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tadpolesonalgae · 2 months

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please… - Part 4

Azriel x reader

a/n: happy to be back here again 🧈

word count: 3,968

-Part 3-

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You watch on with barely concealed distain as your father fumbles before the High Lord, allowing himself too much leeway on the invisible leash, consequently choking when it’s pulled taut. Probably another jab at the High Lord’s mate. His High Lady.

How obnoxious.

Away in an alcove, your mother watches on with equal distaste, enough to have you raising the glass to your mouth to conceal your grin. If only she wasn’t so awful.

As if sensing your lingering gaze, she turns her sharp, kohl-lined eyes in your direction. The smile vanishes in the blink of an eye, sipping slowly as you raise a brow. Her own narrow, flicking to the duo hidden in the shadows a little way from the foot of the dais, darkness coming alive in that corner.

You idly drag your gaze back to your mother’s, taking an intentionally deep sip from your drink. Her brows draw together in cold warning, contempt tightening her features at your indolence, but you break the connection and turn to the corner she’d ordered you to. Holding the Shadowsinger…and the Morrigan.

Softer than a summer’s breeze, quieter than a concealed hunter, you make your way into the darkness, crafting together a smile fitting of your court. “Sister,” you greet, sweeping over her analytically, picking out the thrum of waves that are quietly resonating from her outline, slowly deciphering them, pulling them apart to understand her rhythm. “Spymaster.” You hold still as their attention openly lands on you, taking you in swiftly, checking a mental list no doubt. An instinct installed in them from a young age, but one you have, too.

“How lovely of you to join us,” Mor drawls, lips sharpened into a cutting smile, holding her drink elegantly between two slim fingers, nails dipped in blood-red varnish. You offer her a cool smile in return, “it took me some time to find you. I should have known you’d both be lurking in the shadows somewhere.”

“It’s hard not to in a place like this,” Mor replies, eyes glinting as she gestures to the dimly lit room. Your own smile sharpens to a grin, preparing to drink as you raise the glass to your mouth. “And…Velaris, was it? Is it much better there?”

Her eyes flinch, exterior remaining calm and cool, unruffled except for the tell-tale truth of her gaze. The stuttering pulse of the air around her, fluttering in a way she can convince her heart not to. All for nothing, in the face of your magic. You take a sip of your drink, making a show of enjoying her resentful silence, the anger that’s tucked in the narrowing of her brows.

“It really would be lovely to visit sometimes,” you muse, watching how the air distorts with the gradual irritation of her emotion, still kept under lock and key in her features. Really, without your magic you’d be utterly clueless. “After all,” you continue, “it’s always you coming over to us. It would be rude not to return the favour. We can’t have our High Lord and lady constantly being the ones to put in the effort.”

“And are those your own wishes or whispers you’ve caught in hallways?”

You break your gaze with Morrigan, turning at last to meet the cold, unruffled eyes of the shadowsinger, looking as if he were carved from stone. So fitting to the Hewn City.

“Most of the rooms are warded,” you reply smoothly, “it would take some effort to overhear such a private conversation.” You take another calm sip of your drink. “But maybe I have.”

They aren’t as foolish as to exchange glances with one another, not even a shift in attention, but you know they mark the words carefully.

“Is there a spot you favour, Mor?” You ask, returning your attention to the female you share blood with. Between the two of them, her waves are the most unsteady. The only one who has ties to this place, who has memories that run as deep as the cave systems tunnelled within. “There must be much more choice on the outside. More people about, more places to wander, more fresh air to enjoy,” you muse, watching her from over the rim of your glass. The growing agitation of her waves. “Is the sun still blinding when you emerge from our darkness, Mor?”

Power thunders through the room, the very ground shaking and you whip around along with a few hundred other bodies in time to see a figure knelt on the stone floor before the dais. Your blood turns to ice, skin freezing over with fear at the intensity of the overwhelmingly dark power, how it suffocates the room, leeching the hall of air until every breath feels empty no matter how deeply you inhale.

Subconsciously you take a small step back, legs feeling unsteady though you force yourself to hold fast, to continue hauling air into your lungs no matter how pointless it feels. There are too many figures now crowded before you to see what’s going on, who it is that’s being punished for whatever transgression they committed, but you can hear the barely muffled sobs, the pained whimpers of fear rising from throughout the room. The hall, once smelling of berry wine and roasted meat sprinkled with herbs, is now contaminated with an edge of terror, sharp and tangy, enough to put you off eating for the rest of the night.

Through your peripherals you watch as Morrigan slinks off into the shadow, aiming to be closer to the dais, ready to pounce given the chance. It’s enough to set any sane person on edge.

Something brushes against your shoulder blades, and your spine turns rigid, the softest whisper of shadow pushing you upright again. A moment later it vanishes, hardly there for a second but enough to return the warmth to your blood, the colour to your skin. Your heart still thunders against your ribs, but you find no shame in it—not before the sheer display of power that’s inevitably brought out to remind your court of its place. At his feet.

A flicker of resentment stirs in your chest, brows pulling together over your eyes, jaw wound tight as you fix your gaze upon the raised thrones, high enough to survey the revelry—and to disrupt it at their pleasure.

A cold shadow again brushes your skin, but this time on your upper arm, a swift flick to get your attention and you turn in time to see him shift toward one of the hallways, much darker than usual. An invitation to follow. Though maybe by the way it wraps around your wrist, giving a firm tug, it might be more of an order.

With a last glance at the crowd, enraptured by the show of pain, feeding off another’s downfall and gleeful it’s not their own, you silently follow after him, stepping deeper into the concentrated depth of darkness that seems to constantly surround him.

It would probably serve as more of a threat if you hadn’t been born into shadow like his.

————

“What do you want?” You ask upon locking the door, having chosen a room you know to be warded against eavesdroppers.

“How much are you able to hear through passing conversation?” It’s a question, but one he’s phrased as a quiet demand, leaving little room for argument. You regard him warily, before walking over to the half circle of plush chairs arranged openly around a constantly lit fireplace, rugs on the floor the colour of blood and oranges. “I hear what I hear,” you reply cryptically, setting down into one of the chairs, secretly grateful you no longer have to stand, legs still feeling a little wobbly. The heels are also a little uncomfortable, but it’s a familiar pain, so one you know how to manage.

“Curious about some goings on, Shadowsinger?”

His features remain neutral, shadows thick as they roll from his shoulders, swirling between the great wings that loom at his back, cutting and intimidating figure. Maybe he would be scary if you didn’t know how soft his hands could be. How gentle. Your skin aches for another set of touches, to refresh the memory, to remind yourself of the sensation. To remind yourself people can be kind, even in a world of blood and stone.

“I would have thought you’d be eager to share information,” he says neutrally, alluding to the other exchanges you’ve had. Mutual benefits being reaped in private. “And I would have thought you’d have no need for extra intel,” you reply, keeping your attention on him as the flame from the fire is cast through the open room, light reflecting warmly from the large mirror that’s mounted atop the mantel. Sweet thing.

“I know what you want,” he reminds lowly, “and you know what I want. I’m sure you can see how this would be advantageous to both parties.” The air around him remains still and unbothered, calm and steady as usual. “You’re proposing this be a mutual exchange?” You specify. “Something regular?”

“Regular, but not frequent.”

“How often, then?” You ask, brows narrowing. Things in your court are delicate at best, volatile at worst. Casually overhearing tidbits is no skin off your back, but making the effort to hear things of use…especially information that might be sensitive, intel that if acted on could be traced back to you. He has no obligation to look out for you either, if things went south. No reason to help you out unless it would benefit him.

“I couldn’t say,” he replies idly. “Maybe days apart, maybe years. Whenever I seek details perhaps only you can find.”

“I’d rather not be subject to such a mercurial agreement,” you say dryly. “If you’re seeking particulars, I can work with that, but without a direction is too much.”

“What sort of things do you have in mind for particulars?” He asks, the air faintly simmering around him. “And give away the small advantage that I have? I think not.”

“Very well,” he replies, as if having expected the small resistance, “what do you know about your father’s intentions for Velaris?”

Your brows narrow, running your gaze over him, hands mostly concealed in shadow. “How much are you willing to give for that?”

“How much do you want?” He returns, evading the question. Neither of you break the connection, staring each other down though the focus isn’t malicious. More wary—slightly curious. Unsure of this possible development.

“I’ve had no time to thoroughly look into that specific topic,” you start cautiously, angling your head, “so I’ll settle for the usual amount.”

“How much do you have?”

“Some,” you reply vaguely. Again that slight tension rises, the potential to turn into something terse, but then the two of you remember there’s no underlying violence, and settle back to relatively normal behaviour. Not quite at ease, though.

He nods his head for you to start, but you pause, looking him over once more. Letting him know you aren’t entirely at his disposal. You still hold the power to withhold what he’s after. He gives no sign of impatience, nor irritation, just bland neutrality. So you lean back into the plush warmth of the chair, inclined to pull your legs up to your chest, but that would give the illusion of weakness, of mediocrity. But maybe it would be better for him to think less of you, so you follow through with your original wish, tucking yourself into a deep corner of the cushion.

“Some things I’m able to hear through simply being in the right place at the right time, more on the side of coincidence than anything intended. Snippets of conversation people are too lazy to think to cover, or sometimes just not important enough for secrecy,” you begin, and he leans back into the wall slightly, more so that his shadows are within reasonable distance than for comfort. It’s easier to slip into darkness when you’re near a corner than the middle of a room, after all.

“Other times, there are pieces one can only have the chance to overhear depending on who they are. As his daughter I’m allowed more access than most to various rooms—some I doubt even my sister knows exist, having lacked the agency to seek them out.” Like before, he makes no external shift of his expression, no obvious tell to his emotions, but the air shifts around him, as if disturbed by something. Like how the colours above flames twist and distort as heat ripples up.

“Then, there are the things that require somehow being able to listen through walls, through wards that are spun thicker than wool and tighter than chainlink armour,” you say, catching the hint of interest in the far depths of his hazel eyes, and you wonder if you’re granted access to that piece of him through his own will or whether it’s a side effect of having foraged so deep inside of his mind you reached the bones of his soul. Tattered, but remaining strong. “Those, are the pieces I think you’d be interested in. Correct?”

His mask shifts a little, allowing his brows to dip as he takes on what you’ve said. “You know a way to listen through wards?” He asks, eyes flicking to the perimeters of the room. “I highly doubt anyone else would be able to, Shadowsinger,” you reply. “I highly doubt you’d tell me if they could, were you acting on your parent’s behalf.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not.”

Another tense silence passes between you, tension rising then fading, simmering away, like a pot taken off the boil.

“You already know I preside over my father’s hoard of antiquities. Ancient things with nasty spells wrapped around them, sometimes even imbued with malice themselves, which is what makes them so dangerous, as I’m sure you’re aware.” The air flickers around him, and you smile faintly. “What did end up happening to that mirror?”

“That’s none of your concern,” he replies shortly.

“I hope you put it to good use.”

His brows narrow at your tone, more clipped than he’s ever heard it. Verging on stern.

“Kier’s trove?” He reminds, still keeping to the shadows. A smile twinkles in your eyes, a little menacing. “There are all sorts of things in there—things that he really should be making more use of,” you answer wryly. The Shadowsinger remains quiet, inviting you to continue, and you settle more comfortably into the armchair. “You’d be surprised how useful some of the items in there are, once you known how to use them properly.”

“The Veritas?” He asks.

“Can repeat moments from memory, but can also record events as they happen, stored away in a secret pocket of time,” you smile, and wariness threads through his bones. “There were some interesting new moments captured within it when your returned that orb, that I doubt you knew could be accessed by me—or anyone, for that matter, if they knew how.”

“What are you talking about?” Azriel mutters lowly, shadows flickering at his back, agitation thickening in the air as the waves around him stutter.

“It’s a rather effective way of peering into someone else’s life,” you muse, “like a spyglass. I’m sure you would love to know how it works. It’s a shame the Veritas is so precious, or it would be a handy thing to leave lying about in your enemies’ rooms—see what they get up to behind closed doors.”

“What did you see?”

“Did I say that I saw?”

“It’s unwise to play games you don’t understand the rules of.”

“And here I thought we were on the same side, now you’re threatening me?”

“We have an agreement. Do not mistake that for sharing a side.”

“But we have a mutual enemy, doesn’t that put us exactly there?”

He pauses, and you watch as the shadows stretch along the walls, much further than they ought to be capable of. “I have no guarantee you aren’t under Kier’s thumb,” he says lowly, “though I suppose a quick look from our High Lord could sort that out.”

“Funny, I didn’t get the impression he would do something like that. Just going off how you all acted in the presence of the mortal queens.”

“So you did look.”

“I was curious,” you reason, smiling faintly.

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back,” you remind, still smiling, more feline than before. “How do you think I came to know so much about my father’s trove? A comprehensive manual listing every little detail for every little object?”

“You’d have to be insane to meddle with age-old artefacts.”

“Or just bored to tears,” you counter. “So little happens down here, can you blame me?”

“So you decided to go and poke at ancient relics? Some that date back to prerecorded history?”

“And now you get to share in all the knowledge I’ve acquired, isn’t that wonderful. I’d have thought you’d be flying to the moon and back at getting to expand your web of informants.”

He stares at you silently, an unreadable look on his lovely face. “I’m assuming you won’t freely hand over that information, though.” You smile faintly, choosing to remain quiet. “And how much does your father know about the objects in his possession?” Azriel asks carefully.

“About the same as you do, probably.”

“Why have you chosen to keep it from him?” He inquires, hazel eyes more alert than usual. It seems you’ve successfully piqued his interest. “Surely handing over even fractions of everything you supposedly know would put you in his favour.”

“And what benefits would I get from being in his favour?” You return, amusement fading.

Azriel angles his head, the light from the fire warming the smooth planes of his features. “You tell me.”

“I think I’ve told you quite enough,” you reply lowly, “pay up.”

Something glints in his hazel eyes, the edges of his mouth curving ever so slightly, before he’s stepping back into the shadow, swallowing him whole. You bolt up in the chair, spine straightening as you lean over the arm, but he’s already vanished. Gotten out. Left you alone within the heavy stone room that no amount of fire is able to truly warm.

Your mask slips away, brows curving slightly, lips parting in quiet sorrow as a soft breath has your shoulders sloping with despondency.

Scar-roughened hands slip gently beneath your jaw, softly but firmly guiding you to lean back against the chair, tipping your chin slightly to gaze into deep hazel, the firelight refracting through the array of colours. His fingers run along the bone, raising to the spot beneath your pointed ear as he holds you still, keeping enough distance between his touch and your throat for you to ease. You may crave comfort in the form of physical connection, but the feeling of hands around your neck…never again.

“You could have just walked over,” you manage softly, staring up at him, tall enough to lean over the top of the large armchair. “I could have,” he agrees, “but you needed a reminder of your codependency.”

Your brows furrow, but he lightly applies pressure to the soft hollow on the underside of your mouth, and you lean back into the seat, eyes content to close. It’s such a rare gift, you can’t bring yourself to deny yourself of it from any angle. You need to let the touch sink into your skin, to memorise how it feels, how the warmth seeps in and remains for a little without the stinging pain of leather, or the harsh bite of metal.

His fingers trace up the arch of your ear, light as feathers as you raise into the touch, so desperately seeking more. Your breathing settles into a steady rhythm, deepening with surprising swiftness, falling into the heat of his hands as they soothe your senses.

“What are your father’s intentions for Velaris,” he murmurs quietly, sliding the palm of his right hand fully beneath your jaw, letting the heat sink in, marking how your breathing stutters ever so slightly. “He’s only mentioned it a few times,” you mumble, basking in the heaven of his hands. “What has he said?” He prompts, raising his left palm to brush hair back from your cheek, to stroke over the crown of your head, lulling you into spilling more secrets. “He’s said it’ll be a chance to expand his reach,” you mumble, “something about buying up precious commodities and reselling them elsewhere, to slowly decrease trade…I couldn’t hear all of it…”

Azriel’s brow narrows at the revelation, making a mental note to report that back to Rhys. “What else?” He asks, hands both sliding beneath your jaw, cupping it lightly as his thumbs slowly drag over the skin just below your cheek bones, pressing hotly into the hinges, the muscle making your eyelids flutter at the slightly ticklish sensation. “Something about…being able to keep an eye on Mor… Knowing she wouldn’t like sharing her home with them,” you answer wearily, softening beneath fatigue and the soothing touches. “Reminding her she can’t escape.”

“And what about Kier’s trove,” he pushes, shadows pushing into the chair with you, and you shudder lightly, fingers trembling. He can hear the flutter of your pulse, see how your lips have parted to hand over the information for a few more seconds. “He keeps it locked away,” you murmur in answer, “the really precious things, at least.”

“What can they do?”

“I…” You trail off, body losing its tension, muscles relaxing into the encompassing warmth. “I can’t tell you.”

“Yes you can,” he whispers, hand again shifting to stroke against your hair—so softly, so sweetly. Not even the slightest suggestion of pain in his touch. So cruel.

But your eyes slide open, pupils wide and blown out, readjusting swiftly to the dim light of the room. “I think that’s enough for this time,” you manage quietly, tone shaky, “can’t have you bleeding me dry in one go.”

Azriel’s brow narrows, but then he’s pulling away, your skin already feeling cooler without the comfort of his touch and shadows.

“Keep an ear out for Velaris,” he instructs, hands settling over the top of the seat so you have to remain looking upward. Azriel considers mentioning also keeping an eye out for Eris, but he’ll start you off with one task. See how you manage it, before guiding your attention to other areas of your court.

“And what should I do once I acquire more?” You ask, and he notes the certainty in your tone. As if you somehow have a guarantee you’ll be able to discover more. Maybe there really are some dangerous things in Kier’s trove, thankfully left unknown to him. For now.

“I will find you,” he replies shortly, at last stepping back from the seat, shifting to his shadowy corner. “You stay focused on one thing at a time.”

“Any artefacts you want to know more about?” You ask, and he can hear the mirth in your voice without having to see your expression.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” he reminds, leaning against the wall. “This agreement only works if you’re alive.”

“And in this world,” you add, a touch quieter than before. He doesn’t like how lightly you speak about meddling with those objects—can only hope that you of all people will know when you’re about to take a step too far.

He doesn’t reply, simply looking you over one last time before vanishing into the darkness. Leaving you to ponder the new developments.

And how much longer you can take before having to return to the great hall. Feet still aching.

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#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x yn #azriel fics #azriel shadowsinger #please…

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tadpolesonalgae · 9 months

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Azriel x reader: please… - Part 2

A/N: and so the story begins, woo!

-Part 1- -Part 3-

You’re in your own chambers when he finds you a second time.

Despite how calmly you lower the brush and shift on your padded stool, he knows he’s startled you. It takes only a moment before you’re sliding into character, raising your head slightly to look down your nose at him. “You came.”

He makes no effort to move, refuses to give anything away, forcing you to lead the conversation.

You stand from the vanity, the demure night dress swishing on the floor, cinching gently around your ribs, the collar comfortably loose around your neck. It’s perfect against the natural cold of the rock, especially paired with the robe that overlays it, sleeves down to your wrists, only your hands and face to be exposed to his gaze.

You stop what you feel is a healthy distance away. “Do you have it? Or have you come to offer me a bargain as you’ve misplaced it?” You can’t help the hope that creeps into your words, the need for the warmth of another living creature. That painful softness.

The Shadowsinger holds his hand out, and the Veritas is deposited in his palm, released from one of those pockets of the world.

You take some steps forward, since he’s refusing to do anything to your benefit. Except having brought it back. Personally.

You feel his eyes—his senses, narrow on you as you take the orb from his palm. So careful to avoid his touch this time.

You vanish it into your own pocket, making a note to later return it to its home, safe and sound. Your father none the wiser.

“Do you know of all the artefacts in your father’s possession?” The male asks, and you raise your gaze to his questioningly. “I do…?”

The air around him trembles ever so slightly—he’s indecisive.

If he refuses to voice the question, you won’t push him. Let him think you’re finished. Let him think he needs you.

You turn, moving smoothly back to your vanity, where you again pick up the brush, teasing the ends of your hair through the teeth. “Is that all?” You ask him in the mirror, reaching for the long spool of fabric—soft and nonabrasive for your hair. Carefully, you wrap it up, securing it tightly so it won’t slip out during the night.

The gloves slip over your fingers seamlessly, keeping the warmth in as you stand, moving across the room toward your bed. He watches you through it all, and you’re beginning to feel unnerved.

It’s only once you’ve removed your robe, hanging it over your bedside armchair and sat on your bed, sliding your feet out of your slippers to dip them beneath the duvet, that he speaks. “What do you know about the Ouroboros?”

He watches as your features drain of colour, the warmth of your skin cooling. “Why do you seek it?”

Azriel shrugs with casual ease, “my High Lord has taken an interest in it. I wish to retrieve it for him.” Again, the air thrums around him.

You tuck yourself under the covers needing the warmth, having suddenly become aware of the cold. “It’s yours for the taking,” you murmur, watching him keenly. “It’s not something that can be possessed by someone. If you can overcome it, it’s yours. Fair and simple.”

“What’s the catch?” He asks, moving closer to you, observing your features for a hint of untruth. “Must there always be a catch?” You reply, narrowing your eyes at him. Why does he have to ask after that damned mirror?

“Various scholars have written about certain…obstacles, in retrieving it. So I’ll ask you again: what’s the catch?” His shadows become denser at his back, wreathing his wings in darkness. Your lips kick up at the edges, “what will you give me if I spill that precious information to you?”

You aren’t a fool. You know a war’s coming. And the timing is too perfect. There’s no way their court isn’t desperate, if they’re asking after it. The question is: why?

His expression remains neutral as he takes you in: your relaxed position, the set of your features, that gleam in your eyes. He knows what you want from him. What you’re surely craving by now. It’s been months since that initial visit.

“What do you want, Truth-Teller?”

Your breath catches a little at the title, an embarrassed flush heating your cheeks as you look away. “You know what I want.” Your eyes longingly flick to his hands, which he has hidden behind his back. To anyone else, it would look like a sign of good-will, of amnesty; subservience. But to you…he’s withholding something vital.

His shadows mark your attention. “Yes. I do.”

“Give it to me, and I’ll tell you whatever I know.”

“Rather demanding,” he drawls, stepping so he’s beside your bed. A spec of discomfort settles in his chest as he catches the way your eyes settle on his mouth as he speaks, before hurriedly zipping away. He has to be careful to not give you any ideas. He’s not sure if he could stomach it if you asked him to… He pushes the idea away.

“Why does the High Lord want the ouroboros?” You ask, eyes flitting up to his own, gathering your senses, cooling your head. His eyes gleam with amusement, “he wants it for his High Lady.”

You narrow your eyes, observing the air around him. “And why does she have a need for it?”

“I didn’t say she has a need for it.”

“But she does.” He doesn’t reply. It’s confirmation enough. “She wants it…not for herself. No, she couldn’t stand it for herself.”

He watches as you murmur to yourself, thinking.

“She couldn’t stand it…so why does she want it? Why would she want it? She must need it. Why would she need it?” Your teeth have slid beneath your nails, chewing lightly. “Why would the High Lady need the Ouroboros? And what about the timing? The timing fits nicely, yes. Why does the timing fit nicely?”

Your eyes lift to his, and they’ve shifted. They’re deeper. Darker. A little mad. “Why does the timing fit nicely?” You’re staring at him as if he’ll reveal the answer. Like you’re burning through each carefully constructed wall, every practiced mental shield, crumbling.

Your legs swing from your bed with a grace he doesn’t recognise, and then you’re taking a step toward him, reaching—

He’s pulled his blade from its sheath faster than you can blink, and quieter than is safe. “Easy.” The tip stings against your sternum, bringing you to a halt. He could have sworn something rippled through the air, but his attention is snagged by the absolute darkness of your eyes. As if your eyeballs have withered and all that’s left is the glassy film that overlays it.

“What are you?” He breathes, pressing his blade tighter to your skin—

He’s blinking, as if clearing away a fog. Your eyes are changed to normal, his blade in its sheath, and you’re settling back beneath your duvet. “Is it a deal?”

He’s trying to figure out what you did. What happened to him? There’s an inconsistency in his memory, a gap of sorts where nothing arises to his questioning. “What did you do?” He growls, but doesn’t reach for his blade.

Your eyes flick away, then return to his as you sigh. “It’s what happens when I get too…drawn in. To a truth, I mean.” You lie smoothly. “My powers are…complicated. I am still learning to control them. Sometimes when they rile, odd spots appear. Discrepancies.” It’s not completely a lie. Blended with truth. A fruitful mix.

He doesn’t look like he believes you, and you wonder if you’ve squandered your only chance at a friendly touch. If you’ve squandered your only chance at a friend. You swallow down your anxiety.

“The deal?” You question, settling into bed.

He paused, considering. “I do as I did last time, and you’ll tell me everything you know of the Ouroboros?” He questions carefully.

You hesitate.

“I…” you begin, nervously. “I want to guide your touch this time.” You keep your voice steady, and pray he needs you enough to follow through.

When you see the wariness in his eyes, you’re reminded of where his mind wondered last time you had made a request, discomfort lining his features with a tinge of disgust. So you clarify, “in the same way as last time. With the same…boundaries.”

He’s silent, but nods. Once. “It’s a deal.” You feel its sting, but this time you’re prepared. You still flinch at the pain—across your breast bone, atop your heart. You wonder where it’s inked on him as you peer at his palms, but they’re devoid of the marking.

You reach for him, desperate for that bone-deep warmth he gives you, as if your entire being could melt away into him, your soul condensing into a heat that pours its nourishment through your blood. Revitalising you in a way that’s a necessity if you ever wish to flourish beneath the weight of this mountain.

He pulls away, “greedy.”

You nearly whimper with need but keep as much of your mask in place as you can, instead glaring at him. He just watches you beautifully, with that silence grace of his. “You’re going first after that little stunt.”

Your brow furrows, “I don’t trust you to fulfil your end afterward.”

“You should have specified a time.” And just like before, you forgot to. Too caught up in your desires.

“I’ll tell you half now,” you begin, “and the rest after.” He shakes his head, features set in a careful mask of stone, mouth in a bland line. You bite the inside of your lip. If you give in here, he’ll know how desperate you are. But if you don’t…

He might walk away.

Is it worth revealing the depth of your power to him? If only to ensure he stays? Your brows knit together. Which choice will secure him? At least for now.

His shadows swarm—as if he’s preparing to winnow.

“The Bone Carver.”

He stiffens. Shadows still wreathing him. Their nature has shifted. From harmless darkness to something more…sinister.

You smile a bit, wickedly. “It is the Bone Carver.” You say it in a way that suggests he’s confirmed a suspicion—you can’t let him know your true depths. Not even him. You’ve only met him twice, including now.

You pretend to examine your nails beneath your gloves, adjusting them as you settle back in the pillows. “You should really work on concealing your emotions better, Spymaster. Can’t have a little thing like me getting through so easily now, can we?”

His expression doesn’t shift but the air around him spasms a little, syncopated beats jerking and jutting in places. “What do you want?” He grits out, words cold and clipped.

You give him a small, sweet smile—one you know doesn’t reach your eyes. You need to remind him you’re a daughter of this court. Not his. “You need me much more than I need you, Spymaster. Don’t forget that.” You tuck yourself further into your plush nest, snuggling beneath the bedcovers. “Now come here.”

Azriel weighs his options. Any information on the Ouroboros could be vital in the war. Whether it’s truly impossible to claim. If one will go mad from looking into it as the ancient texts have claimed. The thought of his friends—his family… They needs every ounce of help they can get. He can’t walk away from you, can’t walk onto that killing field, knowing he could have done something to give them a better chance…

He stops at the edge of your bed.

You gesture for him to sit.

He suppresses the urge to bare his teeth at you in a snarl—it would reveal his cards. So he sits, quietly.

“I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about it.”

His eyes flick to yours in silent surprise. But you aren’t looking at him. You’re looking at the mirror on your vanity instead. Small enough to be moved around, large enough for you to see yourself fully. “Some claim that if you look into it, your soul will fracture. Others claim it will be sucked inside the mirror, trapped in whatever hell awaits the beholder. Some even go as far as to claim that to look into it is to bring yourself to an early death.”

The male listens quietly, drinking in every word, searching for a deeper meaning, comparing it against his own truths. So far they match up.

“Apparently,” you begin, stressing the word, “it was once in the possession of the Weaver of the Wood—the Dark Mother’s. Whether it was evil before it fell into her clutches or was somehow imbued with her malevolence is a matter of which scholar you’ve read; no one really knows.” You pause, bringing the duvet tighter to your body, almost hiding beneath the sheets.

“Either way, most agree that to look inside it is to sentence yourself to madness—at least. Why ever you need it, I would consider carefully if insanity is worth it.” You warn.

“Why do people go mad? What lies inside it?” He pushes, prompting you for more information. You seem to know more than any of the scholars. How? You aren’t old enough to even have read all of them, if he is to assume your knowledge is at an equal level for every artefact within Kier’s trove.

He watches as again the warmth drains from you skin—your eyes flick to his hands. It’s a struggle to remember you’re looking at them longingly, and not in disgust. To fight the urge to put them out of sight. Offensive as they are in the daylight.

Your fingers tighten on your covers, and he listens.

“There’s a tale in one of the old tomes of a girl.” You begin, starting the tale you’re about to recite to him. “She was curious, and inquisitive. There were a great many things that took her interest whenever she perused through the world, but the Ouroboros…it had a pull. Something dark, and…awful, that she couldn’t pull away from.” Your brow furrows with the emotion behind the tale. “Like standing at the edge of a cliff and you know all it would take is one step. So little standing between the ledge and that plummeting drop—it was tempting. And she fell for it.”

He stills. “She looked into it?”

You swallow, shaking your head lightly. “No, she… Not directly.” You nod to the mirror on your vanity, the one that could easily be moved. “She put one opposite, and looked from there.”

He knows he doesn’t imagine the tremor that runs through you, the tremble to your fingers. He made the right choice in staying. To have a real account of someone who’s looked into it…and survived.

Well, you haven’t claimed she lived, but rather long enough to set pen to paper.

You inhale deeply. “At first, she saw nothing. But that only encouraged her further.”

Azriel isn’t even sure he’s breathing. Rapt with attention.

“It was to lure her in, gain her trust, play on her curiosity and her arrogance at ignoring the wave of horror that sang from it.” You bite your lip. “And so she looked further—through the second mirror, but she still fell deeper.”

He could swear your breath shakes as you open your mouth to recall what follows. “But the mirror couldn’t take her. It was powerful, yes, but without that direct line of contact…it couldn’t reach her. But it could reach her reflection.”

It’s barely a breath, a quiet exhale of trembling air, but he hears it. And understands your dread, how far its reach could stretch.

“And so it stole that part of her. A part that shouldn’t have even mattered. But something invisible to everyone else. She was foolish, and fell for its temptation, but had tried to thwart it. Perhaps it was angry, perhaps that was just its nature, but it still snatched something from her for trying to out-wit it.”

Your eyes raise to his, haunted. “And so it took her reflection. Stole it from her, so she would never behold herself as others could. Cursed to live an immortal life without that innate understanding of self.”

You sigh heavily, slumping into the pillows, as if the story has drained you. “Why ever you seek the mirror. Consider if it’s worth the price of eternal madness, Spymaster. It cannot be conquered through wit, or cunning. It demands to be faced head on, and will demand retribution on those who attempt any sleight of hand. It will not be kind.”

He watches as you swallow, as if trying to wash away a foul flavour on your tongue: the aftertaste of the tale.

“Are there any records of what she saw?” He probes, disregarding your sallow complexion. He needs as much information as he can, and he’s lucky enough that you’ve taken your job seriously while you guard Kier’s trove. He can see why you were trusted with its safety.

Your eyes dart to his hands. “I’ve given plenty. Start on your side.”

He doesn’t object, shifting closer as he raises his hands, and your eyes flutter closed. Seemingly content to be swept into oblivion.

He starts with small touches, tracing the side of your face with the pad of his middle finger, brushing his thumb beneath the swell of your lips, trialing his hand to sweep beneath your jaw.

Your breathing catches as he props up your chin, his free hand repeating his actions on the left, except he drags two fingers round the edges of your features. He stiffens when you raise your own hands to wrap over his—but it’s part of the bargain, so he has to allow it.

In your world of darkness and warmth, you indulge yourself, wrapping your right hand over his, resting over your stomach, bringing your left hand to guide his. Your brows curve with need when your feel that distinct impression of his scars against your skin—callouses catching.

You lean into that dry heat, pressing your cheek into his palm, sighing softly, squeezing his hand. You can already feel yourself on the verge of disintegration. As if a single exhale of breath would knock the life from your skin, have you steadily collapsing as you fall in on yourself.

You lace your right hand with his, fingers sliding between one another and you squeeze your eyes shut to keep out your tears.

Of his own accord, he moves, gently. The pad of his middle finger sweeping beneath your lashes, but you can’t find the willpower to be embarrassed, even if you know he felt the salty dampness of unshed tears.

Your breathing turns shaky as you guide him beneath the cut of your jaw, moving so his fingers splay across your skin, dancing across your surface so carefully you feel a stray tear fall. It rolls silently down your cheek, Azriel continuing the elegant waltz across your features.

The gentleness of his touch is cruel—why have you been denied it for so long. Has anyone ever held you so carefully? As if you’re on the verge of shattering…as if he doesn’t want that to happen.

A quiet sob escapes your lips in the form of a trembling exhale, and you tighten your hand on his, squeezing as your brows curve together at the feeling. He traces the skin between your eyes, beginning the descend as he tips over the swell of your nose, skipping over your lips to sweep beneath your jaw, moving with the grace of waves.

He’s careful to avoid the fabric neatly concealing your hair, but settles his hand carefully, thumb brushing over your cheek, then climbing higher, at some point dancing through the teardrops.

He pays close attention to your reactions, notes how your breathing is beginning to deepen as it evens out, becoming more regular. As if you would be content to fall into unconsciousness right here, his hands still continuing their meandering path across your skin.

“What did she see?” He asks.

At the flutter of your eyes, his shadows settle around you, brushing with feathery softness across your skin, and he could swear you shudder. But your eyes remain closed, dwelling in that space of peace you’ve created for yourself.

“At first…nothing. She she got braver, chose to give more of her attention to the mirror, to that darkness that dwells inside.” You answer, without much hesitation. You need his warmth.

“Then, when she was well within its grip, it revealed its intent. Apparently…” you trail off, peeking your eyes open, latching onto his own. You don’t shrink away from the shadows at your side. How could you? When they’re lapping at your skin so softly, like heated silk.

You hand tightens in his. “Apparently, she saw a…creature. Something that shouldn’t have been seen. It wasn’t of this world. Too pure, and undiluted to exist on any of our planes, so it was held within the mirror. Separate to us.”

He can feel the tremors running through you. He can’t tell if they’re from his touching or terror at the story.

“If you look into that mirror, Spymaster, you’ll have to face it. And once you do, you can’t turn back. You can’t run away from it, and neither can you harm it.”

“So how is the creature defeated?” Your lips press together as another shudder runs through your body. “It’s not something to be defeated,” you hiss, “have you been listening at all?”

He keeps from narrowing his brow but makes to pull away, your hands tightening on his to keep him still. “You must face it. No weapons, no deceit. Straight on. You must bear it, see it, make it through whatever it shows.”

He pulls away this time, standing from your bed, leaving you feeling cold, and withdrawn. You hiss, “longer.”

He shakes his head, “you’ve told me what you need. The bargain has gone. I owe you nothing.”

Indeed, the ink upon your heart has vanished, leaving the skin void of any marks. You search for anything else to keep him here, beneath the mountain with you, but come up empty.

You grind your teeth, but accept your defeat.

Sensing you have nothing left to give him, his shadows behind wrapping about his body, preparing to sink into the darkness. Maybe it’s worth keeping tabs on you. He seems to have stumbled upon an untapped goldmine. He wonders where else your knowledge stretches, how pure are the veins of your power.

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