Chapter 17 - Boulderhearth
Chapter 17 – Boulderhearth
-Azriel-
Azriel scanned the woods surrounding the village of Boulderhearth—the very village where his mother now lived in the westernmost part of Illyria. It was tucked far away enough in seclusion to entice wandering war bands to seek respite from the harsh mountain conditions, unlike the more central mountain-bound villages that boasted more…comforts befitting savage Illyrian males, like brothels and taverns. His mother’s refusal to live in Velaris made this the safest place for her, though safety in Illyria was a fragile thing.
The tip-off had come from two young Illyrian sisters who had gone to wash clothes at a nearby pond. Their brother, recently home from the Forgefell war camp, had managed to get word to Rhysand. That word had sent Azriel here, under instructions to investigate the circumstances surrounding the discovery of Roderick’s body.
But there was one glaring issue: the body was gone.
The early summer sun filtered through the canopy of trees, casting dappled patterns of light on the forest floor. The air was warm, carrying the gentle fragrance of blooming flowers, a reminder of the beauty that surrounded him. On any other day, he might have found peace in the serenity of nature, letting it soothe the edges of his ever-present tension. But not today.
The memory of the morning’s disaster with Gwyn lingered like a wraith in his mind, sharp and raw, intertwining with the mounting frustration of his fruitless search in Boulderhearth. The forest seemed endless, each step yielding only more trees and underbrush, with no sign of a body—no trace of anything out of the ordinary. An hour had passed, and still, nothing. The tranquility of the woods offered no solace, only a quiet mockery of his growing impatience.
Go search deeper in the woods, he commanded one of his shadows. The wisp slipped away, skimming low along the forest floor.
Azriel launched himself into the air, heading for the center of Boulderhearth. Though it was less than a five-minute walk, the morning’s confrontation with Gwyn had left him utterly drained. He tried to force his mind back to the task at hand, but the memory was relentless—the vacant look in her beautiful eyes, haunted and hollow, pulling her back to the horrors of Sangravah.
I was too late, he told himself, the thought looping endlessly.
SHE DOES NOT THINK THAT, SHADOWSINGER.
It’s my fault—what happened this morning. I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see me again.
SHE WILL NEVER LEAVE YOU. SHE CANNOT HATE YOU. TRUST IN HER DEVOTION, SHADOWSINGER.
But the shadows' whispers couldn’t quiet the torment in his mind. These voices weren’t theirs—they were his own. They reminded him of every ugly truth he couldn't escape: that he was unworthy, a mere weapon wielded by the Night Court, undeserving of a female’s love or the mating bond. He was certainly unfit for affection from a lovely female like Gwyneth Berdara.
Months spent getting to know Gwyn had blossomed into something more. It was only yesterday he had cradled her small, warm hand in his own, cupped her face with reverence, and drawn her trembling form into his chest as she wept. Each part of her seemed crafted to fit him perfectly. Her hand nestled seamlessly in his. Her face rested effortlessly in his palms. Her body molded against his as though it had always belonged there. Even in her sorrow, as tears streaked her cheeks in the quiet sanctuary of the River House, she had been breathtaking. Crying, smiling, laughing, or furious—she was, without question, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
And last night, in the living room at the House of Wind, she had consumed him entirely, flooding every sense at once—taste, smell, touch, sight, and sound in perfect harmony. Her lips, soft as petals and sweet as the first taste of honey, lingered on his tongue, a flavor he could still conjure with a simple brush of his fingers against his own—fucking intoxicating and addictive. He thought of those eyes that stared back at him last night—teal, deep as the endless sea, heavy with unspoken desires—and how they had pierced through the walls he’d long since built, leaving him utterly exposed. The strands of her hair that had slipped free from her bun, framing her face like brushstrokes on a canvas too perfect to exist. Even now, he could recall the silkiness of those strands as they slipped through his fingers, each one a whisper of her presence. And her scent—holy fuck, her scent—had transformed in the heat of the moment, becoming something richer, something intoxicating, a fragrance that wove itself into his memory, impossible to forget. Her touch, so delicate yet deliberate, had mapped his form, every caress igniting a fire beneath his skin. Across his chest, his neck, his face—she had branded him with her warmth. The sounds she made—the soft, broken gasps, the unguarded whimpers—had become a melody etched into his soul, echoing endlessly in the quiet. She had undone him completely, and he had willingly surrendered, knowing he’d never be whole without her again.
She had become his entire existence in those moments, and he had surrendered to her completely. Even as he flew now through the skies of Boulderhearth, she was still his every breath, his every thought—filling every corner of his being.
All those nights spent training together after the last Winter Solstice, the lessons shared under the stars, had planted the seeds of something he hadn’t dared to name then. He had worried for her in silence, his shadows restless, when she was taken and thrown into the Blood Rite alongside Nesta and Emerie.
The memory of seeing her again after the Blood Rite—bloodied, her clothes torn, but alive—still gripped his heart. She had stood in the yard of the River House, transported there by the monolith atop Ramiel, victorious yet haunted. Relief had surged through him so fiercely that it nearly brought him to his knees. Even though they weren’t as close then—not like they were now—he had wanted nothing more than to run to her, to wrap her in his arms and shield her from the world. But duty had called, and he had gone with Mor to retrieve Cassian and Nesta, leaving her behind as Feyre and her unborn child clung to life. Later that day, after Feyre and Nyx were alive and safe, and he’d laid his eyes on Gwyn again in that parlor as she embraced Nesta and Emerie, he had made a silent vow: never again would he take her presence for granted. He had stepped out of the shadows he so often hid behind, meeting her in the training pit night after night. He wanted to know her—not just the warrior, but the female beneath. And he wanted her to know him, the parts of himself he rarely revealed.
He hadn’t meant for his feelings to grow, hadn’t intended for her to become the center of his thoughts. But, Godsdamnit, she had. And now, there was no forgetting her.
Now, with the looming prospect of her absence in his life being permanent, the world felt smaller, the air too thick to breathe, the sky too stormy to fly.
Sorrow tightened in his throat, but he swallowed it down as he landed in the center of the village. He had a job to do—he needed to find the male and his little sisters who’d reported what they’d found in the woods.
Where are they?
One of his shadows slithered forward, trailing low to the ground, and guided his gaze to a small cottage with a gray roof. Perched atop it was an Illyrian male—not as large as Azriel or his brothers, but sturdy and well-built. His black hair, shaggier than Azriel’s, fell into his eyes, obscuring his face as he worked, appearing to be making repairs.
The roof itself showed its age, worn and weathered, likely in need of a complete replacement. But like most communities in Illyria, resources for such endeavors were scarce. Here, wealth was measured in trade and services, not coin or luxury.
The male glanced up, noticing his approach. His stance turned rigid, wary, as though preparing to leap and intercept the Azriel if he posed any threat to the home’s occupants.
Good luck with that, Azriel thought dryly, I can kick my own ass better than you ever could. He stopped to cross his arms over his chest, carefully tucking his hands underneath each opposite arm to hide both the scars and his gloves that bore his blue siphons, not wanting to reveal his identity just yet, even though his other siphons were clearly visible.
But the male didn’t pounce. Instead, he stepped to the roof’s edge and jumped, a single powerful wingbeat softening his descent. Landing gracefully, he straightened and positioned himself in front of the cottage—a stance Azriel immediately recognized as defensive, protective. This was the type of tell that he looked for when preparing to torture someone—weakness, something he could exploit to his advantage.
Azriel approached with an air of deliberate nonchalance, halting just a few steps away. His shadows had retreated behind his shoulders and wings, something he often bade them to do when he first took stock of their surroundings. His voice was firm, commanding. “Are you the one who contacted the High Lord about the body in the woods?”
The male’s brown eyes narrowed, his suspicion palpable. “Who’s asking?”
Azriel’s shadows stirred, slithering from behind his shoulders and wings, revealing themselves like sentinels. While his shadows could be dramatic sometimes, they usually were spot-on in their timing of making themselves known.
The male’s eyes widened as recognition dawned. “Spymaster,” he whispered.
Azriel offered a smirk and a curt nod. “I was sent by the High Lord to investigate your sisters’ claims of a deceased Fae male in the woods.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his tone darkening. “Funny thing is, I was just there—at the place in the woods where the discovery was supposedly made—and there’s nothing. No body, no blood, no clothing, no signs of a struggle. Not a trace.” His shadows curls around his shoulders as he quirked one eyebrow. "Care to explain that?"
The male’s expression hardened, nostrils flaring, wings twitching as though restraining anger. “It was there. I saw it myself.”
Azriel hummed, a low sound weighted with skepticism. “You realize,” he drawled, lifting a siphon-clad hand to inspect his nails with studied disinterest, “that filing a false report to the High Lord—or anyone in his Inner Circle—is a crime.”
The male’s fists clenched, his voice low with simmering fury. “It was no false report, Spymaster,” he seethed, drawing out the title with disdain. “As I said, I saw it with my own eyes.”
Azriel’s mask of indifference remained unbroken, even as the ache in his chest—the one there caused by the rift between him and Gwyn—gnawed at him. “Then show me, soldier.” He infused the last word with as much condescension as the male had aimed at him.
The male’s glare burned with contempt before he turned and launched himself skyward. Azriel followed, his ascent smooth and measured.
They landed in the woods with deliberate force—the male’s thud sturdy, solid; Azriel’s impact reverberating like a challenge. The male glanced back with an exaggerated eyeroll that seemed to say, Really?
Azriel smirked, his eyes sharp, his silent reply clear: Really.
He followed the Illyrian to the very spot he had already examined, watching as the male skidded to a halt. His eyes flicked around, a mix of confusion and alarm dawning as he realized what Azriel already knew—there was nothing there.
“He was here,” the male said, his voice tight with unease. “Right there, by that rock.” He pointed to a patch of ground near a moderately-sized black boulder, the soil undisturbed.
Azriel silently unsheathed Truth-Teller, its dark blade gleaming as he held it loose in his grip. “So,” he said, his tone edged with dry humor, “a dead body just decided to get up and walk away? I didn’t realize the art of necromancy was thriving here in Boulderhearth.”
The male spun on him, eyes blazing with frustration. “He was here! My sisters saw him this morning, and they came straight to me.” His gaze dropped to the dagger, a flicker of fear crossing his features before he regained control. “I swear, my family would never lie to the High Lord. Never.”
Azriel twirled the blade lazily in his fingers, the gesture calm, effortless, designed to unnerve. For him, it was often just that—effortless, however, effective. Yet something itched at the edges of his thoughts. These Illyrians had no reason to fabricate such a story. There was nothing for them to gain, only the risk of incurring the wrath of the High Lord and Lady—an outcome no rational subject would invite. Not in any court.
“I want to speak to your sisters. If they saw—”
“No,” the male cut in, his tone firm, authoritative.
Azriel tilted his head, a mocking edge creeping into his voice. “No?”
“You heard me, Spymaster. No.” The male squared his shoulders, planting his feet as if daring Azriel to try and move him. “You will not interrogate my sisters. Kill me if you must, but you will not terrorize them.”
Azriel’s lips curved into a cold smile. “I could kill you right here, right now, and no one would ever know. Then I could march to that little house of yours, drag them out one by one, interrogate them until I’m satisfied, and kill them too.” He twirled Truth-Teller idly, the blade catching the light as though it were an extension of his will. “One way or another, I’ll get my answers.”
The male’s nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. “So, this is how the High Lord and Lady treat those who help their family?”
Azriel froze, the blade stilling mid-motion. Slowly, his head lifted, his gaze locking onto the male’s with a lethal intensity. “What the fuck are you talking about, soldier?”
“Ask Feyre Cursebreaker’s sister if she, the Illyrian female, or their redheaded companion would have survived the Blood Rite without my help.”
Azriel stiffened at the mention of redheaded companion, his mind churning, sifting through the fragments of stories Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn had shared after returning from the Blood Rite months ago. He recalled Nesta’s account—how she’d found Emerie barely clinging to life in the river, how she’d carried her unconscious body to safety with unwavering determination. How she’d stumbled upon a lone Illyrian male while searching for shelter, and how he’d offered refuge in a cave he’d claimed, then helped her carry Emerie inside.
For the life of him, Azriel couldn’t remember the male’s name. He vaguely recalled Nesta mentioning that she’d invited him to the mating ceremony, though whether he’d attended or not was unknown to Azriel—truthfully, he hadn't really cared, not after he'd laid his eyes on Gwyn for the first time yesterday.
Azriel’s eyes narrowed, suspicion coiling in his chest. It could be a ploy. It wasn’t impossible that someone had heard whispers of the Illyrian male’s compassion—the very act that had likely saved Nesta, Emerie, and, by extension, Gwyn. This male standing before him could be an imposter, claiming credit for deeds that weren’t his.
HE DOES NOT LIE, SHADOWSINGER, his shadows murmured. THIS IS THE SAME MALE THAT PROTECTED LADY DEATH, WINGED FURY, AND, IN TURN, OUR PRIESTESS.
Our priestess, he replied with incredulity. She’ll likely never speak to me again.
NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR SELF-PITY, SHADOWSINGER.
I’m not—
YOU ARE. AND YOU MUST STOP. YOU HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO TEND TO.
As much as he hated to admit it, they were right.
“Alright, soldier,” Azriel said, his voice hardening as he tried to reclaim his air of dominance. “I’ll bite. Who the fuck are you?”
The male met his gaze without flinching. “Balthazar,” he replied evenly. “My name is Balthazar.”
-Gwyn-
She clenched the smooth stone in her hand, relief coursing through her like a balm. When Feyre had discovered it beneath Gwyn’s nightstand, tears had come again—but this time, they were tears of joy.
“It must have fallen when you pulled the drawer out,” Feyre said, her tone light with gladness as she took in Gwyn’s newfound calm.
Gwyn laughed softly, swiping at her damp cheeks. “I can’t believe it—the first place I looked! I tore this room apart—” She waved an arm to encompass the chaos she’d created in the bedroom and bathroom. “—and it was right there all along.” Pressing the stone to her chest as though willing it into her heart, she added with a rueful smile, “If I’d only been calmer, I would’ve seen it straight away.”
Feyre offered a gentle smile. “You were panicked—understandably so. You’d just been pulled from the clutches of a terrible memory, Gwyn.”
Gwyn huffed a small laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I’m just glad it’s been found.” Her gaze drifted over the room, taking in the aftermath of her frantic search. “I can’t thank you enough, Feyre. I should probably clean this up before Mariah and Nell come back. I doubt they’d appreciate walking into…this.”
“Let me help,” Feyre said, cutting off the protest that had already begun to form on Gwyn’s lips. With a flick of her wrist, she opened her palm, and the displaced drawers from the nightstands and dressers floated back to their rightful places. Clothing followed, rising gracefully into the air, folding itself with precision before settling neatly into the drawers. Pens, papers, and trinkets joined the dance, each item returning effortlessly to its proper spot. The dresser drawers slid shut with a soft, final thud, the entire room transformed with a subtle elegance that left Gwyn marveling.
Gwyn turned to Feyre, her eyes wide, her jaw slack with awe. “Oh, my Gods! How did you…how?”
Feyre’s smile widened, tinged with pride. “Amren’s training. One of her exercises involves creating a disaster like this and setting it all back in order. I didn’t think it’d ever be useful on its own, but…” She gestured to the now-pristine room. “I guess I was wrong.”
Gwyn burst out laughing, a sound as bright as the aqua blue stone still clutched in her hand. “Well, bless Amren’s training regimen! I’ve never appreciated her more.”
Feyre’s grin was as radiant as Gwyn’s laughter as she asked, “Shall we tackle the bathing chamber next?”