Chapter 19 - Spill
Chapter 19 – Spill
-Gwyn-
The three of them settled into the cramped yet stately research room. The space was small but inviting, clearly designed for solitary study. A single oak desk sat at its center, its surface neatly arranged with quills, parchment, and an inkwell. A high-backed chair with worn, padded leather faced the desk, its angles perfect for long hours of focused work. A bookshelf comprised one entire wall, packed tightly with aged tomes and scrolls, their spines gleaming softly in the warm light of an enchanted faelight sconce mounted above. The air carried a faint scent of parchment and cedar, while the gentle hum of magic in the room made it feel like a quiet sanctuary, ideal for deep concentration and discovery.
“Alright, spill,” Emerie said, relaxing her stance and crossing her arms. “We wanted to check on you, given everything that happened at the ceremony yesterday, but it seems there’s a lot more you need to tell us.”
Gwyn sighed, her fingers fidgeting with the charm of the rose necklace resting at her throat. Where could she even begin?
“Start with what happened after you left the reception with Azriel,” Mor suggested, her perceptive gaze locking onto Gwyn. She seemed to have an uncanny way of pinpointing exactly what Gwyn was struggling to articulate.
Drawing in a deep breath, Gwyn began. “He took me back to the House of Wind, offering me one of the extra rooms and a bathing chamber to freshen up after…well, after how awful yesterday was. The House prepared food for us—really good food—and we talked about the reception, mostly about what happened with Elain.” Gwyn paused, her cheeks heating slightly before she pressed on, recounting every detail of the past twenty-four hours: the reception, the confessions, the kissing, the argument this morning, and the crushing descent into her painful memory.
Mor’s expression softened with understanding as Gwyn reached that part of the story. After all, it had been Mor whom Azriel had entrusted with getting Gwyn to safety in the Library that day.
Finally, Gwyn spoke of her frantic search for Catrin’s invoking stone and how Feyre had stepped in to help her. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the aqua-blue stone, holding it delicately as though afraid it might vanish again. “I brought it with me. I can’t risk losing it again,” she admitted, her voice quiet but steady.
Emerie reached out and squeezed Gwyn’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough couple of days.” Her smile was gentle but brimmed with strength. “As for Azriel, I’m certain that he’s beating himself up over what happened.”
Gwyn let out a heavy sigh. “It’s not his fault—not really. He was venting, not thinking about the effect his words might have on me.” She hesitated, her fingers twisting the charm around her neck. “Hel, I couldn’t have predicted my own reaction—it’s been so long since I’ve even had a nightmare about it.” She brought the charm to her lips and gently pressed it between them. “Besides, Roderick was the one who said… those awful things to me yesterday. And even though I froze, I stayed in the moment, in the present.”
“That’s the cruel nature of trauma,” Mor said softly, her voice laced with understanding. “Sometimes, a situation that you would think would be triggering comes up, but you are, in fact, able to stay calm and collected. Other times, a similar situation comes up that sends you spiraling into a storm of panic, dragging you back to relive every painful detail.”
Gwyn’s gaze flicked to Mor, sensing a deeper connection in her words than she’d expected. It occurred to her that Mor might understand trauma and flashbacks far more intimately than she let on.
“Anyways,” Gwyn continued, her voice steady but her fingers toying with the charm at her throat. “I’m feeling better now.” It was true, and yet not entirely true. The flashback had passed, she had found Catrin’s invoking stone, and she was feeling more like herself. But her heart still ached for Azriel, his absence settling into her thoughts, nagging at her. Taking a deep breath, she added, “I just wish I could talk this out with Azriel. I have no idea how long he’ll be gone.”
“Why not go to him?” Mor suggested, her brow arching slightly.
Gwyn let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “He’s working. On assignment from the High Lord, no less. The last thing he needs is me showing up and distracting him.”
“I was just with Rhysand in Vallahan,” Mor said, her voice calm but firm. “We were trying to get ahead of this whole mess with Roderick. He specifically said that he told Azriel he should take you with him.”
Gwyn blinked, the words landing with unexpected weight. “Why?”
Mor tilted her head. “I mean, he wants the Valkyries to join the Night Court's legion…maybe he thought this would be a good first assignment to get your feet wet.” A small smile curved her ruby lips. “As far as I know, the assignment was just to go and verify the body is Roderick, ask some questions of the locals, and report back.”
“But Azriel didn’t tell me…” Gwyn trailed off, realization dawning. There hadn’t been a chance for him to bring it up.
Wait—had there?
“If I know Az,” Mor said as she crossed her arms and interrupted Gwyn’s inner monologue, “and I do know Az, he probably didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to risk your safety. While the assignment is pretty tame in and of itself, Illyria isn’t the safest place for females—especially the one non-Illyrian female that won the whole Godsdamn Blood Rite.” The last part she said with a hint of pride that made Gwyn’s cheeks slightly warm.
“Or, maybe,” Emerie added, her voice gentle but firm, “he thought it would be too much for you after everything you’ve been through. The Blood Rite is barely behind us, Gwyn. You were kidnapped, thrown into Illyrian wilderness, separated from us, and badly injured. Maybe he thought this was too much, too soon—especially after the flashback you had this morning.”
“No,” Gwyn argued, her tone sharpening with resolve. “He distinctly said, ‘Rhysand wants me to investigate,’” and he said it before the whole flashback thing. He…he just decided not to tell me.” Hurt tinged her voice, but she inhaled sharply as frustration sparked in her chest. Azriel should know better than to make decisions for her—especially decisions like this.
“Do you know where in Illyria he went?” she asked, her gaze snapping to Mor.
Mor hesitated, her expression unreadable for a beat before she finally said, “Boulderhearth. It’s a small village out west. Roderick’s body was found in the woods nearby.”
Gwyn nodded, resolve hardening in her chest. “I’ll be right back,” she said abruptly, already moving toward the exit.
“Gwyn!” Emerie called after her, her voice laced with concern. “Where are you going?”
“To put on my leathers,” Gwyn called back over her shoulder. Her voice was steady, certain. “I’m going to Boulderhearth.”
-Azriel-
Azriel sat in the small, modest kitchen of Balthazar’s home, attempting—and utterly failing—to appear non-threatening to the two young girls, Nemiah and Iris. His shadows clung to him, concealing themselves behind his shoulders, as if they, too, shared his unease and wanted to avoid frightening the young girls. He needed answers about what the girls had seen in the woods, but their wariness of him was making it difficult.
Iris perched on Balthazar’s lap, her tiny fingers clutching at his fingers, while Nemiah had pulled her chair so close to her brother that her shoulder pressed against his arm. Their mother, Olla, had made a hasty exit to the quaint backyard garden after exchanging a few words with her son.
Azriel cleared his throat, a small sound that seemed louder in the tension-heavy kitchen. Both girls flinched slightly, shrinking closer to Balthazar. “I want you to tell me exactly what you found in the forest this morning,” he said, keeping his tone as calm as he could manage.
Neither girl responded. Iris buried her face in Balthazar’s chest, while Nemiah’s eyes darted nervously to the floor. They clung to their brother as though he were their shield—clearly, he was.
Azriel wrestled with his impatience, forcing it beneath the surface. His thoughts tugged relentlessly back to Gwyn—to the flashback she’d endured that morning, to the confusion and pain he’d seen in her eyes, and to his gnawing need to see her again. To know if she still wanted him. Gods knew he still wanted her, desperately.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice softer now, meant to reassure. He glanced briefly at Balthazar before adding, “And I’m not going to hurt your brother.”
The words hung in the air, but the tension lingered, unyielding.
“What about Mama?” came the small voice at Balthazar’s side. Nemiah.
Azriel blinked. “What about your mother?”
“Will you hurt her?” Nemiah asked. “Papa used to—”
Balthazar made some sort of click-hissing sound to silence his sister. She bowed her head, leaning on her brother’s shoulder.
Azriel frowned. “What did your father used to do?”
“It’s not important,” Balthazar replied. “And not relevant to this discussion.”
Azriel’s eyes grew hard. “As the Spymaster of the Night Court and representative of the High Lord himself, I will decide what is important and relevant, soldier.”
But Balthazar didn’t balk at Azriel’s show of superiority. “Don’t give a fuck,” he told him. “It’s not your business.”
Ignoring Balthazar’s sharp dismissal, Azriel fixed his gaze on the older girl. His voice, though measured, carried the weight of a command. “Nemiah, tell me what your father used to do to your mother.”
The words left his lips before he could consider softening them, and he realized, too late, that his tone lacked the gentleness necessary to ease the young girl’s nerves. Nemiah flinched, her hands gripping the edge of her chair, her wide, wary eyes darting to her brother as though searching for rescue.
“That’s it.” Balthazar’s voice was hard as he stood, still holding Iris and pulling Nemiah to her feet and protectively into his side. “Interview’s over, Spymaster.”
Azriel rose to his full height, the movement deliberate. His shadowed presence loomed larger than Balthazar’s, and he let his stance convey the dominance and authority he wielded. “Sit down,” he commanded, his voice cold and firm.
But Balthazar didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to consider obeying. Instead, he leaned down to whisper something softly to Iris, who clung to him briefly before he set her gently beside her sister. “Go find Mama in the garden,” he instructed Nemiah, his tone protective but steady. “The three of you stay there until I come to get you.”
The young girls cast nervous glances at Azriel, their wide, frightened eyes shifting to their brother. Balthazar gave them a single, reassuring nod—a silent command to go. With some initial hesitation, they hurried through the back door, their small, winged frames disappearing into the modest garden behind the house.
Balthazar turned to face Azriel, his expression hard and unwavering. Contempt burned in his eyes. “I already fucking warned you, Spymaster, I won’t allow you to terrorize them.”
Azriel crossed his arms, his shadows curling faintly around his shoulders. “She’s the one who mentioned your father. I only wanted to know—”
“And I told you, it’s none of your fucking business!” Balthazar snapped, his voice raw with emotion. “It has nothing to do with the body they found this morning.”
Azriel arched a brow, a patronizing cockiness seeping into his tone. “I still have to determine if they’re even telling the truth. It almost seems like their brother’s been coaching them.”
Balthazar’s body stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’ve told you,” he growled, his voice thunderous, “they didn’t lie. I didn’t lie. What possible reason would we have to make this up? Huh?” He spread his arms wide in challenge.
Azriel fought to keep his features impassive, suppressing the twinge of guilt that gnawed at him. He’d thought the same thing earlier—that this family had no reason to fabricate such a story.
“I have no idea why you’d make something like this up,” Azriel admitted, his voice carefully controlled. “But as it stands, all I have is your word that the body was there—even though it seems to have gotten up and walked away.”
“Then I guess that’s all you’re going to get,” Balthazar shot back, arms crossing in defiance. Despite his smaller stature and lack of Azriel’s imposing build, there was an undeniable strength in his stance—a fortitude Azriel couldn’t help but respect.
“Fine,” Azriel said coldly, unsheathing Truth-Teller in a swift, practiced motion and gripping the weapon in his gloved hand. The blade gleamed darkly in the dim light. “Let’s go back to the woods. We’ll do this the hard way.”
He’d expected the threat to rattle Balthazar into compliance, to make him rethink sending the girls to the garden and force them to resume their conversation. But he should have known better.
“Fine,” Balthazar replied, his voice steady, his tone laced with grit. “Lead the way, Spymaster.”
Fuck. He hadn’t thought this through—he had no intention of harming this male or his family, yet now, it seems he had painted himself into a corner. Azriel held the male’s unyielding gaze for a beat before pulling open the front door, freezing when his gaze fell on the figure standing on the other side. Her hand hovered midair, as if she’d been about to knock.
Gwyn.
-Gwyn-
Gwyn wasn’t sure what she expected to find at the small home. She had been in the village for no more than five minutes, quietly taking in the quaint, close-knit community. Mor had winnowed her in, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before she winnowed herself away, presumably back to Velaris. Curious glances followed her as she wandered—flickering interest from the Illyrians she passed. Yet, she sensed no malintent in their stares. Most of the villagers were female, save for a handful of young male children darting about.
The early summer sun beat down relentlessly, the heat radiating off the earth in waves that clung to her skin. She’d chosen her short-sleeved leathers, the lighter option offering some relief. Training in such heat was still foreign to her, but after just a few minutes in the sun, she was thankful she hadn’t opted for the long-sleeved leathers she’d worn since joining in the training in the later months of last year. It wasn’t as though she expected battle, exposing her bare arms to harm—though the tension curling in her chest hadn’t entirely abated.
Standing in the dusty center of the village, encircled by small, weathered cottages, she scanned for any sign of Azriel. Her focus darted from building to building, her heart twisting with a mixture of determination and uncertainty. Just as the thought of knocking on random doors began to form, a sensation brushed against her skin—a cool, feather-light touch trailing along her bare arm.
She startled, her breath catching for a brief moment before her gaze fell to the source. One of Azriel’s shadows coiled around her arm, caressing her as though greeting her, reassuring her. The tendril of darkness shimmered faintly in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the warmth surrounding her.
“Well, hello!” she smiled and greeted the wisp as cheerfully as she would an old friend. The shadow responded by wrapping itself around her wrist like a bracelet and then curling its way up her forearm and bicep, before playfully twisting around the braid laying over her shoulder.
Gwyn giggled softly. “Where did you come from?”
The shadow descended gracefully down to the dusty ground. It moved swiftly toward the forest beyond the cluster of homes, vanishing into the underbrush. Moments later, it slinked back to her, curling lightly around her shoulder like a loyal companion.
“You were in the forest? Is that where he is?” she asked. The shadow shook its top half, almost as if shaking its head no, before slithering toward a small, weathered cottage nearby. It stopped just in front of the door, rising slightly as though beckoning her to follow.
Gwyn took a steady breath, her fingers instinctively finding the rose charm on her necklace. She toyed with it as she considered her next step. Leaving her and Catrin’s invoking stones behind had been a difficult choice—though she didn’t want to risk losing them, their absence left her feeling exposed. The necklace was some comfort, though, glinting faintly in the sunlight. She tucked it beneath the high collar of her leathers, not out of distrust, but out of a quiet respect for the modesty of this place. This was a humble community, and she had no intention of flaunting anything that might set her apart.
Her steps were slow, deliberate, as she approached the cottage. The faint hum of voices reached her ears as she neared the door—two males in conversation. One voice was unmistakable.
Azriel.
The other was unfamiliar, sharper somehow. “Fine,” she heard the unfamiliar voice say with scorn and indignation. “Lead the way, Spymaster.”
She hesitated for the briefest of moments, steeling herself before raising her hand to knock. Before her hand could make contact, however, the door swung open, revealing the two males on the other side.
She stood face-to-face with Azriel, his eyes going wide the moment he realized she was standing there. Behind him, another Illyrian male stood, seeming equally startled at her presence. The male was not as massive as Azriel, in niether stature nor presence, but his presence commanded attention and left little doubt of his strength. The quiet intensity of his demeanor made him impossible to overlook—an embodiment of authority.
Gwyn swallowed thickly, uncertain of how to proceed. “Hello,” she managed softly.
“Gwyn?” Azriel said, his voice laced with confusion and worry. “What are you doing here?”
The question immediately brought Mor’s words from the Library rushing back—that the High Lord had specifically instructed Azriel to bring her along on this assignment—and he’d failed to mention it to her.
Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin, her voice firm. “I was informed that the High Lord specifically requested I accompany you on this assignment—something you conveniently failed to mention.”
Azriel blinked, visibly caught off guard. “I…I didn’t have an opportunity to tell you, Gwyn, I—”
“Oh?” she interrupted, her words sharp. “You had an opportunity when you told me that the High Lord ordered you to investigate the discovery of Roderick’s body. You conveniently left out the part where he told you to take me with you.” Crossing her arms, she fixed him with a pointed look. “It seems you never planned to include me, Shadowsinger.”
Guilt flashed across Azriel’s face, his expression faltering. Gwyn, however, pressed forward, unwilling to be swayed. “So, where are you in the investigation?”
Azriel exhaled, looking weary. “Nowhere, really,” he admitted, his voice heavy with frustration. “I’ve been trying to interview the two girls who found the body, but they won’t speak to me. And their brother—” He gestured toward the male behind him, who stood silently in what appeared to be a small kitchen. “—hasn’t been particularly helpful. We were just about to head back to the forest and…” He trailed off, the words seemingly eluding him. “…discuss the matter further.”
The Illyrian male in the kitchen, straightened, his dark eyes flicking between them with interest. His presence seemed to stoke Azriel’s irritation further, the sharp set of his shoulders a clear sign that he wasn’t in the mood for an audience.
Gwyn narrowed her eyes, her gaze honing in on the dagger in Azriel’s hand. “And you’re holding Truth-Teller because…?” She let the question hang, her tone sharp with unspoken confrontation. She normally would not challenge him like this—he was the Spymaster after all, and had been so longer than she’d been alive—but she was still aggravated with him for keeping details of the assignment from her, so her spiteful side was on full display.
Azriel glanced down at the blade as though only just realizing it was in his grasp. His brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of bemusement crossing his face.
“I don’t think returning to the woods right this second is necessary,” Gwyn said haughtily as she stepped into the house, brushing past him. Her tone was firm, resolute. “The body isn’t going anywhere.”
“Actually,” Azriel interjected, his voice carrying a trace of sarcasm. “It already went somewhere.”
Gwyn froze mid-step, her body going rigid. “What?”
Azriel met her wide eyes with a steady gaze. “Roderick’s body,” he said evenly, “is gone.”