel’s shoulder. Soft. Unapologetic.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Azriel’s answer was a nod. “Better than okay.”

In the hush, beneath ruin and red wine, Azriel thought—not for the first time—that this was what safety felt like.

Not peace.

Not home.

But him.

The air still crackled with them—wine, sweat, the fraying ends of restraint—as Eris finally eased back. His breath ghosted over Azriel’s skin, lips brushing close but not quite touching.

“Come on,” he murmured, words frayed but insistent, a velvet hook sliding beneath Azriel’s ribs. “Before you pass out on my table.”

Azriel huffed a breath. Rough. Tattered. The ghost of a smirk curled his mouth, lazy and sharp. “I think we desecrated it properly.”

Eris’s laugh cracked, low and breathless, like something pulled from too deep. He didn’t bother hiding the way his eyes roved over Azriel, drinking in the wreckage—the flushed skin, the swollen lips, the mess they’d made of each other. His hands skimmed down Azriel’s sides now, gentler after all that had come before. Reverent, almost. But not soft. Eris didn’t do soft.

“Let me take you to bed, Az.”

There. The shift. Not a command. Not a tease.

A request.

And Azriel felt it—the way those words dug under his armor, hooked in the soft, treacherous places. His body answered first, before his mind could muster a retort. Slow, deliberate, he straightened, wings stretching wide, catching the firelight like blades dipped in ink. His leathers hung open, ruined beyond salvation, but he didn’t touch them.

Eris’s gaze tracked every movement, not with hunger—but with something quieter. Older. He didn’t reach again. Just waited.

Azriel stepped toward him.

No words. Didn’t need them.

The narrow hallway swallowed them up, the walls lined with old, dust-choked tapestries. Faded things—scenes of fire and forest, of battles long since rotted to memory. The cabin was ancient, half-forgotten.

But the bedroom? The bedroom was theirs.

A den of contradictions. The bed was too large, an obscene thing crammed into the modest room. Deep red blankets tumbled in disarray, sheets twisted from restless nights that reeked of smoke, cedar, sweat. Not luxury. Familiarity.

Eris gestured, a sardonic tilt of his hand. “My apologies. I didn’t have time to fluff the pillows.”

Azriel arched a brow, that rare edge of humor flickering beneath the wreckage. “I’m touched you think I care.”

“I’m still trying to impress you,” Eris said lightly. But there it was again—that raw edge, slicing beneath the jest.

Azriel’s mouth quirked, but he didn’t answer. The air between them pulsed with the weight of unsaid things.

Eris moved then, slow, deliberate, closing the space between them. His fingers brushed over the shredded edges of Azriel’s leathers. Not with the brisk efficiency of a commander stripping for battle—but with care. Each ruined piece peeled away, handled as if it mattered.

And it did.

“You’re gentler than you pretend to be,” Azriel said, voice low.

Eris’s lips curved, sharp and knowing. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

The last of Azriel’s leathers hit the floor with a whisper. His scars gleamed, silvered and stark. The ink of his tattoos writhed beneath the flicker of shadows, alive in the firelight.

Eris’s palm flattened against his sternum. A slow press. Not to push him away. To feel.

“Still breathing,” Eris murmured, mock-relieved.

“Barely,” Azriel rasped, but his breath stuttered at the contact.

Eris’s thumb traced the edge of a scar, lingering as though memorizing it. No battlefield brutality now. Just quiet reverence. A man remembering another man’s body by heart.

“I like you best when you’re not trying to be a weapon,” Eris said.

The words carved deeper than fingers ever could. Azriel didn’t deflect. Didn’t retreat behind his usual barbs.

He let it in.

Eris stepped back, just enough to offer space. “Bed. Now, Shadowsinger. For once, I want you to lie down before you fall down.”

Azriel’s laugh was a rough, frayed thing. “Bossy.”

“You like me bossy.”

No argument. None needed.

Azriel crossed the room, each step deliberate, and sank onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath him, protesting under his weight. His wings settled, sprawling across the sheets like molten obsidian. Shadows curled at his feet, draping the bed in a velvet-dark cocoon.

Eris sat beside him—not touching, but close. The heat between them simmered. The quiet was no longer sharp with tension. It was softer. Familiar. Safe.

“I missed you,” Eris said, voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the tangle of sheets.

Azriel turned his head, studied the line of Eris’s jaw. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“I’m getting honest.”

Their eyes locked. Something old and stubborn unfurled between them. No games. No shields.

Azriel reached out, fingers curling around Eris’s wrist, guiding his hand to rest over his heart. The beat was there. Steady. Unflinching.

“I’m here,” Azriel said. Simple. No poetry needed.

Eris’s throat worked as he swallowed. His fingers flexed, curling slightly, grounding himself in the thrum beneath his palm. His mask cracked further.

“I thought of you,” Eris said, voice low. “Every gods-damned night.”

Azriel’s lips twitched. “I know.”

A beat. Thick with weight.

“I think you’re under the impression I fell first,” Eris added, almost to himself.

Azriel’s smile was slow. Sharp. “You did.”

Eris’s laugh was a huff, crooked and unwilling. “Maybe. But you’re the one still pretending it’s not mutual.”

Azriel didn’t deny it.

But he didn’t let go of Eris’s wrist either.

Instead, he tugged him forward.

Their mouths met. This time, no teeth. No bruising. Just lips sliding together, unhurried. Familiar. Eris’s fingers threaded into Azriel’s hair, not to claim, not to anchor—simply to be there.

Azriel exhaled into the kiss. A soft, worn sound. As if exhaling something heavy he hadn’t noticed he was holding.

When they broke apart, Eris rested their foreheads together.

“Stay the night,” he whispered.

Azriel’s smile was small, real. “I never leave the same night.”

“Then stay because you want to.”

Azriel’s shadows responded before he could, slithering around them both, weaving the bed into a private cocoon of silk-dark hush. The cabin fell away. The world shrank to this: breath, heartbeat, warmth.

“That’s never been the problem,” Azriel said.

Eris pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Soft. Unhurried.

They settled into the bed, bodies tangled, sheets curling around limbs still slick with sweat. No frantic need now. Just the slow, steady pulse of two men who knew the shape of each other’s wreckage.

The war outside was still there. The wounds remained.

But here—in this bed, in this breath—Azriel could rest.

Because here, with Eris, he was allowed to.

Chapter Text

Azriel drooled.

Not much.

But enough that the corner of Eris’s absurd, oversized, blood-red pillow was damp beneath his cheek.

The bastard would never let him live it down.

Azriel knew it before his eyes even opened.

Sure enough—

“You’re drooling on my ancestral bedding, Shadowsinger,” came the amused murmur, warm and wicked, inches from his ear.

Azriel groaned, face burrowing deeper into the pillow, as if he could smother the morning—and Eris—out of existence. “I’m going to kill you.”

Eris chuckled. That slow, lazy purr of a sound, thick with satisfaction. “Not very grateful, considering I let you sleep in my bed. After you defiled my table.”

“I distinctly remember you enjoying that.”

“Oh, I did.” Eris’s voice dropped, smug as sin. “I’m simply mourning the loss of good wine. And perhaps—” a pause, perfectly timed, “—the chair that couldn’t survive your enthusiasm.”

Azriel cracked one eye open.

Mistake.

Eris was close. Too close.

Lying on his side, golden hair a tousled halo, spilling over his shoulder in wild, untamed waves. His lips were quirked, but his eyes—those molten gold eyes—gleamed with something softer beneath the smirk. Along his hips, faint bruises bloomed, crescent-shaped, painted in wine-dark shades of possession.

Azriel’s possession.

For one treacherous heartbeat, Azriel wanted to kiss him until the smirk melted. Until they forgot what waited beyond these walls.

Instead, he let out a low, murderous growl and yanked the blanket over his head.

Eris laughed.

Not the brittle, calculated laugh he wore like armor in Autumn’s court.

This one was unguarded. Cracked open. Real.

“You’re adorable when you’re sulking.”

“Sleep,” Azriel muttered, voice shredded, muffled beneath the blankets. “It’s too early.”

“The sun is up.”

“Tragic.”

A beat.

“I made breakfast.”

No movement.

“I made it myself.”

One wing twitched. Betrayal.

“There’s coffee.”

The blanket shifted. Shadows stirred.

“And I may have sliced some of that bread you like so much.”

Azriel peeked out. His hair was a feral mess, shadows flickering around him with sluggish, satisfied laziness. His glare could have felled a lesser male.

“You made breakfast just to watch me drool and then bribe me out of bed.”

Eris’s grin was slow, spreading like wildfire. “Is it working?”

Azriel’s scowl was immediate. But predictable. He reached back, grabbed the nearest pillow, and swung it into Eris’s face with satisfying force.

Whump.

Eris reeled, laughing outright now, hair flaring around him like flames licking at the edges of the bed. “Assault! In my own bed!”

Azriel raised the pillow for another blow.

But Eris was faster this time. He caught Azriel’s wrist, fingers wrapping around the scarred skin with infuriating gentleness. His thumb brushed along the underside, slow. Careful.

“Good morning to you too,” Eris murmured, lifting Azriel’s hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

Azriel’s breath hitched. Scowl faltering. Damn him.

“Don’t start being sweet now,” Azriel warned, voice gravel-rough. “It’s disgusting.”

“Liar.” Eris’s gaze was molten, slow-burning. But deeper than lust. He never said the words, but Azriel could feel them.

He hated how easily he melted under that stare.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was crowded with truths neither of them dared to voice. Outside, the world waited with its crowns and knives. But in this cabin, in this bed—they were only men.

Azriel’s gaze dropped.

Bruises bloomed along his skin, each one a memory. A mark. Eris’s teeth had left their stories written into his shoulder. His hips ached in ways that hummed with satisfaction. Across from him, Eris wore the same evidence—fingertip bruises, nail crescents carved into muscle, reminders of who they had been last night.

Azriel’s shadows slithered lazily across Eris’s chest, curling possessive and slow.

“I thought you said we’d get no sleep,” Azriel said, voice dry but quieter now.

Eris smiled. Not sharp. Not wicked. Something smaller. “I didn’t say we wouldn’t rest.”

That landed heavier than it should have. A rare truth, wrapped in silk.

Azriel sat up, muscles protesting, dragging a hiss from between his teeth. The sheets pooled at his hips, shadows clinging to the curve of his back. Eris’s gaze dropped. Not leering. Just—looking. Like every inch of Azriel was a truth he couldn’t stop reading.

Azriel noticed.

He always noticed.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re very stare-worthy.”

Azriel grabbed the pillow again.

Eris laughed, retreating with his hands up, mock-defensive. “Truce. Until after breakfast.”

Azriel’s smirk was fleeting. But real.

Eris rose from the bed, bare feet whispering against stone. He tugged on a robe—barely an attempt at modesty—the tie loose, the hem brushing his thighs. Across his side, a thin scratch caught the morning light. Azriel’s doing.

He felt no guilt.

“Stay put,” Eris said as he padded out, voice lighter now. “I’ll bring it here. The kitchen’s a war zone after last night anyway.”

Azriel watched him go, the sway of his stride, the curve of his back, the way he never fully let his guard down—even here. And yet, he chose to be here.

With him.

Azriel slumped back into the pillows, shadows coiling around him like a living exhale. The war outside still pressed against his bones, but for a moment—a small, fragile moment—it didn’t matter.

This was borrowed time.

But Eris was choosing to spend it on him.

And Azriel—

Azriel would let himself have this.

Even if the world demanded it end.

Eris returned, balancing a tray with surprising grace. Sliced bread, fresh fruit, a pot of coffee. Two mugs. A slab of decadent cheese that was, without question, smuggled in from somewhere far too expensive.

Azriel arched a brow. “Bribing me with brie? You’re shameless.”

Eris grinned, wicked and unrepentant. “I’m a scheming bastard. You’ve always liked that about me.”

Azriel didn’t argue.

Eris set the tray between them, settling onto the bed with easy familiarity. Their knees brushed. Neither of them moved. Neither of them wanted to.

For a few rare, blissful minutes, they ate in companionable silence. The kind of silence that didn’t ask for more. The kind that understood.

Azriel reached for the coffee. Eris’s fingers met his, slow, deliberate, curling just enough to linger.

“You’re still mine for the morning,” Eris said, voice low.

Azriel’s shadows twined around their joined hands.

“For the morning.”

No promises. No lies.

But it was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

Velaris was too bright.

Too clean.

Too perfect.

Azriel hated it tonight.

The city glittered beneath the pale morning sun, as if last night hadn’t happened. As if no one had bled, as if no one had whispered filthy promises into the hollow of his throat. The Sidra gleamed like polished glass, its current lazy, unbothered, indifferent to the weight pressing into Azriel’s chest. The cold bit into him, but he barely felt it. His boots kissed the stone balcony of the House of Wind, a whisper of sound, but his shadows curled tighter, tighter, as if even they recoiled from the sudden shift.

From raw heat to sterile civility.

He hadn’t slept. Wouldn’t have mattered if he had. Sleep didn’t reach the places Eris touched.

Azriel had scrubbed himself raw in a forest stream, hands red, water cold, but the scent of Autumn clung stubbornly. Smoke. Fire. Sweat. Sex. The kind of scent that seeps beneath the skin, settles into bone.

Cassian found him first. Of course he did.

Half-dressed, hair wild, smirking like a man who’d tumbled out of Nesta’s bed and was proud of it. But that smirk faltered the moment he really looked at Azriel.

“Back already?” Cassian’s tone was light, leaning against the doorframe, but his eyes tracked him like a hunting hawk. “You’re barely scowling. That’s new.”

Azriel managed a smile. Thin. Humorless. “Didn’t have the energy.”

Cassian’s brow arched. That look that meant don’t bullshit me, brother. “Was he that much of a bastard?”

Azriel moved past him. Shoulders stiff. Shadows trailing like spilled ink.

“He’s always a bastard.”

But not the way you think, Cassian. Not anymore.

Cassian followed. Of course he did. Footsteps deceptively casual, but gaze sharp, peeling Azriel open without asking permission.

“I told Rhys you should’ve taken backup. Even a guard. Eris is slippery.”

“No.” The word cut sharper than intended. “I don’t need backup to talk to Eris.”

Cassian didn’t rise to it. “You don’t. But you’re not just talking about politics anymore, are you?”

Azriel stilled.

Cassian’s voice had softened, gentling in a way that scraped Azriel raw. He hated that tone. Hated how it landed.

“I’m fine.”

It was a good lie. Not his best, but passable.

Cassian let the silence stretch. A brother’s silence. Heavy with the truth.

“You don’t have to be.”

Azriel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He kept walking. Toward the war room. Toward duty. Away from everything else.

But his shadows betrayed him. They swirled restless, curling around his boots like memory refusing to be caged.

The River House dining terrace sparkled with soft chaos. Sunlight spilled through ivy-wrapped archways, laying gold patches across the stone. The Sidra whispered below, silver tongues licking the edges of conversation.

Cassian, ever the opportunist, was trying to steal a croissant off Nesta’s plate. She was not impressed. The croissant survived. Cassian’s pride did not.

Feyre perched on the table’s edge, barefoot, streaks of drying paint curling along her wrist like vinework. Elain sat beside her, weaving rosemary into garlands with deft, practiced fingers. A quiet rhythm, her own sort of spell.

Mor lounged, draped in sunlight, wine flute dangling from her fingers, smile sharp enough to flay. Across from her, Amren dissected fruit with surgical precision, her silver eyes flicking up from the blade, gleaming with predatory interest.

It was domestic. Familiar.
But today, it grated.

Azriel didn’t announce himself. He never did.

But they felt him.

The shadows slid into the terrace first, curling at the edges, whispering of places this perfect light would never reach. His wings barely stirred the air, but the moment his boots touched stone, the air tensed. Subtle. Precise.

Rhysand noticed first. He always did.

“You’re late,” Rhys said, back to him, hands clasped behind his back. No smile. No softness.

“I wasn’t aware this was a military operation,” Azriel replied, voice smooth as drawn steel.

“I clock everyone.” Rhys’s violet eyes cut sideways, sharp. “Especially when they return from the Autumn Court and conveniently forget to send word.”

Cassian leaned back in his chair, arms sprawled wide, but the glint in his eye was sharper now. Nesta’s silence was louder than most voices.

Azriel slid into an empty seat at the far end. Distance was safer. His shadows curled tighter, cloaking his shoulders.

“Nothing’s changed,” he said. “Eris is still maneuvering. Still waiting.”

“Still alive,” Mor muttered into her wine. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Azriel’s jaw locked.

He didn’t say, he’s not the villain you think he is.

He didn’t say, you don’t see him the way I do.

He said, “Beron’s power is slipping. Eris’s allies are growing bold. He’s playing a dangerous game. But so are we.”

Amren’s knife flashed as it sliced through a pear. “So. The heir thinks he can dance in fire and not burn.”

Azriel’s lips curved. Not quite a smile. Something darker. “He knows the flames better than most.”

Rhys turned fully now, arms loose at his sides. His voice was mild. Deceptive. “And you trust him?”

Azriel tapped his fingers once against the table. A slow, deliberate rhythm. He did not flinch under Rhysand’s scrutiny.

“Trust is a luxury. But his interests align with ours. For now.”

The table paused—not from disbelief, but calculation. Azriel could feel it. The slow, methodical assessing of every crack in his armor.

“You used to despise him,” Rhys said.

“I still do.”

But the lie tasted bitter.

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. Not missing it. Never missing it.

Conversation drifted on, but Azriel’s mind remained elsewhere. Always elsewhere. His body sat in the River House, but his pulse was still back in that forest. In that cabin.

Where Eris’s fingers had mapped his scars like they mattered.

Where his mouth had made vows without saying a single word.

Azriel still felt the ghost of teeth at his throat. Still tasted smoke and want on his tongue.

“Az,” Cassian said, loud enough to drag him back. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Azriel’s smile was a slash. “The Autumn Court is not known for hospitality.”

“You’re too soft on him,” Mor said, twisting her glass, her words barbed.

“I’m soft on no one.”

“Sure you’re not.”

His shadows flared, a warning, but Rhysand’s gaze slid between them, calculating. Before the tension could snap, Feyre stepped in, as she always did, smoothing the edge with her voice.

“There’s still time,” she said. “For Eris to prove himself.”

Azriel’s voice was quiet, but it cut. “There’s not as much time as you think.”

That silenced them. For a breath. For a beat.

But Velaris glittered on. The Sidra sang. The brunch resumed, full of bread and wine and the illusion of peace.

And Azriel sat there, suffocating beneath light too clean, city too perfect, hearts too willfully blind.

His shadows curled around his boots, whispering the only truth that mattered.

He’d return to Autumn soon.

Of course he would.

He’d always return.

Chapter Text

That night, Velaris was deafening in its peace.

The city exhaled beneath a sky smudged with stars. Laughter spilled from lantern-lit streets. Music drifted up from the Rainbow in lilting, careless notes. Somewhere, a lover’s murmur melted into the hush of the Sidra.

None of it touched him.

Not up here.

Not where the House of Wind sat too high, too still. Where Azriel sat on the edge of his bed, bare-chested, blades forgotten on the floor, wings dragging low. Heavy. Wrong.

His shadows sprawled across the floor, restless in their idleness. Coiling. Dissatisfied. They flicked against his boots, wound around the carved bedposts, smeared against the cold glass of the window, as if searching. Reaching.

But there was nothing for them to find.

He didn’t light a candle.

No need.

He sat in the dark, elbows braced on his knees, breath scraping slow but shallow. Every inhale pulled fire through his ribs. The kind of burn that didn’t fade. That didn’t want to.

Eris had left his mark.

Not with magic. Not with claws.

With absence.

Azriel shut his eyes.

It didn’t help.

The weight of Eris’s body pressed against his. The drag of clever fingers, the rasp of teeth, the muttered curses that weren’t really curses at all. His name, wrecked, gasped into the hollow of his throat.

A low pulse stirred between his legs. His cock twitched, straining against the soft pull of his trousers.

He ignored it.

For now.

Let the ache have its way. Let it spread. Muscle to bone, skin to marrow. Curling into the hollow place only Eris seemed to know how to carve.

The shadows responded, rising in slow, sinuous arcs. They shaped themselves without command.

A mouth. Smirking.

A grin. Predatory. Knowing.

Molten gold eyes that never stopped gleaming, even when Azriel made them roll back in his skull.

His wings shifted, feathers rasping against the sheets. His breath stuttered, hips tilting forward as if—stupidly—something might meet him halfway.

The shadows touched his jaw.

Not gentle.

But familiar.

His lips parted, throat rough. “Eris.”

The name slipped out, barely audible.

But enough to fracture the quiet.

Heat bloomed beneath his skin. His cock throbbed, sharp and persistent, trapped against the cotton, his body flushed with a need he refused to ease.

Not yet.

Let the wanting sit.

It was honest.

More honest than the mask he’d worn all day, through the smiles and the jabs and the careful watching. Through brunch. Through the suffocating charade.

Here, in the dark, there was no pretense.

Only ache.

Only need.

He pictured him, unbidden. Eris, sprawled in that ridiculous, oversized bed, red sheets tangled low at his hips. Hair loose. Skin still marked. Azriel’s marks. Reading something old and dense, fingers idly brushing over the bruises left by Azriel’s hands. Azriel’s teeth.

Smug bastard.

Azriel could see the way he’d smile. Could hear it.

His shadows twisted tighter at the thought, snaking along his thighs, a poor substitute for skin.

Still, not enough.

Azriel tipped his head back, a breath escaping sharp through his teeth.

“Bastard,” he muttered.

No venom. Just fact.

The stars didn’t answer. Didn’t care.

They hadn’t been there to see how Eris had undone him. Not with spells. Not with pretty words. With patience. With sharpness. With knowing.

Azriel’s control had always been his blade.

But tonight, it was fraying.

Because Eris had touched something no steel could cut.

His hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

It would be easy. So easy to close his eyes, to pretend, to let his palm slip lower, to let the memory stand in.

But still, he didn’t.

The ache was clean. Sharp. Truthful.

And tonight, he needed that more than release.

He pictured the look on Eris’s face if he saw him now.

Naked in everything but body. Wanting. Waiting.

Azriel’s throat worked. Heat licked up his neck.

“You win,” he said quietly.

A confession to no one.

But part of him wondered if Eris would hear it anyway.

There was no bond between them. No tether sanctioned by fate.

Didn’t need one.

Azriel’s shadows closed in, a shroud around his ribs, pressing just enough to hold him in place.

Or maybe—to keep him from winnowing back.

To that cabin.

To that bed.

To him.

His fingers twitched.

But he didn’t move.

He simply sat there. Breathing.

Letting Eris’s name rest on his tongue like a wound that never closed.

Dawn bled over the Sidra, gilding the river in molten gold.

Velaris gleamed beneath it. Rooftops shining, windows catching the light like polished glass. Still. Quiet. Beautiful in a way that set Azriel’s teeth on edge.

Too clean.

Too far removed from the things that mattered.

His hands braced against the stone balustrade, fingers curled tight enough that the marble might crack if it dared. Wings heavy, sagging low, shadows pooling around his boots in thick, restless coils. They’d whispered to him all night. None of it was what he wanted to hear.

Beyond the city, cliffs ripped into the sky. Jagged. Unapologetic. Out there, the wild still held its teeth.

He could breathe out there.

Footsteps approached. Azriel didn’t move.

“You were quiet at dinner.” Rhysand’s voice. Closer, but not crowding.

Azriel didn’t look at him. The Sidra was easier to hold in his gaze, the way it carried the sun downstream without ever keeping it.

“I’m fine.”

A brittle thing.

Rhys didn’t need gifts to hear the crack in it.

But he only hummed, standing beside him, letting the silence press in. A blade, drawn slow.

Azriel’s grip flexed.

Every breath still tasted of fire and smoke. Not Velaris. Not this city that smiled and forgot. Eris hadn’t followed him home—but Azriel had carried him here anyway. Still in his bones. Still coiled around his ribs.

Words threatened.

He kept them.

The shadows stirred, curling over the balustrade, stretching toward something that wasn’t there. Or maybe it was. Far beyond the cliffs, a thin plume of smoke snaked into the air.

Memory. Wishful thinking. He didn’t care.

“You’ve been distant,” Rhys said.

Azriel didn’t reply.

“I’ve given you space. But when you shut us out, Az, you give your ghosts more room.”

Azriel’s lip curled. “Perhaps I enjoy their company.”

A breath of sound from Rhys—not quite a laugh.

“I doubt that.”

Wind caught the edges of Azriel’s wings, ruffled his hair. The city stirred below. Stalls opening. Voices rising. The world moving on.

Untouched.

“Eris still plays his game, I assume?” Rhys again, casual.

Azriel’s pulse ticked up. His face didn’t change.

“He plays many.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Azriel’s fingers eased off the railing. “His interests align with ours.”

“For now.”

The weight of it sat between them.

“Do you believe in him?” No sharpness to it. Just curiosity. Something softer behind it.

Azriel’s throat worked.

Belief wasn’t simple. Not with Eris. He believed in hands that knew how to hurt but chose not to. In sharp words softened by the spaces between them. In the quiet after, when neither of them had anything left to hide.

But none of that was what Rhys meant.

“I believe he’ll burn his father from the inside out,” Azriel said. “And wait for the right moment.”

Rhys said nothing.

Then: “And when that moment comes?”

Azriel turned his head. “I’ll be there.”

Not as a spy. Not as a blade.

Rhys saw it. Didn’t push.

“You deserve something for yourself. Just be sure it’s not another cage.”

Azriel’s breath cut sharp. “You think I don’t know what a cage feels like?”

“I think you’ve grown used to it.”

No argument to make.

Beyond the cliffs, the smoke curled higher. Real or not.

Azriel’s shadows pulled back, draping around his boots.

Rhys didn’t stay much longer.

When he left, Azriel remained.

Watching the river.

Listening to a peace that didn’t reach him.

Night clawed its way back.

Azriel lay sprawled on the bed, wings splayed wide, shadows curling like bruises against the sheets. The House of Wind slept around him. Velaris hummed below, oblivious.

The ache had been patient. It wasn’t anymore.

He didn’t summon Eris’s image.

Didn’t need to.

The memory lived beneath his ribs now.

Loose red hair. Flushed skin. Lips swollen from his teeth. A smile like a blade. Soft where it shouldn’t be.

Azriel’s hand fisted in the sheets.

It wasn’t just want. He’d told himself that before. Called it physical. Convenient.

But his body refused to lie.

He let his hand fall, trailing down his stomach. Fingers brushing the line of his cock, already hard, already aching. Breath shuddered. The first touch was rough. Purposeful.

No slow slide into it. No patience tonight.

His hips rolled up into his grip. The friction was brutal. Needed. Every drag of his palm sharpened the edges inside him. His breath quickened. His wings twitched against the sheets.

He could feel Eris’s fingers at his jaw. Could hear his voice, smug and wrecked, whispering mine like it was a promise.

Azriel’s grip tightened.

He chased the burn. Gave in to the rhythm of it, rough, relentless. Sweat slicked his skin. His back arched, breath tearing from him in ragged gasps. Every stroke was a memory. Every throb a curse.

His control didn’t matter here.

He let it fray.

“Eris,” he groaned.

One word. That was all it took.

His release hit, violent and unforgiving. His seed spilled across his abdomen, hot and sharp. Wings flexing. Body shuddering.

It wasn’t enough.

It never was.

But it was something.

Azriel lay back, chest heaving, sweat cooling against his skin. The ache had dulled. For now. Not gone. Never gone.

The bed felt too large.

His fingers curled into the sheets, gathering them at his waist.

Tomorrow, he would be what they needed. Mask in place. Blade in hand.

But tonight, he could admit it.

Eris had carved himself into places no blade could reach.

Azriel closed his eyes.

For tonight, he would let himself keep it.

No apologies.

No shame.

Just the truth.

Just him.

Chapter Text

The Autumn Court burned.

Not for ceremony. Not for celebration.

For cleansing.

Smoke coiled low through the woods, thick, suffocating. Black ribbons curling around skin, hair, memory. The air tasted of charred oak. Old blood, turned to ash. Between the twisted roots, fires crackled, chewing through banners once bearing the Vanserra crest—trampled into mud, ripped down like rotted teeth. Burial shrouds now.

Velaris had peace.

Here, there was only war.

Azriel stood at the edge.

He didn’t move. The carnage didn’t move him. His face wore the mask, smooth as always. But his pulse hammered, loud as any war drum. Siphons glowed faint at his wrists—useless now. The killing was done.

Eris had seen to that.

Gods, what a brutal thing it had been.

The courtyard was a charnel house. Bodies strewn like broken dolls. The gleam of armor lost beneath soot and gore. The Vanserra estate, once gleaming with gilded arrogance, now wept blackened stone. Flames licked along its bones.

Eris had burned it from the inside out.

Azriel’s shadows clung close, twitching in the heat. They tasted it too—the ash, the iron tang, the crackle of magic that did not belong to the High Fae. This was older. Wilder. A power that did not ask. Did not warn.

At the heart of it, Eris stood.

Alive. Unbowed.

Drenched in his father’s blood.

Red leathers clung to him, slashed and scorched. His hair had come loose, wild, copper streaked dark with soot. His hands hung at his sides, steady. Stained.

But his eyes—his eyes glowed gold beneath the smoke.

Unforgiving.

Around him, the remaining nobles knelt.

Not in loyalty.

In fear.

Azriel’s breath caught as his gaze fixed on the dais.

Beron’s body lay crumpled, chest hollowed by fire, throat bearing the brutal imprint of a hand that had done more than kill. It had claimed.

He had known this day would come.

Seeing it was something else entirely.

Eris had never been destined to inherit. Not like this.

But here he was.

Crowned in ash. Forged in flame.

Azriel’s throat worked.

And as if pulled by some tether, Eris’s head turned.

Their eyes locked.

Everything else fell away.

The bond hit Azriel like a blade between the ribs. No tenderness. No warning. A hammer’s blow. A storm flooding his lungs. Every hollow space filled in an instant.

He staggered.

Didn’t fall. Nearly.

Eris stilled.

He felt it too.

Azriel saw the flicker—the breath that stuttered, the fingers that twitched.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then Eris moved.

Seven strides.

Through blood and banners and bone. Boots crushing the remnants of the Vanserra name.

When his hand fisted Azriel’s leathers, it wasn’t rough. Wasn’t soft.

It was inevitable.

“You arrogant, stubborn bastard,” Eris said. Voice wrecked. Barely holding.

Azriel had no retort.

No mask. No armor.

Just this.

Eris pulled him in, mouth crashing against his.

This wasn’t hunger.

This was surrender.

A vow in the press of lips. A claiming.

Azriel’s hands found Eris’s waist, dragged him closer until there was no space left. Blood, soot, sweat—none of it mattered. Only the weight of him. Only the fact that he was here.

His shadows rose—not to hide. To shield.

A cocoon of dark, curling around them, pushing the ruin into the distance.

No Court. No Night. No Autumn.

Just them.

When they broke for air, foreheads pressed together, neither spoke at first. Breath, ragged and uneven.

“I thought I’d have to fight you on this,” Eris said, voice frayed thin.

Azriel’s lips curved. “You’re a fool. You’ve been mine for longer than you know.”

Eris’s laugh caught somewhere between a breath and a sob. “I hate you.”

Azriel smiled. “I know.”

A beat.

“Stay with me,” Eris whispered. No command. Just a crack in the stone.

Azriel answered with his hands.

Fingers at the back of Eris’s neck. A kiss, deliberate, steady. A promise.

Yes.

Around them, the court watched.

It did not matter.

Azriel was no longer a blade.

Eris was no longer an heir.

They stood in the wreckage.

Mate to mate.

Beron’s corpse was still cooling when Eris led him into the gutted solar.

The doors shut behind them. The court’s whispers faded to a murmur. Here, the air was different. Still heavy, but quiet.

The solar had been stripped bare. Tapestries shredded across the floor. Glass decanters smashed beneath a table that would never host another council.

The windows stood open.

The wind came through, sharp and wild. As if the Forest had sent it to collect what was hers.

Eris sank onto the couch, limbs folding with none of his usual sharp grace. His head tipped back, exposing his throat.

For the first time, Azriel saw him with nothing left.

Not cold. Not calculating.

Just Eris.

He crossed the room, kneeling between Eris’s knees, the leather of his own gear creaking with the movement. His hands rose, cupping Eris’s face.

Thumb brushing soot from his cheekbone. Slow. Careful.

Eris flinched beneath the touch. Then stilled.

“I felt it,” Eris said, hoarse. “The bond. When it snapped in.”

“Me too.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“Why didn’t you run?”

Azriel’s thumb didn’t stop. His answer was quiet.

“I’m done running from you.”

Eris’s breath shuddered.

When his eyes opened, they weren’t molten. No courtly gleam. Just golden. Just tired.

Azriel traced the line of his jaw, memorizing it.

“You’re going to have to tell them,” Eris said.

Azriel’s lips curved, faint. “I know.”

“I don’t want to be a secret anymore. No more cabins. No more sneaking through woods.”

Their hands found each other. Fingers laced, grounding.

“I want this. Out loud.”

Azriel’s throat burned. For so long, he’d been hidden. Used. Kept in shadow.

But this—this was light.

He lifted their joined hands, pressing his lips to Eris’s bloodied knuckles.

“I’m yours.”

Eris’s eyes closed. Breath slow.

“You should hate me,” he murmured.

“I tried.”

A broken laugh.

“I’m not Rhys. Not Cassian. I won’t be—”

“I don’t need another brother.”

Azriel’s fingers curled around the nape of his neck. Firm. Certain.

“You’re something else.”

Eris’s pulse fluttered beneath his touch.

“I don’t know how to be a mate,” Eris admitted.

“Neither do I.” Azriel’s lips brushed his temple. “We’ll figure it out.”

No need for declarations.

No need for grand speeches.

The world could keep turning. For once, it didn’t need them.

Azriel’s wings spread slowly, careful not to crowd, but close enough. Eris leaned into the space they offered.

“I’ll be a disaster of a High Lord,” Eris said, voice dry.

Azriel’s laugh was low. Warm. “You were a disaster as a prince. Progress.”

That earned him a grin. Sharp, but real.

“Bastard.”

“You like me that way.”

“I do.”

The bond pulsed, alive between them. Permanent.

When Azriel stood, he didn’t let go of Eris’s hand.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s clean you up.”

Eris arched a brow. “Offering to bathe me?”

“In your father’s solar? Try again.”

Eris grimaced. “Mood killer.”

Azriel’s fingers tightened. A promise in the grip.

Later.

Later, they’d burn down what was left. Together.

For now, they had this.

As they stepped back into the ash-laden air, Eris leaned close.

“I can’t wait to see Rhysand’s face.”

Azriel’s answering smile was all teeth.

Let the world watch.

This was theirs.

Chapter Text

The River House had never felt smaller.

Vaulted ceilings, Sidra views, endless stone—all of it meaningless beneath seven pairs of eyes. The Inner Circle sat arrayed like a tribunal, not a family.

Azriel stood before them.

Wings half-flared. Not threatening. Not friendly. Shadows drawn in tight, coiled against his skin. They were armor tonight.

Feyre and Rhysand flanked the hearth. Cassian slouched by the window, arms crossed. Nesta sat sharp and still beside him. Amren balanced on the arm of a chair, silver eyes glinting. Elain, quiet, hands folded in her lap. Mor, standing. Not leaning. Not lounging.

Azriel didn’t wait for their questions.

“I’m mated,” he said. “To Eris Vanserra.”

The silence that followed was not silent.

Mor’s voice cracked through it. “You’re what?”

“You heard me.”

Cassian straightened. “Az, is this—are you sure?”

Azriel’s voice didn’t rise. “The Mother herself confirmed it.”

Amren’s mouth curved, but not into a smile. “You’ve been hiding this.”

“I’ve been protecting it.”

“From us?” Mor’s fists clenched. “From your family?”

“From everyone.” Shadows rippled at his feet. “You know what he’s been to me in public. What politics demand. You know why this had to stay quiet.”

“He’s a bastard, Azriel,” Mor said. “He left me. Left us. Stood by while his father—”

“Don’t.” The word was sharp enough to cut. “Don’t call him that.”

The shadows flared. A ripple of night against stone.

Cassian’s arms lowered, slow. Nesta’s eyes narrowed.

Rhys hadn’t said a word.

“I assume this changes our alliances,” Rhys said at last.

“Eris has taken the Autumn throne.” Azriel’s lips barely moved. “Peace is no longer hypothetical.”

Feyre’s voice was soft. The steel beneath wasn’t. “And you believe he can keep that peace?”

“I believe he’ll do anything for his court.” A breath. “For me.”

That truth landed hard. Cassian’s fingers tapped once against his bicep. Elain’s hands twisted in her lap.

Mor’s laugh was brittle. “You’re in love with him.”

Azriel didn’t blink. “I don’t care if you approve. This isn’t for you.”

Mor flinched.

Amren, quiet, asked, “And what does Eris want with you?”

“Everything.”

Rhys’s jaw ticked. Then—slowly—he smiled.

“You have my blessing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t agreement.

Mor’s glare could’ve shattered glass.

Cassian didn’t smile, but his stance eased. Nesta remained watchful.

Feyre’s nod was small. Genuine.

Elain’s gaze dropped.

No one said congratulations.

Azriel didn’t expect them to.

“Are you sure this isn’t his move?” Mor’s voice had dulled, but not softened. “That you’re not being used?”

Azriel’s wings shifted. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?”

Her mouth snapped shut.

Rhys’s voice broke the standoff. “If the bond snapped into place, that’s all that matters.”

Azriel inclined his head. “It was never politics. Not with him. Not with me.”

Rhys’s approval was subtle. Cassian’s sigh wasn’t.

“When do we meet the bastard?” Cassian asked.

Azriel’s smile was sharp. “He’s looking forward to it.”

Cassian groaned. “Of course he is.”

Amren’s grin bared teeth. “This will be fun.”

Mor said nothing.

But the silence was a promise.

Azriel felt the bond hum beneath his skin. Distant, but solid. Eris’s presence anchored him.

“I’ll return to Autumn tomorrow.”

Rhys’s smile didn’t slip. “Of course you will.”

“Be careful,” Feyre said.

Azriel dipped his head.

The meeting was over.

As he turned to leave, Mor’s voice caught him.

“Does he make you happy?”

Azriel paused.

Looked back.

“Yes.”

Then he was gone.

Chapter Text

The Autumn Court’s coronation was not a spectacle.

No banners. No fanfare. No gold-drenched parade. Eris had never cared for that.

What he cared for stood beside him.

The High Hall had been gutted of Beron’s rot. No velvet choking the walls, no sneering ancestors in gilded frames. Bare stone gleamed under the brazier’s white-hot glow. Fire licked at the air—not for show, but for cleansing.

Eris stood tall. Unbowed. Red leathers clinging to him, subtle bronze embroidery curling at his cuffs, his collar, stylized like leaves mid-flame. A nod to the old ways. His way now.

Beside him, Azriel.

No Night Court black tonight.

Crimson. Silver-threaded, patterned with wings, shadows, flames. His wings hung low, not in submission. In statement. His place wasn’t questioned. His shadows curled, tamed but alive.

The courtiers watched. Silent. Calculating. Waiting to see how this would play.

The steward approached with the crown. Not Beron’s gaudy thing. This was quieter. Earned, not inherited. Gold forged into autumn leaves, veins of copper, enamel edges kissed with ember-light.

The hall held its breath.

Eris bowed his head. The crown settled. No crack of thunder. No shift in the world.

But Azriel felt it.

The weight of it. The rightness.

He barely heard the murmurs that followed. Not when Eris turned, extended his hand—not out of duty. Out of choice.

Azriel took it.

Fingers laced. Public. Final.

“I am yours,” Azriel said. Loud enough for every snake in the room.

Eris’s smile was wild joy. “And I am finally free.”

The brazier flared as if in answer.

The court had come expecting politics. They got something else entirely.

Azriel felt the room shift. They saw it now. The bond. The inevitability. And they bowed.

Not from fear.

From fact.

The steward droned on with formalities. Titles. Azriel barely heard him. His attention was on the male whose thumb stroked his hand, grounding them both.

When it ended, Eris turned to him, voice pitched low. “You should be wearing a crown too.”

Azriel’s smile was sharp. “I’d rather be gutted.”

Eris’s grin was pure flame. “You’re still here.”

“Yes,” Azriel said simply.

Eris offered his arm. Azriel took it.

The courtiers watched as they descended the dais. Eris, once scorned heir, now High Lord, with the Night Court’s shadowsinger at his side.

Unapologetic.

Eris leaned in. “Wonder how long until Rhysand sends someone to scowl at me.”

“Mor,” Azriel said. “He’ll send Mor.”

“That’ll be fun.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re mine.”

Azriel didn’t deny it.

Outside, the autumn wind stirred leaves into gold and crimson eddies. His shadows moved with them. Not hiding.

Belonging.

Eris had won.

Azriel had chosen.

And they weren’t done yet.

The Autumn air hit like breath after drowning—crisp, sharp, alive. Leaves scattered at their feet, caught in small, furious eddies of gold and blood-red. The wind whispered in tongues older than courts.

Azriel’s shadows reached for it.

Not to hide.

To belong.

For once, he wasn’t Rhysand’s blade alone.

He was Eris’s, too.

The throne room had emptied hours ago.

The blood was gone.

But the scorch marks remained.

Soot in the cracks of the High Hall stone, a stain no magic would lift. A testament. Beron had not gone quietly. Power taken by fire always left scars.

Azriel knew that better than most.

Now, in the High Lord’s chambers, there was nothing clean.

Not the air between them.

Not their hands.

Not their hearts.

Eris didn’t kiss him.

He claimed him.

Azriel hit the carved oak doors hard, iron hinges rattling with the impact. Eris’s mouth was on him before the breath could leave his lungs—teeth catching lips, tongue sliding sharp and sure. Smoke and sweat. Blood and victory. Azriel’s hips surged forward, grinding hard enough their teeth clacked.

“Mine,” Eris snarled.

He bit Azriel’s lower lip—deep. Drew blood. Licked into his mouth like he meant to steal it back.

Azriel groaned into the kiss, low and wrecked, rutting against Eris’s thigh. “Yours.”

Not surrender.

A challenge.

The bond sang between them. Every heartbeat, every drag of breath a thrum of want, a chain wrapped tight through bone and blood. Not silk. Not velvet. Iron links forged in fire.

Eris’s magic answered.

Not wild. Not the reckless lash of a prince. This was older. Slower. The High Lord’s flame—patient, suffocating. It devoured, knowing there’d be nothing left but ash.

Azriel wanted it.

Eris’s fingers tore at his leathers with the same merciless efficiency he’d used to dismantle his father’s court. Buckle. Strap. Stitch. All undone with hands that had strangled a king.

Azriel’s cock sprang free, flushed dark, leaking. He wasn’t delicate. Never had been. But the way he rocked into Eris’s grip betrayed him.

“Pathetic,” Eris murmured, dropping to his knees.

Not supplicant.

Predator.

Azriel’s hand fisted in that copper hair, dragging hard. No gentleness left between them. Burned away long ago.

Eris’s mouth closed around him.

No teasing. No prelude.

Just heat. Just want.

Azriel’s head slammed back against the wood, a ragged curse spilling from his lips as Eris took him deep. His throat clenched, swallowing him whole. Eris’s nose pressed to the base of him, buried in dark curls, as he sucked him down, relentless, merciless.

“Fuck, Eris—”

The name cracked, raw. A confession.

Eris’s hands braced Azriel’s hips, bruising grip anchoring them both. He didn’t ease up. Lips sealed, cheeks hollowing, tongue working in wicked, devastating patterns. Every drag, every swallow was deliberate.

Azriel’s wings flared, arching, trembling.

Control frayed.

He rolled his hips, setting a rhythm. Eris met it, no protest, devouring him with a hunger that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with need.

“High Lord,” Azriel growled, breath ragged. “Show me what that title means.”

Eris groaned around him.

The vibration ripped through Azriel like lightning.

His climax struck fast, violent. His body bowed, cock pulsing as he spilled into Eris’s throat. But Eris didn’t pull back. He swallowed every drop, every shudder, his hands never loosening.

Azriel’s knees threatened to give, shadows writhing as he sagged against the door.

When Eris stood, his lips were slick. His grin—vicious.

“You taste like you belong here.”

He kissed him then, deep and dirty, making Azriel taste himself. No victory in it. Pure possession.

“Desk. Now.”

Azriel moved.

Deliberate. Measured. Like war.

The desk loomed ahead—polished to a gleam. But no amount of care could scrub away what had been plotted atop it.

Azriel braced himself, palms flat, wings trembling as he looked back.

Eris followed.

Stripping as he stalked.

The sight—gods.

Every inch of him carved by power, by politics, by battle. Scars kissed gold by the hearth’s glow. His cock was heavy, flushed, leaking.

Azriel’s throat dried.

When Eris pressed against his back, the heat of him rolled over Azriel like a fresh wave of fire.

“You’re not fragile,” Eris said, fingertips ghosting down the line of his spine. “But fuck, you unravel so sweetly for me.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. His reply was a snarl.

“Then unravel me.”

Eris slicked himself with spit and magic. The air crackled, sharp and charged.

No warning.

He drove in with a single, brutal thrust.

The stretch was blinding.

Azriel choked on a moan, his forehead dropping to the desk, fingers curling into the wood. Eris was thick, the burn glorious, the ache bone-deep.

This wasn’t quiet. This wasn’t hidden.

This was claiming.

Eris’s rhythm was punishing. Every snap of his hips sent Azriel forward, his cock dragging against the desk, friction biting. But gods, it was exactly what he wanted.

What he needed.

Azriel met him stroke for stroke, grinding back, demanding more.

His shadows rose—not to hide. To bind. They coiled around Eris’s waist, looping over his thighs, holding him close. Keeping him there.

“High Lord,” Azriel rasped, voice ruined. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

Eris’s snarl was filthy.

“I’m not asking.”

His hand tangled in Azriel’s hair, yanking him up, forcing their eyes to meet. Gold drowned him. The look in Eris’s face—pure, brutal worship.

“My Shadowsinger,” Eris gritted out, hips pistoning hard. “No more masks. No more courts. Just you. Just me.”

Azriel’s cock throbbed, pinned, smearing slick across the desk. Every stroke angled perfect, slamming into the spot that had his vision fracturing, breath tearing free.

“Look at you. Trembling. Fucking perfect for me.”

Azriel shattered.

Eris’s hand wrapped around him, stroking in time with every savage thrust. The bond between them roared, a flood of fire and shadow.

“I want you to come for me,” Eris whispered against his ear. “Loud. Let them all know you’re mine.”

Azriel’s climax tore through him.

Violent.

Relentless.

His seed spilled across the desk, his body shuddering as a ragged cry split the air. Eris didn’t relent, driving him through it, until his own release claimed him.

He sank his teeth into Azriel’s shoulder as he came, hips stuttering, heat spilling deep inside.

The bond sang.

Not soft. Not sweet.

Triumphant.

When they collapsed, there was no space left between them.

Eris remained buried inside, his weight draped over Azriel’s back, breath hot against sweat-slick skin.

“No more hiding.”

Not a request.

Azriel’s lips curved, breathless.

“No more hiding.”

And for once, the shadows agreed.

Chapter Text

Autumn had always been beautiful.

But now—it was alive.

The trees sang with color, their leaves shimmering not with the sluggish rot of Beron’s reign, but with vibrant, unashamed life. Golds that glowed like molten metal. Reds as dark and rich as fresh-spilled blood. The air was thick with loam and moss, but beneath it… something cleaner curled. Crisp, bright, like the earth itself had drawn a long, shuddering breath after years of suffocation.

Eris’s Autumn Court had not just survived.

It had bloomed.

The people no longer walked with heads down, braced for the next cruel whim. The palace halls no longer echoed with brittle whispers. Now the murmurs were sharper—clever, plotting—but they were alive. Honest, even.

The trees had noticed. Their branches bent lower, curious.

The High Hall reflected the change.

Gone were the suffocating velvet drapes, the oppressive Vanserra banners. The tall windows stood unshuttered, drowning the stone in soft amber light. Fresh-cut boughs lined the pillars, their leaves braided with small flickers of flame—not candles. Not torches. Living fire, breathing with the pulse of the Court.

The brazier at the far end still burned white-hot.

Not a threat.

A promise.

Azriel stood at the right of the dais.

No shadows to hide him.

He wore deep crimson, the silver embroidery curling along his cuffs and shoulders in patterns of leaves and wings entwined. His siphons gleamed darkly. His shadows moved with lazy precision—not shields. Sentinels. Tasting the air.

This was not concealment.

This was presence.

“High Lord Eris Vanserra and Azriel of the Night Court,” the steward announced, voice echoing bold and unafraid. Even the walls seemed eager to repeat their names.

Across the hall, the Inner Circle waited.

Rhysand stood like a painting of power—midnight and sapphire, crowned in cool calculation. Feyre glowed, her smile soft but sharp-edged. Cassian and Nesta flanked them, muscle and iron, watching. Mor stood apart, golden hair gleaming, arms crossed. Amren lounged like a coiled serpent, silver eyes glittering. Even Elain was there, serene, unreadable.

They were not here for pleasantries.

Six months since Beron’s fall.

Six months since Azriel had chosen his side.

Eris descended from the dais with the ease of a male born to power—but who had bled to wield it. His tunic was rust red, golden embroidery sparking like captured fire. His circlet was not a crown but an extension of him—autumn leaves and bronze-tipped thorns, shaped by his own hand.

He reached Azriel’s side without flourish.

Offered his hand.

Azriel took it.

No hesitation.

Their fingers laced, slow, deliberate.

A declaration.

No one dared speak. But the ripple through the hall was palpable.

Mor’s arms crossed tighter. Her jaw set.

Rhysand’s gaze met Azriel’s.

No rebuke. Just calculation. A glint of respect.

Feyre’s smile—small, true.

Cassian’s nod, barely there, but there all the same.

Eris leaned in, breath warm against Azriel’s ear. “Is this where they try to intimidate me?”

Azriel’s lips curved. “If so, they’re failing miserably.”

Eris’s grin flashed. “Let them try.”

The courtiers whispered, but it was not fear. Curiosity, perhaps. Interest. The brittle dread that once hung heavy in these halls was gone.

Eris had remade Autumn.

There were still plotters in the shadows. There always would be. But the Court’s pulse had changed.

“Congratulations, High Lord,” Rhysand said, voice smooth, carefully measured.

Eris inclined his head. “Gratitude from the Night Court. How the seasons do turn.”

Feyre’s laugh was soft, but sharp. “We’re full of surprises.”

Eris’s eyes gleamed. “So I’ve seen.”

The tension in the hall coiled tighter—not hostile. Not yet. But alive.

Azriel felt it—the careful weight of two Courts learning to walk a new line.

Eris’s thumb brushed over the back of his hand. A small thing. Steadying.

Not battle.

Not yet.

Mor’s voice sliced through the murmurs. “Are we to believe this newfound peace is more than convenience?”

Azriel stepped forward before Eris could.

His shadows coiled at his heels. Not threatening. Claiming.

“You can believe what you want. It won’t change the truth.”

Mor’s smile was all teeth. “And what truth is that, Az?”

“That Eris rules. And I choose to stand beside him.”

The words landed like a blade.

Eris’s grin was wicked. Proud.

Rhysand’s gaze was thoughtful. “Truth is rarely so simple.”

“Simple or not,” Eris said smoothly, “this is the truth of Autumn now.”

The steward shifted, nervous. “High Lord, the Dawn Court awaits—”

Eris silenced him with a flick of his hand, but his eyes remained on Azriel.

“You should see the new wing they’ve built. The artisans smiled while they worked. Can you imagine?”

Azriel’s mouth curved. “Astounding.”

“A Court thriving on more than fear. Who would’ve thought?”

Azriel’s shadows murmured in agreement.

“You’ve done well,” Azriel said quietly.

Eris’s fingers tightened around his. “Not alone.”

Simple words. Heavy truth.

They had bled for this. Together.

The steward, braver now, cleared his throat again. “High Lord, if we might—”

Eris waved him on. “Fine. Bring them in.”

The Dawn Court delegation entered, silk-clad and shining. Politics resumed.

But Eris’s hand never left Azriel’s.

A promise without words.

Later, when the hall had emptied, Rhysand approached alone.

No mask.

“You’ve surprised me, Eris.”

Eris arched a brow. “I do so enjoy exceeding expectations.”

“It’s not a compliment,” Rhys said, though his tone held no malice. “It’s a warning. Don’t let my Shadowsinger burn out.”

Eris’s smile was all sharp edges. “He’s never burned brighter.”

Azriel’s shadows twined around Eris’s wrist, as if to agree.

Rhys’s gaze flicked to Azriel. “If you’re happy.”

“I am.”

That was the only answer that mattered.

Rhys inclined his head. “Then you have the Night Court’s blessing.”

Eris pressed a hand to his chest in mock reverence. “I’ll treasure it.”

Rhys’s smirk was razor-thin as he turned back to Feyre.

When they were alone again, Eris let out a breath. “Well. That was tolerable.”

Azriel’s smirk was faint. “You handled yourself.”

“I always do.” Eris’s golden gaze gleamed as he drew Azriel closer. “But with you here, it’s considerably more entertaining.”

Azriel leaned in, their foreheads nearly brushing.

“I’m not here to be entertained.”

“No?” Eris’s breath ghosted his lips. “Then why are you here, Shadowsinger?”

Azriel’s reply was quiet.

But it cut.

“To remind them whose Court this is.”

Eris’s smile turned slow. Possessive. A burn hotter than flame.

“My Court,” he murmured.

Azriel’s fingers curled around his collar. Drew him in.

“Our Court,” Azriel corrected.

And for once, the walls of the High Hall did not echo.

They listened.

And they agreed.