SUMMARY: While trying to make sense of her powers and the shock of the revelations, Gwyn makes a life-changing decision.
Azriel grunted, beating his knuckles until they wept into the heavy canvas sack again and again.
Each thud extolled the private, raging thoughts in his head.
She's safe. She's home. She's safe. She's home.
When he was at the river house, summoned there by his High Lord, the shadows apprised him of Gwyn's whereabouts. Nevertheless, he had to endure the hellish meeting in progress in the study.
Lucien Vanserra and his High Lady Feyre Archeron continued their verbal sparring match already in progress by the time the shadowsinger had arrived. With Rhysand there to bolster his mate and act as a buffer—but he would not fight his High Lady's battle.
Feyre paced across the room, her tattooed hands wringing. "I don't believe this. I don't believe Elain could—"
"You," Lucien said, pointing an accusing finger at Feyre, who stood her ground. "I told you. Forewarned you something was unsettling, rousing within Elain and harmful. But not once had I expected Rhysand to be the fucking voice of reason and heed my words—and for you, her own sister, to choose willful ignorance."
He strode closer, chest heaving as Feyre lifted her gaze, eyes shimmering. "I had thought perhaps out of everyone, my friend would listen. I stood up for you against Tam. I let your little game of sabotage be carried out and even played a hand. I thought I had your trust and confidence, Feyre."
"Lucien—" Feyre sputtered. "You do. But Elain was doing better. I—"
"You assumed, perhaps, the pull of the bond was working a part? You just didn't believe me? Or, you didn't want to believe me? Do yourself a godsdamn favor and stop lying!"
Dark power had trickled from around Rhysand, expanding. A silent warning.
Lucien rolled his eyes, both natural and gilded. "Yes, Rhysand, we are all undoubtedly aware of your great, unmatched power. Does it not get old?"
Rhysand's fingers steepled on the desk as he leaned forward in his seat. "Does what get old, little Lucien?"
"Waving your power around like it's a magical dick measuring contest?"
Oh, for fucking Mother's sake. Azriel didn't have time for this.
Rhysand's lips curled with smug arrogance. "Never. And it's certainly not a crime to make sure those know one's place—and whose might is the largest."
"It's not the size of the might, Rhysand. It's how you wield it."
"Oh, I think all of Prythian has seen and indeed heard my skillful handling. Am I detecting a hint of jealousy?"
Lucien's eyes rolled again. "Hardly. But tell me, how does your heavy crown sit upon your enormous ego?"
"Oh, Lucien." Rhysand crooned, picking a fleck of dust off his ebony jacket. "My heavy crown doesn't sit upon my ego, but my enormous, broad—"
"Heading out after this meeting," came Cassian's deep voice as he and his mate, clad in fighting leathers, entered the study, apparently wondering if the team was discussing something of importance or not.
By that point, Azriel was losing what precious limited patience he had. His body tensed, shoulders rolling as he so often did before battle. He didn't want to fucking be there. Didn't want to hear petty squabbles and diatribes.
Feyre had made a grievous error—one which Rhys had enabled by placating his mate. Consequences be damned. And for all the shadowsinger cared right then. Let them contend with the mess they'd wrought.
Azriel had his own plight to wade through.
But he'd stayed on one side of the room while Cassian flanked the other. As the news of Elain finally reached Nesta's ears, her expression went lax then to the fierce she-will-smite-her-enemies in mere seconds. Her cold ice-grey eyes scanned the room, assessing each to see if they were friend or foe.
And then her gaze committed on Azriel's in the silent room. The eldest sister had also sensed something amiss with Elain, and had warned him about a change in her younger sibling's behavior. Had questioned the shadowsinger in his role with her. Of his knowledge regarding her sister.
A beloved wayward sister now missing.
"Where the fuck is my sister?" Nesta asked, her voice mirroring a tone Azriel had heard Commander Cassian use many times before.
Rhysand's eyes landed first on Lucien, who shook his head, his hand splayed over his chest, as if he was trying to find her himself. To bring her back from whatever personal hell Elain had been trapped in—a prison none of them noticed but her mate.
Luminous violet then drifted to Azriel. The shadowsinger's power had stretched far and wide to where even the sapphire glow of his Illyrian siphons was dimming. His shadows torn, some having departed to pinpoint Elain's whereabouts while the others had tracked her… "No location yet, but we'll find her," Az reported. "It's only a matter of time."
"Fantastic," Rhysand said sarcastically, his palms coming down heavier than necessary on the top of his expansive desk, causing Feyre to jump. "My apparently unhinged sister-in-law lost in the wind with undetermined powers and what?" His eyes darted between Lucien and Azriel. "Anything else of note to present?"
All gazes fell on the two of them as they shared their own silent exchange. Rhysand's trust in them was on a fragile edge, but there was no graze of obsidian talons on Az's mental shield. Nor Lucien's from the look of it. Not yet.
Azriel would not mention Gwyn's powers. He wouldn't. Not when it could be construed as violent and chaotic. Any shadows around him even concealed the damaged sections of leather armor and skin above his cuffs.
Lucien, though, was the wild card.
Gwyn had tried, nearly incinerated his mate. Yet, the cunning lordling from Autumn hadn't attacked the Valkyrie. No. Shockingly, he'd walked her down from the ledge. Assuaged and encouraged her until Gwyn was once again herself.
"No," Lucien said, the lie smooth and palatable, shifting his attention back to Rhysand. "There was a disagreement, and then Elain winnowed away. Nothing more."
Azriel nodded his confirmation and secret thanks before dismissing himself in a swirl of darkness under the guise of finding the missing female.
He'd landed hard on the rooftop of the House of Wind in his desperation not to locate Elain Archeron—but Gwyneth Berdara.
'Our Valkyrie is safe. She's home,' his shadows restated. 'Safe. Home.'
Frantic, Azriel searched every room, tentatively calling out her name into the dying light of each space. Nothing.
'Our Valkyrie is safe. She's home. Safe. Home.'
His exhale came out in shuddering relief when Azriel finally reached the imposing doors of the library. For tonight, seeing her would be enough. Even a glimpse would suffice. A distant rustle of her copper-colored hair. Even if the thought of her in pain made breathing painful. Even if the hurt in her teal eyes sent him crumbling.
His sole concern was her welfare. No matter what it cost him.
But she wasn't beyond the doors mingling or being consoled by the other priestesses. And when the shadowsinger stepped in to move about, to find her, a hooded and cloaked figure with gnarled fists blocked his path.
Clotho.
The priestess angled her hooded head. He recalled a scene like this before, and no doubt Clotho saw right through his attempt to calm his rapid respiration. Slip himself into something apathetic and protected.
Her enchanted pen moved over paper. Your eyes look sad, Shadowsinger, seeing clear through his artifice.
"Is she here?" Azriel asked, not bothering to specify. Clotho knew who he was seeking.
Her shrouded head nodded in acknowledgment. She's safe and cared for. The pen scrawled over the parchment, and he wondered what Gwyn had told her. He wouldn't blame her if she did. I'll let her know you checked on her, Shadowsinger.
And he reflected about the last time he'd had a conversation with Clotho regarding Gwyn. About the fucking godsdamn necklace. In his head, Azriel envisioned the pen moving that night, the hopeful letters on the page. She deserves something as beautiful as this. I thank you for the joy it shall bring to her.
And now Gwyn wouldn't even see him nor cared to.
The joy Gwyn had gifted him was something of wonder. But what joy had he truly offered her?
What joy could you truly offer her? His inner darkness growled, a deep voice rumbling for the first time in months.
'Shadowsinger,' his shadows hummed, a sorrowful melody.
With a stiff, grateful bow, Azriel left, his boots thundering up to the House level. Up to the rooftop. He briefly considered winnowing to his apartment across Velaris, finding solace immersed in loathing, seclusion, and booze.
But Az couldn't. Not knowing the bundle of hairpins was still on the counter. Not when her scent still lingered on his pillow. Her dress still hung on the back of the door. How in the fresh hell had the best night of his life lead to the worst day?
Instead, he'd turned to the bags. With an unsteady sigh, Azriel clenched his dripping fist and struck the unyielding sack again.
Thud. She's safe. Thud. She's home.
Over and over again until his knuckles bled and sweat streaked down his torso like rain. Until his fingers were numb. Until he didn't feel the lasting sting of the burns.
Thud. She's safe. Thud. She's home.
But not with him.
Not in his room.
His bed.
His arms.
But Gwyn didn't want to see his face after he'd fucking abandoned her in the alley in a stupor.
Didn't want to hear his liar's voice.
Didn't want his tainted hands on her precious skin.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!"
And when Azriel had finally worn himself out to the point of being unable to stand or lift his arms, he stumbled over to the equipment rack and did something he had not done in forever.
Azriel wrapped his hands and hid them from the world.
There was serenity under the wavy surface, engulfed in warmth and silence. Floating. Where all Gwyn had to focus on was the rhythm of her heart, drowning out the thoughts in her mind. Of Elain and Merrill, and the incessant pounding on the door. The sound of Nesta's ignored requests and orders before training every morning since. Emerie's concerns and unanswered pleas. The thoughts of him.
This was the reason her mother had taken Catrin and herself to the lake by the temple. The reason she dove to the bottom and stared up at the sky above. Her face was always more relaxed, at peace. At home. As if under the waves was the one place her mother truly breathed freely.
At some point, the frantic banging stopped and Gwyn popped out from beneath the water's surface with a gasp, resting her head against the smooth lip of the tub, letting exhaustion sweep her under like a wave.
The first proper rest she'd gotten in the four days since the incident at the townhouse. And when sleep claimed her, Gwyn found herself cradled in a familiar patch of lush meadow.
This time, there was no wind across the plain. No fragrant perfume of blossoms or feel of warm sunshine. There was only an empty expanse stretched out under a starless night sky. And another against her back. Whispers of long tresses against her skin.
"You didn't come for our birthday," Gwyn finally said, holding her breath as she waited to hear the voice so dearly missed.
"I know. I couldn't. They wouldn't let me."
Wouldn't let her?
"Elain?" Gwyn asked, peering over to find the back of Catrin's head dipped down, her long hair concealing her features like a silk ebony curtain.
Catrin shrugged as she toyed with a stand of tall grass. "It—there may have been something more. I'm not sure. But…" Her body shifted and her eyes, those ocean eyes that mirrored her own, stared back, lined with tears. "I tried, Gwynnie. I really did."
"I know you did, Cat," Gwyn said, reaching around to grab her sister's webbed hand, to know she was actually there. Those fingers threaded together like the bracelets they made, crossing over in a desperate embrace. "I miss you, Catrin. And I could use you right now."
Her twin huffed and twisted to face her. "I'm so sorry all of this is happening, sister. Truly, I am."
Visions of Cat's eyes changing and speaking words of flowers and deceit tumbled from her memory. "Did you try to warn me before?"
Catrin nodded, adjusting her body to sit side by side with her twin.
Another memory jolted her. The words her sister had spoken regarding Gerona always leading Gwyn home.
"Did you know—"
"That the gorgeous Illyrian warrior was your mate? What do you think I am, a Seer?" Cat teased, nudging her.
Gwyn pinned her with a look and then pushed her back, chuckling. "Seriously?"
Shrugging, Catrin replied, "Poor taste perhaps, but got you to laugh, right? Worth it. I miss your laughs, Gwynnie—especially when I get you to snort like a piglet. But I can wait to hear it again. Besides." Catrin paused, squeezing Gwyn's hand. "You have all the time in the world with the male you love, who is your—"
No longer could she hold the pain in. Catrin's eyes went wide as Gwyn's own gushed with tears. Arms came around her swiftly, anchoring her as her body shook. Her cheek fell to her sister's shoulder.
"I—I did something, Cat. And I wonder if I ruined it all."
The words came out in a fumbling rush, pouring out along with her tears as her sister stroked her hair and listened. How she hurt the male she loved dearly. Injured her mate.
"That shouldn't have been possible," Catrin interrupted Gwyn.
"No shit," Gwyn said, sniffing as she wiped away under her eyes and nose. "But it is. I—I burned Azriel." She sucked in a shaky breath, her sister holding her tighter. "With my own two hands, Cat. Did you ever have—"
"Control of flame? No." Her twin paused, worrying her lower lip, a trait they both shared in their nervousness. "Although…"
Gwyn lifted her head, meeting her sister's beseeching teal gaze under those obscenely long, dark lashes. "What?"
"I think I saw Mother use it once."
"What? When?"
"I think we were about seven? Mother thought we were asleep and had tucked us into bed. It was after we came back from one of our secret nighttime swims. You were already snoring."
"I do not snore."
Catrin's bright teal eyes rolled. "Having shared a room with you for my entire life, trust me when I saw you snore like a forest beast. But one night, I thought I was merely dreaming, seeing things. But… I swore Mother started the hearth without a means to light it."
Gwyn pictured their mother's golden pensive eyes staring almost inwardly into the flames, the same eyes that smiled upwards from the watery depths. A contradiction of nature—just like a mate who would dare harm the other.
"Oh, gods," Gwyn murmured, wiping her eyes with a quick swipe of the back of her speckled hand. Catrin maneuvered her sister so Gwyn's redhead rested in her twin's lap. "Mates shouldn't be able to harm one another."
Catrin's webbed hand comfortingly brushed through her sister's reddish-brown tresses. "I suppose not." Her sister's amused chuckle had Gwyn squinting upward. "You've had quite a year, sister. A male. A mate. Finding a connection to not only your nymph heritage, but your Autumn as well."
"And not a damn clue on what to do about any of it," Gwyn sighed. "What am I going to do, Cat?"
"What you do best. Take a deep breath and channel your feelings. Focus and research. Discover unknown parts of you while rekindling the old ones."
"Kindling really isn't the word choice I would have used right now, Cat."
"There's my quick-witted sister. You do what you always do, Gwynnie. Forge your own path."
"Follow my own star," she muttered around the knot of emotion. "I love you, Catrin."
Dark hair swept her skin as Catrin leaned her forehead against her sister's "And I will always love you, Gwyneth."
There's got to be something here, Gwyn thought as she rummaged through box after box, drawer after drawer. Her knees were aching against the floor, the soft fabric of her borrowed robes offering little cushion from the hard stone. The dull fae light had left her eyes burning and tired.
How long had she been at this? Hours? Days?
Perhaps it had been fate that she'd discovered the near-empty spare room Clotho had let her stay in—retreat in—was once Merrill's. Despite clearing most of the room, Gwyn knew all the secret places. Many never deigned to search underneath the drawers themselves. Or between the mattress and bedframe. Loose stones in the flooring under the dresser.
It was good, this relentless pursuit. It gave Gwyn a purpose, something to bide her time. Something to focus on besides the urge to hunt down and talk to him.
So Gwyn's days became filled with several things; training in whatever way she was capable in her room, avoiding everyone outside the library, and searching for answers.
She received meals either in her room or where she hid out in the depths of the library, on the seventh floor. And Clotho, her dear friend and matron, had kindly acted as an arbitrator with her friends—her family—for days now.
Guilt was a grinding stone in her gut. She knew deep down, avoidance wasn't merely hurting Gwyn. No, it was painful for all of them. But what was worse? The scorch of rejection or the actual burn of flames from her hands?
Gwyn couldn't face Azriel. Not yet. And she was being a fucking coward.
Reaching a hand beneath the drawer beneath the nightstand, she felt something slide. With a yank, she had the drawer out, and slid a bottom panel away. Papers written in Merrill's hand stared back.
With a triumphant smile, Gwyn brought them over to the bed, reading them one by one until her vision blurred. These were the notes on the siren, information she provided to Elain at her request.
A soft laugh escaped her as she read over the notes, similar to what she already knew, and apparently some things had been obtained from various records held in the Day court—and Autumn itself. Funny how Gwyn was now less worried about being a manipulative siren and more about roasting her mate.
A sirenic water-wraith of Spring, one of great power and beauty, seduced a high-ranking Fae of Autumn and bore a female child, forsaken by both parents and reared through her formative years at a mountain temple of Autumn. Sangravah. The child was both manipulative and wild. She exhibited signs of powers from both Courts. They broke her will into a mold and she became a devoted priestess, only using her powers for healing.
Broken into a mold. Her mother's somber eyes staring at the fireplace came to mind. Gods, what had they done to her? Subjected her to?
As all eventually do as they come to age, and enacted by the covenant with the Mother, she took part in the Great Rite. The Cauldron gifted her and the Priestesses with the first…
"Twin girls," Gwyn mumbled. She and Catrin. The first set of twin girls born of the Rite in nearly two centuries. A bountiful blessing.
She read on. The notes regarded Catrin's webbed hands, a soft glow to her snow-white skin and dark hair. A baby wraith, they deemed her; the word underlined for emphasis, the harsh disgust of the lines of ink palpable. Gwyn's nose crinkled with disgust.
The next line sent waves of fear down her spine.
The other was born with fire in her eyes and a beckoning song in her cry. We must watch her closely. She may be…
Merrill made a notation about how there was more to the text, but was unable to be replicated.
Gwyn rose from the bed, stumbling backward until her back hit the wall. Oh, gods. That last line—that was about her.
Born with fire in her eyes. Gwyn gazed down at her open, quivering fingertips.
A beckoning song in her cry. Her knees shook and chest heaved as Gwyn pictured Azriel walking out to her into the sea, his eyes dazed as she playfully called his name in a singsong voice, the hazel clearing as soon as she ceased speaking.
"Mother above," Gwyn said, her hands dragging through her knotted hair. "Maybe Elain was right."
No. No. Azriel loved her. Gwyn loved him. It was the only thing she was certain of in her godsforsaken life. She had to believe there was nothing coercive. Her chest warmed and stirred as a reminder.
Gods. Her world was in complete upheaval, a forest with too many trails. Which way was the right one?
There was a knock at the threshold. No swears resounded, and the scent was definitely not Nesta. Hope ignited as she stumbled off the bed and forward to grab the knob.
The wooden door creaked as Gwyn opened to find Clotho's familiar veiled form, a pensive smile visible from her shining invoking stone upon her brow under her periwinkle vestments. A paper popped up next to her, the pen scribbling. Good evening, Gwyneth. I hope you are doing well.
"As well as can be expected, I suppose."
He's been here every day. Sitting outside the door of the library.
Gwyn winced. "Was he bothering you?"
She shook her head. No, the shadowsinger was polite as always. He usually sat outside the door, waiting for a word. Nesta, however—
Heat and a little embarrassed smile spread across Gwyn's face. "I'm sorry I've caused you trouble."
Clotho stepped forward, the back of her gnarled hand grazing her cheek. You were and are never a bother or burden, Gwyneth. You are family. And I hate to see you so upset. Both of your eyes are too sad.
Gwyn didn't want to ask, and yet, "Azriel looked sad?"
The answering bob of Clotho's covered head was a knife to the heart.
Azriel came a while ago and asked me to give this to you. A folded note floated over to her, landing gently in Gwyn's opening palm. Her freckled fingers stroked over the precise creases.
"Thank you, Clotho," Gwyn said, her voice breaking. "For everything."
All will be well, Gwyneth. The ink flowed hope on the page. I promise.
Before closing the door, Gwyn nodded her goodbye, taking the letter with her. She nudged the pile of papers and notes off to the side, the bed squeaking under her weight as she settled down.
Her weary gaze fell upon the warm cream parchment in her hand. Part of her didn't want to read his message. His conclusions. But the other, the part of her who loved and missed him, needed to see his words in his hand. His thoughts on the page.
The page crinkled when she opened it.
My dearest Gwyneth, it's been only days but, in truth, it's felt like years. I miss you. Your laugh. Your smile. Your stories. Clotho insists you are in good health, and I will take that with me as I take my leave.
Leave? She brought the paper closer to her face, as if the words would alter.
There is trouble in Illyria and Mor is having an issue in Vallahan that requires both mine and Cassian's attention. I'll be away for a week at least, perhaps more. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in person, but Ananke is getting quite good at blocking with a bow now.
Gwyn snorted, finding the notion of her fellow Valkyrie defending her against the Illyrian warrior amusing.
I'm sorry, love. For everything. And I understand if you don't want to see me anymore. Frankly, you deserve better than me. You deserve the world.
With trembling hands, she continued reading, her eyes widening with shock. Line after line of self-deprecation and defeat. Of loathing and grief. The way his words hit the page read like he thought it was over.
Anger and pain and worry sparked something inside her and her fingertips singed the edges of the page she held.
"Shit!" Gwyn yelped, frantically blowing out the small flickers of heat until what only charred edges remained, words now missing. Tears slipped onto the page, smattering the paper like droplets of rain.
Gods, she needed to get a grip. To figure things out. Because, regardless of what the shadowsinger thought, Gwyn was not giving up on them..
Inspiration struck like flint against steel as her eyes fell upon his signature on the bottom. Yours, Azriel
Memories surfaced of their last disagreement after the Inner Circle meeting after their Solstice meal. One particular assignment Azriel had ordered her not to do. A task which Rhysand insisted had not been fully tabled by the end.
There was only so much mind stilling could do, and Gwyn needed to gain control. Get answers.
She had to trust her instincts. Forge her own path. Follow her own star.
Even if, in doing so, Azriel may never forgive her.
At least he would be safe.
Letter in hand, Gwyn made her way over to the narrow desk, a single piece of paper and pen upon its surface. She sat, willing her mind to still. Stay the course.
Under the faint fae light, Gwyn took a deep breath. And wrote.
She wrote, careful with each meticulous stroke of the pen. Each ending flick of the letters. Cognizant of every sentence on the page. There was no accepting nothing less than absolute precision.
After nearly an hour, with the final flick of her wrist, Gwyn set down the pen and leaned back, rubbing her cramped hand as she read. And re-read. Hearing the words in her head, imagining those words spoken.
It would have to do.
She stood, stretching her arms above her head, twisting the ache from her neck. Darkness greeted her when she peered out the thin window. She had to move fast.
"House," Gwyn whispered. "If you're listening and would be so kind, there are a few things I require from upstairs."
Moments later, a bag with several pairs of leathers bounced onto her groaning bed. The clanging of her sword came next, followed by her obsidian dagger in its hilt, the blue stone on the pommel gleaming. The dagger Azriel had given her for her birthday.
Cauldron. Her heart thundered, her entire being in utter turmoil.
There was a lovely melody in her heart, her soul. Bright and ethereal, singing with ease. The one she'd heard for so long but never recognized, urging her.
Stay. Stay. Stay.
But the one in her head, the booming and sharp cadence, was louder. Marching orders.
Go. Go. Go.
She could do this. She had to do this.
Working fast, Gwyn packed her belongings in the skinny leather bag, tossing in all the papers she'd discovered in Merrill's room. And as she did so, two more items dropped onto the bed, clanging as this knocked together. Two azure invoking stones.
Hers—and Cat's.
Her throat and eyes swelled with grief as she gazed upon the two. Two stones meant to heal, to help. To do no harm. Gwyn took Catrin's, wrapping it tightly in an extra set of dusty blue robes, and stuffed it in the bottom of her bag for safekeeping.
The other, her own, she left behind on the desk.
Just one more thing to do.
Unsheathing her dagger, Gwyn rolled up her sleeve and swiped at the string along her wrist, laying the remains of her bracelet on the desk beside her invoking stone.
Her eyes fell to the glass charm, the secret flower visible only in the light.
A thin wisp of inky darkness wreathed around that same wrist, a bracelet of shadow, coolness kissing her skin.
Her swallow was loud in her own ears.
"Are you alone?" she asked in a quiet voice.
The shadow wriggled its response. It had stayed behind, or was directed to remain behind—for her.
When the shadowed haze swept up her arm and to her face, nuzzling her cheek, her tears finally slipped and rolled freely over her heated skin.
"I have to do this," she said, her tone both weak and strong. "Please don't tell him."
The slender swath of shadow brushed her cheek. Her lips. Her nose. Her forehead. A promise and a kiss farewell.
"Thank you," she cried.
There was no turning back now.
Azriel's feet barely reached down on the roof before he was rushing into the House. Simple exhaustion would have been a dream. His body and wings pushed to their limits. His mind left in shambles.
No matter. He was home. And Cauldron damn him to hell. He didn't care if she didn't want to see him.
Nearly two weeks had passed since the incident in the townhouse. His physical wounds had healed, but his heart…
No more bullshit. They needed to talk. He needed to talk. Tonight.
But as he strode through the sitting room toward the door leading to the library, a voice stopped him. "She's not there, Az."
He turned around, finding his brother's mate seated at the far end of the dining room table, Emerie seated on her other side. Nesta's back was stiff and straight, her knuckles white around a cup of tea curling with steam.
"Did she move back to the House?" he asked, his hurried steps moving to the hall.
Nesta shook her head, her eyes staring at a piece of paper and two objects on the table's surface that Emerie would not stop touching. "No. She didn't." Blue-gray eyes snapped up and pierced him, held him in place like a curse. "She's gone."
"Azriel, what the hell are you doing here?" a disheveled, shirtless Rhysand demanded, opening the door enough to allow entrance. "Is there trouble?"
Oh, there was indeed trouble. "She's gone, Rhys."
Rhys cocked his head to the side. "Who's gone?"
"Gwyn." Azriel's chest tightened at her name. "Gwyn is gone."
"I know."
The shadowsinger narrowed his eyes. "You know?"
"Yes. And so do you."
"Stop talking in riddles, brother. What in the actual fuck are you talking about, Rhysand?
Rhysand crossed in front of him, touching a finger to his lips. "Keep it down and I'll show you. If you wake up my mate and son, there will be hell to pay."
They had all been sleeping then, Azriel thought, as his High Lord led him to the official study down the hall. Fucking Cauldron, how late was it?
Rhysand strolled over to his desk, scrubbing a hand through his mussed blue-black strands as his eyes scanned the surface. "If I knew you wouldn't even remember things you've written to me, I would have given you a day off, Az. This is unlike you. Ah… here." He picked up a piece of paper and handed it over.
His shadows peered over his shoulders and wings as he scoured over the page. Fuck. He didn't know whether to be insanely proud or incredibly angry.
All this after he explained why he did not want her there. Even after all her posturing about omissions and the truth. About communication. After telling Gwyn that he couldn't stand to have her in their grasp. After Azriel told Gwyn he loved her.
'She's scared,' his shadows attested.
Everything about the missive was flawless, convincing to the untrained-eyed—except for one thing.
The shadowsinger chuckled darkly. "I can't believe you fell for this. I didn't write this, Rhysand," Azriel said, slamming the paper on the desk.
"What in the holy fuck are you talking about?"
"Did you know Gwyn is an excellent forger, Rhys?" The High Lord's face paled. "She is, but she never manages to replicate the way I strike the A in my name quite right. See here? She lifted the pen; I do not.
Shadows snaked and pulsed around Azriel, Rhysand's own power answering with swirling, starry darkness. "You probably didn't even search her mind, did you?" He snickered again, edging around the corner of the desk.
"Azriel?" A question and a reminder.
"You know I didn't want her there, a position I made quite plain during the meeting after Solstice. And yet, here we are."
"If I hadn't thought you were sending her on a mission, Az, I would not have dispatched her. I swear on my life—" Rhysand paused, holding firm. "I would have never sent her to the Autumn Court."
Azriel lunged like a spear for his High Lord.
Again, sorry not sorry.
So, uh oh... Gwyn is off to Autumn.
Chapter 56 collage teaser will be up on my Tumblr ( mystical-blaise) on Tuesday, Jan 11. I should have a TikTok ( mysticalblaise) video teaser up Wednesday, Jan 12!