When did you fall?
No fire—that was the first of many rules Azriel had imposed in the two short hours since we'd taken refuge in the barren cave, a quarter mile behind our previous line of progress. No fire, no noise, and absolutely no magic. I could grasp the need for silence and no flames, given the ancient, cruel forest we now hid within and the absence of the general who'd been wielding shields and scouting for threats with his Illyrian death magic this past week. But when I pressed about the magic—after four relentless days of wielding it until my very bones ached for mercy—Azriel dismissed it as an extra precaution to avoid attracting the types of horrors that called this forest their home. A truth laced with a lie. I saw the lameness in his shadows pooling at his feet; I noticed how his wings dipped, then lifted every few minutes, as though he held them aloft by remembered pain rather than instinct. He wasn't sure he could cloak my attempts, feeble as they may be.
Even after days of slowly opening that faucet of my power, killing hundreds—thousands—of shrubs and moss patches, it wasn't enough. It thrummed beneath my skin, in my blood, surging through my veins, hammering in my ears. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. It seemed to chant, over and over, again and again. The fire in my chest burned on, a stubborn smolder that offered no warmth against the chill cloaking us.
The rain pressed on without mercy, its alliance with the mountain pass's biting cold tightening as the sun sank in a slow retreat. The warmth of my dry leathers had long since faded. My hands, now stiff beyond use, lay wedged between my backside and the gravel-strewn cave floor, all sensation lost.
"You're cold," Azriel's granite-hewn voice rumbled from across the cave. His posture mirrored mine—back against the wall, hands tucked from the open air, head bowed in contemplation or resignation. We're not even a quarter up the mountain, his silence seemed to murmur these past two hours. It's my fault, mine seemed to echo back.
Boots scuffed on gravel, nearly masking the whispered groan I knew he hadn't meant to let slip. My eyes strained in the near-dark, struggling to track the Shadowsinger's movements—a shadow himself, revealed only by the moon's pale glow glinting off the tip of his wing here, a stray strand of onyx hair there.
The brush of butter-soft leather against my arm made me flinch, then ease as Azriel's warm weight settled beside me. His scent—sandalwood and steel, night-chilled mist and cedar—wove around my senses, my body, my soul. He had no right to smell that good after a week in the wilds, bathing only in frigid lakes. Mother above, I didn't want to guess what I smelled like.
"We should conserve heat," he said, his voice, rough with exhaustion, slicing through the silence once more. I didn't dare move, too afraid he'd retreat to the far side of the cave again, too nervous that one misstep would send him back to treating me like I was invisible—a burden, a chore. "May I?" My heart thundered as I caught the movement, not a shadow, but his wing, raised and poised, waiting for my consent to share warmth, to bridge the space between us.
A slight dip of my chin was all I risked, and then—warmth. Silky, heavy warmth draped over my shoulders, curved above my head, seeped into my side from the hard planes of the male now pressed against me. My heart lurched, then galloped at the contact. His lean, muscular frame, so deceptively powerful, could fool only a simpleton into seeing weakness. The top of my head barely grazed the swell of his bicep, still pronounced beneath the thick, wool-lined leathers we'd both pulled on after Cassian's departure.
Cassian, alone, cold, and wet. My stomach dropped at the thought of those ancient, wicked beasts prowling the forest—and at what they'd do if they dragged him from the sky. He would make it back. He had to. He's a general, for gods' sake, not some weak, half-broken fool who couldn't hike six hours without collapsing into a shivering heap, whining for rest.
"Why do you do that?" Large, calloused hands engulfed mine, stopping the relentless picking at the sides of my fingers I hadn't even noticed.
"Bad habit." I whisper, the silence of the cave warranting only soft conversation.
"What do you think about when you do it?" His question was a soft murmur, devoid of disgust or judgment—just a quiet curiosity, a gentle urge to understand.
"A lot of things," I offer, and maybe it's the darkness, or his scent clouding my senses, or the knowledge that after this mission I'll either be dead or discarded, no longer of use, but I continue. "What the king will do when he finds me. What I'll see in those fractured memories—what I've done. I think about how my whole life I've been trying—trying to be stronger, to get them back, to do the right thing—knowing both paths were wrong anyway. I think about what happens if we fail, if I keep dragging us down." A trembling, heavy sigh escapes through my teeth, carrying a weight I hadn't realized was pressing on my shoulders.
My hands twitched at the confession, craving the sharp, grounding sting of skin torn away. But his hands still cradled mine—warm, weathered, etched with centuries of wielding blades, centuries of ending lives. Maybe it wasn't the dark or his scent after all.
"When my mother passed, I ran for five days straight." My stomach twisted at the grief saturating his words, at the raw, anguished ache woven into that single sentence. "She was butchered—deemed too insignificant for even a single guard from my father's stronghold during a war long, long ago. A war I was fighting across the continent." It would have been the first war then, and he would have been so, so young. Barely twenty years old, if he and Cassian were raised together.
"He sent a missive three weeks later," Azriel continued, his voice low and bitter. "Wrote that it was an unfortunate event, that her soul was at rest—as if her slaughter were a mere annoyance, a chore to scribble down and assign guards to burn her body." A harsh, incredulous huff broke from him, as though, even now centuries later, he couldn't grasp his father's callousness.
"I was on a mission for the previous High Lord when that missive found me—alone. Rhysand, Cassian, even the other Illyrian pricks I'd been trained with, they were scattered across the front lines. Not me. I was dispatched beyond them, tasked to kill with silence and shadow, a blade in the dark. Defenseless, distracted—it didn't matter how I struck, so long as no one saw the blood on my hands." Azriel's head thudded against the cave's jagged wall, as if the weight of those years pinned him there.
"I abandoned my post that night. Gods, it was foolish—reckless beyond reason. But I'd do it again. I fled to the mountains, to the paths my mother once led me down in our stolen hour of freedom each day. She'd carry a little white basket, filled with food, and we'd wander the river's edge, trading snacks and stories. Hers were wild, absurd fairytales—worlds of witches and demons, cities with buildings piercing the heavens. Mine paled beside hers, clumsy and small, but she'd listen all the same. She always did." I thanked the darkness then, its veil sparing me the shame of a tear that fell at the echo of his mother—so like my own.
"I ran those mountains, tracing that river for five days, stopping only when my legs buckled beneath me. I ran and told her all the stories I had learned at the Illyrian camp, all the tales I'd heard around fires throughout the war. I told her of every life I'd taken since I'd left my father's estate, each kill a story of its own. I told her what I had been doing—what I'd deemed worthier—while she was cut down." His voice frayed and faded, snared by the grip of memory's pain. Time passed—minutes, maybe hours. I didn't notice, didn't care.
"When I stumbled back to my post, Rhysand's father was livid. I'd let his target slip—spooked and fleeing because of my dishonor, my disrespect. Thirteen lashes answered for it." Every muscle in my body seized, a vise of shock and fury. My fingers twitched, aching to sever a thread long since unraveled. Azriel's hands squeezed mine, as if to say don't worry, he got what he deserved, before letting them go. Their warmth, their steady weight, vanished too soon.
"The world will never tire of dealing you pain, Reaper," he murmured, his voice a low, weary rasp. "Don't waste your strength carving it into yourself." I stared at my empty hands, my breath shuddering in my chest—whether from the biting cold or the raw truth slicing through his words, I couldn't tell.
Silence fell between us, heavy as the damp air clinging to the cave walls. His gaze flickered to me, those hazel eyes catching the faint moonlight—sharp, searching. "Who are you trying to get back?" he asked, voice just above a whisper, as if he'd been turning my words over in his mind all this time. The question wasn't a demand, but an invitation, laced with the same quiet need he'd shown moments before. He had given me a piece of himself. A peace offering. The least I could offer is the same.
"I wasn't born in the In-Between. Before we left, I grew up somewhere on this continent—in an ivory estate nestled between rolling hills, its gardens brimming with flowers and fruit trees. The sun was so bright there. I remember lying in fields of hay and wheat, watching clouds drift for hours, playing hide-and-seek with my brother, Elior. My mom would lift me onto her shoulders so I could pick the juiciest oranges from the trees, and I'd chuck them at him, laughing. At least, that's how I remember it." My chest rose and fell with weight, but I kept my hands still.
"It was the summer solstice after my seventh birthday when my father said he was taking me to the In-Between—a bargain he'd forged with my mother over years, sealed in secret. I can still see that night: Elior and I on the terrace, trading jabs about each other's solstice wishes. He'd wished for a goat the year before, the ridiculous ass." A faint laugh slipped out, bittersweet and rough. He'd always made me laugh.
"My father took me that night. Promised my mother and Elior would follow by winter solstice—that we'd celebrate together in the In-Between." The vise clamping my heart tightened at the memory of that winter solstice, what we did. How we celebrated. "They never came." Wrapping my arms around my knees, I could have sworn Azriel's wing pressed in a little closer, a little tighter.
"I begged and screamed at my father to find them for over a year—clawing at him, voice raw, refusing to leave my room. I was punished for it." My arms trembled, the ghost of those punishments searing through me. "I held out as long as I could, until falling in line wasn't a choice anymore." I ducked my head, shame flaring hot and bright, a molten weight churning in my gut.
"My father had traded me for his title in the king's court, so if I didn't, perform…" Azriel's hand found mine again—I hadn't even noticed if I'd been picking at my fingers. "But I never stopped asking. For fifteen years, I demanded answers every damned day. His response was always the same: They're looking. The estate's abandoned. The whore probably spread her legs for some other male." His voice echoed in my skull, cold and cutting. If you have the energy to worry, you have the energy to burn.
Azriel's hand lingered over mine, his calloused fingers a steady anchor against the tremor I couldn't shake. The memories swirling in my skull. The wound I'd carved deeper with every year of asking, every day of hoping. His hazel eyes softened, flickering with something raw—something that mirrored the ache gnawing at my ribs.
"Fifteen years," he said at last, his voice a low rumble, roughened by the weight of his own ghosts. "That's a long war to be waged alone." His thumb brushed my knuckles, a fleeting touch, before he pulled away too soon, leaving my skin cold where his warmth had been. I didn't bother correcting him, explaining that I wasn't alone. That I had Seren. Because then I would have to explain how I lost her, too. And today had been filled with enough pain.
He shifted, rolling onto his side along the cave's wall, one wing tucked beneath him, the other lifted like a dark canopy. His gaze caught mine, steady and unspoken—a quiet call to rest.
My breath caught, and I slid down beside him, turning to press my back against his chest. The hard planes of him formed a steady wall along my spine, his warmth seeping through my leathers to chase the chill from my bones. His wing lowered—silken, heavy—draping over me like a quilt worn with love, weaving a cocoon of shadow and warmth. My pulse thundered, then steadied, tethered to the rise and fall of his chest so close to mine.
Cedar and sandalwood enveloped me as my eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion hovering, ready to claim me. I breathed it in deep. "Azriel?" I whispered, half-sure sleep had taken him. "Hmm?" His reply rumbled low, a soft hum brushing my skin.
"Your mother—I'm sorry for what happened. She sounds like she was lovely. I wish I could've met her." My pulse quickened, a prickle of uncertainty stirring, wondering if I'd stepped too far.
"She was," he murmured, his breath a warm whisper against the nape of my neck. "I look forward to meeting yours one day." A quiet vow, fragile yet firm, if we survived this nightmare. "I would like that," I replied, the vise around my heart loosening as his broad arm draped over my waist, drawing me a touch closer.
We lay there, bound by silence, his wing a shield against the world's sharp edges. Exhaustion tugged harder, softened by the steady rhythm of his breathing at my back. The rain's distant roar faded to a hushed murmur, and my eyes fluttered shut, held in the fragile warmth of this stolen peace.
Then the stillness shattered.
A guttural snarl ripped through the cave's mouth, feral and vile, clawing at my senses. My eyes snapped wide, heart crashing as shadows surged beyond the entrance—clawed, eyeless horrors, their jagged maws glinting in the moonlight. In-Between creatures and Frayed erupted from the dark, a tide of death hurtling straight toward us.