A/N: Welcome, welcome, one and all. For those who follow my author tag: yes, this is part of the reason why Thunderstruck is lagging a bit. I just couldn't get this little pocket story out of my head. Maas created such a fun world, and I love playing with creatures whenever I can.
I'm not expecting this to be a particularly long fic, in totality it probably only spans about 24 hours (it's really just a glorified oneshot). But I'm having fun writing it, and that's the point. Right now I've got about 11k words written and I really only expect it to amount to roughly 20-25k. But like I said-short, fun, and a bit of sweetness for our favorite BatBoy.
As always, please fave/review/send carrier pigeon/smoke signal. I love hearing from y'all.
Iron-shod hooves clattered and clinked on the red stone floor of the House of Wind. Feyre marveled, slack-jawed, at the massive black winged steed as Helion Spell-Cleaver slid off his onyx back. His dark hand patted the muscular neck of the Pegasus; the creature shook its long mane and stamped a hoof. As if he was insulted at the meager gathering of High Fae and Illyrians before him. He was the finest of his kind, as it were, and he should be celebrated and looked on with awe at every opportunity.
A second set of hooves-lighter and more jittery yet just as powerful-settled behind him, the grey coat of this creature dappled and flecked as if he were the color of the moon itself. He flipped his head, but the Fae on his back did not dismount, instead, she sat up taller and clucked her tongue, heels tapping the sides of her steed at even intervals. The grey beast bowed his head, back rising on command, and trotted in place. His haunches lowered as the muscles shifted under his weight, hocks and stifles and pasterns bending and supporting and springing back up on cue. He was the creature that statues attempted to capture in his grandeur—and inevitably failed.
Sweat glistened on his neck and his mouth chewed, though no bit lay within. He let out a sigh despite the difficult maneuver, and the Fae on his back allowed him to still. He stretched his neck out and shook his mane contentedly. She patted his shoulder and slid from his back, moving toward the black Pegasus as she began to remove his tack.
Feyre was awe-struck by the creatures. And rightly so—very few of them remained and they were as rare and beautiful as the tales she didn't know. She moved toward the black Pegasus slowly, eyes wide with wonder. The Fae smiled as she unbuckled his girth and removed the leather saddle.
"You can pet him if you'd like," her voice was low and warm, her love for the animals apparent. But the voice took Feyre out of her thrall and she turned her eyes to the tall female as she moved toward the animal's head to unbuckle the elaborately decorated bridle.
Feyre's back stiffened and she stated simply: "You're of the Spring Court."
Green eyes slid back to her, a red-blonde eyebrow quirking upwards amidst her pale face and freckles. "I am not of any Court." The warmth was gone, voice straight and terse.
Helion's hand found itself lightly on his dark-skinned chest in a feigned look of betrayal as he stood beside Rhysand: "Why, Asca, do you forsake our home and my love?" A small, teasing smile pricked her lips and she rolled her eyes slightly as she looked to him.
"Never, my lord," those green eyes turned back to Feyre, the teasing glint gone. "I am a relative of the High Lord of the Spring Court, if that is your question. But my father and I left that realm centuries ago."
Rhysand strode to his mate's side and put a protective arm around her with a smile.
"Ascalia, Beast Tamer. You are most welcome at the Night Court." He nodded to the Pegasi before him. "They are as beautiful as ever I have seen them. Is the grey of the younger stock?"
She nodded, a small smile tinting her lips as her eyes shone with pride. "Indeed. This is Ixion, one of our youngest." The grey turned to her as she spoke his name, and his surprisingly dexterous nose fiddled with her sleeve. She smiled to him and rubbed his wide cheek affectionately. His ears were floppy and soft as they relaxed in either direction. Asca looked back to Rhysand, "But he's just as cheeky and stubborn as any young male with a modicum of potential."
Ixion must have understood her teasing, for he feigned a nip to her arm and pulled his head away rapidly to avoid whatever half-hearted punishment she would retaliate. She pursed her lips and smacked him lightly, but rubbed his ear regardless.
Rhys's smile broadened. "Speaking of cheeky and stubborn males," he looked over his shoulder to where Cassian had nudged behind Mor and Azriel was currently fading into the shadows. "Cassian, Azriel, you're being awfully quiet. Come, greet our guests." Both males stepped forward, a nervous smile on Cass's face, but both had their wings tucked in high and tight behind them. Rhys turned to Helion and struck up conversation with the High Lord, Feyre trailing behind a few steps and watching Asca as she drew some sort of sigil on the necks of each Pegasus.
"Stay high and don't wander far," Asca said quietly to the beasts, "This shouldn't take more than a few hours. I'll call for you soon." The massive black Pegasus seemed to nod in understanding and nickered to his grey counterpart, who snorted but followed as they both leapt into the sky and through the massive open space in the ceiling. Saddle on her hip and bridle hanging on her shoulder, Asca looked over the males opposite her.
Her green gaze was piercing as she analyzed every inch of them, taking in the angles of shoulders and width of stance and so many other pieces that Feyre couldn't pick up on. Mor was suddenly on Feyre's arm and leading her in the same direction as Helion and Rhys. "Don't worry," she said in a not-so-secretive whisper, "If they're lucky, the boys might be able to hold their own." Feyre looked to her in confusion, and turned the conversation inward, mind-to-mind.
She's not that much of a threat, is she?
Mor's mind chuckled. Not to us, no. But she has a way with beasts, much to Cass and Az's chagrin. I don't think Cassian has ever lived down their sky joust.
Sky joust?
A favorite sport of the Day Court's. Lances and tilt and armor, just with the addition of wings. Cass, in his competitive streak, challenged her to a run—her on a Pegasus and him under the power of his own wings. She flattened him and left his head ringing for a week.
Feyre smiled at the memory Mor brought forward, watching Cassian getting knocked on his ass and out of the clouds by Ascalia was something she'd have to get him to admit with his own tongue.
And Azriel? Feyre prodded. It was unlike the Spymaster to fade into the shadows around a friend of the court. Mor's eyes softened.
He's always had a soft spot for her. They both specialize in subtleties, and I think he appreciates a similar soul.
There was a note of warmth underneath her words and Feyre raised an eyebrow to her friend as they left the room. Mor just smiled.
Asca turned to the Illyrians before her as she carefully placed the saddle and bridle on a nearby chaise. She crossed her arms and that critical gaze scanned every inch of them. Especially noting how much they hid their wings.
"What have you done?" she said, expectantly.
Cassian smiled and feigned innocence. "Haven't seen you in decades and that's how you say hi?"
"Hi. Now let me see what you've done to them."
Both warriors cringed and slowly unfurled their wings, refusing to meet her eye. And with good reason. The scars were faint and faded, but they both knew she would see them. And she did—immediately.
A slight gasp caught in her throat and her eyes widened in horror. Cassian's scars were everywhere, on the innermost panels of the membrane and all the way out to the tips. He had been shredded.
"Cassian. . ." he hated meeting her eyes. The sympathy that flooded out of her, that terse persona dissolving entirely. She walked toward him automatically, surveying the scarring and patterns, looking for places where the slightly denser tissue overlaid into the musculature and tendons. She traced her finger gently down the attachment point at the top ligaments—from where the membrane attached to the bone—feeling the points where the tears had breached the delicate bony structures.
Cassian hissed as his head tilted back, a shiver going down his spine. "You know," he swallowed, "if you wanted to seduce me, I could've booked a room." He yelped at she flicked his wing lightly. But his teasing subsided as he saw the concern in her eyes. "Madja fixed me up. But I couldn't fly for two months. And then physical therapy for a long while after. I could barely get up to this house."
She continued her survey, tracing down the bony supports that ran up and down his wing, sectioning it into three. "Lift, please." He did, and she put a shoulder under the wing, one hand on each side now. She could see him twitch under her touch, but paid it no mind. Her fingers followed the scar down, hands matched on each side.
Mor strode quietly back into the room, a glass of wine in her hand. She leaned against a pillar and took a sip, watching emotions flitter across Cassian's face. She smiled wickedly.
"I thought Madja already patched these boys up and had them back at full-tilt," she teased, but there was a note of concern under her words. She saw the twinge of a smile glance across Asca's lips.
"Madja, the old bat, is a wonderful healer. But she deals with practicality," Asca found a point of scar tissue in the membrane—she pinched and rolled it between the pads of her fingers. Cassian screeched, his eyes wide and fingers digging into his gloved palms. But the pain ebbed quickly as the tissue broke up from her pressure. Those green eyes glinted manically toward Mor, "I'm more concerned with performance."
Azriel sputtered a laugh from Cassian's other side. Cass slapped on a wicked grin.
"Well if it's performance you're—" she flicked his wing again and he yelped.
"No."
Cassian turned to Mor, lower lip out in a pout. She just rolled her eyes. Cassian shivered again as Asca's fingers trailed across his wings, and he tried to even his breathing. All those centuries of training, and just these touches were still enough to start him unwinding. His hazel eyes found the form of his brother, blue siphons dormant and quiet. Az's eyes were on his wings, and Cass watched the knot in his throat bob as he swallowed. His eyes followed her hands, those fingers delicate and sure along the sensitive membrane. Cassian shivered and closed his eyes as he tried to quell thoughts he shouldn't be having, the pair of steely grey eyes haunting his mind.
Enjoying your visit? He could feel Rhys's teasing smile through his mind.
Fuck off. He bit back as she found another patch of scar tissue. He felt Rhys wince on the other side of the connection—he felt that pinch as well.
If you need an excuse to escape, I can always call you in. But you know her work is worth it.
Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to Hell and back, Cassian ground out.
"Tell Rhysand," interjected Asca, knowing to whom he spoke, "That your wings are a mess and I'll need more time than I have today to fix them. You'll have to come visit Day Court or I'll need to stay here. But I can't work on both of you today." She turned toward Azriel. "From the glance I took at you, I should be able to fix you up while I'm here. But I'll need a room with a table or bed."
Cassian wiggled his eyebrows provocatively and she pinched another point of scar tissue. He yelped again. Her gazed fixed on Azriel's form. "There's something wrong with your back and the base of your wings, but I can't tell without my hands on you."
Kinky. Rhys drawled into Cass's mind, but he knew he wouldn't want to be under her hands for this kind of work—he had been too many times already. Nobody wanted to bear the brunt of Asca's talents, but damn if they didn't help.
"Mor, go get Asca some wine, would you?" asked Cassian, his voice half pleading as another point of scar tissue released, "Maybe some alcohol will diffuse her sadism."
Mor smiled. "Unlikely, but we can try," she complied.
Asca worked in silence for a while—until Mor came back and the thought in her mind grew so heavy she had to voice it. Her voice was barely above a whisper and her words slow.
"Hybern did this. . . didn't he?"
The air was still between them. Each saw different horrors from the war in their minds. Different faces that would never again feel the sun's warmth, shields cracked, wings broken.
"Yes," Azriel's voice was as soft as his shadows. He could see the tears in Asca's eyes, part of him ready to wipe them away if she ever let them fall. She didn't. She just took a deep breath and kept working on Cassian's wings.
"I should've had Nesta put his head on a pike," growled Cassian. Mor snorted.
"That would have been an interesting decoration for the dinner table."
Asca chuckled and the room lightened a bit. She stepped out from Cassian's wing and took the wine glass that Mor offered her. She took a sip, eyes on the wing she just worked on.
"Try stretching and folding now, I want to see how it moves." Cassian did as commanded, the movement smooth and strong. His eyes brightened.
"I didn't even realize those spots were cramped, but it feels so much better." He shot her an ecstatic smile, "Thank you." She waved him off, but there was a tint of a smile over the rim of her wine glass and a happy glint in her eye.
"Don't thank me yet, that's just one part. There's a lot more of that scar tissue built up in the membrane fibers. It'll take hours, and you'll likely curse my name a few dozen times."
She took another sip of wine before placing the glass on a table, pulling out a strip of leather from her pocket, and tying her golden hair back. She turned to Azriel expectantly. He shook his head.
"Let's get another glass of wine in each of us before you start on me." He was always nervous for anyone to touch his wings, no matter how much he trusted them. And walking into something he knew would be painful. . . he might need some liquid reinforcements.
She looked him over, green eyes spying every tell, every glancing thought. She smiled softly. "Another glass of wine would be lovely."
The latch clicked quietly behind Azriel as he entered the small bedroom in the House of Wind. A faelight glowed warmly in the corner and the clouds were dense outside the window glass. Shadows were deep in the corners of the room—just the way he liked it. There was enough light for her to see muscles and tendons and all their mishaps, but she always kept it dark enough for him to find comfort in the shadows. It was an unconscious piece he always appreciated.
"You're tired," she stated simply, examining the bottles of salve and oils the house offered on the table beside the bed. "Rhysand has been running you ragged, not that you'd ever complain."
He didn't respond, just shrugged out of the top of his Illyrian leathers, carefully pulling them over his wings as he'd done thousands of times before. He felt her eyes on him, following his tattoos. She did it every time they met. She never told him why she always followed the twisted scripts and patterns, and he never asked. But that's how it was between them—there were few questions and even fewer answers. Most anything that needed answering was already understood—they were both too observant for their own good. It's what made them exceptional at their own skillsets, and it was an appreciation they shared. He stood by the faelight, knowing that with a light touch or pull she'd maneuver him as she needed.
A bottle of rosemary oil opened and covered her hands, her pale skin sliding over itself and the sharp scent cutting through the air. She turned to him and observed quietly. She watched him breathe, watched the muscles of his abdomen soften and expand with each breath, noticed the slight hitch at the base of his neck at the depth of the inhale. His shadows seemed to flutter over his wide, tattooed pectorals, dancing with the black lines that extended down his arms; as if they lived beneath his skin and only came out to play. One wing held a hair higher than the other. She motioned for him to extend his wings and he did, the breadth of them magnificent in the small room. She stepped into them, pale hand raised delicately, and looked to him for confirmation before touching. She always looked to him first. Cassian could be played with and jeered, but Azriel. . . she respected differently. He nodded, and her fingertips rested gently over the sensitive membrane. She followed the planes of his wings, her hands ghosting the lightest pressure she could manage.
He closed his eyes, following the delicate path she wove. Her touch tingled and tickled, light as it was. He tilted his head back and breathed in deeper. Cauldron boil him, he loved her hands. But he knew the look those green eyes would have when he met them, and for just a moment he only wanted to revel in her touch. Those soft hands, despite her occupation, the lightness with which she felt him. He shivered. Her fingers found and explored his newest scar. Her hand slowed, tracing the lines and fissures.
"An ash bolt," she said quietly, not needing his confirmation. She felt him hold his breath. She kept examining, and her touch stilled at the distant edges of the wound. He felt her eyes on him fully. "Azriel. . ." his hazel eyes opened and met hers. "You flew like that. . ."
She was always so sharp around people, but she never had been with him. She spoke to him in the same soft tones she did her beasts—the ones broken and scared, the ones with a long way to go or forced into injuries they had no reason to have received. She was gentle and nurturing, voice and eyes as soft as her touch.
"I carried two out of Hybern's camp. We didn't have time to remove it."
Those tears shone in her eyes again, but he watched her bite them down. For one without wings of her own, she was incredibly empathetic to his injuries. She had never told him what other creatures she had nursed with membranous wings—where she learned how to spot the impactions of scar tissue or how she knew the exact placements of the delicate tendons. She just did. Whatever creature was ever presented before her, she always knew how to heal them. And she could always find the missing pieces.
"But you flew after that as well."
He nodded. "Rhys ordered me not to, but I told him he'd have to tie me to a tree, and even then I'd just rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my back." He was glad to see the little smile that brought her, no doubt imagining the ridiculous image. She didn't seem to doubt that he would—or could—do it, just that the idea was entertaining.
"And people think Cassian's the stubborn one," she teased; he could hear the shadow of laughter in her voice. And for a moment, he wondered what she would sound like. When she was well and truly happy—what tambers would that voice make? He knew snippets from his shadows, the basic information he kept on any military member of another court. She would sing to the foals when they couldn't sleep, both faehorse and the rare Pegasus alike. She had carried a gryphon-fledgling around in a backpack when he was too injured to walk or fly but grew testy in his enclosure. She spent the last night of an old, battered wyvern's life on the stone floor if its cave—his scaled head in her lap, those delicate hands stroking under his eyes as he closed them for the last time.
Her cheeks flushed under his quiet gaze. She couldn't untangle his thoughts, but she could keep working. "Do you want me to start on your wings or examine your back first?" She gestured to the bed. He rolled his shoulders and walked to the bed, having made his decision. She wasn't entirely surprised. Working through muscular pain in his back would be far preferable to breaking up the scar tissue in his wings. He laid down on his stomach, resting his face on a pillow over his scarred hands. She had worked on those, too, a long time ago. His wings splayed wide and drooped over each side of the bed.
She let out a quiet breath. This was always the hardest part. Touching him. Knowing that any lucky stroke or touch of his wings was only ever going to lead to a physical reaction. . . and nothing more. These opportunities were rare and he had never once breeched the subject of anything beyond the realm of a physical release. And she didn't feel that she had the right to ask it of him. She had seen the possessive burn in his eyes, that courage and cold determination that made him invaluable to the Night Court. But never for her.
She stepped onto the bed and straddled his back, knees pressing into the soft mattress. She rubbed her hands together to warm the oil. Shadows bumped and twisted and twirled around her, a curiosity wholly their own. Her hands came to his back and she pulled her palm over the wide area, feeling through for bumps or knots or tears. He had many, but she was only here for the ones that inhibited functionality. They had normal healers for the rest. Her strong fingers felt around the base of his wings and the cooperative muscles and tendons within. There were many, and they needed a lot of help.
"Tell me something," she said as she focused on her hands. He hummed and she felt him turn to her, just catching the corner of his hazel eye. "Anything. Silly things. Little things. Pieces of life." He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered if she'd seem prying. They didn't usually talk much.
He thought a moment.
"Cassian and Rhys and I have a snowball fight the morning after the Winter Solstice. We've done it for hundreds of years, now, and it's always one of my favorite days." She felt him wince as she worked on a tight spot under his shoulder blade.
"Please tell me you aim for their silly faces," she prodded lightly. A low chuckle shook him beneath her and she had to hold back from closing her eyes. She loved that sound.
"Of course. The High Lord of the Night Court with snow stuck in his hair and packed in his ears is one of my favorite sights."
She smiled at the image. And she didn't put it past any of the Illyrian trio to end up bruised and battered and smiling from ear to ear. Theirs was one of the only courts she envied—for its open-ness; their playfulness and camaraderie evident outside of official functions. She wished more courts would catch on.
"Your turn," he said softly, drawing Asca out of her thoughts. The request startled her somewhat, she wasn't expecting him to want to know about her life. She thought a moment as her hand wound over his shoulder and pressed into the base of his neck. He grunted in discomfort and she rubbed out the area to sooth it. "Should I not have asked?"
"Oh, no. I was just thinking." He relaxed again under her hands and she could feel that hazel eye back on her. He was patient while she found the words.
"I make a point to see either a sunset or sunrise every day. Both when days are hard. But I favor the sunrises more."
There was quiet between them; the fire crackled in the hearth and her hands moved over his skin with adept precision. She moved into the ligaments between his wings and shoulder blades. Something hadn't healed correctly and it led to his wings being just a hair uneven. Not enough for most to notice, but likely an annoying tilt when he was gliding through the sky.
She tried not to think about the body underneath hers. The muscles of his back bare to her touch, his short hair an arms-reach from tousling. How the line of his jaw on the pillow made her want to drag the pads of her finders over the sharp edge.
She felt the muscle in his neck as it hitched—if he had been standing, he would have gone rigid and tall. Rhysand, then. She continued work on his shoulder.
"And what does your High Lord say?" She could feel his amusement in the huff of air that lifted his back.
"He says that Helion has accepted his offer of hosting you for the night, so as to finish your torment on my brother's wings." It was her turn to huff a laugh. "Rhys is currently conferring with the house on accommodation for Ixion in the training fields for the evening." A bag poofed into the corner of the room. "And apparently they've already ironed out the logistics.""
"I don't know if I should be elated or terrified."
"Your reasoning behind each?"
"Elated at the prospect of wandering Velaris for a while—I miss the buskers. The old music isn't as prominent in the Day Court as it is here. Terrified—" she smiled—"Because Helion also knows that, and he has full reign over my clothing choices for the next 16 hours. It Is a harrowing prospect." A low chuckle rolled through him. Her fingers spread wide on his skin and her touch softened to a caress.
She traced the lines of his back, following first his spine and then his shoulder blades, arcing down to the hollows of his ribcage. He let out a contented hum, muscles relaxing. He folded in his wings and turned his hips—a clear sign that he would be repositioning himself—she un-straddled him as he turned, but returned to her place atop his hips as he settled his wings under him on the soft mattress.
They studied each other for a moment, eyes catching every small glance and movement. A hint of a smile turned up the shadowsinger's lips.
"I've missed you."
Her face lightened into the epitome of warmth. Those green eyes softened and her cheeks flushed slightly. Those pretty little lips lifting into a smile of their own. She leaned down over him, her left hand holding her weight. Her right came up to stroke his cheek. He closed his eyes at the feeling and nuzzled into her hand. His own hand came up and held hers—he brought the pale skin of her knuckles to his mouth and brushed a kiss over them.
"I always expect you to have more callouses," he said, turning her hand to study it, "yet you're so soft."
She opened her fingers and slid the outside of the fourth digit down the back of his scarred hand. His skin tugged and caught on the callous.
"They're just not where you expect."
But then it was her turn to catch his hand. She straightened and brought it to her mouth, holding it devotedly between both of her hands. Her eyes held his as she kissed his scars; and still that warmth held. No flinching at the marred flesh or the knowledge of the kinds of atrocities those hands had wrought. Just her lips on his skin and her unshrinking gaze.
His heart pounded in his chest as he brought himself up, one of those scarred hands resting on her cheek. She smiled again and he could have sworn the room brightened. He brought his lips to hers gently. It was chaste and sweet; unhurried. He had missed her. He worried about her terribly when he heard of Amarantha's attack on the Day Court. But he knew she had escaped. Knew she had torn monsters apart as she raced to free her creatures. And he also knew she likely would have died there had one of her gryphons not dragged her away in its claws.
His kiss deepened, that worry and despair driving him to pull her closer. She had lost so much. Creatures that represented years of work and skill and heart, shredded before her or fighting by her side. The Pegasi were not fighters—their advantage lay in speed. The corridors of the stables were wide, but not wide enough to escape during a direct attack with bodies clogging the route. She lost so many. He pulled her body flush against his. His left hand wound around her waist while his thumb pulled lines against the fabric of her shirt.
Asca couldn't read minds, but she could bet what he was thinking. The softness of his touch, the gentle pull of his hands. She didn't want that. She didn't want that sadness to coat the back of her throat. So she kissed him back—hard. She dragged her teeth over his bottom lip and rolled her hips into his.
A growl came from somewhere deep in his chest and the pads of the fingers on her back pressed roughly into her skin.
She smiled into his lips and then pulled back, her voice husky and eyes half-lidded.
"There you are."
A spark returned to his hazel eyes. That hunger, the knowledge that he would get what he wanted—and if he didn't? Then he'd take it.
That spark scared most people; made them step away or watch him with a wary eye. But not her. No, she saw that spark and met it with clear eyes and a wicked smile that matched his challenge. She never flinched from him—his power, his intensity, or his shadows. She met him fully and reveled in every moment of it.
They devoured each other, his hand in her hair while hers pulled at the very base of his wings. A dance of tongues and teeth and body heat. Hands and fingers traced skin and dipped under fabric; tickling, tasting, teasing they danced across each other, until their clothes felt heavy and coarse and inexcusably stifling. He reached for the seam of her pants—a contraption not unlike his fighting leathers, but softer and thinner—reinforced for riding instead of pure flight. His long, dexterous fingers pulled delicately at the knot. He enjoyed feeling it unravel in his hand. He'd feel her unravel upon him too, watch the muscles under her skin writhe—
A knock at the door forced them both to still.
"Cass—" growled Azriel, the sound even deeper than his usual tamber, "Walk. The fuck. Away."
"Don't. . . tear my head off. I'm under orders," came Cassian's voice through the wood. Azriel gave a heavy sigh as his hands unwound from Asca and he flopped back onto the mattress. A teasing smile glinted over her face. "Helion mentioned Ixion's training schedule. And between that, dinner, and my wings. . . Rhys has something planned for later this evening and gave the direct impression that Asca would be pissed if we missed it. So. . . yeah. Sorry."
Asca scoffed, and pressed a fleeting kiss to Azriel's cheek. "Helion's just jealous I get even one of you for a night."
Az cracked a smile.
"Give me a minute," she called to Cassian through the door, "Somebody messed up my laces." Az's smile turned devious as he hooked his finger through what was left of the laces of her pants and pulled—untying them further. She rolled her eyes.
A laugh came from the other side of the door, followed by the sound of receding footsteps.
Asca nudged Azriel, excitement bubbling out of her.
"C'mon," she prodded, a childish smile lighting up her face, "I want to show you how well Ixion has been doing. His Airs are really coming together now."