#fate jaguar man | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

azulyrae · 7 months

Text

❛ —— 𝐈𝐈 : The Spy’s Gambit.

after a long year — one lost due to grief and isolation and non-spoken ache — [name] archeron had finally been granted the awaited opportunity to flee from the constricting borders of velaris. what she did not predict would happen, whatsoever, was the insistence of a ruthless — asshole — spymaster on demolishing the barriers of her lone fortress and testing the limits of her powers and patience, during the single travel needed to reach their training destination.

past the illyrian mountains and west from rask, the shifter had two well-stabilished objectives in mind: one, train with diligence to finally move towards her own goals in the mortal lands; and two, try not to permanently disfigure azriel’s face with a scratch of her jaguar claws. five minutes in, and the oldest sister was sure that the latter would be the most difficult of her tasks.

the second chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

pinterest board / spotify playlist.

word-count: 14K.

“We felt the imprisonment of being a girl.”

— The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides.

The Gods whistled a melodic tone. One to carry a whiff of fate and purpose; one to invade a girl’s lung and fill it with her first breath into the living. The soft whisper of the divine converges with the unknown; no longer a benediction, but a sacrilegious bawl of confusion and grief. For a girl is born in a man’s world, and that is perhaps the cruelest form of torture offered by the Gods.

The room’s shutters were trembling from the strength of the boisterous storm. The wind howled, a treacherous and machiavellian whisper, an omen of disaster. Lightning brought sudden brightness to the obscure sky, and there was no natural occurrence so alluring, yet so violent. Bolts were but a fast-paced concentration of lethal energy, tearing and clawing and parting the unaware clouds.

The woman laid on the linen-sheets, coated in sweat and blood. Her babe’s voice matched the screams of the storm, challenging it with every breath. Maids moved with trained-agility, clamping the umbilical cord; cleaning bloodied legs with a white cloth, until one could no longer see a single tone other than bright red; and opening the curtains so as the father could hold the bawling babe closer to the light. All around her, there was noise and movement. Yet, she could not tear her eyes from the vile thing that had clawed through her, slicing her open as a lighting bolt would to a cloud. Her husband swooned, whispering a gibberish she did not care enough to decipher.

“The Goddesses weep,” an old maid whispered. “A girl is born, and the skies are grieving.”

But she was wrong. The storms were not a symbol of grief, they were the purest image of violent rejoice. It shouted and celebrated for it had observed the birth of a babe meant for chaos and disappointment. The mother was disgusted, cursing the natural spell that fell upon a room whenever one witnessed a birth. No other soul could see the same as she did, all blinded by the supposed wonder of a newborn’s cries. But the mother saw past the veil. Rather than a girl, she had given birth to a vessel of malice, a child of deceit and destruction. The storm would not have matched the babe’s shouts otherwise; the wind would not have answered; the husband would not have forgotten about his wife — bloodied and vulnerable — if not for the treachery of the child.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, cradling the uproarious creature close to his chest. The mother had hoped for the monster to bite and pierce the father’s heart, showcasing the true horror of her spirit. Perhaps, such wishes did point to malice — only it was not her daughter’s, but hers instead.

“She’s not,” was her matter-of-fact answer. “No babe is ever born beautiful.”

The man came closer, if only to defend his daughter’s honor. She loathed him then, for allowing himself to be stolen from her opened arms, straight into the unconditional love of fatherhood; loathed the child, too, for she had dared to claim him; and pitied herself, for being a victim of a tragedy no other being could understand. The mother had spent nine months whispering to her growing belly, singing and welcoming the kicks. In her heart, with all of her motherly instincts, she knew it was a boy she carried. Surely, that miscalculation of nature had murdered her brother; surely, the doctors had missed the occurrence where her boy was discarded and eaten by his monstrous twin-sister. There was no other proper explanation, if not that one.

“Oh, but ours is,” insisted her husband, a stranger. He forced the babe into her arms, caressing the crown of the creature’s head. He did not care whether the mother remained in pain; whether she was feeling tired and dirty and in terrible need of rest and clean sheets. His eyes remained glued to that devious thing. “See the strength of her grip? The curling of her lip, the form of her nose? She is a made copy of yours.”

The woman shuddered. Was there a greater insult than being compared to one you despised? She had wanted to shout, demand them all to leave her chambers, cause a scandal and give their servants a lifetime worthy of gossip. However, the little serpent clung to her, and she had a strong grip indeed. In awe, the woman found herself pressing the babe closer to her chest, touching the skin as soft as the silk-sheets that she bloodied during childbirth.

The presence was compelling, demanding. “Nurse me,” it seemed to shout. “Feed me,” it cried. “Love me,” it begged. The mother spent an entire year doing as she was expected and coerced to do. The babe was fed from her breast, regardless of the nipping and pain, sipping the milk along occasional droplets of her mother’s blood; received tender care and warm clothing, constant baths and cradling whenever she cried during the night — which she did, constantly. However, the thing the woman had never managed to do was the latter. She could not love that eager and violent parasite, regardless of the motherhood instincts and the sayings that she had given birth to a physical copy of hers. The creature stole a year of her already decaying youth before it lost the taste for the maimed breast. She would no longer allow it to seize another single thing.

The mother conquered a second pregnancy briefly two years after that disastrous disappointment, yet, she had never quite mastered the art of ignoring the small serpent and its midnight cries. Despite it all, her firstborn was the one she could not abide to watch out for. The same did not apply to those who came after whatsoever, for the woman had three more babies — three more little girls — and failed to love them at all, as if the small, twisted amount she could give had been entirely devoted to her child of chaos.

Following-in-suit to the behavior of her firstborn, the three kicked and moved within her, but this time, she was much more prepared, and learned not to love them too soon. Motherly love was the death of logic and boundaries; it was an open door for obsession and worry, and girls were undeserving of that, for the gender inequality had long stolen the heirdom from their grips, and the mother refused not to bear an heir of her own.

[Name] had cried for two entire years. No one could understand the reason quite well. Overall, she was quite a spoiled babe, resting on a gold-made cradle and receiving professional and qualified assistance, hence the general confusion. However, when the moon grew wide in the pitch-black sky and her first sister was born, [Name] had stopped crying. It was as though she had granted herself enough time to share her discontentment, to allow the conflicted feelings to pour from her eyes and form small lakes of crystal-clear tears. Crying would no longer do her well, not when her sister had a pain of her own to be mended. Twenty-four years later, [Name] did not manage to find her tears still, for they remained buried underneath the soil of her deepest hidden fears and failures.

Perhaps, [Name] had but used all of her tears when she did not need them; perhaps, she should have stocked a few before the damage became unrecoverable; for, as of now, alone in a house she could not learn to feel comfortable in, her eyes remained dry.

Well, not entirely dry.

[Name] cursed out loud as she went to grab a white and clean cloth, applying pressure on her closed eyelids, tearing up from the awfully strong stench of the toxins she had been experimenting with. Months prior, she had received an invitation from her sister. She was missed, said the letter delivered to her by Clotho. And in all honesty, [Name] was entirely aware of that fact; of how her absence was a dagger twisting inside her closest sister’s heart; of how badly Feyre had been hurting. [Name] couldn’t do a thing against her own numbness, her silence and lack of expression; she didn’t wish to strike a conversation with a single soul, but Feyre had called, and [Name] would always answer.

Though the female was barely there, her sister did not quit: they sat together for hours in her studio as she finished a painting, commenting on her routine in order to encourage [Name] to do the same. Between the humming reverberating on the porcelain of [Name]’s warm teacup, and her mute nods and forced smiles, Feyre had caught onto something and ended their brief encounter, no longer sending letters, as [Name] knew the youngest began to feel as though she was a bother.

When [Name] left her sister’s newest home — seeing patterns of her in every wall and furniture and color — she was fighting back tears, cursing herself for the consequences of the overbearing and paralyzing sadness that came after a particular morning, when she woke up with enough time to ponder on her purpose in that new life, and realized she had none. Although [Name] refused to linger her glance on the pieces her sister painted, they gave her a small thread of hope, an olive branch to be offered in the future. Throughout her small talk and monologues, Feyre did complain that she was struggling with a specific painting of her mate in the Summer Court. She scurried through every shop in Velaris, and still couldn’t find an ink with the exact shade of violet of his eyes when the sun shone on it. [Name] didn’t quite understand the rest — something about how she couldn’t create the colors herself because it was impossible to get it right — but what she did decide was to try and give her sister that small gift.

Of course, that proved to be a hassle.

[Name] decided that the conventional path would serve her for nothing. Feyre was a fantastic and experienced artist, combining already-made ink and trying to get a result through red and blue and droplets of white had led her sister nowhere. [Name] would not succeed where her sister had failed, not when art, and many other matters, were concerned. Of course, she resorted to someplace else, traveled to the inside of a place that had never once left her alone: science.

Chemistry, to be more precise. It was a somewhat unknown concept, poor in substantiation and mostly filled with theories that, on their hand, inspired and fed countless experiments. Experiments that she meant to learn from in order to conduct her own; a path that, of course, was infertile and leading nowhere.

[Name] had been tied to Velaris. Her departure was inconceivable: the barriers kept the female in place, regardless of the animal form she chose to overfly it. Her options, of course, grew limited to the scarce flora of the mountains, hence her constant flights of exploration. She found wild red roses and blue tiger-lilies; squashed the petals and placed them on separate glass-jars, filled with an alcoholic solution she created with sugar, yeast and water. After that, things grew slightly more complicated. [Name] calculated the amount of petals and alcohol to create paints with different tones of blue and red, started to mix them together and attempted to achieve the said variation of violet. Once that failed her, [Name] started to collect resin from the trees, create her own solution of water and propylene that would serve as a solvent, and finally, add the pigment.

Resin, solvent, pigment. She had been creating ink after ink ever since, her eyes wet and her fingers scarred from the constant contact with acid; her limbs tired from the everyday transformations of her fae body to the body of a gyrfalcon; and yet, the violet desired by her sister was never found.

After months into that search filled with failing attempts, [Name] noticed that she had lost her reasons. The process of finding that exact shade of violet was no longer an olive branch to be offered to Feyre: it was a reason for her to remain awake in the night — to fight off the sleep that often came with nightmares from times she did not wish to remember. From overflying the mountains in the morning; to finding the spot she claimed to train her throws with daggers; to reading and studying at the library in the afternoon, weirdly mourning the absence of Bryaxis, the monster that kept her company before the war; to creating paint from dusk to morrow, repeating the entire process every single day; those were all a well-manufactured web of excuses.

[Name] did not wish to be left alone with her thoughts. She first tried it during her father’s burial — the one she refused to attend, deciding to be by herself instead — and it did not end well. Reminiscing was a troubling effort, for the previous battle was a blur. [Name] could remember overflying the field in the gyrfalcon form, dodging the attacks of the dark faeries; she could remember being in the middle of it, too far from Feyre, even further from Elain and Nesta; she could remember her father arriving with four well-familiar ships and men-at-arms to reinforce their armies; she could remember Hybern’s hiding fleet that had followed them close, with at least six thousand soldiers.

Then, came the rage.

Her sisters were fighting Hybern: Feyre was trying to connect with the Cauldron that stole everything from them; her allies were about to be faced with an unfair battle at the bay, and she could do nothing to prevent it. Once again, she found herself being an useless burden, unable to protect her sisters, regardless of her efforts and training; regardless of her wits and her words; she was never enough. The poverty, Feyre being taken away by Tamlin, her sisters being thrown inside the Cauldron, Elain being kidnapped right under her nose, were all but some of the most crucial moments in which she failed them. Despite the things [Name] did to give them comfort, the people she murdered, the lives she financially ruined, the men she was touched by, all for her sisters to suffer still, to grieve and to face horrors [Name] had, too, failed to shield them from.

Rage brought forward a boisterous roar. The clouds darkened, thunder competed against the deafening shout of a vengeful and seemingly-wounded animal. [Name] moved her head down and saw nothing but a terrifyingly huge and fast shadow, flying towards the open sea. She felt her throat burn, her jaw oddly heavy as she opened it, and then lightning: pure chaotic energy, mortal and devastating, passed through her mouth and teeth with yet another roar. It took a second for her mind to wrap around the fact that the beast — that thunderous and large creature — was her. After that, she was led by rage and instinct, her mind a fog that couldn’t process the events through the lenses of the creature.

Tapping into the dragon’s core — trying to understand it — terrified her. The feelings that it brought, the chaos and glimpses that it gave her, it was all too much. The treacherous act of repression against the dragon inside had brought her immense sadness. [Name] had watched as Feyre met her happiness, protected by a male that loved her beyond himself; had watched as Nesta moved out, her coping mechanisms against pain being so similar to the ones [Name] herself had once resorted to; had watched as Elain tried to make for a comfortable home in that new life, filled with the support of Feyre’s new family. [Name] had watched as the world — and everyone around her — moved quite too fast, while she was stuck in the same spot, sitting alone in the cold as the realization came to mind: she no longer had use to them.

[Name], who had ceased to weep when her first sister was born; [Name], who had been raised to provide for them through the heritage of their father’s business; [Name], who had abandoned herself and her innocence to a brothel so that her sisters could have food and proper clothes; [Name], whose life had been dedicated to give them comfort, to shield them from misery, was no longer necessary. Her task had been gladfully taken from her shoulders, and [Name] couldn’t help but wish that she had clung to it a little tighter.

But then, realization came: she was no longer required to aid her sisters, but there were still people left in the mortal lands that had once relied on her. Perhaps, if she tied the business left open, if she checked on their financial situation after her departure, that would give her closure. Hence to say, Azriel’s proposition was the whiff of summer-air that caressed her skin where the cold previously hurt. He was her getaway from the suffocating barriers of Velaris, from the acid air of her room, from the shackles of her thoughts. The male was freedom.

Or so she thought.

She had waited for his second knock for an entire week. If their matters were as urgent as he stated, then surely he meant to be his annoying-prick-self first thing on the morrow, barging in with that infuriating grin and the banters she secretly missed. But he vanished — literally. [Name] wasn’t sure why she had expected otherwise.

The sight of their piled gifts was a knife that she refused to turn inside herself; it was the excruciating pain of knowing one had been a disappointment to others, that one had failed to grab the hands of those who were extending it. However, she did grab Azriel’s gifts, presuming it was a clear message of her intentions. The male gave her a weapon she had no experience with; surely, if [Name] retrieved it from the pile, he’d understand that small peace offering of hers and they’d grow closer yet again. Because, regardless of her words and her poison, [Name] did value their once long held conversations. Azriel had been the one to strategize with her, he had been the one to search for her in the crowds, he had been the one to sit with her through a whole night after Elain’s kidnapping, and after sleep stopped coming to [Name] entirely.

He was a friend that she abruptly pushed away and that, yet, insisted on fighting against her voice. Keeping his gift close to her chest should have been enough to drive him nearer, but perhaps she had been too arrogant in her thoughts. For months, [Name] witnessed his never-ending struggle against the chains of her power, his obstination to go against her orders, to offer an aiding hand, and for months, he failed. Until, as it seemed, he stopped trying.

The worst, most devastating part of it all, was that at the time, she wasn’t sure whether his sudden absence was deliberate or a direct consequence of her power. Azriel fought against her speech for such a long time that when he ceased, [Name] couldn’t tell if he lost that battle, or free-willingly walked away. She had presumed it wasn’t the latter, no one managed to get rid of her treacherous grip once they were caught by it. Hence why she loathed the Cauldron the most, it gave her not a power but a death sentence, the living proof that her mother was right all along. [Name] was not a living being, she was a slick force of chaos that used her speech to manipulate and cheat and lie. The female could not control that aspect of herself, therefore, she failed to control the intensity with which her commands affected those around her.

She did attempt to learn more about their extent and whether the voice intonation was of any importance when it came to her power’s usage. However, she reached no conclusion. It was a concept so simple, yet so maleficent. The results would always be the same, regardless of external speech factors; a whisper of hers had the ability of convincing a powerful foe to throw himself off a cliff, so long as he heard her and understood the language she spoke in. Cruel, dishonest, menacing. The power capable of annihilating an entire army, of sending previous allies against one another. The damage it could cause when combined to her shapeshifting was incalculable, yet the thought did not reassure her regarding her strength. Instead, it showed [Name] that in a world of capable warriors and diplomats and leaders, she didn’t fit in a single of them; she was the poison mingled with wine and ministered to those who were fair, she was the least trustworthy, the least honored one — she was a monster.

[Name] had spent nine years of her life wishing that someone would be merciful enough to attend her request to kill her. And apparently, now she was fated to spend the rest of her miserable and immortal existence commanding the acts of every sentient being around her, while actively wishing that at least one refused to obey her. [Name] had been strong ever since she was a small toddler, arguing for the privilege of having her hair combed first. Even then, she had always been prepared to fight for what she wanted or judged correct. Rather than using brute force, [Name] relied on the efficiency of well-aimed words and smiles and praises thrown at those who valued it; she was a little girl on a stage, playing countless parts and having countless masks to please whoever was near in order to achieve her ambitions. It was who she was at her core, regardless of her mother’s thoughts on the matter. [Name] didn’t know how to live, if not by fighting to convince others to respect her stance and thoughts, and deem her a valuable ally. And suddenly, there was no need for her to pick such battles, because the fighting spirit could be stolen from everyone else, if only she desired as such.

During her darkest times, it was the thrill of a debate that managed to keep her alive, the soothing adrenaline of emerging victorious from a purchase. When the touch of men grew too harsh or too violent, when their hunger and greed tore her soul apart, the solace of her being could be found in a well-balanced chess match played against herself or other activities that she considered challenging. Upon noticing that it was no longer required of her to strive, to fight, the world around her grew null. The Cauldron stole too much, in the process of giving her too much.

There was no point in entering a match, when one knew they already won. Whatever were the strategies she offered, the propositions she gave, the arguments she spoke, so long as she triggered her voice correctly, they would abide by. The prospect of their lack of opposition, of counter-arguments, was exasperating. The Priestesses simply nodded when she commanded them to grant her access to prohibited lanes. Her conversations ceased to be interesting. Even an ancient monster, one feared for it represented the concept of nightmares itself, felt victim to her commands. There wasn’t a single being residing in that world that [Name] failed to convince.

Where, before, others around her bent to the strength of her will, the wittiness of her words, now, they just bent. She didn’t need to argue anymore, didn’t need to fight. The very reason for her euphoria regarding life was gone. [Name] had endured enough pain — metaphorical and physical — survived enough aches, to understand that the loss of what the Cauldron had claimed from her was something she could never recover from.

Yet, the most devastating acknowledgement came when she caught herself relying on such a curse. Quickly enough, the comfort of immediately having whatever she needed became addicting. Whenever she grew tired of an argument, of the debate to convince one to do something she wished for, [Name] crawled back to the comfortable bushes of control. At first, it was impossible. The words that fell from her lips were poisonous, even when she didn’t mean to order, even when it was barely a suggestion — a request — whoever heard would give her what she wished.

[Name] found herself slipping into madness, stumbling through darkness, until she understood that the curse that fell upon her might as well be the opening key for her biggest punishment. She stole a mirror from a nearby room and started to practice on herself, over and over, hour after hour, the female stared at her own reflection and polished the control of her capabilities. Her suggestions were, again, suggestions, her voice would only be harmful if so she wished to. [Name] granted herself the privilege of speaking with others without fearing to accidentally command them; yet, the more time she spent with herself and her thoughts and her frustration, the less she wished to interact with the external world.

Worst came to her when, during one of her experiments — while Nesta and the reminiscent parties of the Inner Circle had traveled to a Council with the other High-Lords — [Name] accidentally exploded her bathtub. Cassian barged in, quick as the wind and as armed as he could, fearing an intromission, only to find [Name] all covered in soot. He had helped her clean the entire thing — even though both knew the House of Wind could magically do it by itself — and all in the while, they talked. First, it was of politics and the upcoming war, followed by their Court’s plans, the Cauldron, [Name]’s trauma and even a small bit of his own. The commander was emotionally smart and entirely non-judgmental. The female relied on him and his council, watched as a small friendship started to bloom, and ended up teaching him how to polish his chess abilities until he advised they should get some sleep.

It was a pleasant day, one [Name] hadn’t experienced in months. Yet, the fear accompanied by what she confided was paralyzing, so much that she commanded Cassian to forget about it all: what she told him, the explosion, their chess matches. It didn’t matter that he, too, had told her personal things of his past; it didn’t matter that it was unfair of her to keep his secrets while actively denying him the rights to be reminded of her own ones; in that moment, she meant only to keep herself safe, to keep the mask of the unshakeable sister intact. And so, she controlled him, stole his free-will, and was met with no opposition.

[Name] found herself unable to face the general ever since, yet it seemed as though he hadn’t forgotten entirely, or, in the very least, his instincts and care weren’t as laid-back as they were before that day. Perhaps her commands lost strength if her will wasn’t as strict; perhaps a traitorous part of her wished that her voice would fail to work and, as a consequence, her grip wasn’t as strong. Regardless, she hasn’t used that power ever since. It was awful enough to have a blood-lust dragon residing inside her heart, [Name] didn’t need to be met with more trouble. Besides, she had a problem of bigger importance in mind: the reason why Azriel was immune.

[Name] left her bedroom, swiftly moving towards the library in one of the many alternative routes she found efficient when it came to avoiding the two Illyrian warriors that once insisted on checking up on her. Upon entering, she waved at Clotho, noticing the deep purple color on her fingertips. The priestess placed a white tissue on the counter, and [Name] moved to grab it, beginning to scrub her skin clean.

“You’re early today,” she wrote out curiously. In fact, she was. Usually, at this hour, [Name] would be at her training spot, in a secluded space amidst the furthest mountain range. But, because she wasn’t sure when Azriel meant to call her for their training, [Name] chose not to leave the House of Wind at all, fearing to miss his knocks.

“I’ve been adjusting my routine,” she lied. As insane as it sounded, the female could almost feel the huff that Clotho meant to give her. [Name] didn’t smile at her — she rarely did smile at all nowadays — but she did attempt to give the priestess a reassuring glance.

When [Name] was first introduced to the immensity of that library, Clotho had been the one to welcome her. At the time, granting her access to that space seemed to be Rhysand’s way of offering [Name] an agreement of peace, one that she willingly accepted, for the amount of books and knowledge and possibilities inside that place was more than enough. She didn’t yet speak at the time, fearing that her voice might come out as a command, and she could still remember Clotho’s handwritten note, slipped inside her pocket. When [Name] had found it, she almost wept.

This is a safe place. You needn’t fear nor cower from it. We’re all females.

Females who had suffered from fates similar to [Name]’s. Females who understood the invisible mind scarring — and physical scarring, too — left by the worst a male could offer. Females who would never judge, for they shared her hurt, and fought the same battles. She had never stopped visiting since. Whether it was to read her fair amount of books, to share a moment of silence, or to, at least when it was still possible, spend time with Bryaxis. [Name] found solace inside that place, and strived not to bother whoever resided in it.

Quietly, the female made her way to the corridor reserved to the almost untouched books that were written in the ancient language. At first, the thought of mastering it seemed absurd and ambitious. The language itself was filled with trials and ambiguous phrasing — [Name] had studied countless alphabets throughout her brief mortal life, and was still left aghast at the complexity of them all. However, moving past her initial desperation, determined to spend her time with activities that could be of use in the future, [Name] began to learn through association. The ancient language was somewhat close to the Glacolithic, Runic, and Ogham alphabets: three written-patterns found in excavations and searches by the mortals from the continents beyond the great ocean. Of course, [Name] didn’t speak any of those, but she did study certain translations before, when life was easier and she had a purpose.

Afterwards, the task grew slightly less demanding, though it remained tiresome. [Name] had to resort to tactics from her childhood and teen-years, in which she would read a text in a foreign language, circle the words she did not have knowledge of, rewrite them in a separate paper and then proceed to search about their meaning. Before the war, she had Bryaxis to scoff at her naivety, correct her terrible pronunciation, and guide her through some phrases. Overall, even if it refused to do a thing more — for it enjoyed watching her exasperation — the creature proved to be quite an useful teacher. However, as of now, with Bryaxis long lost, [Name] had to work with her already-gained knowledge, which was maddening. If she was even a little more advanced, she would’ve been able to read a specific book that promised to solve more than half her problems: The Binding Magic of the Fae and Other Rare Talents. When the Archeron moved towards the shelf, she scoffed at the said book’s cover and grabbed the one next to it instead: Fables and Myths for Unruly Children.

[Name] sat at the closest table, searching for the page in which she had stopped reading the day before. Because materials written in the ancient language were rare — and such few understood it, since they lacked the basis [Name] herself had been privileged enough to get from Bryaxis — the fae gathered whichever book or text or diary they could find, so long as the pages had the complicated alphabet of those who came before them. Childishly, they believed that every book was academic, which led them to retain it, all offering the same excuse: one day, they would learn the ancient language; one day, they would get to read and understand the pages of the piece they found. Of course, they never did. Hence why, in that very moment, [Name] was finishing to read the fable of a very stupid Queen that ignored the warnings of a witch and ended up giving birth to a dragon, rather than a child.

“That’s such a terrible moral,” she muttered to herself, suddenly being reminded of why she had decided to stop reading that book in the first place.

Mid-sentence, she felt his presence without a single failure of a heartbeat. When [Name] was yet a mortal, Azriel found it amusing to arrive unannounced, hiding in the shadows until she passed by, appearing behind her with a shit-eating grin that only grew when she jumped out of her skin and cursed him out loud. The Spymaster managed to pull that prank thrice before she grew used to it. [Name] would never fail to spot his figure, regardless of how well-hid he was: the shadows around him were different, the air hung with an odd electricity whenever the male was near, and she could guess his position based on instinct alone.

It wasn’t a surprise to raise her eyes from the book and catch sight of him sitting on the chair in front of her. Azriel moved his head to take a glimpse of the text at hand and frowned upon noticing the language in which it was written.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to this part of the library,” he stated matter-of-factly, waiting for a confirmation that she refused to give him: I wasn’t, until I commanded them to believe otherwise.

“It’s been seven days,” [Name] retorted, ignoring his previous point. She closed the book of fables and myths with unnecessary strength, cringing at the loud sound it made.

“You’ve been counting. Eager, much?”

His taunt made her blood boil — although she did ignore the fact that her cheeks felt hotter all of the sudden. Azriel’s grin, and the confident manner with which he placed his hands on his nape, pointed out that he, on the other hand, did not. The second he opened his mouth — whether it was to tease her some more or try to get to her nerves — [Name] interrupted him.

“Fall from the chair,” she commanded, and he rolled his eyes at her, nearly scowling. At least she had wiped off the grin from his face.

“Nice try,” the Spymaster told her with annoying nonchalance and that unknown immunity she could not track the source from.

“Couldn’t hurt,” [Name] shrugged, and he felt silent with his arms closed.

When Azriel had been assigned to a position in which he needed to return to the Archeron manner weekly, Feyre pushed her older sister aside for a private conversation. Her voice was soft — yet more mature, as if Feyre had aged five decades in five months — while she tried to soothe [Name]’s tension. She could still remember the slight heads-up, the promise that Azriel was naturally quiet and introspective, and that did not mean that he held some unspoken grudge against her or her ideas. Although that proved to be true to some degree, [Name] was quick to notice that the male was not as quiet as previously stated. Each word of his carried some sort of taunt or invite to a private competition that [Name] never failed to accept or stumble upon. The male seemed to thrive on her annoyance, and though she was not entirely amused herself, [Name] noted the clear difference between his treatment towards her, and the general treatment she received from others.

After an entire decade of misery and prostitution, [Name] saw herself as though a crumbling stone fortress, one that once stood high and tall, proudful and unshakable, but that started to deteriorate with the acid rain and the constant attacks from external forces. The fortress was filled with mug and cracks and thorns, and people grew wary whenever they approached it. No one treated her the same, as if they feared that a single touch would be enough for the entire fortress to crumble entirely; she could sense their hesitance in their contradiction, their pity and the glances given whenever they thought she wasn’t looking. Azriel challenged her, treated her like he would everyone else. Even when she was a mortal whose life hung by a limited thread, he valued her thoughts, and never once sugarcoated his words.

As of now, she could yet feel the same determination and notice the same treatment. Even though [Name] had spent nearly a year hiding away, avoiding the reality and feeling stuck in the same place, Azriel refused to act as though she was a scared and lashing animal in the woods: he was not wary nor was he pitiful — he was ruthless, challenging, taunting, his logic and sense of duty matching her own. Azriel was everything that she needed at that moment.

However, that did not mean that she was willing to give him any further sense of amusement. Her pride was a chalice of lethal poison, one that she drank from until there was not a single droplet left. To fill their silence with an inquiry meant that he would have a possible confirmation of her eagerness, and [Name] would rather share a teacup of warm tar with her late grandmother inside the Cauldron than to fulfill his ego.

She felt a slight tug coming from his mind. Because her abilities granted her free-passage, regardless of their barriers, to the thoughts of those around her, [Name] made sure to never roam close to the limits of their brains. A single misstep was enough for her to stumble on the deep roots of one’s memories, and she learned the consequences of her accidental prying when, during a shared dinner, [Name] was bombarded with the indecent mental-conversation held by Feyre and her mate. Since it was rude — and awkward — to listen to those small things left unsaid, [Name] learned to deactivate that side of her power, and only did use them when invited to. That tug coming from his part was an invitation, as if he had opened the front gate of his mental barrier and invited her in.

With a slight raise of her eyebrow, [Name] extended the invisible string of her power, entering his mind. Surprisingly enough, Azriel seemed to have closed his fist around it, not letting go of that small connection between them. Although his expression remained that same one of nonchalance, the memories sent her way explained enough of the given situation, and what led the Inner Circle to vote for her training and participation in that particular task.

It was a marvel to witness how one’s train of thoughts mirrored their particular personality. Azriel’s memories were brief and to-the-point; he didn’t dwell much on unnecessary details and favored an efficient approach that covered most of the basis as fast as it could. It was as though he was in a constant state of haste, a master-spy that understood the importance of offering a good résumé in a limited span of time.

“Who would’ve thought you hold me to such high regards?” Azriel taunted, and she blinked, caught offhand.

“What?”

“A master-spy?”

“You can read my thoughts as well?” [Name] inquired, too shocked to take note of his cockiness.

“Was I not supposed to?” His grin fell from his face, giving way to a wary crease of his forehead.

“It never happened before,” and though she chose her words with care, the female could feel the sudden pressure around her reach, understanding that the Spymaster was demanding her to leave his mind. She did as it was urged, respectfully stepping away from his conscience. A further inspection of his sudden rigid features told her that he did not mean to speak on the later occurrence, and aware of his vexing capacity of staying silent for a long period of time, [Name] changed the subject to what mattered the most. “Why am I the one most suitable to breach Montesere’s barriers?”

Azriel stretched, shifting uncomfortably in his seat — one that was obviously not meant for the wings of an Illyrian warrior — and sat upright. His expression was one of concentration, whereas his stance was the same he held whenever he meant to speak in a tone of politics and strategies. It made her reminisce those hours spent inside the four walls of her office, discussing tactics based on the most accurate predictions of their opponents’ movements, and her chest ached with sudden longing.

“Montesere had a particularly rough war against Vallahan, a hundred years after the First War against Hybern,” he briefly began to summarize, and [Name] failed to hold her tongue.

“Yes, I’ve read about it,” she interrupted, mentally scolding herself.

“Why would you read about Montesere, of all places?” Azriel inquired, before realization passed over his features. “Right, their dragons.”

It was an affirmation. He did not need to ask that of her, when the answer presented itself as white as a layer of untouched and recent snow. [Name] did not mean to lie either, even if the misleading sentence was formed not longer after he deduced her past reasoning. The two had never lied to one another, or so she preferred to presume. Without a doubt, both hid their fair sum of secrets, but it was not of their character to dance around the truth whenever the other figured a thing or two out. It was a dynamic as old as their unstable friendship — if one could call it that way — and one the pair remained loyal to for more than a year. She never would have told him of her research about the dragons during the most ungodly hours of the night — at least not then — yet, since his speculations came close enough to the truth, [Name] would not lie to him either.

“I traced their origins and inevitable extinction back to Montesere,” she confirmed, the fact alone bringing an odd sense of grief to her chest. Those next words came as a whisper, hardly audible. “I figured they weren’t creatures from our world, which was somehow soothing. These realms are so filled with magic, it was a nice twist to learn of something fantastical that we had no access to.”

Azriel stared at her in silent pondering, and [Name] caught the phantom of a warmth glance sent her way before he masked it. “We don’t know exactly when the dragons roamed into our world. The most acceptable theory is that another portal opened up, one similar to the one that brought Amren, and some creatures passed through it. Amidst the chaos of the war, every King and High-Lord was too preoccupied with their barriers and battles to take note of a lone portal somewhere near Montesere. We presume it happened during or after the conflict.”

“Of course,” [Name] agreed with a slight movement of her shoulders. “They would have used the dragons against their enemies’ forces — your forces — otherwise. The fact that they didn’t merely points out that there was no time to train those creatures or tame them.”

He hummed in confirmation. “After Hybern’s defeat, his allies were left in economical misery. But we had no idea of those dragons whatsoever until Montesere’s battle against Vallahan. Considering the scarce extension of their nation’s territory, a sudden declaration of war was imminent. They had no space to train those dragons, and surely enough, Vallahan offered the expansion they needed.”

“I’ve read that those dragons spat fire,” she muttered, haunted by the loss of a sight she would never have a glimpse of. “But it was not enough to conquer Vallahan.”

“Fire can not breach solid stone,” Azriel pointed out, and [Name] did not miss how he hid his hands under his armpits. “Vallahan has the geographical advantage of being surrounded by a steep and towering extension of mountain ranges. To spit fire, Montesere’s dragons needed to reach the Capital, and once the kingdom started to retaliate—”

“I know,” she sharply stopped him. “They placed catapults on strategic points of those mountains. Even so, I hardly think those traps were responsible for so many losses. A dragon is unstoppable in the air.”

“They had a very scarce training,” Azriel retorted, and though his taunt was imminent, she fell victim to his invitation, well aware that he meant to rile her up in order to understand how well-educated she was in that particular subject.

“Most were grown during their passage, those dragons weren’t lacking in terms of flight,” [Name] scowled, sitting upright herself. Mentally, she could see a chess board unravel — those sixty-four black and white tiles that, somehow, always managed to be a metaphor whenever a conversation between them was concerned.

“They lacked discipline.”

“They lacked purpose,” she hissed, surprised at her own rage. “Montesere sawed their back-spines to make way to their saddles, chastised them with whips, and stole them of their previous freedom. Most of those creatures threw themselves on the mountains with the intention of retrieving their free-will through death.”

The Cemetery of Rocks. [Name] once saw the name in an old map. It was written all over the mountain range of Vallahan, and she trembled with the mere thought of how many dragon skulls and bones laid on those lands.

“It might be true but it’s not the entire reason, you know that,” Azriel half-conceded, and his trust on her judgment despite her past outburst was astonishing. [Name] blinked, regaining her composure not longer after.

“Well, obviously. The altitude of those mountains was an opponent of its own. The safest crossing option was through the highest route, but an unprepared rider would lose consciousness with the lack of air that came from such tall heights,” the female absentmindedly completed, growing tired of that conversation. It was more a genocide than a war, and at each attempt to breach Vallahan’s borders, Montesere returned with less dragons and soldiers, until there were none left. “But that’s not the point, is it? What have they done after that loss?”

“Montesere raised a magical barrier,” Azriel commented with a grimace. It was clear that, for his own reasons, he was not quite pleased with that obstacle.

“I caught on to that, what surprises me is how long you took to find out,” it was not a taunt on her part. She was merely being sincere. “Neglecting them to that extent seems reckless.”

“It was, but we all had worse worries than Montesere at the time. Hewn City, the Illyrian soldiers’ insolence towards the Night Court’s orders, and our own lack of experience on how to manage the entire territory after Rhys’ father passed away are just some examples of our concerns. We did send them letters, but those remained unanswered.”

“You’re finding excuses,” now, that was a taunt.

He broke into a grin. “Think you could have done better?”

“I’m sure that I could.”

“You’ll get to prove that soon enough. Our efforts can’t breach through their barriers, we’re hoping that your magic will be the exception.”

“Because I was Made?”

The memory was painful enough, and he merely nodded before rising from his uncomfortable seat. “Go grab your stuff, we’re leaving now.”

Although that was a thing she had anticipated, [Name] was startled with his abruptness still. Giving herself a moment to recollect her thoughts and priorities, she remained glued to her chair. “We’ll train and go to the Mortal Lands. I’m not helping otherwise.”

“I have the tattoo to remind me of that,” he bit back with a roll of his eyes. “And even if I didn’t, I could still drag your ass to our training site.”

“You’d lose both your hands before you got the chance to,” she threatened, the thought of a male touch bringing back memories that she was quick to bury.

“To do that, you’d need to shift into something more harmful than a small bird,” he spoke with a boredom that made her want to claw at his neck. How he was aware of her morning flights, she had no interest in finding out, but his remark boiled her blood regardless, and the challenging expression on his face let her know that Azriel mentioned that on purpose.

With an everlasting sourness, [Name] strolled to her bedroom, nearly kicking the door open as she went to grab her pack. Azriel, who was close behind her, coughed immediately, and the sound made her smile briefly. She felt the phantom touch of a daring shadow on her shoulder, as if it hummed contentedly with the slight shift in her mood.

“What the hell have you been doing here? It smells like horse shit,” he complained. [Name] made no move to open up the windows — she merely closed the bathroom door — and Azriel’s eyes laid on the shadow on her shoulder.

“Leave it be,” she hissed at him with a scolding glare, growing tired of his urge to drive his shadows away from her. Azriel’s scoff was muffled by his arm as he had used it to cover his nose. “I was trying to replicate your scent, did you not like it?”

The second they moved from the stench of her bedroom and towards the main balcony, Azriel’s impossible behavior returned. “I had no idea you missed me that much. What was the plan afterwards, sprinkle the perfume on a pillow and hug it in your sleep?”

“You’re despicable.”

“You’re speechless.”

As the pair approached the main hall, [Name] did not fail to note the absence of her sisters. Her mind was conflicted, unsure on whether that occurrence was deserving of relief or grief. Falling quiet and crossing her arms, she had decided on both. No one but herself could be blamed for the insecurity of her younger sisters regarding [Name]’s feelings on a farewell visit of their part. Her emotional withdrawal had brought the solitude that ravaged her insides, a bittersweet and well-deserved fate: to miss her sisters as a punishment for how badly and frequently she had failed them.

“You’re leaving already?” A particularly deep voice came from behind them, and [Name]’s body grew rigid at the sound. Shadows curled on her nape and shoulders, seeming to whisper a soothing harmony on her ear.

“It’s been a week,” Azriel shifted on his heels to stare at his brother, and his shoulder brushed hers slightly. [Name] almost missed his warmth.

“So? You weren’t given a deadline,” Cassian noted. The female moved ever so slightly to stare at him, unable to bear with her impoliteness otherwise. Azriel’s shadows accompanied her frame as her back met the nearest wall, and [Name] waved awkwardly when Cassian’s warm, hazel eyes laid on her.

“Doesn’t make the situation less urgent,” the Shadowsinger retorted. Cassian tore his glance from [Name] lazily, observing his brother with his mouth tightly shut. The two seemed to have a quiet, yet heated argument, their expressions shifting as they spoke in a secret language born from centuries of acquaintanceship.

At last, Cassian’s shoulders slumped a bit. Whatever those glances and the discussion hidden in between them meant, the General raised the flag of surrender. [Name] could still see the creases on his forehead, the predictions and strategies regarding Azriel’s motivations, but it became clear that he would rather not voice them nor meddle any further.

She was slightly startled, whatsoever, at the sudden outburst of foreign thoughts that poured inside her own mind. Regardless of the barriers and training to maintain one’s consciousness on a leash, during certain stressing moments, it was natural to lose a bit of that composure and untighten the ruthless clutch, allowing the river currents of thoughts to run its wild course. Whenever [Name] attempted to put that specific occurrence into words, she felt as though a madwoman would. How could she complain to Cassian that, unbeknownst to him, he started to think too loudly? The female caught an overall understanding of his worries and hesitation before burying her power, refusing to pry on the General’s mind without his consent.

What she heard, however, was clear enough. Although guilt tore her apart with its greedy fingers, clawing on skin and muscle, [Name] offered a nod of reassurance and a small upward curve of her lips to Cassian, attempting to demonstrate her willingness to ignite a frail ember of friendship. He was suddenly aghast, but the grin that broke free was almost a key to free her from the self-imposed prison of remorse.

“Give him hell,” Cassian told her, pointing to Azriel with his head. A single shadow roamed closer to her face at the act, and [Name]’s grin somehow found a way to her lips.

“Planning on it.”

Azriel rolled his eyes and his brother gave his shoulder a nudge, offering [Name] a last farewell smile before he made his way to the stairwell at the end of the hallway. The female was well aware of where that path led: the training rink at the very top of the House of Wind. She had started to observe the entire architecture of the place from the first moment her feet met its surface. [Name] studied the cracks and turns and patterns, from the substructure to the truss, and was left mesmerized at the intrinsic manner with which the house converged with the mountain it was built on. [Name] had concluded that, if not for the aid of magic, the entire structure would not last longer than a single month in such hostile ground. It was, matter-of-factly, a finished subject: magic had built what the common hands could not. However, she could not help the wandering thoughts and plans, pondering the most suitable approach to use was she the one assigned to architect the foundation, with nothing more than calculus and trials.

It was a pastime that came back from when she was but a toddler, fidgeting with her hands and sitting on her father’s lap at his office. [Name] was an eager girl, aware of her responsibilities as the oldest, desperate to learn more of the Archeron trade. Of course, her father could not teach a single important subject regarding the stratagems of a merchant’s life to a child of six, for she would scarcely understand the basis. Rather than sending her off to find suitable entertainment elsewhere, the man gave her detailed drawings of the family’s fleet, instructing that she was to trace the ships’ plans and try to recreate it with as much accuracy as she could. Soon enough, [Name] began to draw ships of her own, using a ruler and the knowledge gained with the already done projects she so eagerly stared at. The interest evolved, from ships to houses to structures with many floors and windows. [Name] enjoyed the process of drawing particular projects through calculus, the right pencil and different sorts of rulers and compasses; she adored the immersion of her observation; her attempts to guess the thought-process of the one responsible to architect the base of the finished construction where she stood.

Yet, it was an infertile and incongruous activity. Someone of her age and responsibilities could not give oneself the luxury of wasting time on straight lined-doodles and unfinished ideas.

[Name] had spent much of her years reading about economy, learning about negotiations, practicing the sweet-tongued mischief that led one to agree to a risky, yet calculated partnership. It was a necessary sacrifice, for it granted her younger sisters the freedom and privilege to dedicate themselves to more pleasant pastimes. Elain fell for the art of gardening, Feyre began to experiment with paintings, and even Nesta had, for a while, devoted herself to dancing, before their mother managed to poison that love too. It was not proper for [Name] to try and do the same — not when her passions were so strict, and scarcely as interesting as her sisters’.

Chess was an interesting game with valuable strategies that could be recreated in battle; chemistry aided her understanding of their world, for it could be found everywhere, and was an important tool when it came to the creation of substances and devices that didn’t rely on magic; the studies of the weather and barometric were crucial if one meant to predict the most appropriate moment to patch off a fleet of goods; and even those silly texts about body language had somehow helped her in her craft. But coming up with the structure of mansions and houses, alternative internal systems and weaponry? It was of no use.

[Name] had ceased to dream of those creations, and decided to never draw a single thing again after she had nearly crumbled at the sight of her father, coming to Velaris with four ships — the same ones she drew, the same ones she showed him, the same ones whose plans he kept safe, even during poverty — to aid in their battle against Hybern. It should not be hard to abandon those childish desires after such a brutal loss. However, during most of the times, the female caught herself observing and predicting, as she was doing just then, and had to tear her gaze from the walls, forcing her mind back to the present.

“There’s drool on your chin,” Azriel called out through gritted teeth and an odd, ironical smile, as she moved to touch her skin, scowling at him immediately. “We could stay for another hour if you want to stare a little more.”

Despite the venom on his words, [Name] gave the male an ironic grin. “I’m sure that wall is much more interesting than whatever you’ll have to show me.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “The wall.”

Azriel walked straight through her, and his shadows moved all around him, covering the outline of his broad back in the incorporeal of pitch-black. The sudden abandonment of both left her puzzled, and the silence that overcame their past banter was a fruit of their bewilderment.

Upon reaching the balcony, [Name] was reminded of Clotho’s note. Observing the position in which the sun held itself on the sky, she noted that it was, indeed, quite early. Time had the odd tendency of becoming a mere nuisance when one was too focused on a more pleasant task, and to [Name], who thought very little of reality and dreamt of detaching herself from it, the passage of time was constantly forgotten. She thought it was, at best, one in the afternoon. Instead, her brief glance told her it couldn’t be past nine.

Azriel leaned sideways on the balcony, staring at her with a vexing expression of impatience. Her scowl all but deepened as she followed in suit, noting how the yet-to-be warm sunrays basked on the columns, all made of white stone and marble. [Name] was sure that an artist of some sort had been a part of the construction, for architecture could only travel so far alone. The pattern of those columns, from the base to the abacus, surpassed the limitations of a ruler and calculus: it was the heritage of a talented artist who understood and valued Velaris, who managed to engrave a Starfall with nothing but marble and argil. It was magnificent, and yet, she would have enjoyed the observation better if not for a bad-mannered Illyrian soldier groaning at her delay.

“Where are we meant to go?” [Name] inquired, ignoring his ill temper. “If you try to drag me to those Illyrian mountains I’m going back to my room.”

“And survive amidst that stench?” Azriel mocked, finally breaking into a grin. “We have a deal.”

“That never mentioned where you would be training me. I ain’t going back there.”

“As much as I would love to drag you and watch as you gave them reasons to call the Archeron sisters witches,” he commented, seeming to be delighted with his own thoughts. “I, too, won’t step foot into that hole unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

The sudden bitterness in his tone made her swallow the taunt that hung prepared at the tip of her tongue. She, instead, fixed the bag on her shoulder and moved closer, seeing the fall that awaited for a misstep, as though a starving beast. Ten thousand steps. A journey she had never longed for, never had the need for either. To create wings was, as of now, as simple as taking a deep breath. [Name] wished she had been given that ability sooner. She could think of countless painful scenarios, all involving a bed, a man, and a tiled ceiling, in which flying away would have been useful. But she pushed that memory aside, observing Azriel’s wandering glance, and the experimental close of his hand, as if he was making sure that his fingers still worked, that his long-ago healed skin remained to be covered in scars rather than flames. It was a situation she understood well enough: when one was trapped into unpleasant memories and could not tear oneself from them without external help.

“Where are we going, then?” [Name] asked, her voice seeming to be enough to free the Spymaster from that trance.

“Northwest, past the mountains and the Faerie realms.”

The female’s next words caught in her throat as she stared at him in utter shock. Azriel outstretched his hand, the single wisp of a shadow nestling itself in the strap of her bag. She hadn’t need a phrasal command, understanding his intentions immediately. [Name] gave him her bag, and Azriel held it as he took flight, gliding over her. His frame and wings covered the sun, creating a patch of shadows that moved ever so slightly from where she stood.

“Shift into something bigger than a swallow, or you won’t be able to keep up with my flight,” that brought her words back.

“Excuse me?” The idea of shifting into a bigger winged predator made her mouth dry with fear, the core of the dragon within her still a vivid memory that kept her rooted in place.

“When in the skies, wingspan is crucial for how fast the creature can move—”

“I know that,” she nearly hissed, irked at his tone, as if he had been trying to explain a difficult concept to a toddler.

“So? Shift. We don’t have the whole day.”

“Why can’t you just winnow us there? Too weak to do that while with me and a single bag?” Her taunts might as well have been flies surrounding his ego. Azriel was not at all moved, seeming merely out of patience as he awaited for her.

“You need to learn the path for yourself. A single shift in the wind and you’ll be overflying Rask without knowing. I’m not taking that risk.”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest. He would not drag her, nor would he insist further. If truth was being told, Azriel had not touched her once in months — and those rare times in which their bodies met were fruits of accidents or desperate measures. More than anyone, he respected her space. The Shadowsinger would not grab her and drag her body to where she needed to be, which left them both in a competition fueled by obstination and pride.

“I’m going there once and never again, why would I need to learn anything?”

If he was hurt by her statement, the pain trespassed his features as swiftly as a blink. “You can’t possibly expect us to winnow you around wherever your heart desires. It is one thing to help your sisters, who can not winnow nor fly, but you are more than well-equipped to go through those miles alone. The length from Velaris to beyond the mountains is a long one, and winnowing there would be tiresome. Move your ass and shift.”

[Name] gritted her teeth, feeling as though a child that had been scolded. He remained the same, not bothering to move a single inch, his breathlessly handsome face taken with stoic challenge. If she had dared to do as though those architects that evolved into artists of their own craft, how would her columns be? Her once frustratingly short life had but turned into an infinite thread of centuries and possibilities. Time was no longer a reaper, but a welcoming host. At last, immortality offered her plaster and resin, tools for modeling and argil. Still, she dodged it, for she would not have built a column or two, she would have sculpted him, right in that glorious stance, wings wide open, with eyes that burned with arrogance, and hands that she longed to touch after what seemed to be a lifetime of avoidance and fear.

Her eyes met his. [Name] hated the male that brought such feelings to the surface, and she hated him even more for knowing that she was not capable of tormenting him with the same urge, the same treacherous bite of desire that hid amongst roses of feigned distaste.

“Don’t expect a dragon,” she told him at last, trying to think of an animal whose wings matched the span of an Illyrian’s, resenting those who saw her as nothing but a beast.

“I never asked for one,” he answered matter-of-factly. In his face, she noted the slightest sign of comprehension, hiding somewhere in between the cracks of that mask of nonchalance.

Harpies and eagles came to mind at once, but those were birds of both size and violence, animals she had never shifted into. [Name] learned the hardest way that each and every animal had an instinct, one that was deserving of proper attention and care. When she shifted into a creature, the first seconds were crucial, for the very core of the chosen animal would overcome her own mind and desires. Because she failed to control the dragon, [Name] had lost the grip of her actions and memories throughout the battle, acting on an instinct that was not hers. Showing such a vulnerability in front of Azriel was not a part of her plans — especially when he was cocky enough without that knowledge. So she played it safe. In a brief of a second, she was no longer a High Fae, but an ensemble of white and brown and black feathers, eyes as pitch as Azriel’s shadows. A gyrfalcon, slightly bigger than the ones found in the wild, and the same form she adopted during the last battle against Hybern.

“You could’ve picked something bigger,” Azriel commented, observing the bird she chose, and [Name] chirped her discontentment, flying to his eyes with her claws in position.

He chuckled, his chest rising and falling as his lips parted way to a sound she had never once heard until then. [Name] cursed him mentally, for the shape of the falcon did not allow her ears to capture the sound entirely. Azriel dodged her claws and began his descent towards the city. [Name]’s smaller and more agile frame allowed her to harness the speed faster, and her wings opened wide as she drew closer to the ground. In a swift movement born from practice, she was flapping her way up, swirling in a mute laugh at gravity’s failed attempt to keep her anchored to the soil.

Flying was something she would never give up nor grow tired of. When the breeze shifted into a stronger current of air, when there was nothing underneath her feet, when she was being caressed by the freedom brought by the wind, it was as though she had been reborn. For the duration of the flight, there was nothing but her form, the wisp of wind and the infinity of the sky. [Name] only mourned that she had never learned how to fly the same as her sister and the Illyrians — with an actual body rather than the shape of a smaller animal.

Azriel’s shadow appeared above her in an instant, and he naturally picked up a faster pace as they began to fly horizontally. None thought that haste was necessary, and their flight to the barriers of Velaris was one of utter calmness, in which the pair overflew the city while [Name] danced around the strings of his daring shadows. Once met with the invisible barriers, she grew tense, fearing the denial that had been thrown her way countless times before. However, Azriel flew swiftly through it, and once her turn came, [Name] was met with the same lack of opposition.

The air felt different then, and so did the Spymaster’s disposition. He quickened his pace, and [Name] forced her wings to grow larger, biting back a painful chirp as her bones stretched into place. In order to shift into an animal, she learned there were a few prerequisites. The female needed to grow familiar with the creature. It went beyond seeing them in a drawing: she had to master their behavior, understand their instincts, and study their entire anatomy. For months at hand, Morrigan winnowed her outside Velaris not only to train, but for her to see those animals in the wild, and although that came into use, there was also the case of bodily difference. It was a matter of compression and expansion. When one had to shift into a smaller bird, their previous body would, of course, suffer from brief consequences of adaptation. [Name] understood it as the process of folding and unfolding a sheet of paper: the possibilities were limitless, but the more you folded, the more lines would appear on the surface that was once straight and clear. Her shape-shifting ability relied on imagination and pain tolerance. [Name]’s bones could stretch or break under pressure to give way to a different structure; she could take over the impressive size of a dragon or the insignificant form of a ladybug; so long as she was able to endure the agonizing seconds that preceded the change.

But pain and I came to an understanding a few years ago, she thought to herself, no longer suffering from the lingering ache left in her bones, ignoring it as one would do to a mere casualty.

Her eyes were trained to the perimeter as she took in the sight of the mountains. The two of them overflew an extension of rock, trees, and eventual rivers, and when she was faced with unknown and plain territory, [Name] knew they had surpassed the frontier of the Faerie Realms. Her small heart dropped and a spontaneous chirp escaped her beak. It was a land of infinite possibilities, of wonders to be unraveled in a biome of sand and heat that she had read about but never met. If fate had been kinder, [Name] would have glided to Azriel’s arms and shifted into her fae body; she would have gaped at the vision before her and wept at the opportunity to be met with such a wide extension of land; she would not have flinched at the sound of his scoff against her earlobe, would not have frozen when his grip tightened around her body. But then again, if fate had been kinder, she would never have gotten so far as beyond the Faerie Realms. With that resolution, she merely flew faster, resting on his nape with enough care as to not maim his skin with her claws.

“Getting comfortable?” Azriel mocked, and in her silence, he continued. “Or was I right and your tired ass should have turned into a bigger bird?”

A single claw scratched his nape, threatening to pierce the smooth skin. He hissed, but she did not bother staring down at his reaction, her eyes glued to the scenario that unfolded underneath them. Azriel himself grew quiet, and did not attempt to stop the scarce and frail shadows when some pooled at her feet and made her company. It could have been hours or minutes — she would not know — but eventually, the desert gave way to sporadic specks of green, that, on their hand, grew into a huge forest, miles and miles of trees and rivers, of mountainscapes covered in moss and leaves, some standing so tall that they kissed the clouds and were coated in snow.

Azriel began his descent, and once they were sheltered from the burning midday sun, she noted the sweat pooling on his neck. [Name] had barely felt the heat back then, but dressed in Illyrian leather, undoubtedly the Spymaster had been punished by the warmth. Not wishing to add further discomfort, [Name] flew away from his nape and re-started the diligent flapping pattern of her wings, losing herself amidst the trees and enjoying the breeze on her feathers. Eventually, she nearly lost the way through all of that freedom, and had to be guided back to Azriel by one of his shadows, who grew stronger and with a bigger range after the pair escaped the ruthless ministration from the scalding sun.

It was the start of the afternoon when she heard the waves. Azriel led them west, clearing their way through the forest and propelling himself up whenever the trees grew too troublesome to dodge. [Name] had half the notion that their overall altitude decreased mid-flight, and although the increase of the heat was an imminent indicator of their destination, her mind would never have wrapped itself around the existence of a beach. It seemed unreal to her — someone who had been rooted into a home in the middle of a small town, someone who had never been allowed to travel, someone who had thought it was impossible to see the world in that life — that a single place could hold both a forest and a beach, that tree and sand could share a neighborhood, but there it was.

The soil began to lose its domain as the pair flew closer west. The more they descended, the more the earth shifted into solid rock. Although she could point out natural coexistence, the trees and its leaves built a thicket glued to the ground, as if they had forgotten the proper way to grow and started to be pulled by gravity and its invisible string. She could see them more as huge bushes than trees per say, for the stalks were so small and thin, and palm trees were now a common sight, their movement following the sway of the wind. There was a small quantity of moss covering the rocks closer to the sea, and mountains of mid-length were caught in between forest and shore, as though it was the one thing connecting the two.

The waves kept their steady onslaught against the tall and sharp rocks of the shore, and Azriel duck, his frame a dark contrast to that haven of sun and sand and sea. She followed in suit, noting that, from a huge cavern located on the top of a cliff at her right, plummeted a thin waterfall. Once Azriel landed on his knees — a dramatic pose he seemed to treasure — he stretched his neck and placed her bag on the sand. Staring up at her, who chose to keep gliding, the well-deserved resting made for the return of his teasing spirit.

“If you want to fly some more, I’m sure those seagulls back there would be up for a good fight.”

A revolted chirp died on her throat as the opportunity ensued. Azriel got himself distracted with the disappearance of his Illyrian armor, and [Name] duck, shifting back into her fae form mid-air. She fell on his back and the Spymaster — who was still on his knees — fell face flat on the sand. The female got up as soon as her body touched his, grabbing her bag and staring at the sea.

“Did you make me wait an entire week for us to sleep under a cliff and live off the coconuts from the palm trees?” [Name] taunted him, whistling innocently once his deadly glance fell over her form. She had no doubt that he would find a way to retribute that prank of hers with twice as much force.

“Look behind you, smartass,” he scoffed. The second she did as so, hot sand was thrown on her nape, particles of it entering her jacket. [Name] didn’t need to spare a single glance to understand what had happened, and the sound of his own whistle — meant to mock her previous one — made her blood boil. However, before she could engage in a childish sand-battle that was beyond her normal behavior, her mouth fell agape at the sight above her.

There was a large cavity in the middle of the towering cliff. She squeezed her eyes to catch on it, for the entrance was covered by yet another pair of waterfalls, the two with a current stronger than the one she had seen earlier, acting as though a curtain of slight fog and liquid. The water fell on a small pool — surely one that had been made due to erosion — and followed a short route through rock and sand that disembogued on the sea. For a second, the female believed that her enhanced ears granted by the fae body had begun to fail her. She could hear the sound of the waves against the shore, the seagulls fighting for a poor, freshly caught fish, and the wind rustling the palm trees’ leaves, but she could not hear the sound of the waterfall, which was alarming considering the intensity of the flow.

Damn were those explosions! Soon enough, her sight would fall victim to the same tragedy, due to action of the toxins she so diligently worked with, the thought made her shiver. Perhaps it was a sign to start using those stupid leather-strapped googles.

As if caughting on her confusion, Azriel chuckled somewhere behind her. “The sound is muted by magic.”

Ah, [Name] realized. Magic, of course. The very thing that made the faes’ lives easier, that granted them the means to create things that no mortal could dare to aspire, not even during their most drunk state. [Name] was unused to that kind of commodity, and would sometimes fail to phantom the extensive lengths in which one could go with the aid of magic. Magic that she wielded, and that she refused to use out of the fear of forgetting the pleasure of building and drawing with her own hands, of cooking and preparing her own bath, rather than handling it to an external and incomprehensible force.

Azriel was suddenly by her side, eyeing her curiously before continuing. “I’ve created that cavern. It’s not born from a natural process, nor was it there already. I wanted a quiet place of my own, far from any boundary, so I grabbed a good enough pickaxe and built myself an entrance.”

“You’re fucking with me,” she scoffed, her glance holding his own. “You opened a hole through solid rock with your strength alone?”

Azriel himself was shocked. “You forget how strong we are, don’t you? How strong you are. [Name], considering the entire set of our abilities and scarce limitations of our bodies, opening a cleft is the least we are able to do.”

Her breath nearly caught on her throat at the sound of her name on his tongue. Rare were the moments in which both addressed one another by their given names, and she had only noticed it now, that not sooner he had said her name, she wanted to hear it again. And again. And again. During the most diverse of circumstances, some dirtier than she predicted; the sudden desire, a wave that the female had never thought she was capable of nurturing for someone else after all of those harsh years. She swallowed a lump of nervousness, stared at the entrance above them, and Azriel continued.

“It took me a while to create it, though. It was not the home I cared for, it was the process of reaching it. I wanted something to do with my hands after the war,” his voice shuddered ever so slightly at the mention of his scarred skin. It was a sound so vulnerable and, yet so swift, that one could even argue that they had imagined it. But [Name], who paid attention to his every movement without, had caught on it.

Allowing him to ignore that change in tone — to never address it — was the thing she loved the most about their dynamic. Azriel did not want her pity, nor did she want his, however, if one was to slip — opening an unwanted crack on the solid walls of their fortresses — rather than acting as though a listening ear to a pain neither wished to address, the other would simply wait until that fissure was mended. They would not offer each other soothing sentences or draw the illusion, born from a childish desire, of a future without battle and suffering. The two had experienced the worst that could come from the cruelest beings; had been both maimed by constant cruelty; had been scarred enough to refuse that blind idealism that drove pure hearts to the possible existence of long-lasting peace. They were born not to protect, but to survive. And silently acknowledging that single slip, granting the other a second of vulnerability, was their way to keep each other strong, to keep marching forward — without pity, without unnecessary emotion.

Like Calls to like. It seemed to be a keen enough saying when it came to the two of them.

“Sometimes, I would come here and punch the rocks until they gave in. Sometimes, I would use the power of my Siphons. Rarely, I actually used the pickaxe,” [Name] snickered at that. “I’ve built this entrance through rage and boredom and ease. It is a creation from every single feeling I’ve had during the years. When I noticed that I had opened enough space, and that it was about time I started decorating for once, I was kind of disappointed.”

She hummed, sweat pooling on her nape from where the fabric of her jacket clung to. “I’m sure those rocks back there would be up for a good fight,” the female commented, using his previous words against him.

“Better to fight a rock than a seagull, at least cliffs are tough opponents.”

“Seagulls actually move and fight back,” she countered.

“So you admit that you would struggle in a fight against seagulls?”

His tone was amused, causing her to grit her teeth. “I’ll give them your severed arm for lunch.”

“With this heat and your heavy choice of clothing, you’ll faint before managing to land a single punch,” Azriel noted, and [Name] shifted in full-force to stare at him, about to comment on his choice for Illyrian leather, just for her words to flee from both mind and tongue at the sight of him with merely a black tank-top and matching trousers.

“When did you—”

“Magic,” this time, his winning grin and mocking tone did nothing to vex her. [Name] was quite too busy tearing her eyes from his frame. She heard a dry laugh, followed by the sound of his wings propelling him up in the air.

Feyre had once said that [Name]’s transformations were one of the most beautiful sights she laid eyes on. According to her youngest sister, her previous form would vanish, giving way to the brief appearance of grouped particles that gleamed in silver, as if her magic was the manifestation of stardust. From the core of ethereal light, she arose in the newest form that suited her desires best. As [Name] took the body of the gyrfalcon, she couldn’t help but wonder whether or not the breeze born from the flapping of her wings scattered the said gleaming essence of her magic. It was hard to imagine that she could be the source of such a beautiful thing, but it was not unpleasant.

To reach the inside of the cave, she had to go through the liquid curtain of the waterfall. When [Name] shifted back, her body and clothes were drenched in seawater. Azriel waited ahead, leaning on the arched frameway of the wooden-door. He had gone through the trouble of building an entire entrance, with an external leisure area located left from the door, surrounded by fences made of polished wood. As soon as she began to walk towards him, hissing at the feeling of her wet socks, talons of shadows came to circle her wrists, guiding her to the entryway. She did not need their assistance, but accepted it still. The cave’s ceiling was enchanted, and although she could see the stalactites, they seemed awfully out of place, for rather than pitch-black darkness above, [Name] saw a mimic of the ethereal afternoon-sky of Velaris, with the bright blue shade accompanied by the faint hues of pink and lilac, a sign that dusk was near. His shadows swirled more comfortably now, as if the shore and burning sun from the outside drained them of life.

“We never managed to get the sky right,” Azriel commented as she reached the entrance, stepping foot on the single step that led to the leisure area. A shadow seemed to point the way left, and [Name] noted a set of armchairs, two common chairs, both suitable for Illyrian wings, and finally, at the corner in between the two latter, a chess set displayed on a table.

“We?” [Name] whispered half-attentively, her eyes glued to those damned pieces and that damned board, her fingers stretching due to the sudden urge to play.

“Rhys and I,” he explained, and she could sense a tinge of amusement in his voice. “The house itself wasn’t meant to be heavily enchanted or guarded. It was glamoured to avoid unwelcome visitors, but I hadn’t felt the need for further protection until I came up with the idea of bringing you here.”

[Name]’s eyes met his attentive ones, and the depth of his sea of longing was hued in hazel and golden-light.

“Hence why you made me wait for a week?” She inquired, and the sound of her voice was almost a treacherous profanity after it slashed through their previous silence, loud with words unsaid.

He swallowed hard, gripping the doorknob. “I like to keep you on edge, impatience suits you well. The threats are my personal favorite.”

Perhaps, she went mad with the heat; perhaps, the water clinging to her ribs had made her reckless; perhaps, her mind remained filled with much too many thoughts about chess and constructions and sculptures to process another thought if not one of those subjects; because the trap was an obvious obstacle placed on the side of her foot, and [Name] chose to willingly step on it, if only to amuse the Spymaster further.

“I will punch your teeth.”

“Feeble excuse to touch my lips.”

[Name]’s mouth shot open and she felt the blush that crept up her neck. His winning-grin had given her the actual desire to punch his teeth, but then again, that would make him smile more. Azriel gave her bag a light kick and pointed with his head towards the chess board.

“Change into something fresher and we’ll play a match or two.”

“Weren’t we here to train?” [Name] questioned, ignoring his first sentence. She hadn’t brought fresher clothes; all of her wardrobe was of long-sleeved shirts and dresses, for she meant to cover the inside of her left forearm.

“We are, but it’s almost dusk and we’ve flown most of the day,” he pointed out, crossing his arms against his chest. [Name] tried not to notice the muscles of his biceps, nearly shivering at the sight.

“I don’t have fresher clothes,” she blurted out, fearing that he could catch the trail of her thoughts otherwise.

He raised an eyebrow. “Cut the sleeves of some shirts, then.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need to.”

“We will be training under the scalding midday sun, you need to,” he stated matter-of-factly, annoyingly unbothered.

“I can handle—”

“Why, [Name]?” The Spymaster asked again, the sound of her name nearly causing her knees to buckle. Once met with her silence, however, he continued. “Wanna strike another deal?”

The challenge left her on edge, a shiver running down her spine where the tattoo of their pact had appeared a week prior. “We’re striking deals whenever we find an impasse?”

“If that’s what I need to crack open that mouth of yours,” a sea of curses poured from her thoughts but Azriel did not give her the chance to voice them. “Only this time, I was thinking of chess rather than magic.”

“Chess?” She asked him, tentatively. The bastard sure knew how to spike her interests.

“We play a match. Winner asks a question, loser is obliged to answer honestly.”

This got her to crack a laugh, one that echoed with arrogance. “You won’t get many answers from me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the ambient had shifted into something more electrifying, a sudden string of shared anticipation. “But I like that deal, you’ll be forced to speak up more.”

“I speak,” he countered, almost offended.

“Sure. I’ve known you for a year and the only things I’m sure of are your name and the friends you have.”

“Well, I know your name and the fact that you have three sisters.”

“You know more than that,” she rebuked immediately.

“Like?”

She fell silent. He grinned. His hand turned on the doorknob, and the passage to his home-cave was granted.

“Alright, Azriel,” she said, and his entire body seemed to shudder. “You’ve got yourself another deal.”

Their second chess match began.

trivia: the war between montesere and vallahan is entirely made-up and not a part of canon, alongside the story of the dragons. i came up with a few things of my own for the sake of the reader’s development! ;)

general notes: i am deeply sorry for how long it took me to post the second chapter. if i am being honest, i struggled a lot with their dynamics, since what i once wanted for them seemed to be very out-of-character with the az we know. i decided to work with his silent-little-shit-self and his very brief (SJM i am inside your walls) interaction with gwyn. i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i would love to hear your opinions and criticism on it. i promise i will try my best to write smaller chapters and to post them a little faster! lots of love <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @arilindemann @bsenpai @rachelnicolee @piceous21 @forsiriussake @sassybluebird @esposadomd

#acomaf #acotar #acowar #azriel #azriel / reader #azriel imagine #azriel imagines #azriel x reader #acosf #acotar x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader

97 notes · View notes