Gwyn sniffles as she takes a deep breath of the chilled evening air. Azriel has been gone on missions the last few days and while she understands, she has become unreasonably angry about it. At first, she believed it to be a symptom of their still fairly new mate bond, but it's not. She found that out rather quickly when she was making breakfast today—and burst her toast with her bare hands.
Technically, she didn't just burn it. She lit it on fire. So much so that she had to throw it in the sink and use her elbow to turn the faucet on and put out her hands, as they were blazing like torches. She had woken up in an empty bed yet again with no note and she couldn't stop a phantom rage from running through her. They were keeping him away from her. That's all it took. One stupid thought and that fury rushed through her and burned through her veins. It terrified her. She had never known herself to be an angry person, especially not over something so silly that she understood. She knew about Azriel's job. She knew some things he couldn't speak of. She knew the war was looming. And yet—yet her hands had turned into fireballs out of nowhere. As they fizzled out under the water, so did that foreign anger. What was left was an aching hollowness and guilt.
This could not be happening. She cannot just all of a sudden have Autumn Court powers. Yes, while her father and uncle hail from Autumn, she has never once experienced symptoms like this. Not only that, but how does this even work with her water powers from her nymph side?
Unfortunately, she had never actively trained those either...which she is beginning to regret. How the hell can both reside within her? How can water and fire coexist in one person? She is definitely some sort of freak of nature. Water, fire, and lightsinger powers...that has to be some anomaly.
Tears make their way down her face as she stares at her hands then back up at the fading dusk sky. This can't happen. She can't have this. She has to hide it or make it go away. She cannot wield fire when her mate has been traumatized by it. She refuses to hurt him, even by accident.
Taking in another gulp of air she grabs a sword and does some training motions to further strengthen her left wrist. Azriel had the idea for the girls to train with both hands like the Illyrians, and she couldn't say it was a bad idea. It would certainly help in any war they fought as Valkyries.
Moments later she hears the loud beating of wings and a soft thud. Gwyn doesn't so much as acknowledge him as one small curling tendril of annoyance swirls in her gut. She tries to ignore it.
Azriel walks up and gently sidles her, reaching down to caress her arm, then correct her position. "Like this", he says softly.
That's all it took.
Gwyn yanks herself away and whirls on him, swinging. Azriel jumps back, eyes widening. "Gwyn!"
Gwyn seethes and glances at the sword before tossing it down, slight guilt gnawing at her, that fury rushing through her like burning hot waves in her veins.
"How dare you!? Where were you!?"
"Wh-what? I was working. The mission was top secret and—"
"And you didn't have the decency or the audacity to tell me you'd be away nearly three days in a row!?"
She stalks toward him and swings with her fist. Azriel blows her blows and spars with her. "Gwyn, I didn't have time, I'm sorry. It was dangerous", he pants as he lands blow after blow as hard as she can."
"Gwyn! Can we please just talk!?"
"Talk!? Talk!? Oh, now you want to talk after ignoring me for three days? I'm your godsdamned mate! How dare you ignore me! How dare you leave me here alone!", she screams hoarsely.
Azriel grabs her wrists tightly to stop her fighting and she writhes, trying to get them free. Her irises turn from their oceanic teal to a blazing orange-gold and Azriel gasps.
"Gwyneth!", he shouts, trying to shake her from whatever this is—whatever the hell is happening to his sweet mate.
Gwyn kicks him right where it hurts and he crumples, letting go of her arms. She stumbles back, baring her teeth, her hair now flickering like molten lava and her freckles glimmering golden.
"You left me! And I thought you could be dead!", she screeches. She clenches her fists, and they erupt into fireballs. Azriel's eyes go wide and he pants, slowly getting to his feet, stepping back slowly.
"Gwyn...breathe. Please."
She lets out another anguished yell and one of the training mats erupts into flames, nearly catching his leg as he leaps off of it. "Gwyn!", he shouts helplessly, anxiety and panic rising in his chest. "Please stop", he chokes out. "H-How can I help you?"
Gwyn catches his gaze, his horrified expression, his wide eyes of fear. The mate bond tugs at her and it seems to stun her back into reality, as if someone dumped ice water over her head. Both her body and the training mat snuff out like smoke on the wind.
Gwyn pants hard, a sob coming from her throat as she covers her mouth at what she had just done. "Azriel", she breaks down, sinking to her knees.
Az tears up and rushes over.
"No! Don't come near me, I'll hurt you!"
He ignores her and sits on the ground of their training ring, pulling her close into his lap and rocking her, wrapping his wings around them as she sobs hard, guilt taking over her. Az kisses her head and soothes her.
"Shh...I'm here now. I'm here. I'm so sorry. I've got you."
"I'm sorry", she cried hard. "I'm so sorry."
"Shh...it's okay. I'm okay." He tips her chin and wipes the flow of tears from her cheeks. "I'm sorry too. I love you. And you're right. I'm your mate. I shouldn't have left without a word, and I shouldn't have stayed away without sending word to you. I am so sorry if you felt abandoned."
Gwyn's lip trembled. "We made love and you proposed and then the next day was great, I-I thought it was great...and then I woke up the day after that and you were gone", she says shakily.
Azriel tears up at the realization. "Oh fuck, Gwyn. No, no that's...that's not why. I didn't run. I don't have regrets. Baby, I'm so sorry." He peppers her in kisses and rocks her slowly, sniffling. "Fuck, I'm so stupid, Gwyn..."
Tears fall down her face and she looks down. "I don't know where all this anger is coming from. I was a little hurt, but it turned into this...insatiable rage. And then these powers...why am I getting them now?"
"You're getting closer to thirty. Many High Fae gain their final powers around then. Some are slower than others, but usually it's around thirty. I don't know why I didn't see it. Eris is...unfortunately, your father. Fire is an Autumn Court power."
She sniffles and buries her face in his chest. "I don't want them. I don't—I don't want to feel like this. This fury...this burning hot need to fight...I don't want it, Az. Make it go away", she whimpers. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to traumatize you more. I'm scared."
"You're my mate. I'm not scared of you I was just shocked." A small fib.
Gwyn buries her face in her chest, sniveling. "I can't control it, Az. I'm terrified of hurting you. You don't deserve that. You don't deserve that pain or that trauma again. Especially not from me."
"We will figure it out. Together."
She shakes her head. "You have too much on your plate. I knew that. I—I'm sorry. I wasn't...I wasn't even that mad, I don't know why I exploded like that I-I don't—", she rant exasperatedly.
"Gwyn", he murmurs soothingly, cupping her face in his hands. "We will figure it out. I don't care what the hell is on my plate. You come first. I love you. You're mine. Forever. And I am yours I'm not going anywhere." He nuzzles her cheek and breathes her in before kissing her lightly. "Come on. Let's get a snack and then I'll hold you hm?"
She nods wordlessly and allows Azriel to lead her inside their home. "Why don't you go put your pajamas on and I'll make us some molten chocolate?"
"I could probably heat it up with my hands", she mutters.
Azriel can't help the soft chuckle that escapes him. "Even when you're upset you manage to crack a joke. I love you so much."
Gwyn blushes and smiles softly, shuffling down the hall to their bedroom.
Azriel makes their drinks and takes his leathers off. He takes a deep breath, wincing slightly.
Pulling up the black shirt that he wears underneath, he gasps a bit when he sees his skin where he had previously been stabbed. No wound lays there since Gwyn used her healing magic to fix it, but where it once lay is a pitch-black inky circle. Spreading outward from that circle is the tiny makings of black veins, like the beginning of a spiderweb—tiny tendrils reaching out to grab his golden skin.
He quickly yanks his shirt back down and swallows hard. "Fuck."
Gwyn raises an eyebrow as she walks back into the room, her short sleeve blue nightgown on, and fuzzy mint-colored bunny slippers on her feet.
"What 'fuck'?"
Azriel whirls to her, his eyes slightly wider than usual. "Nothing. I uh...nothing. I had nearly spilled our drinks because I tripped, and I didn't want to get it on our new furniture."
She eyes him suspiciously. "Az, we both know that you, unlike me, are not prone to tripping. You are the steadiest person on your feet. It's part of your job."
"I'm not void of all flaws, Gwyn", he states, offering a small, falsely reassuring smile.
Rolling her eyes, she shrugs, curling up on the sofa. "You going to change, too?"
"Oh. Yes. I am, I should...I'll go do that." He can feel her gaze on his back as he disappears down the hallway, slipping into their room. He runs a hand through his black curls and stews with his panic for a moment.
"Fuck."
.
.
.
Lucien sighs as he strips for bed. A deep, heavy, solemn thing as he stops in front of the mirror. He's avoided them as much as he can since the mask came off that victorious day. But with it came any semblance of hiding the atrocity of his marred skin. He takes in his face. That thin, long, jagged thing from his brow to his jawline. Even now he can feel Amarantha's phantom fingernail drawing blood, her magic forcing him to keep his eyes open, her finger pushing its way into the socket and ripping before his eye rolls into her palm, crimson red as his socket gushes with blood. That razor-sharp nail continued its slow descent down his face, carving him as he screamed his throat raw.
Shuddering, he sucks in a shaking breath and blinks, turning away from the mirror, only to glimpse the lash marks ravaging his back. He quickly turns back, unsure whether he prefers his ruined face or ruined back.
It's not so much the look of that facial scar that jars him still...it's the memory resurfacing when he does look. He doesn't know how long that will stay with him...just as that bitch had wanted it to. A promised haunting.
"It's a mark of your survival."
Lucien startles slightly at the sudden voice, calming once processing that it's only Elain.
"Oops. I forget how quiet winnowing is sometimes. Didn't mean to startle you." She flashes him one of her beautiful smiles, and his heart aches at her flawless face. Even her skin is free of bumps and roughness.
"It's alright."
She walks over to him and wraps her arms around his neck. "I mean it, though." Moving onto her tiptoes, she kisses the spot above his brow, then the top of his cheek, the curve of his jaw. She trails those soft, sensual kisses along the full length of the roughened and pale white scar. His heart beats wildly in his chest and his stomach fills with butterflies, even still. Mate.
"It's a testament to your strength, Lucien, not your weakness. It is a battle stripe of endurance", she tells him, voice strong and confident and she brings her forehead against his, her lips curving into a gentle smirk when his mechanical eye hums a bit, as it does when he is most emotional.
"It doesn't feel that way. We've gone over this before, Ellie."
"I know. But it fills me with this well of sadness when I see you doubting yourself. When I see you turning away from your gorgeous face. When I see you look so pained over a past you cannot change."
"Sometimes I still startle when I see my ears, y'know. And there's this part of me that may always wonder "what if". What if I didn't convince Nesta to have that meeting with the Queens? What if my glamor had tricked Graysen? What if instead of turning fae it all went wrong, and I died? And what if I had to continue living out my mortal life? I-I don't even know what I would be doing. But I know I wouldn't feel as empowered as I do now. I know I wouldn't have found my voice without you. And I know that I most likely would have married for prestige...and not for love; not for connection. I would have married him, and I would have had his children and eventually, I would have been miserable. Who knows, maybe the bitterness would have turned me into my own mother. But the "what ifs" will never ever end. There are no limits to possibilities. All I have to know is that everything happened as it did, and I ended up here with you, where I was always meant to be."
"And this...", she murmurs, cupping his cheek. "This is the face of the male that fought and defied Hybern to protect me from their stares and laughs when I was at my most humiliated. This is the face of the male who didn't even know I was his mate yet, that covered me with his own jacket. This is the face that frustrated me to no end when I was stubborn and didn't want to admit that it haunted my every dream and darkest desire even when it felt wrong. This is the face that I would conjure in my mind to calm myself after a vision because then I could feel our bond. This is the face of the male that showed up consistently to check on me but was always respectful enough to give me space. This is the face of the male that found me in the library installing flowerboxes at just the right time, when I felt low and pretended I wasn't. This is the face that I slowly fell head over heels for with a glint in each eye-a mischievous one in your russet eye and a glimmer of the sun in your golden one. This is the face of the male who changed my life and changed my outlook. This is the face I turned to, that encouraged me to speak when I wanted to speak. And this is the face that makes my heart lurch with glee and my stomach flutter with butterflies. I fucking love this face. It's the face of my mate, and it is the most handsome and gorgeous and ruggedly sexy face I have ever and will ever see for the rest of my existence."
A tear slips down his face and she strokes it away.
"And don't think for a single second that I only said those things to make you feel better. I didn't. I said them because they're true, Lucien. I chose you. I chose you because I saw you. I chose you because you made me feel more like myself than I've ever been in my entire life. I chose you regardless of the mate bond, and I would end up choosing you in any version of events because I fell in love with you as a person. I chose you and I will keep choosing you. It's a major fucking plus that you're so godsdamned gorgeous though."
"Elain", he chokes out.
"Lucien", she murmurs, wrapping her arms around his and leaning her head on his chest, his heartbeat slightly erratic. "You're alive", she says quietly. "You made it. I think sometimes you need the reminder that you did—and that there are people who love you, no matter how many scars mar your body. What's inside your heart matters more, though you'll never hear me complaining about your body." She grins up at him.
Lucien can't help the shy smile that graces his lips. "Is that so, little fawn?'
"It is very, very so", she replies, pressing kisses over his heart between each word.
"My lady, you really know how to make a male feel better."
Elain giggles and pecks his lips, twirling his red hair around her fingers. "I can do much, much better than that, my fox."
Lucien's russet eye gleams as he finally takes in the partially sheer nightgown that she is wearing. A pink, frilly, skimpy thing.
"Oh", he murmurs. "I see."
"You do see", she grins cheekily, leading him over to their bed and roaming her hands over his toned golden chest. "I have nothing but high compliments about this body of yours."
"Mm, I return the sentiment wholeheartedly, sunshine." His eyes rove over her body hungrily, noting her ducky, hardened nipples peeking through the fabric. He licks his lips and she giggles.
"You could sit there and stare all night, or you could use that sly tongue the way you want to, fireling."
A low, dominant, growling purr escapes his throat as he leans forward, her body lowering to the mattress as he presses his body on top of hers, claiming her lips with his plump ones.
Elain sighs with contentment and returns the kiss wholly, her legs wrapping around his torso. That's when a vision overcomes her. So powerful and so abruptly that a strangled gasp escapes her and her nails dig into Lucien's flesh as her eyes turn an eerie, milky white.
"No!", she screams, her eyes filling with tears.
Lucien cups her face and looks concerned. "Elain, you're safe! You're here with me."
"No! I won't! You can't make me! No!"
The room begins to tremble and a phantom wind whips her hair back. Lucien's jaw drops, unsure of what's happening as his mate begins to glow blindingly. Suddenly he begins to have a sharp, agonizing pain in his chest and he grunts, a hand moving over his flesh as he yells out. "Elain! Wh-what's happening!?"
.
.
.
Amren lets out an irritated growl as she falls on her ass for the third time. Scrambling to her feet, she silently seethes, crossing her arms over her chest.
Varian suppresses his laugh and walks over to her, pressing her into his torso gently.
"Aw don't be so angry, my Fury. It takes a lot of practicing to learn to wield a new power."
"I have been alive for thousands of fucking years, and I can't even control levitation?", She grumbles and pulls out of his arms.
"Amry, you are...not...what you were. You are fully fae now. And that comes with basic, less badass powers, unfortunately. But, you're getting there. You're actually doing very well compared to most new fae."
Her eyes narrow a bit, some of that silvery fire still within them. "Really?"
"Yes."
"No fibbing."
"No fibbing. On my honor."
She sighs and shakes her head. "I'm sick of this shit."
"Of what?"
"Not being as powerful as I was. I realize that maybe I took it for granted, but I had never known any other way. I was born, as I was, and...getting this huge power diminishment is like a punishment."
"It's not a punishment. I know it feels weird, and it will most likely feel wrong and un-whole for a while until you get used to yourself as you are now and going forward. You didn't lose all of yourself though. When you levitate, you do float on some sort of reddish flames made of air. They kind of look like wings too."
"I do?", she questions, not having noticed.
"Yeah, it looks as badass as you are."
"Hm."
"Plus, there is a good thing about this, you know."
"What would that be?"
"Well, you can eat and drink normally now. Not that the whole danger of you wasn't hot because…phew, it was. But I actually enjoy having meals with you now", he laughs.
Amren grunts. "I hate that. Having to fucking pee all the time is not fun or normal to me. It's irritating and inconvenient."
"I'm sorry", he snorts. "It really is."
Varian tosses her a sword and she barely catches it. "Time for swordplay", he winks.
"I can't do this."
"There is no such thing as can't, angel."
"I'm not an angel anymore", she grumbles.
"To me, you always will be."
"I don't know if I ever was qualified to be called one. My siblings and I...we were not the typical type. We were punishers, not healers. I got tired of punishing, and I found a rip in the word and I soared through without looking back. And...even though I ended up in the Prison for an insurmountable amount of time, I did get out. And I've lived this entire other life since then."
Varian goes over and tips her chin up to her. "You are my angel. You were born for a purpose, and despite that, you said no to that destiny and found your own. That takes more courage and strength than the majority of people could ever muster, Amren." Leaning down, he kisses her firmly on the lips.
She cups his face and kisses him back. He smirks and pulls away, wiping the remnants of her red lip stain from his mouth. "Right. Now let's train. I'm not going easy on you."
"Oh, I'd never want you to go easy", she smirks devilishly.
.
.
.
Deep within a dimply lit cavern in the Illyrian Mountains, the Queens stand huddled together, tendrils of black dark magic, swirling around them, intertwined with silvery magic of the Cauldron, giving them extra power.
The air crackles with the malevolent power as they do some enchantment over weapons, a large of the magic being infused into them as the chant echoes through the chamber. Hybern's old spell book sits between them.
Behind them are a dozen Illyrian soldiers, wrists, ankles, and wings chained with iron to the cave walls as their bodies sag in exhaustion. The chains glow an ominous gray as the magic feeds from their energy, rendering them exhausted and unable to fight against the restraints. The burn of flesh can be smelled as the iron sinks into their skin.
Balthazar breathes heavily as sweat trickles down his brow. He can feel his consciousness slipping away, but with their backs turned, he does the only thing he can think of. The only thing that comes to mind while in this predicament. Thanking the Mother that he remembers it, he murmurs his own spell, courtesy of his mother and grandmother—strong Illyrian women, but also witches in secret.
"By mystic words, this spell I weave.
Protection strong, no foe may cleave.
Wards of light, my essence shield,
From their black magic, this power wield."
He watches as the center of his chest glows a soft white before fading into his skin. A small smile of relief graces his lips before he relaxes. He feels awful that he can't protect the rest of them, but if he can get out of here, maybe he can relay this info to the High Lord who can help.
The other soldiers moan and groan with fear and anxiety, weakened as they await their fate. Their glazes are slightly hazy as the iron chains drain them. As the Queens' incantation reaches its apex, the Illyrian males begin to convulse, their eyes rolling back. Despite the fear that strikes him, Balthazar plays along, pretending to be just as infected. Dark magic infused by the Cauldron essence from the Queens swirl around them all.
One by one their bodies begin to spasm harder, as the dark magic plunges through their chests to their hearts, black inky magic being pumped through them as their veins turn black. Tormented screams resound as it pulses through them without mercy. Balthazar screams in agony as well, the protection spell fighting against the raw strength of the foreign magic which feels as if iron was placed inside of him, igniting him.
As the power takes hold of the other, their cries weaken and then quickly become mute, all determination and willpower snuffed out from their eyes. They look hollow and lifeless, devoid of care.
The Queens close Hybern's book and step toward the soldiers, Balthazar doing his damnedest to look like the others. Wicked smiles curl on their lips, not black and tainted from their practices. They are completely void of any humanity they had left within them. They extend their arms to the dozen of them on the wall, and wisps of dark magic slither forward like serpents across the air between them. They swirl across their bodies before sinking into their chests, all of them at once gasping and lifting their heads as if infused with a new brand of life. Yet, their eyes stay lifeless, their expressions neutral.
The eldest Queen flicks her wrist and all twelve of them are immediately unchained, falling to the ground hard in unison. Balthazar trains his face into one mirroring the others as he takes their lead, scrambling to his feet unsteadily and then standing up ramrod straight, at attention.
The youngest two Queens begin to gather the hoard of spelled weapons, handing two swords and a dagger back to each newly programmed Illyrian warrior. They dutifully tuck them into sheaths.
The eldest Queen, Desiree, speaks. "Go forth our loyal soldiers and infect as many others as you can with those swords and knives. We must not let our new god down."
As they file out of the cavern in a line, they stay silent. Balthazar follows their lead, keeping his breaths quiet and his expression numb. All he can think of is getting to his mother and convincing her to come to Velaris with him. Then to go back to Velaris and to Emerie. Then he must visit the High Lord and get these swords to be examined—for them to search for a way around the dark magic infused within them. If this can't be reversed... His heart drops into his stomach.
As he exits, he sees a large, muscular man being dragged in by six formerly programmed soldiers, trying to fight them and growling with rage.
Devlon. Their general. Not only was it just his unit compromised, but it must be all of them. This could very well be the end of Illyrians as a whole.