Chapter 20 - Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better
Chapter 20 – Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better
-Azriel-
As much as the sight of Gwyn eased the tightness in his chest, Azriel couldn’t ignore the apprehension curling beneath the relief. Having her here, in the heart of an Illyrian village, stirred his unease. Boulderhearth might be one of the more peaceful settlements, but the threat of males returning from the war camps lingered, shadowing his thoughts. Forgefell wasn’t far, and he couldn’t shake the possibility that some of those males might recognize Gwyn from the Blood Rite. How they would react to her—a female, non-Illyrian Carynthian—depended entirely on their views, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.
Gwyn stared at him, confusion etched across her face. “What do you mean it’s gone?”
Azriel swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull her into his leather-clad chest and bury his nose in her hair, knowing it was imperative to maintain the stoic façade he'd kept up in Balthazar’s presence. His voice was sharp, colder than he ever wished to sound toward her. “Exactly what I said, Gwyneth,” he replied curtly. “It’s gone.” He prayed silently that she would understand the necessity of his act.
Her narrowed eyes burned with anger—a convincing display, though he could only hope it wasn’t entirely genuine. “I heard you, Shadowsinger. I’m not deaf.”
The words hung heavy between them, the tension palpable. Azriel could feel his shadows stir uneasily around his feet, mirroring the storm that threatened to break within him.
Azriel sighed, his grip tightening slightly on his dagger. “As I said, I’ve been trying to get answers, but those involved have been less than forthcoming.” He gestured toward Balthazar with the blade. “Balthazar here—”
“Balthazar?” Gwyn’s voice cut through his explanation, incredulous. Her wide eyes shifted to the male standing behind Azriel. “From the Blood Rite?”
Balthazar inclined his head, his arms folding across his chest.
“You helped my sisters,” she murmured, her voice soft with realization. “Nesta and Emerie. You… you saved them.”
The male’s posture relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I had no interest in killing anyone who didn’t try to kill me first,” he explained simply. “The High Lady’s sister was wary of me, but she didn’t want to harm me. She only wanted to protect the Illyrian female she was with—Emily, was it?”
“Emerie,” Gwyn corrected, her tone laced with warmth.
“Right,” Balthazar said with a brief nod. “Well, as I said, they didn’t attack me, and the alliance we formed that night saved all three of us.” He paused then, his gaze shifting to Gwyn in open consideration. Azriel felt a spark of irritation at the way Balthazar’s dark eyes lingered on her. “And you too, I suppose,” Balthazar added. “I heard that Emerie carried you to the top of Ramiel after you were injured.”
A faint blush crept over Gwyn’s cheeks, and she lowered her gaze to the floorboards. “Yes,” she admitted softly. “I suppose you think that means I didn’t really win—if I needed to be carried to the finish.”
Azriel opened his mouth to counter her, to assure her she was wrong, but Balthazar beat him to it.
“Not at all,” the male said firmly. “You survived the first six days before that final one. That isn’t luck—not in Illyria, and especially not in the Blood Rite. That’s skill, grit, resilience. I don’t know how you did it—it’s no secret that most Illyrian males wouldn’t have hesitated to…” He trailed off, his expression growing tight, as if the words stuck in his throat.
Azriel knew exactly what he was referring to. The thought of Gwyn being violated in any way during the Rite made his stomach churn violently, a wave of protective anger surging through him.
Balthazar recovered quickly, clearing his throat. “Anyway,” he continued, his tone lighter, “you managed to avoid being killed by the males and the beasts that roam those mountains. Doesn’t matter how you did it—you did it.”
Gwyn’s lips curved into a small smile, and Azriel hated that it was directed at another male. “Thank you, Balthazar,” she said gently. “I appreciate your praise. Coming from an Illyrian male, it’s… it’s really special.”
Azriel wasn’t enjoying this exchange in the slightest. Had he praised Gwyn when she’d returned from the Blood Rite? Surely, he must have said something—commended her resilience, her skill, her sheer will to survive. Yet, the harder he tried to recall his exact words, the less confident he became.
NOW IS NOT THE TIME, SHADOWSINGER, his shadows murmured, their faint voices echoing in his mind.
Still, the doubts lingered. Had he truly given Gwyn the acknowledgment she deserved? Did he ever say the words she needed to hear? His shadows remained silent now, and their quietness spoke volumes. The truth stung—he hadn’t given Gwyn her due credit, not out loud. Even though pride for her, for all three of them, had burned fiercely within him, he’d kept those feelings to himself.
The sight of Balthazar smiling at Gwyn jolted him from his thoughts. His teeth were practically ground to dust, and he cleared his throat roughly, reining in his emotions. “So,” he said sharply, slipping back into his cold, calculating mask, “soldier, are you going to bring your sisters back in here to continue this conversation?”
Balthazar’s eyes narrowed, his glare filled with open defiance. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned his gaze to Gwyn. “Tell you what, Spymaster,” he said, his tone laced with challenge. “We can continue this conversation…on one condition.”
Azriel scoffed, his arms crossing over his chest. “Alright, soldier,” he drawled. “I’ll bite. What’s the condition?”
Balthazar tilted his head toward Gwyn, nodding once. “She,” he said plainly, “does the questioning. Not you.”
-Gwyn-
The gauntlet had been thrown. Azriel’s glare burned into Balthazar, fury radiating off him in waves. His shadows coiled and writhed around his shoulders like restless serpents, a physical manifestation of his barely restrained anger. Balthazar, however, only smirked, clearly reveling in the satisfaction of having provoked the Spymaster of the Night Court. Gwyn couldn’t tell if Azriel’s rage stemmed from the implication that she was better suited to question the girls, or if something deeper was gnawing at him.
She had been taken aback when Azriel had spoken to her with such cold indifference, as though she were nothing more than a witless subordinate. But the flicker in his eyes had told her otherwise. He didn’t mean it. He was playing a role—the fearsome, unyielding Spymaster. She understood the necessity of his façade, the way he had to maintain an air of detachment in public. She’d seen the real Azriel during their late-night conversations in the training pit, when his walls came down, and his words carried warmth and sincerity. By day, during group training, he reverted to his silent, aloof self. Yet, every so often, she’d catch him watching her, his golden eyes soft with affection, a quiet longing that made her heart ache.
Gwyn resisted the urge to scold them both for behaving like quarrelsome children. That’s exactly what they looked like—two little boys refusing to get along. Instead, she stepped forward and placed her hand gently on Azriel’s upper arm. The contact sent a jolt through her, butterflies stirring in her stomach. She knew he felt it too; his head snapped toward her, his golden eyes locking onto hers. In that moment, his gaze softened, the anger melting away, replaced by something far more vulnerable. He looked as though he might pull her into his arms, crush her against him, and claim her lips with his own.
But Gwyn gave the faintest shake of her head, a subtle reminder of where they were and the audience they had. Azriel understood. The longing in his expression flickered out, replaced by the practiced mask of boredom he wore so well.
“I think Balthazar has a point, Azriel,” Gwyn said firmly, letting her hand fall from his arm. She caught the flicker in his eyes as her touch left him, a fleeting moment that told her he missed the contact. “Perhaps I could be more… effective at gaining the girls’ trust.”
“Why?” Azriel challenged, his tone sharp. “Because you’re female?”
She reminded herself that they were playing roles. He’s just pretending to be an asshole, she thought. He respects you. He cares for you.
“Exactly,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.
Azriel mirrored her stance, his gaze sweeping over her with deliberate condescension, as though searching for something to be impressed by. Finally, he rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Fine, Gwyneth. I suppose I can give you a shot.” A smirk tugged at his lips before he added, “Don’t fuck it up. I don't give second chances.”
Her lips twitched to the side as she fought to keep the charade alive. She hadn’t practiced pretending to dislike him, and it showed. Still, she figured she’d have plenty of opportunity to work on it—especially since she planned to confront him in private about his attempt to exclude her from this assignment.
Azriel sheathed Truth Teller at his hip, his movements precise, before turning to Balthazar. “Bring the girls back in here,” he ordered, his voice cold and commanding.
“Actually,” Gwyn interjected, her voice firm. “I'll go to them. They’re out back?”
Balthazar nodded, moving to the back door and pulling it open for her. As Gwyn stepped over the threshold into the late afternoon sun, she didn’t miss the low growl rumbling in Azriel’s chest. She ignored it, focusing instead on the scene before her.
Her eyes immediately landed on a small, well-tended garden plot. Mounds of soil lay in neat rows, ready for planting. Two young Illyrian girls—no older than six and eight—were diligently picking rocks from the dirt, carrying them to a basket nearby. Kneeling at the garden’s edge, a middle-aged Illyrian female worked methodically, pulling weeds from the soil with practiced ease.
The older girl noticed Gwyn first. She froze mid-step, her mouth falling open as she stared. Her younger sister, following her gaze, stopped as well, her wide eyes fixed on the newcomer. Gwyn hesitated for a moment before lifting a hand in a small wave, unsure of what else to do.
She took a few cautious steps closer, her gaze shifting between the girls. Their small, bat-like wings were tucked tightly against their backs, unscarred—a relief to see. But when Gwyn glanced toward the older female, likely their mother, she spotted the faint marks of clipped wings—scars that immediately reminded her of Emerie’s.
The woman looked up then, sensing the sudden silence. Her dark chocolate eyes went wide the moment they landed on Gwyn, taking in her Illyrian battle leathers and the way she carried herself.
“Hello,” Gwyn greeted gently, her tone warm. “I’m Gwyn. I’ve come on assignment from the High Lord of the Night Court.” She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze briefly settling on Azriel. He was still leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a cocky smirk playing on his lips as he watched, though he gave a single, near imperceptible nod as if to encourage her to continue. Balthazar stood a few steps in front of him, keeping his distance but close enough to observe.
Turning back to the family, Gwyn addressed the older woman, her expression softening. “I hear you’ve already met my associate, Azriel.”
The woman shot to her feet, her movements quick and protective as she moved closer to her daughters. It didn’t escape Gwyn’s notice that her presence seemed to unsettle them greatly, likely due to the fact that she was a non-Illyrian Fae female clad in battle leathers.
Balthazar moved past Gwyn, his hands raised, palms outward—a clear gesture meant to calm his family. His mother’s terrified eyes darted nervously between him and Gwyn, lingering on the unfamiliar female. Balthazar began to speak then, his voice low and steady, in a language Gwyn didn’t recognize. She glanced back instinctively, finding Azriel had closed the gap between them, now standing just a few paces away. His sharp focus on the exchange made her wonder if he understood the unfamiliar tongue.
Gradually, Olla’s shoulders relaxed, the tension ebbing from her posture. Balthazar turned back to Gwyn and told her, “This is my mother, Olla, and my sisters, Nemiah and Iris.” He gestured to the older girl first, then the youngest, making it easy for her to distinguish between them.
Gwyn took a deep, steadying breath. She knew Azriel trusted her abilities—even if he didn’t often say it aloud—but the weight of that trust was daunting. Still, she plastered on a warm, reassuring smile as she addressed the older woman. “Hello, Olla. I’m Gwyneth, but you can call me Gwyn. Thank you for welcoming us into your home.” Olla didn't reply but gave a single nod instead.
Lowering herself into a crouch so she was at eye level with the young girls, she softened her tone. “Hello, Nemiah. Hello, Iris. I’m Gwyn. I’m sorry to interrupt your day, but I was hoping you might talk with me for a little while. If, of course, it’s alright with your mother and your brother.”
A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the faint scent of the garden soil and the hum of distant conversation from the rest of the village. For a moment, the tension lifted, and Gwyn’s heart swelled with hope that she may be able to get the answers they were seeking.
That she would make Azriel proud of her.
-Azriel-
Azriel stood silently, watching as Gwyn let her kind, genuine spirit shine through. She wasn’t just introducing herself; she was carefully building trust, asking not only the girls for permission but also showing deference to their mother and Balthazar. Azriel couldn’t help but reflect on the structure of Illyrian families—when the patriarch was absent, temporarily or permanently, the responsibility of leadership fell to the next male. In this case, it was Balthazar. Seeking consent from Olla wasn’t necessary; the final decision lay with her son.
Still, Azriel’s thoughts wandered as he observed the older woman. Where was Olla’s husband? And, more importantly, what had he done to her? The scars on her clipped wings told part of the story, though it was likely that had been done to her long before she entered into marriage.
Gwyn’s approach seemed to be working. Olla’s fear seemed to soften with every word Gwyn spoke, and eventually, she inclined her head in a small, reluctant nod. As Olla’s gaze flitted up to meet Azriel’s for a brief moment, he caught the flicker of worry in her dark eyes before they shifted back to her daughters.
It was Nemiah who moved first. The older girl hesitated briefly, then stepped forward, her small fingers reaching out to touch the coppery red braid draped over Gwyn’s shoulder. Azriel saw the way Nemiah’s expression shifted—curiosity lighting her face as she examined the vivid color. The majority of Illyrians had varying shades of dark brown and black, so it was no surprise the girl was captivated by Gwyn’s unusual hair.
The scene stirred something in Azriel as he stood watch, prompting an image to flash in his mind, unbidden. It was somewhat out of focus, but it looked to be an Illyrian girl and boy playing with toy wooden swords. Their hair was a vibrant red, their hazel eyes alight with joy, and deep dimples creased the corners of their mouths as they squealed, running toward two distant figures—a male and female, by the way they carried themselves. The male appeared to have wings, while the female did not. A warmth spread through him, filling a space he hadn’t realized was empty. But just as quickly as the blurry scene had appeared, the image was gone, leaving him shaken.
Azriel forced himself to turn his attention back to Gwyn. Nemiah was smiling now, her small fingers reverently caressing the end of Gwyn’s copper braid. He knew exactly how soft it was, and envy twisted in his chest—envy that the little girl could touch it while he couldn’t. Not here. Not now.
“I like your hair,” Nemiah whispered, her voice shy but sincere.
Gwyn’s smile was radiant. “Thank you, Nemiah.”
The older girl’s comfort seemed to ease Iris’ hesitation, and the younger sister joined her, giggling as her small hands reached out to touch the braid as well. The sight was enough to soften even Azriel’s sharp edges, though he remained watchful.
“What do you say, girls?” Gwyn asked gently. “If it’s alright with your mother and your brother, would you talk with me?”
Both girls turned their wide eyes to Balthazar, instinctively seeking his approval. He nodded, then turned to Olla, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He spoke to her in Old Illyrian, his tone low and soothing. Azriel, understanding every word, listened intently.
“They’ll be alright,” Balthazar told his mother. “She’s not like the Spymaster. She won’t harm them or threaten them.”
A pang of shame struck Azriel, sharp and unforgiving. He had threatened the girls, and the weight of that realization settled heavily in his chest. He prayed Gwyn would never learn of it.
Gwyn stood then, taking each girl by the hand. They led her to a large, thick tree at the edge of the yard. A blanket was already spread beneath its shade, likely a resting spot for the family during the heat of the day. The sight of her, so effortlessly kind and nurturing, nearly brought him to his knees.
Azriel’s jaw tightened as he caught Balthazar’s gaze lingering on Gwyn’s leather-clad form as she walked away. He thought the growl that he’d aimed at the male when his gaze followed Gwyn’s ass as she walked out of the house had been warning enough, but clearly not. A low snarl escaped his throat, enough to make the male avert his eyes. It wasn’t the most diplomatic move, but Azriel didn’t care. No one would leer at her—not if they wanted to keep their vision intact.
As he trailed behind them, Azriel remained acutely aware of Balthazar’s watchful eyes on him. The male was ready to defend his family if he perceived a threat. Azriel respected that, even though he was confident that the male was no match against him in a fight. He wished he could reassure the male that there would be no more threats today—at least not as long as Balthazar didn't gaze at Gwyn's body in that desirous way again.
He was confident Gwyn would charm the answers they needed from the girls. Because that’s what she did. She made people feel at ease, drew them into her world, and left them captivated. To know her was to inevitably love her.
Fuck, Azriel thought, coming to the realization. He’d known he was falling for Gwyn, but he hadn’t stopped to think about what was waiting at the bottom for him once he got there.
LOVE, SHADOWSINGER. YOU’RE FALLING IN LOVE.
No, he replied as Gwyn settled on the blanket with a girl on each side, smile radiant.
I'm already there...I've already fallen.