The feeling of the sharp, nipping wind felt harsh on his drawn-out wings—a feeling Azriel had grown accustomed to. Their broad, powerful maneuvers glided him towards the now sleeping city of Velaris. Shops were closing, lights began to grow dim, and the city began to give into the night, only to do it again the next. In a flurry of motion, his wings jolted with force, ascending him higher and higher, the city below him now grew little beneath him. The once array of buildings was now nothing but a sporadic pattern of twinkling lights.
On days where he struggled, on days where he couldn't grasp his own complexities, he flew high—high enough to remind himself that the problems he faced and the problems he ran from could be as minuscule as they now looked below him. But he knew, regardless of much he tried to rid his hindrances, he'd never rid of the impending hell that always awaited him at the River House. Elain.
Elain still hadn't rejected the mating bond, and she couldn't answer him as to why. It had been three years of torture, and three years of harvesting an unrelenting weight on his shoulders. Fury and confusion twisted themselves around his head, which only lead him to that all too familiar spiral. It was a spiral deeper than the one he was already set on. Initially, he was sure the Cauldron had made a grave mistake. But as the years had progressed and given how the middle Archeron sister kept hold on the bond, perhaps the Cauldron was right. After all, when has the Cauldron ever been wrong?
Wings began to pick up a frightening speed, as the House of Wind began to come closer into his view. Eyeing the balcony that led into the dining room, he fluttered his wings in a powerful motion, now slowly descending onto the concrete, his feet then hitting the stone beneath him. Passing the two glass doors, he stepped in. The dining room was empty, as expected, only being dimly lit by the surrounding fae-light. But traces of light laughter could be heard down the hall. They were traces of her, traces of Gwyn.
It was a peculiar case he had yet to face, on how his unlikely friendship with the priestess had brought him a strange source of warmth. After Starfall, after feeling the pull from his chest, he began finding himself searching for her, yearning for her presence. It was puzzling, indefinitely, the way he'd close his eyes and picture the radiance of her teal eyes shining magnificently towards him, for him. And yet, regardless of being filled with such tenderness at the mere thought of her, he grew stagnant. It was set in stone, his stone, that he'd never let himself feel anything for her. He'd never dare taint her with his marred hands.
But try as he might to fight that pull, his shadows sang. They gathered around his body, and began to tug him forward, urging their spymaster to follow the choir of voices. He heaved a sigh, giving into their demand. It was a heavy night for him, for them, perhaps peeking in his head for a second would clear just a fraction of his riled mind.
"Busybodies." He muttered low as he now walked towards the hall, finding himself in front of one of the House's private libraries. Growing insistent, shadows gathered on the knob, desperate for the turn. Azriel obliged their pleas, and let himself in.
Seeing Gwyn and Nesta cross-legged on separate couches wasn't an unusual sight, their noses stuck in some sultry book. In fact, it was a sight he was vastly familiar with. But seeing Cassian sprawled on Nesta's lap, his nose stuck in same book as the latter, was truly an unusual sight to behold. It seemed as if the House had formed its very own book club, and he wasn't invited.
"Welcome back, shadowsinger." Gwyn looked up to his honey-colored eyes, tears of laughter, he assumed, filled her own eyes. He returned her smile with a tug on his lips. Her hair was sleek, yet undone, falling over her favored knitted sweater that Nesta had given her for Solstice. Gwyn wiped the tears from her eyes, snapping Azriel out of whatever daze she had unintentionally put him under.
"To Tame a High King," Azriel cocked his head, reading the title of the book in Gwyn's hands. "Should I even ask?"
"It's pretty self-explanatory, Azriel." Nesta answered, waving her own copy. "Cassian decided to join us today, and might I say he does a darling impression of the King."
"Cas?" Azriel stepped fully in the library, closing the door behind him.
"I'll have you know, Sellyn Drake is a fantastic writer, Az." Cassian replied, his eyes never leaving the page in front of him. Azriel rubbed his temples, unsure of what to make of the comical situation, "I'm sure."
"Join us or continue your brooding, or whatever it is you do." Nesta motioned him with her hand.
The intrigued spymaster exhaled deeply at the invitation. He tucked in his wings, and took a seat on the floor, his body next to Gwyn's legs. Nesta called upon the house for another copy of To Tame a High King, and just as easily, it appeared before Azriel. Gwyn playfully nudged her knee to the space on his back between his wings. He shuddered, his shadows dancing near his shoulders, as if stretching themselves towards the priestess. "I think they want to sit next to me." Azriel could hear the smile behind her voice.
Without looking back, Azriel replied lowly, opening the book in his hands. "I wouldn't want to invade your personal space."
"Yet you sit at my feet." Gwyn raised a brow. "Make it make sense."
Cassian snorted at the interaction, earning a well-deserved scowl from his brother. Without another word, Azriel stood and took his rightful seat next the irrevocable force that was Gwyneth Berdara. She'd one day be the death of him, and he had accepted this.
"We just started Chapter five, Az." Nesta cleared her throat. "You can start us off."
"I'd rather not."
"Think of it as your initiation." Cassian added.
"Please, shadowsinger," The priestess sitting at his side pleaded, her eyes wide with amusement. Azriel gritted his teeth, his hands clutching the book into a harder grasp. Another long exhale escaped him.
He admitted defeat.
"It was early afternoon when the High King stumbled upon the chambermaid's dormitory…"
It was pure hilarity and amusement throughout the night, as the small circle dove deeper into the cliché novel. Azriel had never imagined himself speaking such syrupy words aloud, words fitted to make the heart of any female clench. However, after getting through three more chapters, mouths began to let out suppressing yawns, and hands began to stretch tall as the night took a tired turn. It didn't take long for Cassian to fill the room with sounds of his raucous snoring, which only resulted to an equally-as-tired Nesta hauling her mate and bidding the remaining pair a 'goodnight' and a 'see you tomorrow.'
Gwyn stretched her arms upwards, followed by a yawn that ended in a deep sigh being released from her chest. "I suppose I should get going as well."
"Am I boring you?" Azriel teased the Valkyrie beside him.
Teal eyes widened at the cheeky remark. She placed a hand over her chest, exaggerating her shock. "Of course not."
"I'm joking, Gwyn." He nudged her arm with his own. "We have quite the day tomorrow, you should be heading to bed."
He spoke truth. Tomorrow they'd be on a two-day endeavor to Windhaven. Although he grew tremendously proud of the once sheltered priestess who was now exploring ranges outside of Velaris, Windhaven was a wretched place he never wanted Gwyn to see, nor experience. But per his brother, the High Lord, the Valkyries were mandated to carry their mission. And although Gwyn was elated traveling back to the war-camp, the sour taste in Azriel's mouth never faded.
"I thought you knew me better by now, shadowsinger. I don't exactly have the best sleeping habits, nor much of pleasant dreams." Azriel shifted, knowing Gwyn suffered of night terrors, as did he.
As if understanding the weight of her words, Azriel's shadows reached towards the priestess, settling themselves in her lap. She smiled at them, running a hand through the inky clouds that always seemed to comfort her in their own way. At first, Azriel found it as a nuisance, unable to find any excuses as to why they acted the way they did towards Gwyn. But the priestess had welcomed them, admiring their comfort and light touches. He couldn't help but let them be, just as she had.
"Did you run out of sleeping tonics?" He asked.
"No, I have plenty, a lifetime worth actually." Another yawn escaped her; his shadows ran up her arms in response.
"Then get to it." Azriel replied.
"I took one earlier, it's only a matter of time until I feel it." She shrugged her shoulders, bringing her book back to her face, "I'd like to finish another chapter, if you don't mind me here… that is."
"Then by all means." He angled his chin to her book. Gwyn gave him a coy smile, her tired eyes on full display, and resumed her attention back to the novel in her hands.
However, try as she might, Gwyn didn't get very fair in the novel as sleep overtook her now limp body. The priestess' eyes shut, as her body now sank itself on the couch. The hands that once held her book loosened their hold, sending the book out of her grip and onto the floor, but the shadows that never left her now lunged forward, catching the book before it collided itself with the wooden floor.
"Gwyn?" Azriel asked lowly, his eyes lowering themselves to catch a glimpse of her freckled face.
Her vivid eyes were closed, her breath steady, soft, as she was now fully under the work of one of her sleeping tonics. Azriel remained still, careful to not wake her. But even so, he stilled, just to study the storm of a woman beside him. It was strange to see her sleep. What was once a lively, sarcastic, and sure priestess, was now a statue of quiet beauty. His lips formed a tight line, unsure of what to do. The infamous sleeping tonics were unquestionably strong, he knew, as he used them often himself. Once asleep under it's magic, it was difficult to awaken. He'd be more than willing to carry her to bed, but he'd never enter the priestess' dorm without permission.
"House," He whispered to the air, lightly clearing his throat in the process. "A blanket if you can." Azriel awaited his request to fulfil. Nothing arose from the floor, or from the couch. He cracked a finger in annoyance. It wasn't a secret that the house was much fonder of the women that resided in it compared to the men. "It's for Gwyn," He added, a snark behind his tone. Instantaneously at his words, a white fleece blanket appeared at the base of his feet.
Azriel shook his head, now picking up the blanket. In a careful motion, he placed the snug fabric over Gwyn, tucking it to her shoulders. Hazel eyes remained struck, unable to revert away from her form. His shadows agreed with his still actions, as they now hovered over her, making themselves into their own blanket—an added layer for Gwyn. Azriel angled his head, unsure of what strange fascination they had with her.
"Let her sleep." The spymaster urged, but the shadows only sunk deeper around the sleeping priestess in response.
The graceless Illyrian soldiers were brutes of their own accord. The entirety of the day was filled with thoughtless sparring, vulgar insults, and crude remarks. There was nothing more Azriel despised than bringing the girls along with them to the war-camp. It took every ounce of his restraint not to cut the throats of those prying men who licked their lips and spoke obscenities of the just-as-capable women who strode along the camp.
After the Blood Rite, tensions rose and remained at an obscene rate. The reality of two female Carynthians and one female Oristian was enough to boil the blood of the entire Illyrian army. In order to try and mend the tension, Rhysand ordered for the Valkyries to accompany Cassian and Azriel to Windhaven, and to train the Illyrian women that agreed to become a part of the legion. The High Lord assumed the presence of the trio would become habitual, and soon enough would not cause any heads to turn at their presence. But at this rate, it would take years, centuries even, before the tautness of the males could subside.
It was the end of the day, and their duties were filled. Azriel watched the girls put away the assortment of weapons back on the weaponry rack. It was never easy, and it never did get easier, as he could see the wandering eyes pry into their training ring. It wasn't until Azriel saw a male jump over the ring and approach the copper-haired Valkyrie that his siphons flickered in an outburst. Without even giving it thought, his feet began to move.
"Careful now, Az." Cassian placed his hand afront of Azriel, halting his steps.
"Who is that?" Azriel asked, the shadows swarming around his shoulders, ready to strike.
"Balthazar." Cassian spoke, his hand dropping to his side. "Nesta told me he helped them in the Blood Rite, a friend of theirs I suppose." Azriel felt the weight on his shoulders lighten just slightly. He could never be too careful about any Illyrian male he came across in the war-camps, he'd learn that many, many years ago. A pang of spite overtook Azriel's chest, as Gwyn gave the unknown male the same smile she gives him.
"Jealous?" Cassian raised a brow. Shadows still lingered sharply around his shoulder, an uneasiness fueling their movements. "Relax, Az, we leave back to Velaris tomorrow morning. You've been on edge since we arrived." Cassian was right, and Azriel knew.
"I don't like this, Cassian." Azriel spoke, his voice irritated. "Why don't we leave tonight? Our duties here are done for the week."
"The girls wanted to stay the night. Let's let them."
"These are some of the same men that tried to kill them in the Blood Rite." Azriel's voice now grew deep with temper. "Yeah, and got their asses handed to them, Az," Cassian placed a hand on Azriel's shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze. "You need to give them more credit, brother, we did train them after all."
The shadowsinger inhaled deeply through his noise, the thought of leaving tomorrow giving him dim hope. Beaten, he spoke, "I'll get the tents ready."
Night overtook Windhaven, bringing along a wind so fierce it rocked the tent with vigor. Azriel sharpened truth-teller on his lap, the sound of metal grinding against metal filled his tent. Once satisfied with the sting of his dagger, he ran his finger along its edge, assuring himself of his handiwork before putting it away in the sheath that was secured around his thigh. He turned his body to the makeshift desk, eyeing the stack of reports awaiting his attention. But just before he was about to pull up the documents, a sudden sound of footsteps was heard just outside the tent.
In Windhaven, he didn't dare remove his leathers, and he didn't dare sleep for this very reason.
The mere sound was enough to put him on complete edge, knowing the girls tents were right next to his. Sparing no time, he unearthed truth-teller once again, unflinchingly grasping the blade's hilt. Without any given hesitation, Azriel winnowed into the shadows outside. But the culprit was far from the feral soldier he had had pictured in his mind.
From the looks of it, Gwyn had just left her tent, and sat on a withered log near the fire. Fiercely, she rubbed her hands against her knees, seeking warmth in the friction she created. Relieved, yet annoyed with the fact she was out in the open, he called out to her. "Gwyneth."
Gwyn turned her head, her braid undone, leaving her hair in mindless waves in its wake. Her leathers were replaced with thick, wool leggings, accompanied by an oversized sweater. Azriel furrowed his brows at the sight. He'd never forgive himself if something, or someone, were to harm her on his watch.
"It isn't safe out here, return to your tent." The spymaster ordered.
"I can't sleep this early." She admitted. "And the tent feels like an icehouse, it's much warmer out here by the fire."
"Gwyn, this camp is filled with danger in almost every corner, and you know this. If something happens to you under my watch... then I-"
"Then don't put me under your watch." She retorted; her eyes narrowed at him. He swallowed his pending words. Knowing Gwyneth Berdara over the last years, he got to know her strong dislike of being cocooned in a safety net.
"Gwyn-"
"Don't coddle me, shadowsinger." Gwyn scrunched her nose, as Azriel took a seat next to her.
"I'm not."
"Then what do you call this?" She asked, her hand waving back and forth, highlighting his presence. "A chat, if you will." Azriel cracked his neck in habit. "We're both insomniacs, we both know, might as well make the best of it then."
Gwyn suppressed a laugh, unable to find herself angry with the spymaster. "I can't be angry at you." The priestess heaved a sigh, leaning closer to the fire.
"How did you find the past two days?" Azriel found himself asking, distracting Gwyn from the cold.
"Well, any day away from the house or the library still feels like a triumph for me."
Small victories, that's what he recalled Gwyn calling it. After the Blood Rite, Gwyn began to venture out the House of Wind, facing the world outside with clear eyes and a strong heart. He could still clearly remember her first visit down to Velaris, how the pupils of her teal eyes dilated from fascination at the never-ending blocks of shops. He flew her back to the House that night, with what seemed like bracelets of shopping bags secured on her wrist.
But in contrast to the good, he also recalled the more distressing sides of her treks. A moment that had struck with him was on her first trip to Windhaven, and the way her face had grown pale at the sight of the endless sea of brute males. He'd never forget the stern look of her eyes as she spoke to the females who carried the burden of their history, clipped wings hung weakly behind them.
Yet despite everything, he considered it a silent honor to stand by her, the once priestess that secreted herself in the library. To witness the emergences of Gwyn had brought him nothing but a deep sense of pride. Small victory after small victory, he was there, and he'd continue to be there.
But before he could speak his praise, Gwyn let out a small sneeze, followed by another, and another.
"Are you catching a cold?" Azriel couldn't help but worry now.
She shook her head, "No, it's probably just allergies."
"Allergies?" He raised a stern brow. "Allergies where, Gwyn?"
"Alright," She admitted defeat, enveloping her arms around herself. "Perhaps I've been feeling under the weather."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"And look weak in front of everyone? I'd rather not."
Azriel had almost forgotten that Gwyneth Berdara was also the most stubborn woman he had ever met.
"Gwyn," Hazel eyes locked with hers, "How do you feel about going somewhere warmer?"
"Warmer?" Teal eyes widened at the thought, "Are you teasing me?"
"I take that as a yes." Azriel stood, now holding out his hand. Gwyn swallowed any hesitation she found herself with, excitement running through her veins. Her freckled hand now grabbed onto his as she stood to his level.
"Do you trust me?' He asked.
"You know I do."
And in an instant, darkness swallowed them whole.
The once unforgiving wind had stilled, as the two had emerged out of the shadows and into a quaint snow valley. Just a few feet away from them, nestled between two mountain peaks, was the cabin Azriel was all too familiar with. The oak cabin was weathered, as it had always been, and had been dusted with a fresh coat of snow.
"This is Rhysand's cabin."
"This is where you come after solstice?" Gwyn's eyes blinked, thrilled to finally put a picture to the cabin she had heard many stories of. "Is it alright that we're here?"
Azriel couldn't help his chuckle, "Yes. He lets us use it at our leisure. I used to come here often, but not as much now." Azriel led their way up the snow-filled path. With the turn of the knob, he opened the door, and Gwyn's eyes widened at the sight before her. At first, it seemed like an ordinary cabin. The walls were coated in a generic wood-paneling, the smell of oak and spruce filled the air. It held a kitchen to the right, and a gathering area on the left. But upon further inspection, Gwyn found the Cabin adorned with an array of colorful paintings. From the kitchen table to the walls, and even to the mantle, various paintings graced each piece as it would a canvas.
"Did the High Lady paint all this?"
"Yes, she did." Azriel answered. "Just a few years ago."
Gwyn turned to the spymaster, her face filled with remorse as she spoke, "I feel as if I shouldn't be here." Azriel raised his brows at her sudden admittance. "Why is that?"
"Nesta, Emerie and Cassian are probably shivering in the cold right now. I feel a bit guilty." Gwyn fidgeted her fingers. A small laugh escaped him. "Illyrian blood runs warm, I can assure you Emerie and Cassian are fine. Nesta on the other hand, is hell herself, I wouldn't worry about her either."
"Well, if you insist."
They found themselves by the warmth of the hearth, huddling on the leather couch, enjoying the second fire of the night, Gwyn brought her knees up to her chest, enjoying the unexpected turn the night had brought. Azriel draped an exotic fur over her knees, giving them a pat. "Are you warm now?"
"Yes." She curved her lips upwards, a sweet blush now staining her speckled cheeks. "Thank you."
"The house responds to magic." He spoke softly. "Would you like anything?" Gwyn pursed her lips, lost in thought regarding her wants. "Shadowsinger, if you can give me a glass of wine and a piece of cake, I think I'd cry."
With a wave of his hand, her request was fulfilled. Two ornate glasses of wine appeared on the coffee table, along with a delectable slice of chocolate cake. "Where are those tears, Berdara?"
Gwyn squealed, quickly giving the spymaster a firm hug on his arm. Surprised by the sudden clasp, but reveling in it nonetheless, he smiled. Gradually, they sipped on the red wine the cabin had provided and shared the slice of chocolate cake. Azriel found it curious as to how Gwyn would place the plate on the coffee table after every sharing bite, rather than handing it to him directly.
"I must admit, this is much nicer than staying in a tent." Gwyn sunk into the leather couch, the glass of wine rocking in-between her hands.
"It's better than catching a cold." Azriel responded.
He watched the curious Valkyrie look around the cabin. She set down her wine, as her finger then traced the delicate ring of assorted flowers that the High Lady had painted on the coffee table before them. "Azriel." Gwyn peeked her eyes at him, she gave him an easing smile. "Do you have fond memories here? In this cabin?"
"This is one of the few places in Illyria I can tolerate." The spymaster returned her smile, admitting his truths. Hazel eyes now stared into the burning embers below the mantle. "I've told you before, but Rhysand's mother took me in as one of her own. We'd come here often, either if it was to reflect when we'd get scolded, or to sneak off for an entire week to drink."
"Rhysand's mother seemed like a very kind woman." Gwyn replied, her voice small, understanding. The fire crackled and spat its embers into the air.
"She was." Azriel set his own glass down, his heart full. "And she was a friend of my mothers, I always believed that's why she took me in."
Throughout the year of familiarity, Azriel had never spoke of his mother so openly in front of Gwyn. Right away, he noticed the change in her face, how the once eager face now clad a look of empathy. And despite of it, she sunk her shoulders and smiled. "What is your mother like?"
"Quiet, collected," He admitted, his voice growing soft. "Selfless, tender…" The calm image of his mother burned within him. It was an image unruined and untouched. It wasn't until he caught a glimpse of his marked hands that turned his feelings of warmth into something glacial. "She was nothing like my father."
Gwyn stilled at the mention of his father, her face grew apologetic. "I'm sorry." Her voice grew just as soft.
"No. I am who I am because of him…" His face turned into a thing of stone, "because of his sons, because of Windhaven." The amber in his eyes flickered, never leaving the sight of his hands now, his marred finger stretched outwards. Defined by scars, marked by the cruelty of his own family, they were a testament of his upbringing—a reminder of the broken family he had left behind.
He loathed his hands more than anything, perhaps more than life itself. Mangled scars stretched in strips, from the tips of his fingers to the surfaces of both his palms. What should have been a smooth surface of tan skin, housed an array of white and red flesh. It was a mutilation he considered so inferior, and one he had often hid under bandages and leathered gloves. They were hands not worth of touching, of holding, of loving.
"Regardless of how much I try to forget that part of my life, I came to a realization that it will never cease, that it will never falter. It just became a part of me. It shaped me." The shadows hovered over his shoulders, remaining as still as he was. "Because of them… these hands will never be worthy of many things…"
A soft noise escaped him, as the warmth of Gwyn's specked hands grasped his own. Her thumb gently ran over his marked knuckles. "Azriel," Gwyn used his entire name, teal eyes softened, glowing with the help of the fire before them. "You are who you are because of your past, but your past does not define you."
Out of anyone to have a say in this situation, he knew Gwyn had every right. Just as he, she suffered her own strain of trauma—trauma that she still dealt with to this very day. He'd remember the look on her face when he reached her that day, battered and broken, her eyes lifeless, slick with tears. He hated knowing that in a way, he was a reminder of her pain.
"I know you've suffered, just like I have, and I know of the pain that's been inflicted upon you." She brought his hands closer to hers, resting them over her heart. "But from what I've seen, from what I know, you are very much worthy, Azriel." Eager eyes searched for his own. "Regardless of what you think, you are worthy."
Worthy. It was a word he'd never dare associate himself with. Since his adolescence, he was taught to live with his head down, to instill the learnt fact that he didn't amount to anything. And as he grew older, and harvested his raw power, those teachings still haunted him. Becoming a spymaster, a murderer, made him thoroughly feared, and respected by those who once doubted him. But even that itself wasn't enough. In fact, perhaps it made his worth feel less, diminishing it right in front of him. Who would want to be with someone who tortures, who slaughters, who spends every night surrounded by the physical shadows of his desolation? "What I've seen… what I've done to people… Gwyn, you wouldn't understand."
"I know what you've done."
Ultimately, she was right. Gwyneth Berdara was there, as Azriel had cut through each one of those Hybern soldiers with absolutely no mercy, and no thought behind it. She saw the way he wavered his shadows, his weapons, cutting into each man that stood in between them. He was relentless, frenzied, as if he was crazed by the bloodshed he had caused. And yet, being a witness of his stomach-churning crusades, she stood by her declaration.
"Azriel, these are hands that fight against injustices, that secure safety for those who are unable to do so themselves." Gwyn gave his hands a gentle squeeze. "Hands that help those who aren't able to help themselves, hands that reach out to those who need to be pulled up."
The look on her face was of pure devotion. Her gaze remained soft, yet stern, as the fulness of her bottom lip trembled. It was a face so beautiful, so genuine, that he knew her words were undying, true.
"These are hands that save." It felt like a prayer, hearing what felt like sacred words leave her mouth.
The same hands she had praised had allowed themselves to frame her face. "Gwyn." His once velvet-like voice was shaken. And with no hesitancy to withhold him from her any longer, he drew her in his arms, flushing their bodies together, tight with warmth and brimmed with endearment. It was an embrace he wasn't even aware he longed for, one to solidify that the night was real, and that he was indeed worthy.
And that's when it began.
Azriel's breath grew ragged, uneven, as he felt the cave of his chest tighten. A fierce spark began to glow. It was that undeniable tug again, the one he'd experience before, but this time it pulled tightly at the invisible seams of his chest with such a force it rattled him. What felt like golden threads wrapped themselves tightly around his chest, claiming it fully. And that's when he began to follow the pull. Light shone brightly from the threads, seemingly glowing brighter the further it went. It felt never-ending, almost as if miles and miles of threads continued onwards, their path just as lighted as they were.
And that's when he felt it. The snap.
It was a feeling so blinding, so pure, and so full of brilliance. The thread that wrapped around his chest had banded him to her, to her already shone end of the thread, to Gwyn.
Gwyneth Berdara was his mate.
"You knew." It wasn't a question, but a statement.
For that second, everything seemed to have connected. From the drawing feeling he would feel towards her in the strangest of times, to the way his shadows would never warn him of her presence—eager to entangle themselves around the copper-haired priestess. All the indications had begun to make sense, they had finally come to light.
His entire life, he wanted nothing but a mating bond, cursing the Cauldron for his misfortune. All he had wanted was to know he was wanted, needed by someone that had those same sentiments towards his entire being as he had on theirs. And this entire time, the key had been there, placed right in front of him. His mate stood right before him. She was here. She was real.
Gwyn drew a sharp breath, pulling herself away from his embrace, his shadows swarming between the two of them. Her eyes glossed, as she herself now felt the fullness in her chest—the fullness of the bond. What was once a lonely thread that dimmed only on her end, now shone its entirety of its length.
Azriel's hands moved, from nestling on her back, to now gripping themselves on her shoulders. "You knew." He repeated himself.
Her voice was quiet, instilled with uncertainty. "Yes."
"Since when?" His own voice shook with emotion, it was a sight so raw.
"Since the moment I saw you… in Sangravah"
He could feel it, the bond that every mated induvial spoke of. Gwyn's feelings had become his own, as the feeling in his chest swarmed with despair. The wave of grief rode through his chest, his shoulders becoming heavy at the feeling. That's where he pictured it. Atop of her ruin, atop of the death of her sister, at that very same time, Gwyn had to endure the foreign feeling of the bond snapping within her. He swallowed hard, unable to even comprehend the emotional toll Gwyneth Berdara had to withstand that day. His heart sunk deeper into his chest, the bond growing heavy between the two of them.
"Fuck, Gwyn, I'm so sorry." Even unknowingly during a time he had no control over, he felt completely and absolutely selfish. How could the Cauldron have picked such a revolting time to snap the bond for her? He grew nauseous with remorse, the grasp he held on her grew tighter.
"It isn't your fault." She whispered.
"But when we met again, you still didn't speak of it." The spymaster was confounded, knowing Gwyn held that heavy secret with her for the span of those two years in the library, alone. The ache in his chest grew, now a mixture of wonder and grief. The more he uncovered of her past, the more he attached her pain to his own.
"How could I?" Her voice was shaken. "We hardly knew each other. How do you think I could do that you? Be such a crucial deciding factor in your life? I would never in my life do that to you, Azriel."
"Gwyn." He grew still, his siphons flickered. "That's beside the point."
"Is it though?" Vivid, teal eyes began to grow moisture, a tear now streamed down her cheeks. "How did you expect me to tell you? How? I've seen how you look at Elain, did you really expect me to put your relationships to a halt over my selfishness?" Gwyn swallowed her hesitation, sniffling back a sob.
"That was not a relationship, Gwyn."
"Azriel, please, I-" But the following words never left her mouth, as her attention began to drift from his concerned face to the sounds outside the cabin door. Without hesitation, she quickly removed herself from Azriel's hold, and wiped the damp tears that now stained her flushed cheeks. The door swung open, as Cassian and Nesta then strode in, a look of relief and annoyance on their faces.
"Cauldrons! There you two are!" Cassian let out a deep exhale, "You really think you can sneak off into the Cabin while we suffered the toll of the storm?" The General let out a slight chuckle, as he walked his way to the kitchen. The eldest Archeron sister made her way towards the hearth, about to rip them a new one—that was until she noticed the unfamiliar sight before her. Clearly, she saw the streaks on Gwyn's cheeks that had indicated her tears. Nesta's cold eyes pierced the shadowsinger, as if she instantly had known he was involved. Death stared straight into Azriel's soul itself.
"What's going on?" Nesta squared her shoulders, now on full alert. Her heart pounding erratically against her chest.
"Nothing," Gwyn cleared her throat, forcing a smile. "Nothing is going on."
"Gwyn," Azriel's voice was hoarse, his eyes pleading. "I'm sorry, excuse me," The priestess spoke, as she placed the fur aside. She stood, and quickly made her way towards the hall of the cabin. Azriel stood just as quickly, unsure of what to make of her sudden departure. A slight click could be heard down the hall, indicating a now closed door.
Nesta threw the shadowsinger a look of caution, as if silently warning him to not go after her. Hurryingly, she turned and began to make her way down the hallway, following her chosen sister into the room. Cassian furrowed his brow, his eyes warily studying his brother, whose shadows swarmed in a fury against him. "Az, what the hell happened? Is everything al-" But before Cassian could finish his sentence, he stood motionless, smelling an unfamiliar scent in the room. With a deep inhale, he knew what it was. The mating bond.