Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The wind hit her first.

Cold.

Sharp enough to steal the breath from her lungs the moment they winnowed into Windhaven, carrying the clean bite of mountain air tangled with woodsmoke, pine, and something warmer beneath it—spiced wine, bonfire ash, bodies packed too closely together beneath the open night sky.

Gwyn’s heels touched stone.

And the world exploded into color.

Faelights hung suspended above the streets like captured stars, drifting lazily between buildings and market stalls in shimmering shades of gold, amber, and deep violet. Ribbons stretched overhead from rooftop to rooftop, snapping softly in the wind, while glowing lanterns swung from carved wooden posts lining the pathways below.

Music echoed everywhere.

Not refined.

Not polished.

Wild.

Drums thundered somewhere deeper in the camp, the rhythm uneven and primal enough that Gwyn could feel it beneath her ribs before she fully heard it. Flutes and stringed instruments tangled through the sound in bright bursts, half-lost beneath laughter, shouting, and the roar of massive bonfires blazing against the darkening mountainside.

The sun was nearly gone now.

Only streaks of burning gold remained across the horizon, bleeding slowly behind the jagged peaks surrounding Windhaven.

And beneath all of it—

Magic thrummed through the camp like something alive.

Not controlled.

Not restrained.

Ancient.

Gwyn stood still for half a second too long, trying to take all of it in at once.

The shops lining the streets overflowed with people despite the fading light, every doorway crowded with laughing Illyrians carrying bottles, ribbons, glowing charms, armfuls of flowers. Tents stretched beyond the city center in clusters of colored fabric and lanternlight, some filled with dancing, others packed shoulder-to-shoulder with gamblers, musicians, and drunken males shouting over one another.

Everything moved.

Everything breathed.

And somehow—

None of it looked like the Windhaven she remembered.

The last time Gwyn had stood here, she had been dragged from sleep in the dead of night, disoriented and drugged, half-conscious as rough hands hauled her through darkness while Bellius sneered down at them like they were animals being delivered to slaughter.

The memory slammed into her hard enough that her stomach tightened instinctively.

The ground frozen beneath her bare feet.

Nesta struggling beside her.

Emerie’s blood on the snow.

The smell of fear and iron and pine.

Gwyn blinked hard.

And the image vanished beneath lanternlight and music and fire.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But different now.

Alive instead of haunted.

A loud burst of laughter snapped her fully back into the present as several Illyrian males stumbled out of a nearby tavern, already drunk enough that one nearly crashed directly into Cassian.

Cassian caught him by the shoulder automatically.

“Careful,” he muttered.

The male blinked once before recognition hit.

Then immediately paled.

“General.”

Cassian snorted and shoved him lightly away. “Enjoy the festival.”

The male nodded rapidly before disappearing back into the crowd.

Nesta rolled her eyes beside him.

“You’re terrifying sober,” she observed. “I can’t imagine drunk.”

“I’m delightful drunk.”

“You once tried to arm wrestle a tree.”

“I won.”

“You broke your hand.”

“Still won.”

A reluctant laugh escaped Gwyn before she could stop it.

The sound disappeared into the chaos around them almost immediately.

The cold returned a second later.

Not painful.

Just constant.

It slid through the thin fabric along the exposed cuts of her dress, curling against her skin every time the wind shifted through the mountain pass.

Everyone else seemed entirely unaffected.

Nesta’s white dress revealed nearly as much skin as Gwyn’s, though she stood beside Cassian as if the cold did not exist at all. Feyre’s matching white fabric shimmering beneath drifting faelight while Rhys kept one arm loosely around her waist.

Even the other females passing through the streets wore little more than ribbons and gauzy dresses despite the chill.

And the males—

Cauldron.

Most of them barely wore shirts at all.

The sheer amount of exposed skin combined with wings and jewelry and glowing magic left Gwyn feeling suddenly, acutely aware of herself in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Especially in red.

Gods.

The color may as well have announced her to the entire camp.

She felt the attention almost immediately.

Not subtle.

Not threatening.

Curious.

Interested.

It didn’t take long for her to spot others dressed in crimson, but even those females were far and few in between. She quickly noticed how they either stood guarded by other males, most likely family, or they stayed close to a partner, held in a way that was certainly not platonic.

Eyes lingered as they passed through the crowded streets, particularly from unmated males near the bonfires and market stalls. Some openly watched her. Others glanced once toward Azriel beside her and immediately looked elsewhere.

That did not escape her notice.

Neither did the fact that Azriel had moved closer sometime after they arrived.

Purposely close enough that the edge of his wing occasionally brushed the back of her arm whenever the crowd shifted too tightly around them.

Protective.

Intentional.

Infuriatingly unavoidable.

Because after everything that had happened yesterday—

After the confusion and tension and careful distance—

He still moved like this around her.

Gwyn pulled her attention away from him before the irritation currently simmering beneath her ribs could sharpen further.

Ahead, the market opened wider into the central stretch of Windhaven, where the celebration truly exploded into life.

Massive bonfires blazed against the coming dark, sparks swirling upward into the mountain sky while groups of Illyrians danced around them in spinning circles of music and laughter. Some wore glowing paint along their skin and wings, streaks of gold and blue shimmering whenever they passed through the firelight. Others twined ribbons around wrists and throats, bright flowers woven through dark hair.

Magic drifted openly through the camp tonight.

Not hidden.

Encouraged.

Faelights darted between people like curious fireflies, occasionally dipping low enough that laughing children tried to catch them in their hands.

And somewhere farther ahead, a burst of familiar laughter cut through the noise.

Emerie.

Gwyn turned immediately toward the sound.

Near the center of the market, Emerie stood outside her shop beneath strings of glowing lanterns, arguing with a customer while balancing three folded pieces of clothing beneath one arm.

She looked entirely in her element.

Alive.

Strong.

Nothing like the terrified female who had once bled beside Gwyn in the snow.

Emotion tightened unexpectedly in Gwyn’s chest at the sight of her.

Because this—

This was what they had survived for.

Not merely survival.

Living.

The realization hit harder than she expected.

Beside her, Azriel glanced down briefly.

“You’re cold.”

Not a question.

Gwyn blinked once, realizing too late that she had wrapped her arms loosely around herself.

“I’m fine.”

A lie.

The wind chose that exact moment to cut sharply through the street again, slipping beneath the open sides of her dress.

Azriel’s shadows stirred instantly around her like they disapproved of the temperature itself.

Cassian barked out a laugh ahead of them. “You’ll adjust eventually, Gwyn.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You’re all apparently immune to weather.”

Rhys smirked slightly over his shoulder. “Occupational hazard.”

“Clearly, I was made for sunlight.”

Another burst of laughter erupted nearby as a group stumbled past carrying glowing lanterns and bottles of wine, one female already dancing barefoot through the street while music thundered somewhere deeper within the camp.

The entire city felt alive tonight.

Too alive.

Too loud.

Too beautiful.

And Gwyn realized with sudden, startling clarity that she had never experienced anything like this before.

Not in Sangravah.

Not in Velaris.

Not anywhere.

Litha in Windhaven was not elegant.

It was not civilized.

It was ancient.

Wild.

And standing in the center of it, wrapped in red beneath drifting faelight while Azriel’s shadows curled around her against the cold—

Gwyn had the dangerous feeling that this night was going to change everything.

Emerie spotted them almost immediately.

Relief flashed across her face before it disappeared beneath practiced composure, her mouth curving into a grin as she shoved a folded tunic into the chest of an irritated customer.

“Buy it or don’t,” she told the male flatly. “But stop touching the stitching like it insulted your mother.”

Cassian barked out a laugh.

The customer muttered something beneath his breath and tossed coins onto the counter before disappearing back into the crowd.

Emerie turned toward them fully then, dark hair braided back from her face, cheeks flushed slightly from either the cold or the sheer chaos surrounding her shop.

Probably both.

“You made it,” she said.

Nesta stepped forward first, pulling Emerie into a quick embrace that still somehow looked entirely natural despite the amount of blades both females carried hidden beneath elegant festival clothing.

Gwyn smiled faintly at the sight.

There had been a time when none of them knew how to stand beside another person without preparing for impact.

Now Nesta leaned comfortably against Emerie’s shoulder while Cassian hovered nearby like an overgrown watchdog pretending he was not listening to every word.

Growth.

Strange, terrifying growth.

“You look busy,” Feyre observed as another wave of customers crowded around the neighboring stalls.

Emerie groaned dramatically. “I’ve sold more clothes in the last four hours than I usually do in two weeks.” Her eyes flicked toward Gwyn then, amusement brightening immediately. “Though I imagine the priestess in red isn’t exactly helping the situation.”

Heat crept up Gwyn’s neck instantly.

Cassian smirked.

Azriel went suspiciously still beside her.

Emerie noticed that too.

Something knowing flashed briefly across her face before she wisely chose not to comment on it.

“Try not to stay grouped together too long,” Emerie said instead, lowering her voice slightly. “Half the camp already stares enough without all of you standing in one place.”

“Friendly,” Cassian muttered.

“Some of them,” Emerie corrected dryly. “The rest are Illyrians.”

Rhys huffed a quiet laugh.

She wasn’t wrong.

Even now Gwyn could feel eyes lingering longer than comfortable whenever they passed. Some curious. Some cautious. Some openly interested before immediately disappearing the moment Azriel shifted closer beside her.

That still irritated her more than it should have.

Because he kept doing things like that.

Hovering.

Watching.

Protecting.

As if last night had not happened.

As if she had not spent the entire morning replaying the feeling of his hands on her waist only for him to disappear before dawn without a word.

Emerie squeezed Nesta’s hand once before stepping back toward her stall.

“I’ll find you all later,” she said. “Assuming these idiots stop trying to flirt long enough to buy something.”

“You wound us,” Cassian replied solemnly.

“You’ll survive.”

Then she disappeared back into the chaos of the market.

Almost immediately swallowed whole by the festival again.

“It’s starting,” Rhys said over the noise.

Gwyn’s brows creased slightly.

Nothing about the ominous tone of that statement sounded reassuring.

Feyre’s arm looped through Rhys’s as he glanced down at her, some silent conversation passing between them before both vanished into drifting black mist.

Gone.

Gwyn blinked once.

The crowd swallowed the empty space they had occupied almost immediately.

Beside her, Azriel shifted slightly closer as another sharp gust of mountain wind swept through the street. His wing angled subtly behind her, blocking most of the chill before she could even react.

“The ceremony,” he said quietly, leaning closer so she could hear him over the drums. “The High Lord and Lady have to attend first.”

The warmth of his voice against her ear sent irritation and awareness crashing together beneath her ribs.

Gods.

She nodded once anyway.

“Nesta and Cassian?”

“In a few minutes.”

Gwyn released a slow breath, glancing toward the center of the camp where the sound of drums grew louder by the second. Firelight flickered somewhere beyond the crowds, illuminating the sky in warm bursts of gold and orange.

Most of the ceremony remained hidden from view.

What she could see, however, was significantly more distracting.

Females danced through the streets in loose circles around males, ribbons winding around wrists and throats as music thundered through the camp. Some laughed openly as they pulled males by the hands toward glowing tent structures lining the outskirts of the festival, their entrances veiled by sheer embroidered fabrics illuminated from within by warm amber light.

Others did not bother finding privacy at all.

Gwyn blinked once as one particularly enthusiastic couple collapsed together onto a pile of embroidered rugs beside a bonfire while absolutely no one nearby seemed remotely concerned.

Her brows lifted slowly.

Is every celebration in Prythian secretly an orgy?

Maybe Helion had permanently altered her expectations.

Or perhaps all solar court festivities simply descended into chaos eventually.

That seemed statistically likely.

“What are you thinking about?” Azriel’s voice cut smoothly through her thoughts.

Gwyn blinked once, dragged abruptly back into herself.

“What?”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

“That look.” His gaze drifted briefly toward her mouth before returning upward. “Usually when you run your tongue along the edge of your top teeth, you’re thinking about something interesting.”

Gods above.

She folded her arms tighter against the cold.

How could he always read her like a book when she didn’t want him to, but when she did, he suddenly became blind.

“And do you always take note of where my tongue is?”

He shrugged. “Whenever I can.”

Kill her now. This may be the shortest night of the year, but it was already starting to feel like the longest.

It should not have affected her as much as it did.

Especially not after yesterday.

Especially not after he spent the entire morning avoiding her, only to suddenly lean close enough now that she could smell cedar and night-chilled wind clinging to his skin.

Gwyn hummed flatly.

He glanced down at her then, shadows stirring lightly around his shoulders. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“What’s wrong?”

The question caught her off guard enough that irritation flared instantly afterward.

What’s wrong?

Really?

She looked up at him sharply.

“You tell me.”

Confusion flickered openly across his face.

Real confusion.

And somehow that only made her more annoyed.

Before either of them could continue, Cassian approached with Nesta beside him, both dressed far too comfortably for the freezing mountain air.

“We’re heading toward the lower fires,” Cassian said. “Try not to stab anyone while we’re gone.”

“No promises,” Nesta replied.

Cassian grinned immediately.

Then Nesta stepped closer to Gwyn, silver eyes briefly flicking between her and Azriel before understanding sharpened almost imperceptibly there.

A warning.

Or encouragement.

Possibly both.

“Don’t wander too far alone,” Nesta said quietly.

Gwyn nearly laughed at the irony of that considering the six-foot shadowsinger currently attached to her side like a particularly brooding guardian spirit.

“We’ll survive,” she answered.

Nesta’s mouth twitched slightly.

“Mm.”

Then she and Cassian disappeared into the sea of bodies and firelight together.

And suddenly—

Despite the thousands of people surrounding them—

Gwyn felt painfully, acutely alone with him.

The awareness pressed tighter against her chest immediately.

Too aware.

Too much unfinished tension packed into too little space.

She needed to move.

Before she said something reckless.

Gwyn grabbed the side of her dress and started walking.

Fast enough that the crowd swallowed her almost immediately.

“Gwyn.”

Azriel followed at once.

“Where are you going?”

“Not sure yet.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Well, I’m trying very hard to stay unpredictable.”

A group stumbled laughing between them before Azriel caught up again easily, his wing brushing her shoulder as he moved beside her.

“Don’t wander off alone tonight.”

“There are at least five thousand people here. I’m not alone.”

“You know what I mean,” he shot back.

The low protective edge in his voice tightened something hot and frustrated inside her chest.

Because there it was again.

That instinctive protectiveness.

That careful closeness.

Like she mattered enough to guard but not enough to touch.

She rolled her eyes. “I appreciate the concern, Shadowsinger.”

The title came out sweeter than the irritation beneath it.

Azriel noticed both.

Before he could answer, a shoulder bumped lightly into Gwyn’s.

She turned automatically, apology already forming.

The Illyrian male in front of her blinked once.

Then looked up.

And up.

His eyes widened slightly.

“Whoa,” he murmured.

Gwyn blinked back.

The male stared another second before blurting, “You’re…really tall.” He mumbled the observation slowly, as if thinking aloud rather than speaking to her.

Silence followed.

What? 

Gwyn's shoulders flinched back the smallest amount as she stared at him.

Was that genuinely the first thing you thought to say?

“I’m…aware,” she answered carefully, unsure of how to even respond to it.

The male looked horrified with himself immediately afterward.

His friend snorted beside him and slapped him proudly across the shoulder.

“Brilliant job, mate,” he muttered.

The younger male turned toward him. Then whispered something that sounded like, “I panicked,” between gritted teeth.

Another clipped laugh. “That was obvious.”

Gwyn turned sharply on her heels before either male could continue. She blinked several times, utterly baffled.

Behind her, Azriel finally caught up fully.

Her gaze landed on him from the corner of her eyes.

And the bastard was smirking. 

A slight, amused tilt at the edge of his mouth that made something hot and irritated spark immediately beneath Gwyn’s ribs.

She stopped walking so abruptly that Azriel nearly walked into her.

“Is something funny?”

The smirk disappeared far too quickly for someone who was absolutely enjoying the situation.

“It was a little funny.”

“It really wasn’t,” she scoffed. “He looked terrified.”

“He was intimidated,” Azriel corrected with a long-suffering sigh, as if she were the unreasonable one here. “There’s a difference.”

Gwyn rolled her eyes and resumed walking. 

Gods above.

She could feel him trying not to smile now.

Through the crowded bodies brushing against her shoulders, through drifting faelight and thundering music, she could still feel him.

“I cannot imagine why,” she finally muttered.

Azriel’s steps slowed. 

Then he stopped entirely, turning fully toward her as the bonfire light flickered gold across his face.

“You are aware of your own attractiveness, are you not?”

Gwyn nearly choked on air.

Not because of the question itself, but because of how plainly he said it.

Like it was obvious. Like there was no world in which she should doubt it.

“What?”

The genuine disbelief in her voice made his brows pull together immediately.

“You can’t possibly think males are staring because they dislike looking at you.”

She scoffed softly, turning away before he could read too much from her expression.

“They stare because they don't recognize me.”

Azriel’s confusion deepened.

Real confusion.

As if the possibility genuinely had never crossed his mind.

And maybe that should not have surprised her. Azriel had always moved through the world with an awareness that bordered on predatory. He noticed things other people missed. Read rooms before anyone else realized there was tension in them.

But this?

This he somehow did not see.

Gwyn knew she was considered pretty enough by most standards. Her nymph heritage softened what might otherwise have been sharper features, gave her an unusual sort of beauty people tended to remember after meeting her.

But beautiful in the way males forgot how to speak around?

Intimidating?

No.

That belonged to females like Mor, whose beauty filled entire rooms before she even opened her mouth. Or Feyre, radiant and composed as High Lady. Or Nesta, whose cold elegance commanded attention whether she wanted it to or not. Even Elain possessed a softness Gwyn had never managed to emulate.

Catrin had that beauty. And Gwyn had spent most of her life feeling slightly mismatched beside it. 

Too sharp-featured.

Too different.

Too much of one thing and not enough of another.

An excessive mix of traits that should not have fit together as well as they somehow did.

Azriel just continued staring at her with that maddeningly unreadable expression she had come to loathe over the last twenty-four hours.

Blank enough to reveal nothing.

Focused enough to make her feel entirely too exposed anyway.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, softer than intended.

His head tilted slightly. 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she huffed, motioning vaguely with one hand as frustration bled into the gesture. “Inscrutable.”

Something flickered in his eyes then.

Almost amusement.

“Inscrutable,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware that’s how I looked.”

“Well,” Gwyn said dryly, “now you know.”

The corner of his mouth threatened to curve upward again.

That only irritated her more.

Because he kept doing that—looking at her like he enjoyed her irritation far too much for someone supposedly wanting distance between them. Like he took delight in how his words flustered her.

And Gods knew he was good at it.

Azriel studied her another moment as crowds flowed around them, bonfire light sliding gold across the planes of his face while drums echoed somewhere below the mountain pass.

Then his expression softened slightly anyway.

Gwyn immediately regretted continuing the conversation. She needed to end it before her cheeks warmed more than they already were.

“Nothing is intimidating about me,” she said before she could stop herself. “Even my mother would agree with that.”

The words altered something in him instantly.

Not the softness, but the focus beneath it.

His brows pulled together slightly.

“What does that mean?”

Shit. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have said that last part.

Gwyn was suddenly desperate to end this.

“Long story,” she sighed quietly. “One that ends with her saying every freckle on my skin was a kiss from the Prince of Hel.”

Azriel’s steps slowed.

For half a heartbeat, something unreadable crossed his face.

Not anger.

Not immediately.

Recognition.

The seventh Prince of Hel.

The Bogge’s cold voice echoed through his mind before he could stop it.

A chill moved sharply through his chest.

Then understanding followed immediately afterward.

Not what her mother had intended, but what Gwyn must have heard every time those words were repeated to her.

Wrongness.

Something cursed.

Something touched by darkness.

His jaw tightened hard enough to ache. Shoulders going taut instantly.

Then the anger came.

Sharp.

Hot.

Violent enough that his shadows recoiled instinctively around him.

Not at Gwyn.

But at the thought of someone looking at her and choosing cruelty so casually. At the thought of those words being repeated often enough that she now spoke them with detached acceptance instead of hurt.

Gwyn swallowed when the silence stretched too long.

Azriel’s visible anger vanished quickly beneath practiced restraint, but she caught it anyway.

And despite herself—

Warmth flickered briefly through the frustration still tangled beneath her ribs.

She immediately wished she had not said it, didn’t know why it had come to mind.

Why that memory, of all things?

Why tonight?

“It sounds worse than it was,” she said quietly, rubbing her own arms against the cold. “She did care about me.”

Azriel stayed silent.

Not because he lacked words.

Because suddenly he understood this conversation balanced on something far more delicate than wounded vanity.

And Gwyn—

Gwyn was not fragile; she never had been.

That was the important distinction.

She carried herself with too much wit for fragility. Challenged people too naturally. Laughed too brightly when she forgot herself enough to let it happen.

But confidence and certainty were not the same thing.

And he was beginning to realize there were parts of herself she had diminished for so long that she no longer noticed she was doing it.

“It’s absurd,” he said finally.

A small shrug lifted one shoulder. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

“No,” Azriel said firmly, stopping entirely now. “It isn’t.”

The force behind the words startled her enough that she finally looked directly at him again.

Really looked.

The bonfire light carved sharp shadows across his face while frustration simmered visibly beneath his restraint now.

Not with her.

For her.

Azriel turned as if to continue walking.

Then stopped.

Gwyn saw his throat bob once on a swallow, saw his scarred hand fist briefly at his side before he faced her again.

“I like them,” he said.

Her brows furrowed slightly.

“Your freckles,” he clarified immediately, stepping closer before he could seem to stop himself. “I mean…”

His gaze drifted slowly across her face, steady enough to make her pulse trip painfully against her ribs.

“They’re part of you,” he said quietly. “So they’re a work of art.”

The world seemed to narrow strangely around them.

Music.

Voices.

Firelight.

Everything blurred at the edges beneath the weight of his attention.

Azriel’s voice dropped lower.

“Like intricate brushstrokes left behind by an artist who knew exactly what they were doing.”

Gwyn just blinked at him.

Not because the words were particularly polished. If anything, they sounded almost reluctant, like he had not meant to say them aloud at all.

Which somehow made them worse.

More real.

Her lips parted slightly as she realized how close he’d stepped without either of them noticing. His breath brushed softly across her mouth, warm despite the cold.

Gwyn’s exhale turned uneven.

Not again.

Absolutely not again.

Her eyes flicked downward involuntarily. To his mouth, lips still slightly parted. Still close enough that she remembered exactly how it had felt against hers.

Heat curled low in her stomach instantly.

Then the memory followed.

The way he had pulled away afterward. 

The restraint. The distance. The carefulness.

The bitterness returned so quickly it startled her.

How dare he say things like that only to retreat every time she believed him?

Gwyn stepped back first.

The movement broke the moment sharply enough that Azriel visibly stilled.

Understanding hit Azriel all at once, ugly and immediate.

Shock lingered openly across her face, but beneath it now he saw something else clearly for the second time.

Discontent. 

A brief look of dissatisfaction, as if she were left unfulfilled.

Followed by something else he had never seen before.

“Resentment,” one of his shadows whispered. “Our light one feels misled.”

Misled…

Because she had started believing in his affection, only for him to withdraw afterward.

The realization hollowed something painfully inside him.

Fuck.

She thought that he regretted kissing her. Thought that his act of restraint meant hesitation. That he did not find her desirable enough.

Or worse—

“Disgust,” one shadow confirmed. 

Azriel suddenly felt sick.

Because he knew exactly why she would feel that way.

Sangravah, then whatever quiet poison had been fed to her long before that.

Because he knew that feeling intimately. Knew exactly what it was to believe yourself ruined by things done to you against your will.

His shadows stirred restlessly around him, agitated enough that several brushed protectively against Gwyn before he could stop them.

She looked at him sharply. Confusion hardening again into irritation now that the moment had passed. As if she did not understand why he suddenly looked angry enough to kill someone. As if she had forgotten he was the reason they stood here in the first place.

Azriel dragged a hand down his face.

Idiot.

Absolute fucking idiot.

“You really don’t see it,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Gwyn’s brows knit slightly.

“See what?”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before he forced it back upward.

Dangerous mistake.

Because now all he could think about was last night. 

And how badly he needed to correct this assumption. To fix it before the damage settled too deeply to undo. To show her exactly how wrong she was.

Azriel cut the thought off violently.

Not here.

Not now.

But Cauldron save him, he suddenly understood exactly why she was angry. Because he had spent centuries feeling the same way.

Gwyn cleared her throat first and stepped away before the silence between them thickened further.

“We should find somewhere to wait,” she started. “Until the ceremony is over.”

Azriel blinked once, like he had been dragged abruptly back into his body.

“Right.”

The word sounded rougher than usual.

Gwyn pretended not to notice.

She turned immediately, stepping back into the current of bodies moving through Windhaven’s crowded streets. She did not check whether he followed, she could feel him behind her anyway.

Right now, she needed movement.

Noise.

Something other than what she felt moments ago.

Ugh. She hated this.

It was suddenly too warm despite the mountain chill biting at her exposed skin, and the thought of a strong drink sounded increasingly appealing the longer she replayed the way Azriel had looked at her after she mentioned her mother.

Like he wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

The realization curled strangely through her chest.

Not at all unpleasant.

That’s really not helping.

Her gaze scanned the sprawling chaos around them until it landed on a massive tent near the lower stretch of the camp where music thundered loudly enough to shake the lanterns hanging overhead.

People flowed constantly through the entrance, carrying glowing drinks and laughing far too loudly.

Perfect.

Gwyn immediately changed direction.

“Where are you—”

“I just want to look.”

“That,” Azriel muttered behind her, “is exactly what concerns me.”

She rolled her eyes without slowing.

The closer they got, the more the atmosphere shifted.

The bonfires and dancing circles gave way to something denser here—warmer, louder, edged with drunken recklessness. Thick rugs layered the ground beneath the tent entrance while crimson and gold fabrics draped from towering wooden beams overhead.

Music pounded through the structure hard enough to vibrate beneath Gwyn’s ribs.

Smoke curled lazily through the crowded air carrying the scent of liquor, sweat, cedarwood, and something sweetly spiced she could not identify.

Bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder around massive carved tables.

And apparently—

Shirts had become optional.

Gwyn blinked slowly at the sheer number of bare chests surrounding them.

“I see clothing is merely a suggestion tonight.”

Behind her, Azriel made a noise that suspiciously sounded like a laugh.

The sound brushed low along her spine.

Annoying.

Everything about him was annoying right now.

Especially because now she could feel him looking at her differently.

Not subtly.

Directly.

Like something inside him had shifted, and he no longer knew how to hide it properly.

She refused to think about that.

Instead, Gwyn pushed deeper into the space, weaving through clusters of intoxicated Illyrians while Azriel followed close enough that his chest occasionally brushed her back whenever the crowd pressed too tightly around them.

Every accidental touch felt charged now.

Intentional or not.

A nearby table fell abruptly silent as she passed, and Gwyn could feel their eyes following her.

Another muttered something that sounded like, “Mother save me,” beneath his breath while staring into the middle distance like a male witnessing divine revelation.

Gwyn slowed slightly before glancing back toward Azriel.

“Do Illyrians always react this dramatically to females?”

Azriel’s gaze slid lazily across the room before returning to her.

“To you?” he said. “Apparently.”

That low, dry amusement in his voice did something deeply irritating to her pulse.

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“I haven't done anything.”

Gwyn narrowed her eyes.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

His brows lifted slightly.

Unexpectedly, satisfaction flickered through her chest. She actually managed to surprise him for once. Now she was the one who was amused.

And Gwyn found that she didn't mind that.

Let him struggle a little, it’s the least she could do.

Gwyn slipped onto one of the empty stools lining the curved wooden bar before he could recover.

The structure itself curved around nearly half the interior of the tent, polished dark wood glowing beneath floating lantern light while bartenders moved with alarming speed between shouting customers.

Azriel occupied the seat beside her almost immediately.

There it was again.

That same careful closeness he apparently could not stop offering her.

Gwyn leaned onto the countertop anyway, propping her cheek against her palm as the bartender finished pouring someone else’s drink.

It was something she had seen other females do before when they wanted something.

Soft eyes. Tilted head. A little too much attention held for a little too long.

Far too simple, really.

The male behind the counter turned toward her the moment he finished.

Then stopped entirely.

He blinked once.

Then again.

Gwyn smiled sweetly.

“I’m a bit thirsty,” she said, letting her voice soften just slightly. “Can you help me out?”

She noticed how Azriel’s jaw feathered.

Most people would never see the subtle tightening of his shoulders or the way one scarred hand flexed once against the countertop.

But it was becoming easier for her to catch.

The bartender cleared his throat immediately.

“I—yes. Of course.”

Gwyn’s smile widened faintly.

Azriel sighed beside her and dragged a hand slowly down his face.

“Here we go.”

She flicked her fingers dismissively toward him without even looking away from the bartender.

The male gave her a warm smile before disappearing deeper behind the shelves of liquor.

And for the first time all evening, something inside Gwyn loosened.

Not fully.

Azriel still sat beside her radiating shadows and restrained tension and entirely too much awareness.

But here, surrounded by drunken chaos and deafening music, it felt easier to breathe. Easier not to think quite so hard.

That relief lasted approximately five seconds.

Because the moment the bartender returned and Gwyn lifted the glass toward her mouth, Azriel’s gaze dropped to her lips.

Bluntly obvious.

Not accidental in the slightest.

His eyes tracked the movement of her mouth against the rim of the glass with enough focus that heat curled low in her stomach before she could stop it.

Gwyn swallowed slowly.

She barely registered its bitter coolness but still felt it burn all the way down.

Strong.

Dangerously sweet.

“Oh, that’s awful,” she breathed.

“I could have told you that.”

Azriel still had not looked away.

But now she could see the change. The strain beneath restraint.

His shadows shifted restlessly around his shoulders, no longer calm but alert. Interested. Hungry in a way that made her want things she should not be wanting.

Something inside Gwyn sparked sharply to life at the sight of his expression.

Oh.

Oh, she was absolutely going to enjoy this.

If nothing else, she would get a reaction out of him before the night ended.

Because if Azriel wanted distance so badly—

Fine.

She would simply make holding that distance unbearable.

The thought settled into her bones with surprising ease.

A challenge. And Gwyn always played to win.

Her teal eyes slid slowly toward him just as she lifted the glass again.

But she did not drink.

Instead, Gwyn let her tongue dart out slowly across the salt-lined rim.

The movement was absentminded enough to appear innocent. Until paired with the way she held his gaze while doing it.

Azriel’s entire body went still.

Focused

Like every instinct in him had suddenly narrowed toward one thing.

Her.

The tequila hit her tongue a second later, sharp and burning, and Gwyn tilted the glass back fully this time, letting the liquid slide down her throat in one smooth swallow.

Every last drop.

The empty glass touched the counter with a soft clink.

Azriel’s grip tightened subtly around his untouched drink.

His jaw feathered once. Hard as if he were literally grinding his teeth.

“Something wrong, Shadowsinger?” she asked sweetly.

His gaze finally lifted from her mouth.

Heavy eyelids slowly revealing hazel irises that sparkled in the light.

Something darker lingered in them. 

Gods, that look nearly undid her on the spot. Warmth settled low just as something fluttered in her belly.

No longer even pretending indifference.

Azriel raised his own glass slightly in silent acknowledgment.

“Not at all, Valkyrie.”

His voice came out rougher than before.

Lower.

Smooth in a way that slid directly beneath her skin.

Then he tipped back his drink and swallowed it in one long pull without breaking eye contact.

The empty glass hit the counter beside hers with a sharp clink.

Close enough that the sound felt almost deliberate.

Like a warning.

Or perhaps a promise.

Laughter erupted somewhere deeper in the tavern.

Loud enough to cut through the music.

Gwyn glanced toward the sound automatically, Azriel’s attention shifting with hers a second later.

Near the far corner of the tent, a group of Illyrian males crowded around a battered table illuminated by hanging amber lanterns.

One of the males stood suddenly, and the sound of his chair scraping echoed through the space.

A chorus of laughter followed.

Gwyn’s mouth curved slowly.

Azriel noticed immediately.

“Whatever you're planning, stop doing it.”

She slid off the stool in one smooth movement, the red fabric of her dress swaying against her legs as she began walking away.

“I’m offended you think so little of me.”

“I think exactly enough of you,” he replied dryly, standing a second later.

Gwyn grabbed the cue stick leaning abandoned against the edge of the neighboring table.

Gwyn twirled the cue lightly between her fingers before glancing over her shoulder at him.

“Come on.”

Azriel’s brows lifted slightly. “Since when do you play?”

She stopped beside the table and looked at him like he had personally insulted her.

“I can do many things you don’t know about.”

Cauldron.

The words hit him low and hard.

Especially with the way she said them.

Confident.

Smooth.

Not flirtatious in the practiced way some females attempted to be.

Worse.

It was in her nature. She didn’t even need to try.

Azriel followed her through the crowd anyway, his gaze dragging helplessly along the exposed line of her back as she moved ahead of him.

Gods help him.

The shift in her tonight was undoing him.

Not because Gwyn was suddenly someone different.

Because she wasn’t.

This boldness had always been there beneath the grief and isolation and restraint she wrapped around herself after Sangravah.

Tonight—

For the first time in a long while—

She seemed to remember it, too.

One of the Illyrians near the table glanced up as they approached.

Then immediately straightened.

“Shadowsinger.”

Azriel barely looked at him. “Still playing?”

The male blinked once before realizing the question was genuine.

“Oh—uh, no. Finished.”

The laughter and shouting around them blurred together as Gwyn reached for the rack of billiard balls.

Lanternlight pooled gold across the green felt table while smoke curled lazily through the tavern overhead, softening the edges of everything into warmth and shadow.

Into temptation.

Gwyn bent slightly as she arranged the balls into place, copper-brown hair slipping over one shoulder in loose waves.

Azriel’s gaze followed the movement before he could stop himself.

Gods.

Everything about her suddenly felt impossible to ignore.

The red dress.

The exposed skin along her middle and sides every time she leaned forward.

The flush slowly warming her cheeks from the alcohol.

The way her mouth still glistened faintly where it had wrapped around the rim of that glass while she looked directly at him like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Cauldron save him.

He had spent months refusing to let himself think about Gwyn this way.

Even after the pool in Velaris.

Even after she had kissed him first in the house.

Respect had always come before desire.

Control before instinct.

Especially with her.

But now—

Now he knew she wanted him.

And that realization cracked something dangerous wide open inside him.

Because suddenly every thought he had spent months forcing down returned all at once.

Gwyn beneath him. His hands against the bare skin revealed by that damned dress. The sounds she would make if he stopped holding back long enough to discover whether she would be loud or quiet.

He was willing to bet she would talk as much as she always did.

Azriel swallowed hard.

Across the table, Gwyn glanced up.

And immediately noticed the effects his wandering thoughts had caused.

The heavy way his gaze lingered now. The strain beneath his restraint.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured.

Azriel leaned one hip against the edge of the table, cue stick loose in his scarred hand.

“Should I not?”

The low roughness in his voice slid straight beneath her skin.

Gwyn looked away first, only because she needed the brief recovery.

She leaned lower across the table to line up her shot, one hand braced against the felt while she narrowed her eyes slightly in concentration.

“That’s up to you.”

Her lower lip disappeared briefly between her teeth.

Azriel’s grip tightened instantly around the cue stick.

His shadows stirred excitedly around him.

Admete curled eagerly toward Gwyn, sliding along the edge of the table before brushing lightly against the bare skin exposed along her ribs.

Gwyn shivered slightly.

Not from cold.

The shot cracked sharply across the tavern.

Two balls disappeared cleanly into opposite pockets.

Gwyn straightened slowly, satisfaction warming her face before she looked toward Azriel again.

He had not moved.

Not even slightly.

“You seem distracted, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel exhaled softly through his nose.

Then hummed faintly.

That heat low in her stomach deepened at the sound.

Something about it thrilled her.

Gwyn circled the table again, close enough now that the edge of Azriel’s wing brushed lightly against her hip as she passed.

Not at all accidental, but neither of them acknowledged it.

She lined up another shot.

And missed.

Only by a small margin. Just enough that the ball hit the side of the table and rolled to the side.

Enough that the turn passed to him.

“Your turn.”

Azriel’s brows lifted.

Then he stepped forward slowly, setting his drink aside before lowering himself over the table.

Gwyn just watched him.

Watched the movement pulled his shirt tight across broad shoulders and powerful forearms as he leaned down, scarred fingers steady against the felt while shadows slid lazily over dark fabric and golden skin alike.

The muscles in his forearm flexed subtly as he adjusted the angle.

Her throat went dry.

Because she suddenly remembered why so many females looked at Azriel with hunger.

Everything about him radiated restrained power. Violence held carefully on a leash.

And tonight that restraint felt dangerously thin.

The shot landed perfectly.

Of course it did.

He straightened slowly afterward, gaze lifting immediately to find hers again.

He caught her staring directly at his hands.

The corner of his mouth tilted slightly.

“You’re distracted, Valkyrie.”

“Funny,” she scoffed, reaching for the cue again before he could see too much.

Unfortunately for him, the next angle required her to step directly in front of him. And she did so without much thought.

The awareness hit instantly the moment she shifted.

Close enough that she could feel the heat rolling from him at her back.

Close enough that one shift backward would press her directly against his front.

Neither of them breathed normally anymore.

Gwyn bent slowly over the table anyway. Her chest brushed against the wooden surface, but panic did not fill her.

Azriel’s entire body went rigid as her back arched slightly. He could see her shoulder blades shift with the movement as she lined up the shot. The red fabric of her dress tightened across her hips as one hand spread against the felt, the slit along her side revealed another devastating stretch of bare skin.

More ink swirls across the flesh of her thigh. The same design and placement that was on him.

Their bargain mark.

His shadows practically writhed around him now.

Traitors.

One drifted eagerly toward Gwyn again, curling around her wrist before sliding slowly along the inside of her forearm.

Like encouragement.

Every instinct in him narrowed toward one impossible thought.

One that he failed to resist.

Azriel’s hand moved ever so slightly, brushing against her hip. Then lower, his fingers tracing over the dark lines.

Mine.

The thought hit hard enough to almost stagger him.

It wasn’t a feeling of ownership or even control. It was an instinctual feeling that rushed through him. Raw and possessive and entirely male. So bizarre in its intensity that his vision momentarily blurred at the edges.

His hand raked higher as he straightened, his fingers brushing something along her upper thigh. Something cool but stiff. 

Leather.

Then something else that he knew far too well.

A blade. Small enough not to be noticed beneath the dress.

An unsurprised sound left him. Gwyn seemed to realize exactly what she was doing to him, because instead of taking the shot immediately, she shifted slightly backward first.

Barely.

Just enough for the curve of her ass to brush lightly against his thigh.

Azriel’s head tilted back, eyes threatening to fall shut.

Gods, that ass.

He had stopped himself from thinking about it so many times. Forced his eyes away from her before the glance became a stare.

He looked back down when Gwyn’s eyes flicked toward him from over her shoulder as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Completely innocent.

Liar.

He was beginning to understand that she was anything but that.

The shot cracked sharply across the table.

The final ball disappeared cleanly into the corner pocket.

Cheers and groans echoed around them, but Gwyn only straightened. She found Azriel already watching her with a look so dark it nearly melted her where she stood.

The tavern suddenly felt too warm.

Too loud. Too small.

Gwyn slowly turned and leaned back onto the edge of the table, a victorious smile creeping onto her face.

Azriel stepped closer without hesitation, his knees brushing just above hers. Close enough now that his shadows wrapped around both of them like smoke.

Neither spoke.

Neither looked away.

His gaze dropped slowly toward her mouth again.

Gwyn’s pulse fluttered violently beneath her skin.

Azriel lifted one scarred hand. Slowly enough that she could have stopped him if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

His thumb brushed lightly across her lower lip where she’d caught it between her teeth again. Impossibly gentle.

Gwyn’s breath turned uneven. 

Was the room spinning, or was she dizzy?

Azriel’s eyes darkened further as he slowly pulled her lip free with his thumb.

The movement sent heat curling sharply through her stomach.

Then Gwyn met his gaze fully, her lips parting slightly.

An invitation.

Azriel froze but only for half a second before his finger pushed slowly into her mouth, just past her teeth.

Her tongue slid slowly across the pad of his thumb.

And just when the soft warmth of it nearly destroyed him, she pulled it deeper, sucking on his finger. He watched as her cheeks hollowed out, a hint of gold flashing in her eyes.

A low sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

Not quite a groan.

Close enough.

Gwyn’s eyes gleamed with unmistakable satisfaction.

Then she bit down lightly.

A quick pinch of pain followed. Not rough, but almost cautious. He deserved it either way.

She smiled around his thumb, seeming proud that she surprised him once again.

But cauldron save him. That smile did more than just catch him off guard. 

Two of her teeth were sharper than the others, slightly pointed like the fangs of a canine.

Surely he would have noticed those before; there was no way he would have missed them.

Curiosity took over and his thumb shifted, brushing carefully against one, feeling the pointed tip.

Gwyn’s brows creased.

“What?” She asked around his finger.

Azriel’s eyes met hers again.

She didn’t know. Or hadn’t realized they had lengthened.

He shook his head.

“Nothing.”

Azriel didn’t really care to explore that at the moment. Or maybe he did want to explore it…her mouth that is.

He let his thumb slide back down to her bottom lip, and his head dipped instinctively toward her.

Another inch and he would have given in. Another second and restraint would have ceased to exist entirely.

A throat cleared nearby.

“Well,” Rhys drawled from somewhere behind them, amusement thick enough to cut through steel, “can’t say I expected to find you two here.”

Azriel stepped back immediately.

Gwyn nearly hated how disappointed she felt.

Rhys stood near the entrance to the billiards corner now, openly watching them with an expression that ranged from confused to mildly concerned.

Feyre’s head peeked out from behind him, and her brows lifted instantly toward Gwyn.

“Oh,” she said, sounding a bit surprised. “Hello, Gwyn.”

Heat climbed Gwyn’s cheeks despite herself. She managed a small wave from where she still sat against the edge of the table.

Rhys’s gaze flicked briefly toward Azriel’s expression before returning to her.

“Cass and Nesta are outside,” he added after a moment. “The ceremony ended a few minutes ago.”

Azriel’s attention sharpened instantly.

“Devlon has made his request.”

Something shifted subtly beside her. Small enough that the others didn’t seem to notice.

He went still.

Not exactly physically, but like some invisible wall slid carefully back into place behind his eyes.

The easy tension and warmth from moments ago dimmed first. Then the amusement. Then even the lingering heat beneath his expression cooled into something quieter. 

Sharper. Guarded.

Gwyn’s attention lingered on him a moment too long. Because suddenly the tavern felt different too.

Not safe exactly, but removed. Separated from the rest of Windhaven.

Outside, the drums still thundered steadily through the camp, deeper now. Older. The sound echoed through the mountainside like a heartbeat beneath stone.

Calling everyone inward.

Toward the fire. Toward the center of the camp. Toward the place Azriel had spent his entire life avoiding whenever possible.

The realization settled strangely in Gwyn’s chest.

Not fully understanding, yet, but knowing enough.

She had heard the stories over the months. Enough scattered pieces from Cassian and Nesta and the inner circle to know that Azriel’s relationship with Illyria was…complicated.

That word felt far too small for whatever this actually was.

Because the moment they stepped outside into the freezing mountain air, Gwyn found it impossible to ignore the subtle changes in him.

Azriel’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly beneath his dark shirt. His shadows stayed closer now, no longer playful but alert.

Watchful.

The scarred hand nearest to her flexed once at his side before curling loosely into a fist.

And for the first time all evening, the camp stopped feeling beautiful. No longer something to be admired, but something to survive.

Now Gwyn saw the sharp edges beneath it.

The watching eyes. The old traditions. The warriors lined around the bonfires with blades strapped openly across their backs while ancient music thundered through the streets.

This was home for them.

But not for Azriel.

No—that was not entirely true either.

Because somehow he looked both deeply familiar with this place and utterly isolated from it at the same time.

Like a ghost trapped inside his own history.

The thought hit harder than she expected.

Because suddenly she understood something she had never fully considered before.

Illyria, this Windhaven camp, was Azriel’s wooden table.

The thing he pretended did not affect him because acknowledging it would make it real. The place that carried memory whether he wanted it to or not. The thing he wished hurt less than it did. The thing that made him feel angry yet weak.

Gwyn knew that feeling intimately.

She knew what it was to avoid something you shouldn’t because your body remembered pain even when your mind wanted to move on.

Wooden tables.

She still avoided them when she could.

Still felt her stomach tighten whenever she sat too close to one for too long.

Even now.

And if something as ordinary as a table could do that, what must this place feel like for him?

The thought made irritation flare sharply through her chest.

Not at Azriel.

To everyone who had ever made him believe he should simply endure this quietly.

He leaned slightly closer, speaking low enough that the words disappeared beneath the pounding drums and roaring voices surrounding them.

Gwyn could not hear the exchange.

But she noticed the way Cassian watched him afterward.

Too carefully.

Azriel nodded once without looking at him.

Cassian’s jaw tightened slightly.

A lie then.

Or at the very least, not the full truth.

Rhys noticed too, violet eyes flicking briefly toward Azriel before moving ahead again toward the center of the camp.

No one pushed further.

But Gwyn filed the interaction away carefully.

Ahead, the massive central bonfire finally came fully into view.

And it—it was enormous.

Flames towered violently toward the night sky while sparks spiraled upward like swarming stars, hundreds of Illyrians gathered around the clearing in layered circles of movement and firelight.

The heat hit Gwyn immediately despite the freezing mountain air.

Drums thundered around the bonfire now, deep enough to vibrate through her ribs while red-clad females gathered near the outer ring beneath floating lanternlight.

Single females dressed in crimson. The other in white.

Gwyn’s stomach tightened faintly.

“What exactly are we doing here?” she asked carefully.

Nesta looked toward Cassian, who suddenly looked deeply interested in literally anything else.

That was not reassuring.

Rhys sighed softly. “It’s an old Litha tradition.”

“That explains absolutely nothing,” Gwyn muttered.

Feyre offered her a sympathetic smile. “I think there’s supposed to be a private dinner afterward.”

Gwyn blinked once.

That’s it?

She could handle dinner. That wasn’t something to worry about, right? 

Another pause settled over her as she looked again toward the massive roaring flames consuming the center of the clearing.

Then movement near the fire drew everyone’s attention.

The music slowly began to quiet.

An Illyrian male stood near the center platform overlooking the ceremony, broad shoulders draped in dark leathers while ancient firelight carved hard shadows across his scarred face. 

He was older, much older. Time marked him heavily, though nothing about him suggested weakness.

Especially his eyes, impossibly dark against the bright glow of the fire. Devoid of any warmth.

Gwyn’s pulse stumbled once.

This was him. 

She had only seen him briefly once before, during the Blood Rite qualifier. But suddenly she was certain.

Lord Devlon.

Of course.

When his gaze landed on the Valkyries, he straightened, taking in each of them. Then his eyes met Gwyn’s and something cold slid slowly down her spine.

Not surprise.

Expectation.

Like he had been waiting for this exact moment all night.

Rhys’s expression cooled immediately. Cassian muttered something particularly creative beneath his breath.

But Azriel—

Azriel went completely still beside her.

Not fear.

This was somehow worse.

Recognition.

Like he already knew precisely where this night was headed.

Devlon’s voice carried easily across the clearing.

“Tonight,” he announced, the crowd slowly quieting around him, “we honor tradition. Old bonds. Old customs. Old strength.”

His eyes settled briefly on Gwyn again. Then Nesta. Then Emerie standing near the outer edge of the crowd.

Subtle.

But deliberate.

“And,” Devlon continued smoothly, “we honor those who have earned their place among us.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered Illyrians.

Gwyn felt the shift immediately.

Attention narrowing around them.

Watching.

Waiting.

Predators scenting blood.

“The Valkyries,” Devlon said, voice carrying easily through the clearing now, “have proven themselves warriors.”

It wasn’t praise, she was sure of that. Nothing about his tone suggested this was anything but a hidden threat. A challenge wrapped carefully in ceremony.

Cassian’s expression darkened instantly. Rhys went eerily unreadable beside Feyre.

And Gwyn suddenly understood that this was never an invitation. 

It was a stage.

Devlon smiled slightly then.

“Tonight, the first female Carynthians will celebrate their victory as honored guests of Illyria.”

The crowd stirred again.

Not welcoming.

Interested. Evaluating.

Gwyn’s breath shuddered under their gazes, but she kept her chin high. She couldn’t give them anything to work with, and needed to remain controlled and emotionless.

Because there was no warmth in Devlon’s voice when he said honored.

Only calculation.

Only pressure.

And suddenly she understood why Azriel had gone so quiet the moment Rhys mentioned Devlon’s request.

This dinner was not hospitality.

It was an interrogation dressed in silk and tradition.

The walk to the hall felt longer than it should have.

Not because of distance.

Because of the eyes.

They followed the Valkyries through the camp openly now, conversation lowering as they passed beneath strings of floating lanternlight and towering bonfires that painted the stone streets gold and crimson. Gwyn felt it in waves—the curiosity, the resentment, the fascination.

Some looked at Nesta and Emerie with wary respect.

Most looked at Gwyn differently.

Longer.

Like they were trying to solve something.

The female who survived the Rite. The priestess who killed three Illyrians. The stranger standing beside the Shadowsinger in red.

The thought made her shoulders tighten.

Azriel noticed immediately.

His wing brushed lightly against her back as the crowds narrowed around them, subtle enough to seem accidental to anyone else.

A shield.

The gesture should not have affected her as much as it did.

Especially not after she had spent the entire evening angry with him.

Yet warmth still flickered traitorously through her chest anyway.

Annoying.

The closer they moved toward the northern edge of the camp, the quieter things became. The drunken chaos of Litha faded behind them until only distant music and the crackling roar of the bonfires remained.

Ahead, a massive stone building rose against the mountainside.

Ancient.

Severe.

Built more like a fortress than a home.

Large windows glowed amber against the dark while carved Illyrian symbols lined the outer walls, weathered by centuries of wind and snow.

Gwyn’s stomach tightened instinctively.

This was not a feast hall.

It looked like a place people were judged in.

"Do we have to?” Cassian asked beneath his breath.

Nesta elbowed him lightly.

“It could be worse.”

“It literally could not," Emerie said from beside Gwyn.

She snorted softly.

That helped.

Slightly.

Inside, the warmth hit immediately.

Not comforting warmth.

Heavy warmth.

The kind created by an enormous hearth fire burning too hot inside stone walls that trapped smoke and memory equally well.

Gwyn slowed just slightly as they entered.

The room was enormous, its ceiling disappearing into shadow above dark wooden beams blackened by age and fire. Weapons lined the walls between mounted Illyrian shields while candles flickered across iron chandeliers overhead.

And stretching through the center of it all—

A long wooden table.

Great.

Gwyn swallowed once.

Her eyes lingered on the polished surface a beat too long before she forced herself to keep walking.

Not the same.
Not the same.
Not the same.

Still, her pulse had quickened before she could stop it.

Beside her, Azriel slowed too.

Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough that she did.

His gaze moved once across the room.

The walls. The fire. The table.

Then shuttered completely.

Something sharp twisted through Gwyn’s chest.

Because suddenly she realized that this room probably held memories for him too.

Not specific ones perhaps.

But enough to put that look in his eyes.

Devlon already sat at the head of the table when they entered.

Not lounging.

Waiting.

A massive carved chair rose behind him like some ancient throne, dark wood wrapped in curling ram horns and iron detailing. Firelight carved harsh shadows across his scarred face while several Illyrian commanders occupied the seats nearest him.

Watching silently.

The atmosphere tightened immediately the moment Rhys entered the room.

One wrong sentence away from becoming dangerous.

“High Lord,” Devlon greeted evenly.

Rhys inclined his head just enough to remain respectful without surrendering authority. “Lord Devlon.”

No one sat immediately.

Another power play.

Gwyn recognized it this time.

Who sits first. Who speaks first. Who acknowledges whom.

The room practically breathed tension.

Then Devlon’s gaze slid toward the Valkyries.

“Lady Nesta. Lady Emerie. Gwyneth Berdara.”

Gwyn fought the urge to tense at the sound of her full name in his mouth.

“Please,” Devlon said smoothly, motioning toward the table. “Tonight is meant to honor your accomplishment.”

The lie sat heavily beneath every word.

Still, they sat.

Nesta positioned herself beside Cassian immediately. Emerie chose the opposite side near Rhys and Feyre.

Which left one remaining chair beside Azriel.

Gwyn noticed it too late. Or perhaps Devlon had planned that. Because the moment she hesitated, his gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly.

Waiting.

Watching.

Testing.

So Gwyn sat beside Azriel.

The chair scraped softly against stone.

And somehow that tiny sound felt louder than the drums outside.

Food arrived quickly afterward.

Roasted meats. Dark wine. Heavy breads still steaming from the oven.

No one touched much of it.

Conversation began stiffly enough.

Rhys discussing trade through the mountain passes. Cassian mentioning training reforms. Feyre carefully steering topics toward neutral ground whenever silence grew too sharp.

But underneath it all—

Pressure built steadily.

Gwyn could feel Devlon watching her even when she refused to look directly at him.

Studying.

Measuring.

Like he was waiting for something specific to reveal itself.

Azriel barely spoke beside her.

Not withdrawn exactly, more like contained. Every answer clipped short. Every movement controlled.

And the longer the dinner stretched on, the more Gwyn realized his silence was not indifference.

It was effort.

Like he was holding himself together through sheer discipline alone.

A servant refilled their wine, but no one thanked him.

The drums outside continued steadily beneath the floorboards.

Then Devlon finally leaned back slightly in his chair.

And the entire room quieted instinctively.

His gaze settled first on Cassian.

“The camps remain resistant to your reforms.”

Cassian snorted softly. “That tends to happen when males are told they can no longer behave like entitled bastards.”

A few commanders shifted.

Devlon ignored the comment entirely.

“The Valkyries training females openly has not helped tensions.”

Nesta’s silver eyes sharpened instantly.

“Good.”

That earned the faintest twitch of amusement from Feyre before she hid it behind her wine glass.

Devlon’s attention slid slowly toward Emerie next.

“You continue allowing females into your shop?”

Emerie met his stare evenly. “Last I checked, it was my shop.”

“Mm.”

Dismissive.

Calculated.

Then finally—

His gaze settled on Gwyn.

Lingering.

Gwyn kept her expression neutral despite the slow tightening beneath her ribs.

“The priestess trains as well now,” Devlon mused. “Interesting times.”

Priestess.

Not Valkyrie.

Not Carynthian.

An intentional choice.

Rhys’s expression cooled another degree, but Gwyn said nothing.

It was better to stay silent than give him something to use against her.

Something flickered behind Devlon’s eyes when the quiet lingered.

Not amusement.

Interest.

Like she had finally begun playing the game correctly.

“The Rite certainly proved you do.”

There it was.

Not abrupt this time.

Woven naturally into the conversation so smoothly that by the time the shift happened, the room was already trapped inside it.

Cassian’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. Nesta went still beside him. Even Feyre’s hand paused against her wine glass.

Devlon folded his hands atop the table.

“There are still many questions surrounding what happened on Ramiel.”

Gwyn only lifted her goblet calmly.

“Three Illyrian warriors dead,” Devlon continued evenly. “An impossible climb completed.”

Another pause.

“And three females standing at the top of the mountain.”

The room felt smaller suddenly.

Hotter.

Emerie took a slow sip of wine before setting the glass down carefully.

“It was not an easy feat.”

A few nearby commanders exchanged glances.

Devlon did not smile.

“No magic,” he continued evenly. “No siphons. No wings.”

His eyes sharpened slightly.

“And yet you survived.”

Not accusation.

Worse.

Curiosity.

Clinical and cold.

Like she was an unsolved problem sitting politely at his dinner table.

Gwyn felt Nesta shift beside Cassian. Felt Emerie growing tense across the table.

But beside her, Azriel remained perfectly still. Shadows coiled silently around his shoulders now, darker than before.

Waiting.

Devlon’s gaze never left Gwyn.

“Tell me,” he said softly, “did you enjoy it?”

Silence settled heavily across the table.

Not shocked silence.

Dangerous silence.

The kind where everyone understood a line had just been crossed and was now waiting to see who moved first.

The hearth cracked loudly somewhere behind Gwyn, sparks hissing upward through the massive chimney while the drums outside continued their steady rhythm beneath the floorboards.

Devlon simply watched her. Waiting to see how she answered.

Gwyn held his gaze evenly despite the slow tightening in her chest.

Did you enjoy it?

Like she had hunted his men for fun. Like she had climbed Ramiel smiling.

A trap.

Any answer would become the wrong one.

Gwyn rested her fingers lightly against the stem of her goblet to keep herself from visibly stiffening.

Don’t lose your temper. Don’t give him what he wants.

Nesta seemed to read this in her expression, because she spoke before Gwyn could reply.

“Considering we were drugged and dragged from our beds,” she said, her voice smooth and even, “I doubt she enjoyed watching her friends nearly die.”

A muscle feathered in Devlon’s jaw.

Very slight.

But there.

Because it wasn’t Nesta’s response that he wanted. She had not answered the question he actually asked.

Across the table, Feyre’s shoulders eased a fraction. Cassian, however, still looked one sentence away from committing violence.

Devlon leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Do you always speak for the Priestess?” He asked. “What about her time alone? Are you aware of that?”

There it was.

The real question.

Not curiosity but an answer he was desperate for.

And Devlon wanted Gwyn to say it herself. Wanted her to publicly acknowledge what she had done to his men so everyone else at the table could dissect it afterward.

Gwyn felt irritation stir sharply beneath her ribs. Yet, no guilt gave to the surface, only annoyance.

She couldn’t let him win this, after everything, she would not allow him this victory on her morals.

Emerie remained quiet, but Gwyn could tell she was holding herself back. Speaking out against him, the Lord over her home camp, would lead to far more severe consequences than she would face.

And this was not her fight. 

The Illyrians had started it by kidnapping them and forcing her hand, but Gwyn had done irrevocable damage to Devlon’s pride. By beating the odds, she had undermined his authority.

Now, she had to be careful. 

Gwyn took one last breath before she met his gaze, forcing her face to reveal none of the emotions flowing through her.

“I did what I had to do,” she answered evenly.

Devlon’s eyes seemed to sparkle at her admission.

“Did you now?”

Cassian’s chair creaked ominously.

“Devlon,” Rhys warned quietly.

But the Illyrian lord did not look away from Gwyn.

“She’s Carynthian now,” Devlon replied smoothly. “Surely she can withstand questions about her own victory.”

The room tightened further.

Political. Careful. A force that she was not familiar with.

One wrong move from Rhys and this stopped being a dinner entirely.

Gwyn understood that now. Which meant Devlon understood it too.

Pressure without overt hostility. Cruelty disguised as tradition.

She hated how good he was at it.

“You seem deeply interested in my answer,” Gwyn said lightly.

His eyes narrowed slightly at the shift in tone.

“I’m interested in understanding how three trained Illyrian warriors lost to a priestess.”

Not female, not warrior.

Again intentional. Again meant to diminish her accomplishment. To him, “Priestess” meant wounded, broken by tragedy, and left to hide behind books and robes.

Gwyn’s grip tightened faintly beneath the table.

Beside her, Azriel still had not spoken. But she saw the way his jaw flexed, as if literally biting his tongue.

She also noticed the shadows now. They no longer drifted lazily around him, but curled tighter, the wisps somehow darker than normal. One slithered slowly across the table edge near her wrist before retreating again.

As if testing, or trying to sense what she felt underneath the false calm. Like they were waiting for a signal to strike, waiting on her to tell them to.

The sight unsettled her strangely. 

Not because she feared them, she never had, but because suddenly she realized what was happening—

The shadows were angry, and it was Azriel that restrained them. Restraining himself. Not because he wanted to, but because she did not need him to do otherwise.

Devlon was silent for several moments before he continued, the room tightening with anticipation.

Then he opened his mouth. “The Temple of Sangravah, was it?”

Gwyn’s spine stiffened before she could stop it. She swallowed slowly. Hiding her emotions was never a strength, but now it was crucial.

“I did do my research,” Devlon added as if proud of himself. As if he’d been waiting to put that piece of her on the table for everyone to see.

The room cooled instantly, a slight chill brushing through the air.

Azriel’s shadows sharpened, hanging low like a cat waiting to pounce.

Gwyn gave nothing away outwardly, but something in her expression changed anyway. Something warm and familiar filled her veins.

Then the gold beneath her teal eyes flickered faintly. Like sunlight catching beneath deep water.

“Your sources would be correct,” she said calmly.

Devlon nodded once.

“The raid,” he mused. “What a shameful thing that was.”

The room went still. Silent enough to hear a feather fall to the ground.

Not because of the words, but rather the tone he used to say them. Careful and measured, like a male testing the edge of a blade. Or something he knew would catch her attention.

Gwyn felt every instinct inside her sharpen at once.

Magic already saturated the air tonight from the bonfires and old rites outside. She had felt it since arriving in Windhaven—that strange humming beneath her skin, like something ancient had awakened and refused to settle again.

Now it stirred harder.

Hungry. Listening.

Azriel felt it immediately, and his shadows reacted, pulling tighter around him.

Still watching her.

Not Devlon.

Her.

Devlon leaned forward slightly.

“I was sorry to hear about your sister,” he continued smoothly. “Though I suppose her death was merciful in the end.”

Cassian went completely still. His head turned to Rhys beside him, the two seeming to communicate something silently.

Nesta slowly lowered her wine glass. Emerie’s hand balled into a fist under the table.

Gwyn did not move an inch.

“Beheading is cleaner than having one’s throat ripped out,” Devlon said quietly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The room stopped breathing.

But Azriel felt something different brush along his senses.

Not her power exactly, but an undeniable shift in the room. Like some invisible thread inside Gwyn suddenly snapped taut.

The female beside him did not look enraged; that would have been easier to understand.

Instead, Gwyn became suddenly calm. 

Terrifyingly calm.

The gold in her eyes brightened subtly beneath the candlelight, overtaking the teal little by little while something ancient and predatory settled into the lines of her face.

Azriel had seen Gwyn furious before. Had seen her frightened and in shock. Had seen her grieving and sorrowful. But never in the three years he had known her had he ever seen this.

This eerie stillness that felt almost peaceful if not for the molten sharpness beneath it. Like watching a blade smile.

“You could say that,” Gwyn replied softly. Her voice was silkier than he expected, lower in tone.

The words slid through the room smoothly enough to raise chills down several spines.

Cassian stared openly now. Even Rhys had gone completely motionless.

Nesta’s eyes widened slightly as she glanced at Azriel, a question lingering there. Or maybe it was a demand, his focus shifted back before he could tell.

Devlon still studied Gwyn carefully.

Then smiled slowly, showing teeth. 

A method of intimidation that Azriel recognized instantly.

“Reminds me of three of my warriors,” Devlon drawled.

Gwyn shifted slightly in her chair, leaning back against it. Seeming unbothered despite the rapid beat of her pulse.

Then, ever so slowly, the corner of her mouth curved upward. A smirk rather than a smile, but no doubt a replication of the Lord’s own expression.

Though Gwyn’s teeth held that same sharpness from earlier. Pointed like that of a predator.

Azriel knew instantly that this was a side of Gwyn most people never survived seeing. This was a side of Gwyn that matched Nesta in ferocity. 

Maybe it should have unsettled him.

Instead, something dangerously dark inside him understood it immediately.

Because he knew masks like this. Wore them himself, had for centuries. He knew exactly what it took to build something as sturdy as that. He understood the horrors one had to endure to slip into this detached, calculated mask so easily.

For the first time tonight, Devlon’s face flashed with something unplanned.

Surprise.

Then it was fear shown briefly in his eyes, gone in a blink.

Gwyn exhaled softly through her nose.

“They entered the Rite willingly.”

A few commanders stiffened in their spots around the room.

Devlon’s gaze sharpened.

“And they died willingly too.”

Devlon visibly lost control. Only for a second, but Azriel saw it.

The hand that fisted against the tablecloth. The flash of rage across his face before discipline buried it again.

A breath passed.

Cassian covered his smirk with a closed fist, eyes carrying a hint of pride.

Then Devlon gave Gwyn his own smile.

Cold.

Humorless.

“You speak boldly for someone still unfamiliar with Illyria.”

The implication slid cleanly beneath the sentence.

Outsider. Pretender. Undeserving. 

Gwyn felt it immediately, and so did everyone else at the table.

But before she could answer—

Azriel finally moved.

Not dramatically.

If anything, the motion was almost lazy as he leaned back slightly in his chair, one scarred hand lifting to rest against his jaw.

That was all.

Yet the room changed instantly. Every eye caught on the movement as if they had been waiting for it all evening. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees as shadows unfurled slowly behind him like smoke bleeding across stone. 

Not wild or explosive, this was somehow worse.

Controlled. Deliberate.

The kind of restraint that made predators freeze before striking.

Several guards along the walls visibly stiffened. One of the commanders lowered his eyes entirely.

Because this was not merely Azriel.

This was the Shadowsinger.

Rhysand’s spymaster. The male High Lords whispered about. The thing enemies feared hearing behind them in dark rooms. 

And suddenly every person at the table remembered exactly who had been sitting silently beside Gwyn the entire night.

Azriel lifted his wine glass once, gaze settling on Devlon with terrifying calm.

“She climbed Ramiel,” he said quietly. “That makes her more Illyrian than half the warriors in this camp.”

Silence.

Complete and immediate.

Even Devlon stilled slightly.

Because Azriel rarely spoke during gatherings like this.

And when he did—

People listened.

Gwyn shifted slightly toward him before she could stop herself. Her attention no longer focused on the room.

But on him.

The slight roughness beneath his voice. The cold fury hidden beneath the calm. The way his shadows curled tighter behind him like they were struggling not to lash forward themselves.

And suddenly she understood.

His silence earlier had never been indifference. It had been restraint stretched painfully thin.

Devlon recovered quickly, though the pause had lasted just long enough to matter.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Coming from you.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened instantly.

Rhys watched Devlon with growing stillness.

But Gwyn could only see how every instinct in the room had suddenly sharpened around a single point.

Then Devlon folded his hands loosely atop the table and delivered the true blow.

“You always were drawn to wounded things,” Devlon said quietly. “I suppose brokenness recognizes itself eventually.”

There it was.

Not loud. Not overly crude.

But the elegant cruelty of it was far worse.

The insult struck multiple targets at once so cleanly Gwyn almost admired it.

Azriel.
His childhood. His need to protect. Her trauma.

Wounded things. Brokenness recognizes itself eventually.

The room went deathly silent. Even the servants seemed to freeze where they stood.

And for one brief terrible second, Gwyn saw the flicker deep behind Azriel’s eyes before he buried it again.

Not anger.

Something older. Something quieter.

Shame.

That—that made her feel physically ill.

Something snapped, rising instantly inside her chest.

Because suddenly she understood exactly what this dinner had truly been.

Not hospitality. Not politics.

But a form of punishment for something she didn’t see.

Devlon wanted Azriel sitting here remembering exactly what this place had taught him to believe about himself.

Monstrous.
Unworthy.
Less.

And Gwyn—

Gwyn could tolerate many things.

The questions. The suspicion. Even with outright dislike, she was no stranger to hateful words.

But not this.

Not after seeing the way Azriel had looked at Windhaven outside like a male standing inside an old wound. Not after he had defended her without hesitation time and time again. Not after she had seen the hurt underneath the deadly mask. The look of a child who had never been protected, only taught to accept what was carved into him piece by piece.

Her goblet touched the table softly.

The tiny sound somehow echoed through the room.

Then Gwyn looked directly at Devlon. And spoke before she could think better of it.

“I suggest,” she said quietly, lifting her wine to her lips with false composure, “you hold your tongue, should you wish to keep it inside your pathetic mouth.”

Stillness.

Absolute stillness.

Azriel’s head turned toward her slowly.

But there was no shock in his face. Only something far more dangerous. A look that showed how her words had struck somewhere deep enough inside him that he no longer knew what to do with them.

Gwyn realized then, in the midst of everything, that no one had that before.

That his face was the expression of someone who had never been defended.

Not like this.

Not publicly. Not instinctively. Not without being asked to.

Gwyn had not defended the Shadowsinger or the Spymaster. 

She had defended Azriel.

The male beneath the scars and shadows and silence. And somehow that felt infinitely more intimate.

Devlon’s expression hardened by a fraction.

The threat itself mattered less than the reason behind it.

Everyone at the table understood that.

Nesta stared openly now, silver eyes flicking between Gwyn and Azriel with sudden sharp understanding. Cassian looked halfway between impressed and alarmed.

Even Rhys had gone very still.

Because Gwyn herself did not seem to realize what she had just revealed.

Only Azriel did.

He saw it in the way she had subtly angled herself toward him afterward without thinking. In the quiet fury still burning beneath her skin. In the fact that she looked more offended for him than she ever had for herself tonight.

Something in Azriel’s chest cracked wide open.

Warm.
Painful.
Terrifying.

His shadows curled wildly around him now, no longer angry. Almost frantic. Like they had discovered something precious and did not know how to contain themselves afterward.

A chair scraped suddenly against stone as Rhys rose to his feet.

Every guard in the room immediately went alert, hands shifting toward sword hilts before stopping short when night-dark power rippled subtly through the hall.

Not enough to threaten. Enough to remind everyone exactly who stood before them.

“Now,” Rhys said smoothly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, “if we are finished throwing knives across the table, I think this dinner has lasted quite long enough.”

No one argued.

Not even Devlon.

The Illyrian lord pushed slowly to his feet, broad wings shifting slightly behind him.

“If that is your wish, High Lord.”

“It is.”

The tension remained suffocating as chairs scraped back and everyone slowly rose from the table.

Nesta immediately moved toward Cassian. Emerie lingered near Feyre.

But Gwyn stayed exactly where she was for one heartbeat longer.

Azriel remained beside her.

Watching. Waiting.

Devlon’s eyes slid toward Gwyn one final time as if searching for another reaction, another crack to pry open before the evening ended.

Gwyn simply lifted her goblet and finished the last sip.

Then she stood.

Azriel rose with her instantly.

Gwyn stepped closer without thinking, the side of her body brushing Azriel’s as she angled toward his ear.

Subtle but intentional.

“Get us out of here,” she murmured softly, voice smoother than she felt. “Before I decide killing him is worth the political consequences.”

Azriel looked at her then.

Really looked at her.

And whatever expression crossed his face in that moment made her blink in surprise.

She swallowed thickly.

Rhys caught the look too.

His violet eyes flicked once between them before he gave Azriel a small nod.

Permission.

Azriel’s scarred hand settled carefully at Gwyn’s hip, securing her closer to him.

The touch was tentative yet certain.

Protective.

Possessive enough to send heat racing beneath her skin despite everything.

Shadows exploded outward around them in a swirl of black smoke and cold night air.

The last thing Gwyn saw before darkness swallowed them completely was Devlon watching from the end of the table.

And for the first time all evening—

The male looked uneasy.

In my head, I imagine Gwyn's powers to look like Sophie Turner as Jean Grey (X-Men: Dark Phoenix). The blue mixing with the gold in her eyes is so perfect.

Both pictures are from Pinterest, btw.