Chapter 16 - She's Gone
Chapter 16 – She's Gone
-Azriel-
“Rhys.”
No answer.
“Rhys!”
Still no answer.
Azriel stalked the length of the living room, his gloved hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands as if the pain might steady the storm within him. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on him like an iron vice. The room felt too small, too suffocating, as he fought to regain control over the chaos raging in his mind. His siphons pulsed their blue light seemingly in time with his ragged breathing.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Even his shadows didn’t respond.
He should have known better—should have tread more carefully. The memory of that day in Sangravah clawed its way to the forefront of his mind, vivid and unrelenting. He had seen her then, broken and bleeding, and the ghost of her pain had never truly left him. How could he have been so reckless with words, knowing the scars she carried? The guilt coiled around his chest like a vice, tightening with each passing second.
…
The laughter echoed down the hall, sharp and cruel, followed by a voice dripping with malice: “Go to work on her, lads, until she gives up the children.” Azriel moved silently, his steps calculated, until he reached the entrance. Peering inside, he took in the scene—a kitchen turned into a grotesque display of violence.
A dozen Hybern soldiers loitered, their presence oppressive. The bodies of three priestesses lay discarded on the floor, their heads severed, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood.
At the center of it all stood a male, his uniform marking him as a commander. His back was to Azriel, but as he shifted, adjusting his pants and refastening his belt, the truth of his actions became horrifyingly clear. Azriel’s gaze followed the commander’s movements, and then he saw her—bent over table, bruised and bloody, naked from the waist down. Two soldiers held her down with savage force—one crushing her arms, the other pressing her face into the table. Around them, the others circled like predators, their voices a cacophony of vile laughter and cruel arguments over who would claim her next. The air was suffocating, thick with the stench of death and the weight of unspeakable acts. Every detail seared itself into his mind—the glint of steel, the lifeless bodies nearby, the helplessness etched into her trembling form. It was a tableau of horror, and he stood frozen, a witness to the depths of depravity.
That was when Azriel snapped.
An unholy rage erupted within him, a fury so primal it felt as though it had been caged for centuries. He became a force of nature—feral, unrelenting, and lethal.
The commander was the first to fall, a dagger hurled with deadly precision embedding itself in the back of his skull. The two soldiers pinning her down were next, their lives extinguished in a single, brutal sweep of his long sword, their heads severed in one fluid motion.
One by one, he tore through the rest, the blue of his siphons radiating throughout the dreariness of the room. Each strike was more savage than the last, until the room was drenched in crimson, the air thick with the putrid stench of death. His chest heaved as he stood amidst the carnage, his breath ragged. Slowly, his gaze shifted to the female, still face-down on the table, her form hauntingly still.
Is she dead? he asked his shadows.
NO, SHADOWSINGER, they replied. THE LITTLE PRIESTESS LIVES. SHE IS PRETENDING TO BE DEAD BECAUSE SHE IS AFRAID.
He approached her with deliberate care, his gaze catching on the coppery-red braid, tangled and matted. The faint rise and fall of her upper back and the slight tremble of her fingers gripping the edge of the table confirmed she was, in fact, alive. With a gentleness that felt foreign amidst the carnage, he reached, ever so slowly, for the hem of her lilac nightdress that was bunched around her waist, pulling it down to restore a shred of dignity, mindful to not let his hands brush her skin.
The skirt falling down to cover her lower half startled her. She jolted upright, spinning to face him, her wide eyes brimming with pain, fear and confusion as they locked onto his.
She had a smattering of tan freckles across her high cheekbones and pert nose. He could immediately tell that she was High Fae though not completely—she had the pointed ears, the more human-like features. Her red-rimmed, swollen eyes were teal, a shade he had not seen before in all his life, and they were just a tad larger—barely imperceptible, really, though telling that there was another species mixed into her.
He raised his hands slowly, palms open, his voice low and steady, as though calming a wounded animal. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.” But as the words left his mouth, the realization struck—the front of his leathers were drenched in the soldiers’ blood, and the sight of him must have been terrifying.
She stood rigid, her arms wrapped tightly around herself—one shielding her chest, the other clutching her midsection. Her wide, tear-filled eyes darted to the floor, landing specifically on a body clad in a lilac nightdress identical to hers. Her gaze froze on the severed head nearby, its dark hair matted with blood. Her face crumpled, and a broken wail tore from her throat.
Her knees buckled, and before she could collapse, Azriel surged forward, catching her in his arms. She sobbed, the sound raw and unrelenting, as though the weight of the world had finally crushed her. Without hesitation, he shrugged off his cloak, which miraculously, was mostly clean, and wrapped it around her trembling frame before he hoisted her into his arms and carried her out of that kitchen. His shadows were slowly inching closer to her, sliding over his shoulder and near where her head rested against his chest, seemingly curious. He ordered them to retreat, not wanting her to have one more reason to be frightened. His shadows obeyed, though they were hesitant to do so. The black wisps murmured, though, and for the first time, he couldn’t make out what they said.
…
He shook his head, forcing the memory back into the dark corners of his mind where it belonged. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help—not now. The weight in his chest pressed harder, and the silence around him grew unbearable. He needed someone to steady him, someone to pull him from this spiral. Normally, the person he would seek out would have been Gwyn, but that was not an option—no, he had driven her away.
Rhys was the next logical choice, but he wasn’t answering. The absence of his brother’s voice felt like a chasm, deep and unyielding. Azriel exhaled sharply, his hands twitching at his sides as he fought against the rising tide of frustration and helplessness. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly alone. Desperation clawed at him, a relentless weight in his chest. Cassian and Nesta were away, the trip they left for last night to celebrate their official mating bond would likely span weeks. Emerie had probably returned to Windhaven, possibly in Mor's company.
“Feyre?”
No answer. Fuck.
“Feyre!”
“Azriel? What is it?”
Azriel exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing at the sound of his High Lady’s voice echoing in his mind. It was a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts—a reminder that he could rely on his family in this moment of anguish.
“Where’s Rhys?”
“He went to Vallahan with Mor to try and get ahead of this situation with Roderick.” A pause. “Is everything alright?”
“No, I—” He paused, unsure of how to start. The words hovered just out of reach, and for a moment, he simply stood there, uncertain of what to say or how to explain everything that had happened. The hesitation settled in the air as he tried to gather his thoughts.
“Az, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I fucked up. It’s Gwyn, I—I need help, Feyre.”
A pause. Then, “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Az.”
-Gwyn-
Bursting into the dorm rooms of the Library, Gwyn headed straight for her corner, the space she claimed as her sanctuary. The square room was divided into four sections: one for the bathing chamber and the other three divided into personal nooks for each occupant, complete with a bed, a small dresser, and whatever treasures they could squeeze into the limited space.
Her roommates, Mariah and Nell, were already gone, likely immersed in their duties in the Library, leaving Gwyn alone with her racing thoughts and a desperate purpose. She darted to the bedside table near her bed, yanking the drawer open so forcefully that it came free, spilling its contents—a few sheets of paper, a pen, a box of tissues, and her bookmark, yet to be put to use with her next novel. None of it was what she sought, and her frustration only deepened as her hands trembled with urgency.
Where is it?
Turning her attention to the three-drawer dresser, she yanked each drawer out with purpose, upending them onto the bed. Piles of shirts, nightdresses, undergarments, and assorted clothing scattered chaotically as she sifted through them, her hands trembling with urgency. She unraveled every ball of socks, plunging her fingers inside each one, desperate to find it. But every search came up empty, every failure adding fuel to her growing panic. Her breathing quickened, sharp and shallow, until the room around her began to spin, the edges of her vision blurring under the weight of her frantic desperation.
Her gaze darted to Mariah and Nell’s dressers, a spark of determination igniting through her growing panic and making her ignore the violation she was about to commit. She flew across the room, her movements frantic as she tore into Mariah’s area first, yanking drawers open and overturning their contents onto the floor. Shirts, scarves, and neatly folded garments tumbled into disarray as her hands clawed through the piles.
It has to be here, she told herself, the mantra repeating in her mind like a lifeline. I never take it out of this room unless it’s in the pocket of my robes. It has to be here!
When Mariah’s belongings yielded nothing, Gwyn turned her attention to Nell’s section, repeating the same desperate search. Each drawer was emptied, its contents scattered, but still—nothing. Her chest heaved as frustration tangled with panic, every movement becoming more erratic.
She blinked, the blurred edges of her vision catching her attention. She hadn’t even noticed the tears streaming down her face, clouding her view of the chaos she had wrought. Her trembling hands gripped her hair as she paced back and forth, trying to summon a memory—any memory—that would tell her where it might be. The walls of her mind felt like they were closing in, the answer she sought just out of reach.
The realization struck her like a lightning bolt—the bathing chamber.
She flew to the small room, her heart pounding so fiercely it felt as though it might burst. Her trembling hands dove into the pockets of her priestess robes, the ones she’d last hung there after bathing.
Empty.
“No, no, no, no!” The words tore from her throat, raw and desperate, as her mind spiraled further into chaos. Rational thought slipped through her fingers like sand. She yanked open the vanity drawers, dumping their contents onto the cold, unforgiving tile floor. Her hands clawed through the scattered items, searching, hoping, pleading.
But it wasn’t there.
Her knees buckled, and she slid down against the counter, her body folding in on itself as she hit the floor. Fistfuls of her hair tangled in her grip as she wept, her sobs echoing in the small chamber. The thought clawed its way to the surface, unrelenting and cruel.
It’s gone.
She’s gone.
-Azriel-
“Az?”
Azriel exhaled softly, tension easing just slightly at the sound of the High Lady’s voice. The light from his siphons flickered back to a muted glow. He hadn’t been sure how she would manage to arrive, given that winnowing into the House of Wind was impossible for all of them. As he turned, his question was answered. She had summoned her Illyrian form, the bat-like wings unfurled—and, somehow, graceful—using the shapeshifting magic granted to her when she was made Fae.
Her gaze swept the room, worry etched into her expression, lingering as her eyes finally met his. The sight of her—powerful, yet concerned—grounded him just enough to steady his racing thoughts, though the weight of the moment remained heavy.
“Az? Where’s Gwyn? What happened?”
Azriel’s gaze was fixed on the rug beneath his feet, his shame weighing him down like a leaden cloak. The memory of Gwyn’s vacant eyes, lost in the torment of her past, haunted him. He had pushed her, hurt her—accidentally, of course but still, hurt her—opening up wounds that should have been left to heal.
“Feyre,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “I…I really fucked up.”
Feyre approached him with measured steps, her expression soft but concerned. “Just breathe, Az,” she said gently, her voice a soothing balm against the storm raging within him. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.” Her presence was steady, a lifeline he desperately needed but wasn’t sure he deserved.
So, he did. Azriel recounted everything—their return to the House of Wind after the reception, the kiss he and Gwyn had shared, and how they’d fallen asleep together on the couch. He left out the more intimate details but shared enough for Feyre to understand that their relationship had evolved into something more than friendship last night. He explained how Rhysand’s voice had woken him before sunrise, summoning him to investigate Roderick’s death in Illyria. How he’d dressed for the mission and told Gwyn about it when she woke, leading to their disagreement over what manner of death Roderick deserved—his own anger spilling out in thoughtless words that had sent Gwyn spiraling into the depths of her memory.
Feyre listened intently, her expression calm and unwavering, never interrupting as he unraveled the events. When he finally finished, his voice raw with guilt, she placed a steady hand on his shoulder, grounding him in her quiet strength.
“This is all my fault,” he whispered dejectedly. “I did this to her.”
Feyre shook her head. “The soldiers that attacked Sangravah did that to her, Azriel. Not you.”
Azriel scrubbed a weary hand down his face, the stubble on his jaw a grating against his uneven palm. "I reminded her of it, though," he murmured, the guilt heavy in his voice.
Feyre’s reply was soft but firm. "I doubt she ever forgets, Az. That kind of pain doesn’t just disappear. There’s no getting over it, no pretending it didn’t happen."
He hesitated before asking, "Did Rhysand tell you what happened to Gwyn? At Sangravah?"
Feyre sighed, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. "Not specifically, no. I wasn’t sure if even he knew the exact details. I know her sister died that day in the raid. And I know that every priestess that lives in the Library is there because they were—" She paused, choosing her words with care. "—hurt in a specific and horrific way." Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "And I do know that you were the one who saved her, Az."
His voice was barely a whisper. "I was too late."
"No," Feyre said firmly, conviction blazing in her eyes. "She would be dead—or worse—if you hadn’t been there, Azriel."
He sighed again, running his hand through his hair. "So, what do I do now, Feyre?"
Her answer came quietly but decisively. "You need to go to Illyria, Az." She held up a hand as he opened his mouth to protest. "I’ll find Gwyn...I'll make sure she's alright.”
Azriel hesitated, not wanting to leave, not until he could see for himself that she was alright.
Not until he knew they would be alright.
-Gwyn-
The bedroom and bathing chamber were a catastrophe—a whirlwind of chaos left in the wake of Gwyn’s frantic search. Drawers sat crookedly on the floor; their contents spilled across every surface in disarray. Garments were tangled with papers, socks mismatched in piles of discarded belongings. The air was stifling, heavy with her anguish, and her trembling breaths filled the room with quiet desperation.
“Gwyn?” The voice was soft, tentative, yet carried a strength that reached through the haze of her grief. Startled, Gwyn jerked her head up from where her tear-streaked face had been buried in her hands. Standing in the doorway was the High Lady of the Night Court, serene yet commanding in her presence. She wore black leggings and a cream-colored short-sleeved blouse, her simple attire stark against the great wings that rose behind her like a dark halo.
“H-High Lady,” Gwyn stammered, her voice trembling as she shakily climbed to her feet. She wiped at her cheeks, though the tears continued to stream.
The High Lady’s lips curled into a soft, understanding smile. “You can call me Feyre, remember?”
Gwyn nodded, inhaling deeply to steady herself. Her gaze, however, lingered on the wings—the towering, leathery expanse that seemed out of place and yet entirely natural.
Realizing what had captured Gwyn’s attention, Feyre’s smile shifted, touched with a trace of warmth. “Yes, I inherited shapeshifting abilities when I was made Fae,” she explained, her voice gentle. “I can summon the wings when I need to, similar to my mate. This time, I had to use them to reach the House of Wind because of the wards.”
Her wings shifted slightly as she spoke, a subtle reminder of the power that Feyre carried effortlessly. In the stillness, her presence filled the room, offering a quiet, steadying reassurance that Gwyn hadn’t even realized she needed. The chaos around her seemed too dull, if only for a moment, under the weight of Feyre’s calm.
“Oh,” Gwyn stammered, her voice barely above a whisper as she processed the High Lady’s presence. “Why…um, why are you here?” The words escaped before she could think better of them, and her face flushed with embarrassment.
This was Feyre Cursebreaker—High Lady of the Night Court. She didn’t owe anyone an explanation for her comings and goings, least of all Gwyn. Hastily, she added, “I’m so sorry, I…I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. I just meant…um, what brings you…here…to my room?” Her fingers twisted nervously in front of her, betraying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through her.
As her gaze fell to her fidgeting hands, another thought dawned on her—she was still in her pajamas from the night before. Hardly fitting attire to greet Night Court nobility, though, knowing what she did about the High Lady, Feyre likely wouldn’t care.
“Gwyn.” The soft voice drew her eyes back up, and she was met with Feyre’s warm, understanding smile. “It’s alright for you to want to know why I am here, in your private quarters.”
Gwyn gave a small, sheepish nod, feeling slightly more at ease but still uncertain.
“Azriel was worried about you,” Feyre continued gently, her voice laced with compassion. “He…he called on me using my mind-to-mind powers. He was pretty…distraught when you left.” Her tone held no judgment, only a quiet reassurance, as though she were here to help carry the weight Gwyn could no longer bear alone.
A stitch of guilt settled in her stomach. “He shouldn’t have been, I just—” She stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“He thinks he drove you away,” Feyre said gently, her compassionate gaze fixed on Gwyn. “He feels horrible and ashamed.”
Gwyn’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What? Why?”
Feyre hesitated, her own expression softening further as she searched Gwyn’s eyes, careful and steady. “For…what he said,” she explained slowly, each word deliberate. “He thinks it’s his fault that you…got trapped in your memories of Sangravah.”
The mention of the place she’d once called home sent a pang through Gwyn, sharp and all too familiar. Memories of Sangravah surged forward, painful and bittersweet—a place that held memories of her heart’s deepest love and greatest loss. Her throat tightened at the thought, but even as it hurt, she silently appreciated Feyre’s honesty and care in broaching the subject.
“I suppose what he said did trigger the memories,” Gwyn admitted, her voice wavering. Her hand rose instinctively to the base of her throat, as though seeking to steady herself. “But…he didn’t do it intentionally. I know—” She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making her pause. “I know that Azriel would never hurt me.” The words were heavy with conviction, her voice soft but resolute.
Feyre’s eyes softened, a quiet understanding in her expression. “And deep down, he knows that,” she said gently. “Azriel is his own worst enemy, Gwyn. I know there's something going on between you two—” She raised a tattooed hand, preemptively silencing Gwyn, though no denial had come. “You don’t have to explain—he told me about the kiss, but not much more, and it's certainly none of my business. I may not have known him as long as the others, but it’s clear to me that you mean a great deal to him. Perhaps even more than he dares to admit.”
The High Lady’s words hung in the air between them, settling alongside Gwyn’s grief, confusion, and the faintest flicker of something resembling clarity.
“I didn’t run because of him,” Gwyn said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She hesitated, gathering her thoughts before continuing. “I just needed to…I was looking for…” She drew in a steadying breath. “I was looking for my sister’s invoking stone.”
Feyre blinked, her brows lifting slightly in understanding. “Is that why…?” She gestured faintly toward the chaos that surrounded them—the disorder in the bathing chamber spilling out into the bedroom.
Gwyn nodded, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her grief. “I…I can’t find it. She gave it to me right before…right before she told me to protect the children.” She choked back a sob as the memory enveloped her, vivid and raw. She could still feel the firmness of Catrin’s hand as it grasped hers, the invoking stone cool and solid as her sister pressed it into her palm. Catrin’s fingers had curled around Gwyn’s, strong and deliberate, as if she was embedding a piece of herself into that small, sacred object.
Gwyn swallowed thickly, her voice breaking as she continued. “I didn’t even get to ask her why…why she gave it to me.” Her hands clenched at her sides, as though trying to hold onto the memory itself. “Maybe she thought I’d need the extra magic—if the number of those needing help after we escaped was more than my own stone could heal.”
The words hung between them, her pain raw and tangible as Feyre’s expression softened, clasping her tattooed hands in front of her. Sincerity rang in her voice as she said, “I’m so sorry that you lost her, Gwyn.” Her words carried a quiet weight as she added, “Rhysand told me…that she was one of the priestesses killed in the raid.”
Gwyn’s heart seized. Killed in the raid. If only her sister’s death had been that general, that nondescript.
“May I help you look for it?” Feyre asked.
A lone tear rolled down Gwyn’s cheek, which she quickly swiped away. Gods, how many times was she going to lose her composure in front of the High Lady in a span of twenty-four hours?
“Oh, that’s alright,” she began, her voice faltering slightly. “You needn’t trouble yours—”
“It’s no trouble at all, Gwyn,” Feyre interrupted, her tone kind but resolute. “I’d be happy to help you.”
For a moment, Gwyn simply stared at her, the earnestness in Feyre’s words breaking through the weight of her grief. Despite everything, she felt her lips twitch into a faint smile. “Thank you, Feyre,” she murmured, her voice carrying a thread of hope. “I’d appreciate that.”