Chapter 30 - She Knows Now
Chapter 30 – She Knows Now
-Gwyn-
Elain frowned, visibly puzzled. “That necklace,” she said, nodding toward the charm Gwyn held between her fingers. “Azriel gave it to me on Winter Solstice. I guess seeing you wearing it... well, that kind of fueled my anger too. At the ceremony, I mean.”
Gwyn’s stomach twisted violently. “You’re saying this—” she raised the delicate charm, letting it glint in the sunlight, “—is the same necklace Azriel gave you?”
Elain hesitated, shifting nervously under Gwyn’s sharp gaze. “I... I thought he told you that.”
Gwyn’s mind raced. Had she missed something? Had he said something to her about the necklace? She replayed Azriel’s words from the conversation they’d had after the ceremony.
“Last Winter Solstice, we came dangerously close to crossing a line. We were inches away from kissing while the others—Lucien included—slept upstairs. Rhys caught us before it happened, and I told her it was a mistake. At the time, I resented Rhys for interfering, but looking back, he...saved us. He spared us both from doing something that we couldn’t undo—and from the political fallout that could have fractured the Night Court.”
“No,” Gwyn whispered faintly, her voice trembling. “No... he didn’t…say anything about the necklace.” She shook her head, trying to untangle the whirlwind of thoughts racing through her mind. “Clotho told me... that a friend left it... for me,” she murmured, her voice faltering.
She had stopped trying to figure out who was behind the mysterious and thoughtful gift—perhaps it was the thrill of the anonymity at first, believing that maybe she did have a secret admirer. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t hoped at one point that Azriel was the one behind the surreptitious gift.
The memory from the Library a few days ago surfaced, clearer now than ever: Elain standing before her, her gaze fleetingly intense.
“That’s a lovely necklace, Gwyn. Where did you get it?”
The flicker of anger she thought she’d seen in Elain’s eyes had been too brief to confirm—or so she’d told herself. But now, as the pieces clicked into place, that fleeting expression seemed far more intentional than she'd dared to imagine.
Gwyn’s gaze lifted to Elain, her voice weighted, deliberate. “A few days ago… at the Library…” The words clung to her tongue, thick and unyielding, before finally spilling out. “When we first met, you asked me…” She swallowed hard, her voice gaining strength. “But you already knew it was the same one.”
Elain shifted uncomfortably under Gwyn’s piercing stare. “I... I’m sorry, Gwyn. It was…I was being petty.” Her voice cracked slightly as she added, “I wasn’t thinking past my own bitterness. I... I’m sorry.”
Gwyn’s thoughts roiled, her chest tightening with indecision. She didn’t know what to think—how to feel—or what to do next. When Clotho had first presented her with the necklace, she had been overjoyed, intrigued by its anonymity. The idea of an unknown someone thinking specifically of her, taking the time to gift her such a beautiful piece of jewelry, had been thrilling. It had felt intimate, special. She remembered marveling at the delicate rose charm in her fingers and then as it resting against her chest when she put it on, cherishing the belief that she, Gwyneth Berdara, mattered deeply to someone.
But now... now the truth was laid bare before her, stark and unavoidable. The necklace hadn’t come from some nameless admirer—it had come from Azriel, the male she had only recently realized she was in love with. It wasn’t the revelation that he was the gift giver that felt like a punch to the gut. No, it was the knowledge that the gift hadn’t been meant for her. Not originally. He had given it first to the female he had convinced himself he was supposed to be with—the one he thought he loved.
The realization clawed at her, sinking deep into her heart and twisting painfully. What did it mean for them? She couldn’t ignore the bitter truth—it made her feel like a consolation prize. A second choice.
Questions flooded her mind, each one sharper than the last. Why had he given the necklace to her? Why hadn’t he taken it back to where he bought it instead? Why hadn’t he just told her it came from him? If he had, how would she have reacted?
The answers seemed to crest over her in an unbearable wave, striking her with ruthless clarity. That night, in the window seat, she’d seen it—the change in his demeanor. The tension in his features as he watched her fidget with the rose charm, his unease written into every line of his expression.
“Azriel, what is it?” she had asked softly, as soon as she noticed the shift. He seemed like he’d been about to say something, but instead, had only tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer into his chest.
“It’s nothing,” he’d told her. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. For both of us.”
“Are you sure, Shadowsinger?” she’d asked, not quite believing him.
She remembered how he’d looked down at her…the weak smile he gave her…the gentle kiss to her forehead. “Yes,” he’d told her. “Everything is alright…I promise.”
He’d been about to tell her. She could sense that now. He’d held back.
He’d lied.
And she…she had believed him. Trusted him.
Elain’s voice broke through her wildly spinning thoughts. “I...” Elain began cautiously, her tone hesitant, as if she too didn’t know how to move forward.
Gwyn snapped her attention back to the other female, taking in the discomfort etched across her face. Though asking about the necklace that day they first met had been spiteful, Gwyn could see that it had come from a place of deep hurt—a manifestation of Elain’s inner turmoil. It softened her frustration, but didn’t erase it.
“I... I should go,” Gwyn muttered, her words almost too quiet to hear. “I need to get back to the Library.”
“Gwyn, wait—” Elain started, her hand reaching out.
But Gwyn had already turned on her heel, rushing back toward the River House, leaving Elain standing alone in the garden. She walked inside with such haste that she nearly collided with someone as she rounded the corner.
“Gwyn?” The familiar voice stopped her cold. “Gwyn, are you alright?”
Lucien.
She looked up to find his mismatched eyes—the gleaming gold one clicking mechanically as it adjusted—studying her closely. His hands rested gently on her shoulders, grounding her, though her thoughts remained scattered.
“Gwyn, what’s wrong?” His gaze shifted briefly to the window behind her, probably spotting Elain still standing in the garden. “Did something happen with Elain? What did she say to you?”
“I... I...” Gwyn stammered, unable to form a coherent response. Her voice softened as she added, “I didn’t know you were here.”
Lucien frowned, concern sharpening his features. “I just arrived,” he explained simply.
She nodded absently, her focus wavering. “I... I’m alright. I... need to get back to the Library.” Her eyes met his, pleading. “I need to go home. Can you take me there?”
Lucien tilted his head slightly, studying her with open concern. “I can’t winnow into the Library—”
“Just outside the wards,” she interrupted hastily, her words spilling out faster than she could stop them. Azriel finish his meeting with Rhys at any moment, and she couldn’t face him—not yet. She needed to think. And she couldn’t do that here, not with him merely feet away.
“Just outside the wards, Lucien. I can walk the rest of the way.” She tried to force a smile, but even she knew it was weak, trembling at the corners of her lips. “I promise, everything is alright. I... I just need to get back, and everyone else is occupied.” The breath she took next was shaky as she tried to blink back the tears threatening to well in her eyes.
Lucien hesitated, skepticism flickering in his expression, but he finally nodded. “Alright, Gwyn. Of course I’ll take you.”
Relief washed over her as she murmured a hurried thanks, stepping closer to his side. She took his hand, her skin startlingly cold against his warm grasp. He must have felt it too, if his slight flinch at her touch was any indication.
“Ready?” Lucien asked softly.
She nodded. “Yes.”
The last thing she saw as the world blurred and shifted was Elain, standing amidst the garden blooms, her expression painted with quiet regret.
-Azriel-
“Feyre told me,” Rhys went on. “That there’s been some new…developments between you and Gwyn.” He steepled his fingers on the desk. “She didn’t want to tell me, though, said I should ask you.”
Azriel wanted to say something to his brother—to confirm, to claim, to finally admit that Gwyn was his. But the words caught in his throat, unspoken. He couldn't tell Rhys, not yet. The truth of her being his mate was too raw, too fragile, teetering on the edge of chaos. Hel, the entire situation was riddled with complications, a maze of emotions he couldn’t yet navigate. So, he opted for a variation of the truth.
“I don’t really know what to call it, Rhys,” he admitted, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within. “We’re... more than friends.”
“Lovers, then?” Rhys said lightly, his teasing smile sharp.
The word struck a nerve, sparking a flash of anger deep in Azriel’s chest. Lovers. It felt so impersonal, so trivial—a shallow and inadequate representation of what he shared with Gwyn. Their connection was far deeper, forged from trust, understanding, and something far more profound. He swallowed the sharp retort rising in his throat, forcing his tone calm. “It’s more than that.”
Rhysand’s playful expression shifted, concern clouding his features. “Will working together be an issue for you two?” he asked, his tone cautious, as if realizing too late that he might have overlooked this possibility before instructing Gwyn to report to Azriel.
“Not at all,” Azriel replied firmly, his voice resolute. He kept his face neutral, carefully masking the turmoil churning beneath the surface. He met Rhys’s gaze steadily. “You don’t need to worry about Gwyn and me working together—we’re perfectly capable of handling it. Professionally.”
Rhysand nodded, though the flicker of doubt in his expression lingered. “So, she did well in Boulderhearth?”
A small, unbidden smile tugged at the corner of Azriel’s lips as he recalled Gwyn’s boldness and grace during their interactions with Nemiah and Iris. “She did,” he confirmed, his voice softening. “We’re a good balance. I’m the one they fear—she’s the one they’re drawn to. Our enemies will confess to me because I compel them to by force; they’ll confess to her because she compels them to with her kindness.”
Rhysand grinned. “And she met your mother?”
Azriel blushed and tried to hide it by angling his head down, but his brother caught it.
“And?” Rhys pressed with a smugness in his tone.
Azriel scoffed. “And what?”
“And how did it go between the two of them?”
This time, Azriel’s smile was wide, unguarded, and unmistakably genuine. “It was... strange,” he admitted to Rhys, though he quickly amended himself. “Not strange, but... seeing them together. Washing dishes, talking, laughing... it was surreal. Beautiful.”
Even those words felt woefully inadequate to capture the depth of the moment that had unfolded in his mother’s kitchen. The overwhelming surge of love that had overtaken him at the sight—it had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced. And then, as if the universe had been waiting for that precise moment, the bond had snapped into place.
Someday, he thought to himself, after making sure his walls were up against Rhys’ probing, I’ll ask Feyre to look into my memories and paint that moment—to show Gwyn how the scene looked through my eyes.
Rhys’ expression softened, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. It was the look of someone who understood the weight of an extraordinary experience but couldn’t claim it for himself. Feyre would never have the chance to meet Amerie, Rhys’ mother. And Azriel, watching his brother’s sad smile, understood just how deep that ache must run.
Before Azriel could say more, a knock at the study door drew their attention.
“That’ll be Lucien,” Rhysand said, gesturing toward the door. “Come in!” he called out.
Lucien stepped into the room, his posture tensing the moment he spotted Azriel. Though the male offered a polite nod of acknowledgment, it was clear he wasn’t entirely comfortable in Azriel’s presence—which Azriel couldn’t fault him for. Turning to Rhys, he spoke with forced ease, “Apologies for my tardiness. Gwyn asked me to take her back to the Library; otherwise, I would have been on time.”
Azriel’s wings stiffened and his shadows froze. “Gwyn... left?” he asked, his voice sharp.
Lucien hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. “As soon as I arrived, she came tearing around the corner and nearly knocked me over. Seemed like something had spooked her.”
Azriel felt Rhys’s gaze on him, a silent query in the High Lord’s violet eyes, but he ignored it, his focus fixed solely on Lucien. “What happened?” he demanded.
Lucien frowned, sensing the urgency in Azriel’s tone. “I think she might have been in the garden.” He paused, casting a nervous glance at Rhysand. “Elain was out there.”
The surge of fury was instantaneous, sparking in Azriel’s chest like wildfire. “What did she say?” he snapped, his voice edged with cold steel.
“Az, calm down,” Rhys interjected, his tone firm.
“What did Gwyn say?” Azriel barked, his shadows now writhing restlessly along his shoulders.
Lucien’s gaze flicked between the two males. “She didn’t say much—just that she needed to get back. She told me everyone else was too busy to take her, so she asked me to winnow her outside the Library’s wards. She seemed shaken.”
Azriel didn’t wait to hear more. He stormed out of the study, his wings spreading slightly in agitation as he crossed the River House and out into the garden. His sharp gaze scanned the area until it landed on Elain, standing alone near the riverbank, several yards down an incline from the garden. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her posture a reflection of the tumultuous emotions that seemed to have taken root in her.
“Elain!” Azriel shouted, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. She didn’t turn.
“Azriel,” Rhys’s voice warned from behind him, but Azriel ignored it, his strides determined. Before he could reach her, night swirled around him, and Rhys materialized directly in his path. “Calm the fuck down,” Rhys snapped, his tone firm. “You don’t know if Elain did anything wrong.”
Azriel’s chest heaved, his anger barely restrained, but he forced himself to stop as Rhys turned to face Elain. “Elain,” Rhys asked carefully, his voice softer now, “did something happen between you and Gwyn?”
Elain turned slowly, her vacant eyes meeting Rhys’s. “I... I apologized to her,” she whispered. It was then that Azriel realized that she looked awful, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that at the moment.
Rhysand looked relieved, however Azriel’s brows furrowed, his expression doubtful. “Why did she leave upset, then?” he bit out.
Lucien stepped beside Elain, his stance protective, his jaw tight as he lowered his chin slightly—a clear, unspoken warning to Azriel.
“You didn’t tell her,” Elain whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at Azriel. “I thought she knew. I thought you told her. I didn’t mean to…why didn’t you tell her?”
Azriel’s confusion deepened at her rambling, his shadows curling tighter around him. “Tell her what?” he asked, his voice low.
Elain shook her head, as if dazed. Her voice grew louder, unsteady. “The necklace.” She angled her head down. “She…she knows now.”
Azriel’s heart sank, the weight of her words crashing into him. Rhys and Lucien spoke simultaneously—questions flying toward him—but Azriel didn’t wait. Shadows enveloped him, and he winnowed to the Library’s outskirts, his vision narrowing as he sprinted to the entrance. The heavy doors slammed open, startling Clotho, who sat behind her desk.
“Where is Gwyn?” Azriel asked sharply, his voice raw, his chest heaving with panicked breaths.
Clotho stared at him for a moment before her enchanted pen responded.
She was not feeling well. She has retired to the dormitory for the day.
Azriel swallowed his frustration, though he knew his eyes must have still looked wild. He could sense the priestesses pausing their steps, watching this drama unfold.
“Please...get her for me,” he beseeched.
Clotho hesitated, then shook her head.
“Please,” he begged louder, a hint of desperate madness edging his voice that echoed within the quiet sanctuary of the Library. He glanced around, seeing the priestesses halted in their steps. Some had books clutched against their torsos, others carried stacks of paper. They gripped their possessions tighter, and he could smell the unease, the alarm rolling off of them, and he instantly regretted his conduct in their presence.
Clotho, however, sat still behind her desk, and though he couldn’t see her face due to the deep hood that obscured most of her features, he could tell she was unruffled by his behavior. The High Priestess simply shook her head again.
“Please,” he pleaded again, his voice quieter now. “I need to speak to her.”
She only shook her head again.
Not today, Shadowsinger, came her scrawled reply.
Azriel swallowed, knowing that more pleading would not help, nor would tearing apart the Library until he found Gwyn. Rhysand would forbid him from entering the sanctuary again—perhaps even banish him from Velaris altogether.
He nodded at the old priestess, resigning to the fact that he would not see Gwyn today. The thought caused a surge of anxiety to rip through him. He tried one last appeal. “If you talk to her, please…please tell her I need to see her.”
Clotho only stared before giving a single, final nod. An acknowledgement and a dismissal.
Feeling dazed and lost, he left the Library, dread twisting through him. He had no idea what to do next—sleep would elude him, that was for certain. It was nearly lunchtime, but the thought of eating made him nauseous. He could retreat to his secret cottage, or to his mother’s house. Perhaps she would have some sage wisdom for him—though more likely it would be blistering reprimand that he unquestionably deserved. He could go to the training ring, push his body to the breaking point and beyond. Punish himself until his muscles burned and his hands were split open.
The training ring will just remind me of her, he admitted to himself. There’s nowhere I can go that she won’t follow.
His shadows did not respond, offering none of the comfort they had given him before—none of their soft murmurs assuring him that she would not leave. Their silence was deafening, and he feared what the void of their encouragements meant. Whether they, too, were as despondent as he was, or simply punishing him with their muteness, he didn’t know.
He didn’t even remember the flight up to the House of Wind—his mind was so scattered and his heart was so lost, he didn’t realize that’s where he had headed until he was already there. The moment he entered the main living quarters, he was struck by the silence—thicker and more oppressive than he had ever known it to be, even in the times he had been there entirely alone. The emptiness carried a weight that pressed into his chest, making the House feel eerily vacant and suffocating. Though it was daytime, there was an ominous darkness within the home—the faelights were turned down to a faint, dim glow, and the curtains were drawn, as though the House was mourning as well.
He numbly made his way to the hall of bedrooms, driven by a desperate yearning for even the faintest connection to Gwyn. He felt like he was walking through tar—his legs felt heavy and his steps were slow as he made his way down to the room across from his own—her room. It called to him, though he knew it wouldn’t bring the solace he sought. Still, he told himself he would find some measure of comfort by curling up in the window seat—the last place he’d held her in his arms, kissed her, and lost himself in her scent. It was a lie; deep down, he knew better. It wouldn’t soothe him—it would only prolong his torment. It was a punishment, one that was nothing less than what he deserved.
As he approached their opposite doors in the hallway, his steps faltered. His breath caught as his gaze landed on the knob of his bedroom door.
There, suspended in the quiet air, swaying faintly in the draft, was the necklace—its delicate chain shimmering in the dim faelight like a whisper of all he had lost.