Chapter 31 - Ghost
Chapter 31 – Ghost
-Azriel-
Being alone had never felt so profoundly lonely. He’d always known there was a difference between solitude and isolation—thought he’d understood it too. But he realized quickly that he’d not truly comprehended the difference until Gwyn was gone. Solitude, he’d recognized, is a choice—a deliberate retreat to find balance, to quiet the chaos in everyday existence. It’s a quiet refuge, providing a space for reflection and time for renewal. Azriel often sought solitude—it’s why he had his private cottage that he kept secret. He’d looked forward to his time spent in solitude outside of his duties as Spymaster. It made him feel…lighter.
Isolation—where he found himself now—in contrast, is imposed, a forced separation that creates a void. Isolation is heavy, leaving behind a sense of yearning and disconnect. Solitude builds strength, while isolation leaves scars.
That day, once he realized he wouldn’t be able to see or talk to Gwyn, he’d removed the necklace she’d left on his doorknob, before turning toward her room. That’s what it was—it was Gwyn’s room, even though neither of them had ever said it aloud. He’d planned to go inside, curl up in her window seat, and stay there until she came to find him—or, if she never came, until he withered away and died.
Grasping her bedroom doorknob in his shaking hand, he’d tried to turn it; however, it wouldn’t budge—not even a little bit.
“Open it,” he’d growled, knowing it was the House behind it. The door hadn’t even rattled, no slight turn of the knob met with a lock; it was as if the entire door were part of the wall. He could smell the lingering traces of her scent beyond the door, and it made him even more incensed.
That anger rose like tidal wave when the House made no move to obey him.
“Open it!” he’d repeated, shouting that time. When it still didn’t open, he’d given the door a swift kick. Again, no rattling of the door on its hinges—it was as though his foot had met a brick wall. He didn’t feel the pain in his foot though—no physical injury could overshadow the wound to his heart.
After uttering a string of curses, he had stormed into his room, pacing agitatedly across the floor. Back and forth he went, his movements relentless, as if he were carving a ditch into the wood beneath him.
It wasn’t until the sensation in his hand caught his attention that he stopped. He opened his palm and found the necklace pressed deeply into the grooves of his scarred skin, its imprint stark and unforgiving.
With an anguished roar, he had hurled the necklace against the wall. The delicate stained glass rose charm shattered on impact, scattering the tiny fragments—remnants of something that could never be whole again.
He barely remembered the journey to his secret home, hidden amongst a quiet forest in a remote corner of the Dawn Court. No one knew of this home of his—not even Rhysand or Cassian or his mother.
When Azriel had brought his mother to Dawn after freeing her from his father’s clutches, he’d gone exploring one day while she underwent her extensive therapy and rested. From the sky, he’d seen the patch of forestry nestled amongst the foothills of the countryside, this part of the court distant from the well-known bustling metropolises of the Dawn Court. After he’d touched down, he started wandering through the wooded territory, until he stumbled upon a serene clearing that someone had clearly marked off to start building a structure.
Stacks of lumber were neatly arranged—most of the boards were weathered, but still usable, their earthy scent mingling with the sharp tang of sawdust in the air. Scattered among them were a variety of carpentry tools—hammers with worn grips, chisels glinting in the light streaming through the treetops, and saws both large and small, their teeth sharp and ready for use. Buckets of nails, coils of rope, and measuring tools were strewn across the site, alongside stacks of glass and metal for windows, bricks and stones, and the ingredients to make mortar. Every piece of equipment and material told a story of effort and intention, poised to be transformed into the framework of a home.
A creek meandered through the glade nearby, the soft murmurs of its water trickling over smooth stones blending with the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. The air was fresh, carrying the mingling scents of earth, leaves, and flowers—but, strangely, no scents of anyone having been there in recent months. He could understand why someone would be drawn to the untouched tranquility of that place, because it had drawn him in as well—what he didn’t understand was why whomever had started building had abandoned the project.
For months, he’d kept watch, wondering if its original builder would return. But the property remained deserted, forgotten by its creator. So, slowly, Azriel claimed it as his own. Over time, he transformed the incomplete space into a sanctuary—a place of quiet retreat, far from prying eyes and burdensome responsibilities. Here, amongst the whispering trees and glistening waters, he’d found a fragment of peace to call his own.
The cottage he’d built was modest, its walls constructed from timber he had cut and shaped by hand. The wood was uneven in places, bearing the marks of his labor, but its sturdy frame spoke of care and determination. He had even borrowed from the ingenuity of Dawn, building the roof to slant slightly and collect rainwater into filtered basins for drinking and bathing. He’d included a small fireplace and chimney to keep warm and to heat his food and bathwater. The windows were small but precisely fitted, allowing beams of sunlight to filter in during the day. The door, made from the same wood as the walls, had initially hung slightly off-center, evidence of his learning curve as a builder, though he had remedied that once the structure was completed, along with some other small tweaks here and there to make it more refined. It was a structure of simplicity and practicality, a reflection of the solitary male who had built it. Around the cottage, nature encroached gently, as if the forest sought to reclaim the space he had borrowed from it.
Now, here he sat, his once-proudly built refuge having been transformed into a tomb of sorrow and loneliness. His shadows, silent at first, had begun murmuring to him again before the second sunrise, as though the silence had become unbearable even for them. They were his only companions, save for one shadow that had, presumably, left at some point to be with Gwyn. He had no idea how long he’d been there, wallowing in his misery—days? Weeks?
His shadows had tried to feed him, though the memories of their attempts were hazy. He knew he had lost consciousness several times, but faint recollections lingered—of their feathery touch coating the inside of his mouth with something sweet—syrup, perhaps? The first time they did it, he vomited violently. Once the retching subsided, they tried again. The sugar provided fleeting bursts of energy, lasting only as long as a struck match. They also dripped water onto his cracked lips, their efforts tireless even as his strength waned further.
At some point, his thoughts became fragmented, incoherent. Stringing them together felt impossible, as though his mind had splintered under the weight of his despair.
I’m a ghost, he told his shadows. Ghosts don’t eat because they don’t get hungry. They don’t drink because they don’t get thirsty. They drift, weightless in the tides of sorrow, tethered to the fragments of lives once lived. They linger in the echo of laughter, in the ache of what should have been.
YOU ARE NOT A GHOST. YOU ARE NOT DEAD.
I am. I died the moment I found out she left. My heart stopped when Cleo said I couldn’t see her.
CLOTHO.
What’s a Clotho?
NEVER MIND, SHADOWSINGER. YOU ARE ALIVE—AND YOU NEED TO GET UP.
I’m not alive. There’s no air here. If I were alive, there’d be air. Light. Her.
YOU NEED TO EAT. YOU NEED TO DRINK.
I told you—ghosts don’t need food or water. They drift. They float. They haunt. That’s what I’m doing. Haunting these walls.
He hadn’t even bothered to light any lamps when he arrived, the only light that of the sun that poured through the windows during the daylight hours. He knew he was on the hardwood floor, on his stomach. His joints ached. His wings hung slack. The pungent odor in the air had been faint at first, but now overpowered the woodsy scent of his refuge in the forest.
IT’S YOU, SHADOWSINGER. YOU NEED TO BATHE. YOU’VE BEEN LYING IN VOMIT AND EXCREMENT FOR DAYS.
Nice try. Ghosts don’t smell.
More time passed. Consciousness slipped away in fragments.
He dreamed—or were they dreams? Dreammares?
No, that wasn’t right.
Whatever they were called, they came in pictures that moved.
Red hair.
Teal eyes.
Freckles.
Soft skin.
Sugar.
Flowers—no, wait, not flowers. Well, maybe flowers, but not like the ones Ellen liked. Or, wait, was it Eleanor?
Fuck.
Liquid flowers? No. Sunshine. River. Yes, river…that sounded right, but…more broad. River was too specific.
Water. That was it. Water.
Water…lilies.
He was sure those had been real once. When he was alive.
There was something else. Something that was missing. Oranges. Not just oranges—lemons too. Persimmons. Grapefruits. Key limes. They were…fruits. But…what was the kind?
Citrus.
Yes! But that was a strange word—citrus.
Water lilies and citrus. He remembered that scent. It made him happy. He felt alive when he smelled that. He thinks maybe he smiled more when he smelled that.
His heart slowed—or was it supposed to have stopped? His chest should’ve been empty, a shriveled raisin where his heart had been. But there it was: LUB-DUB…LUB-DUB…LUB-DUB.
Slow, steady. Irritating.
Hearts might have sounded that way when he was alive, he thought. Or maybe he read about it in a book at some point.
Books.
Reading.
Robes.
Hooves—no wait…hoods.
Stones.
Libation.
No, focus.
Li-brrr…libary.
No. Library.
LUB-DUB… LUB-DUB… LUB-DUB…
Gods, that sound. Maybe he had a spare heart he didn’t know about.
LUBBB-DUBBB… LUBBB-DUBBB… LUB—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
That wasn’t a heart. Hearts didn’t sound like that—maybe he’d never had a heart. Maybe he’d never been alive. That would explain how he didn’t know a heart sound from a fist pounding on a door.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“AZRIEL! AZRIEL!”
Azriel? What’s an Azriel?
BOOM! CRASH!
“Holy Gods…”
“Fuck! What the fuck, Az?! Godsdamnit!”
LUBBB-DUBBB… LUBBB-DUBBB… LUBBB… DUBBB… LUBBB… DUBBB…
The space between beats lengthened and the sounds seemed to drift far away as memories wafted in pieces, fuzzy and opaque, to his already splintered cognition.
…
“What’s your name?”
“Azriel.”
“Azriel… I’m Gwyneth Berdara.”
…
“I knew I couldn’t let what happened at Sangravah pull me under, to drown me. You saved me, Azriel…”
…
“I hope I’m there for that. I love seeing you happy, Gwyn.”
…
“Alright, Berdara. No goodbyes. I’ll…see you later.”
“That’s more like it, Shadowsinger.”
A small hand on his. A soft grip. He tensed—why though?
Scars—that’s right. He was self-conscious about his scars.
“Be careful tonight, alright? No tavern brawls, no broken bones, no idiotic games of Chicken. I need y—”
What does she need?
“I still need you as my teacher. I have a long way to go and a lot to learn yet.”
“Fair enough, Berdara.”
…
“And if Gwyn is the one that makes you happy…then you should tell her so. You should go for it, Az.”
He couldn’t remember who said those words to him—someone important, someone with a prominent place in his life.
He did remember her though.
Gwyn.
…
A growl.
Was that him? He thought so. He felt the vibration in his chest.
A soft hand was on his large scarred one. He looked down. It had…freckles? Was that what they were called?
He looked up. He was looking at…the ocean? No. Eyes. Those were eyes. The most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Pools of teal and tiny flecks of gold. But they were…concerned. Worried.
Gwyn.
“Are you alright?” she whispered.
He nodded. He liked her hand on his. He wanted to keep her hand there—no, he wanted to hold it. He turned his scarred palm up and threaded his fingers with hers.
She sucked in a breath. Was that a good sign? She wasn’t pulling away, so he thought maybe it was.
Then she squeezed his hand. Yes—definitely a good sign.
…
“Why does it matter, Elain? You gave it back.”
Elain. That was it. But…gave what back?
“I gave it back because I was hurt when you said I was a mistake. Imagine how much more it hurt to see it around her neck in the Library the other day.”
What was around whose neck? Whatever she gave back, he supposed.
Anxious energy surged through him. “Did you tell her I gave it to you first?”
A bitter laugh. “Don’t worry, Azriel. I didn’t have the heart to tell her what you did.”
What did he do?
…
Something was wrong. Gwyn was upset.
“Gwyn, wait—” he called after her.
Someone else was with her. Also with red hair, just like hers. Their scents were different. She smelled like waterlilies and citrus. The other one smelled like cinnamon and crackling fire.
A Fae male. He knew him…somehow, he knew him. There was…tension between them. It had to do with another female.
Elain. He was…linked to Elain somehow. That used to bother him, but he didn’t remember why.
What was his name? He couldn’t remember.
Did she know him? Why was she leaving with him?
“I think you two have some…unfinished business to attend to,” Cinnamon Fire said as he took her away.
…
A Fae female stood from her chair, her posture precise and tall. She had on a gray gown with delicate white scrollwork, and tiny white flowers woven through her braided crown of golden-brown hair. Her eyes were a blue-gray, and they looked familiar like he may have seen them before but on someone else. This female looked like royalty not only in looks but how she carried herself.
He knew her. She was important to him. To someone he loved.
No—to many someones that he loved.
“You have a gorgeous redheaded Valkyrie to find and woo,” the female said while pointing at him.
“And for Gods’ sake, Azriel,” another feminine voice said.
He turned—there was a female with brown eyes, dark hair, and wings—wings like his. She was important too. Newer in his life, but important like the Fae female.
Illyrian. That’s what she was. What he was.
“Try coming up with a compliment that’s a bit more inspired than ‘nice,’” the Illyrian female said.
…
“Are you alright?”
Her beautiful ocean eyes was scared. She was looking at something upsetting rather than looking at him. She didn’t answer him. Why wasn’t she answering him?
“Gwyn.” He was holding her face now. Willing her to look at him. “Are you alright?”
She was looking at him now. She nodded. “Azriel,” she whispered. She was relieved. She was glad he was there. He could feel it.
He was caressing her cheek with his thumb. It was soft. Smooth. She was beautiful. She was something to him. Something that was more important than anything.
“I’m here, Gwyn,” he told her.
…
“What she is, is a Valkyrie, a Carynthian, a member of this Court, and under our protection. You would do well to remember that.”
He didn’t need to look in order to find her—he could find her in the darkest cave in the dead of night. He reached behind him, feeling her fingers intertwine with his.
An Illyrian male spoke next. He was strong. Sturdy. His hair was shoulder length. He knew him too.
His…brother. Cassian. Yes!
“I suggest you think long and hard about how to explain to your King and Queen why you needed to leave the celebration early and why you are no longer welcome here in the Night Court.”
Another male. He didn’t have wings. Though he was pretty sure he could have them at will. “If I ever catch you in my Court again, Roderick, I’ll fucking mist you on the spot.”
Violet eyes. Night swirling.
Rhysand. His other brother.
…
His thumb tracing over her bottom lip, trying to stop its quivering.
“Azriel…please…just get me out of here.”
“We’ll use my shadows to get as close to the House of Wind as possible. Once we hit the wards, I’ll fly us the rest of the way. I’ll need to carry you, so you don’t fall when we move from the shadows into the sky.”
A weak laugh. “Falling from the sky would be the perfect ending to this day.”
“I will never let you fall, Gwyn.”
…
“What’s the truth?” she asked.
Truth. That word felt bitter right then for some reason.
“The truth is that you’re the most beautiful female on any given day, Gwyn. But when I saw you walking toward me in that elegant dress and those heels…you took my breath away. I can’t even fully blame my shadows for my inability to speak, because my brain fucking imploded the moment I saw you.”
…
“Because I want to be more than that to you—because you are more than that to me.”
…
His lips were on hers. It was their first kiss, and he’d caught her off guard. He was stroking his thumbs over her cheeks, relishing how perfect it was. Her lips tasted like crisp, strawberry wine. Her delicate scent—waterlilies and citrus, stronger now due to their proximity—filled his nostrils and made his brain swim and his chest warm.
He pulled back to look at her face, his palms still cradling her gorgeously blushed cheeks. He leaned his forehead against hers. She opened her eyes, revealing those bright pools of teal.
“That,” he murmured mere inches from her decadent mouth. “That is what we were about to do.”
…
“Gwyn, baby, look at me,” he pleaded.
She was right there.
Right fucking there.
But she was gone.
…
He didn’t have children. He didn’t remember having children, anyways.
Rhysand did. He had a son—Nyx.
Who were these red-headed Illyrian children? He felt like he was supposed to know, but he kept coming up short.
It didn’t feel like a memory. But he remembered this scene somehow.
He didn’t remember having children…but he did remember that he was in love with someone that had the same red hair.
Gwyn.
He was in love with Gwyn.
Were these her children?
…
He was happy. Laughing. She was upset, but not like she was in other memories.
“Azriel! This is not funny! Your mother—your mother—who I’m meeting for the first time, just saw us mauling each other’s faces!” She flung her hands into the air. “So much for the whole ‘I’m just your employee’ explanation—oh, and you’re still laughing?!”
He only laughed harder.
…
His mother’s kitchen.
A golden thread.
Gwyn’s beautiful face.
Mate.
She was his mate.
…
“Would you spend eternity with her, even without a bond?”
His mother. His mother had asked him that.
There was no hesitation. “Yes.”
…
“I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Azriel. Gwyn isn’t just kind to you—she sees you. Do you have any idea how extraordinary that is? She sees beyond the stoic front you put on, beyond the scars you think define you. And yet, she doesn’t flinch—she is drawn to it. To all of you. And it’s not just her looks…it’s her actions. The way she listens to you, the way she laughs with you. The way she leans in just a little when you speak, as though every word you say is worth hearing. That female loves you, even if she isn’t aware of it yet.”
It was his mother’s voice again.
“I can’t tell you if or when you should tell her about the bond—that’s something only you can decide. What I do know is that you’re afraid to believe that someone could really love you for who you are—and it’s time for you to let that fear go. Because she does.”
…
It wasn’t a memory—not like the others. It was like a memory of a dream of a dream. But it flowed to him all the same as if it had actually happened.
“I love you, Azriel.”
“I love you, Gwyn.”
“You’re mine, Az."
“I’m yours, Gwyn—until the end of time.”
…
He was holding her. They were nestled together in the window seat of her room. He was kissing the top of her head. She was trailing her fingertips lazily along his arms and chest. It was perfect. It was everything. It was—
…
“Azriel?” came a familiar, weathered voice, soft but firm. “Az, can you open your eyes for us?”
No.
THEY CAN’T HEAR YOU, SHADOWSINGER.
Right.
“No.” Gods, was that his voice? It didn’t sound like his—not with how ragged and broken it was. But it must have been, as his lips burned with the effort of moving and his throat felt scorched raw.
A frustrated growl came from his side. “For fuck’s sake, Az, open your Godsdamn eyes.”
Rhys.
“Draw the curtains,” the first voice instructed, sharper this time. “Back up, give him some room.”
Madja.
“Wait just a moment, Azriel,” Madja continued, her voice carrying an undeniable command. “We’re going to make the room a little dimmer—then you can open your eyes.”
Through his sealed eyelids, he could sense the light fading as the room darkened, and the air grew clearer around him—whoever had been close had obeyed her, retreating just enough to give him space. He waited, though he hadn’t decided if he would comply when she told him to open his eyes.
He tried to scent the room, to piece together who was there. Madja and Rhys, of course.
Sniff. Mor.
Sniff. Amren.
Sniff. Sniff. Feyre. Lucien. Cassian. Nesta. Elain.
Gods, who wasn’t here?
And then it hit him. Gwyn.
His mate. Her scent—waterlilies and citrus—it wasn’t here.
“Alright, Azriel, you can—” Madja began, but Azriel’s eyes snapped open before she could finish. The motion was sharp and painful, his eyelids feeling glued shut, his eyeballs gritty and raw. It took a moment for everything to focus, for his surroundings to settle into clarity.
What greeted him wasn’t the comfort he yearned for. It was the wary, mixed expressions of his family—relief, anger, sorrow, confusion.
“Madja, you can heal pretty much anything, right?” Nesta’s icy voice cut through the silence, sharp and deliberate.
The old Healer flicked her gaze to the eldest Archeron, visibly puzzled. “That depends on the injury… why?”
“Because I’m going to fucking stab him!” Nesta lurched forward, fierce, and unrestrained, nearly reaching Azriel before Cassian wrapped his arms around her middle and hauled her back, her fists flying and legs kicking.
Shouts erupted around them, the noise piercing straight into Azriel’s pounding head.
“Nes! Calm down!” Cassian barked, his voice strained as he held her struggling form.
“You’re an asshole!” Nesta screeched, clawing at the air as though desperate to reach Azriel.
“Enough!” the command echoed like thunder, cutting through the chaos. It wasn’t Rhys who had spoken, as Azriel had expected—it was Lucien. Fire crackled off the youngest Vanserra’s fingertips, his narrowed gaze sweeping the room.
“Cinnamon Fire,” Azriel murmured weakly, earning a chorus of confused stares and an especially quizzical look from Lucien.
Madja cleared her throat pointedly. “There are obviously a lot of… feelings in this room. If you cannot control your emotions, please excuse yourself so I may tend to my patient.”
Nesta opened her mouth to protest, but Cassian didn’t wait. He lifted her clean off her feet and carried her out, her curses ringing down the hall. Mor followed quietly, her red-rimmed eyes betraying recent tears. Then Elain, pale and defeated, slipped away as well.
Those who remained weren’t much better. Amren stood stiff, her glare razor-sharp. Though she hadn’t erupted in rage like Nesta, the tension emanating from her was palpable. Madja appeared wary, though Azriel doubted the Healer would dare dismiss Amren even if she wanted to.
Madja approached the bed softly. “Help me sit him up,” she asked Rhys.
Azriel realized then that he was lying in a bed. But where? There was some familiarity to the smell of the place, but he couldn’t place it.
Rhys slid his hand under Azriel’s arm, gripping his elbow gently—but the motion still hurt, the ache spreading deep through his thin, brittle form.
“Gods, he’s skin and bones,” Rhys muttered, his voice heavy with worry.
A quiet sob cut through the room. Feyre. The High Lady stood near Lucien, her face enfolded in her trembling, tattooed hands.
Rhys and Madja propped him up against several pillows, and the change in position sent the world spinning violently, his vision threatening to go black. Madja motioned to Lucien, who handed her a cup without looking away from Azriel’s face.
“Ice chips,” Madja instructed firmly. “One at a time.”
Azriel parted his cracked lips as the first cold morsel touched his tongue, soothing his parched throat and fevered lips. The process was agonizingly slow—Madja spooning one cube after another as encouraging murmurs escaped her—but he endured it, the sensation grounding him in the moment.
After half an hour, the cup was empty, and Madja straightened. “Juice,” she said to Rhys. “Put the ice chips into fruit juice, have him suck on them, one at a time like he just did. If he can keep that down, give him plain broth later tonight. No solid foods until I see him tomorrow morning.”
Rhys nodded, his expression grim. “Thank you, Madja.”
Before she departed, the Healer placed a gentle hand on Azriel’s knee. Even the light touch sent discomfort skittering through his depleted body, but he didn’t flinch. He deserved every ounce of pain.
“It hurts because you have hardly any muscle or fat left, Shadowsinger,” Lucien said, his voice steady but solemn.
“What day is it?” Azriel rasped, his throat still raw.
“No,” Rhysand snapped sharply. “No, you don’t get to ask questions, Az.”
“What the Hel were you thinking, you stupid fool?” Amren’s clipped voice cut through. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Amren was worried.
Gwyn. That’s what he had been thinking. But he stayed silent.
Cassian strode back into the room, fury radiating from his every step. “Elain and Mor are trying to calm Nesta down, and Thesan’s guards are standing sentry, but honestly? I have half a mind to let her stab you, you fucking idiot.”
Thesan. He was still in the Dawn Court—though no longer at his cottage.
“How did you find me?” Speaking was nearly as painful as the scraping quality of his voice sounded.
“Shadow,” Rhysand muttered, his eyes angry. At what must have been a confused look from Azriel, the High Lord nodded towards his left side. Turning his head in the direction Rhys indicated, Azriel saw one of his shadows hovering above the bed, not looking the least bit contrite at betraying its master’s desire for keeping his cottage a secret.
“It came to the River House days ago,” Feyre continued, sniffing. “I’d never seen one of your shadows without you and I panicked. I thought…I thought…” Rhys wrapped an arm around his mate’s shoulders, hushing her.
“We followed it,” Lucien continued. “It led us here—to Dawn.”
“Yeah,” Cassian grunted. “All the way out into the fucking countryside, where we find a house in the middle of the Godsdamned woods, and you lying in your own vomit and piss and shit on the floor.” His red siphons flared with the intensity of his anger. “Az, what the actual fuck?”
Azriel shook his head faintly, regretting the motion instantly as dizziness overtook him. He pressed his fingers to his temples, even that faint touch feeling like he was poking himself with sticks.
What the—?
His hands…the scars were familiar, but the bony, fragile fingers were not. He stared at them in disbelief.
“Yeah,” Cassian scoffed bitterly. “You look dead.”
“Let me see,” Azriel rasped, his voice desperate.
He made to stand, but Rhys’s firm hands pressed him back into the pillows before he could move.
“Don’t even think about it,” Rhys growled.
“I got it,” Lucien murmured. With a snap of his fingers, a mirror floated out of a nearby closet, positioning itself in front of Azriel.
Holy Gods.
It was his reflection—and yet, it wasn’t. The being staring back at him was pale and hollow, with sunken cheeks and lifeless, bruised eyes. His wings drooped pitifully. His hair hung dry and brittle over his forehead, and his lips, cracked and colorless, barely moved.
“How... how long have I been asleep?” he rasped, his weak hand brushing over his sunken cheek.
Cassian snorted incredulously. “Asleep? It wasn’t a fucking nap, Az.”
“You’ve been here, in the medical wing of Thesan’s palace, unconscious for the past three days,” Lucien informed him. “We brought you here right after we found you. But…you’ve been gone for a total of nine days, Azriel.” Lucien shook his head solemnly, his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall. “That’s how long it’s been since you left the River House to go after Gwyn.”
Gwyn.
“Where is she?” Azriel asked, his heartbeat ratcheting up.
Lucien turned to Rhys, whose jaw tightened before he gave a slight shake of his head, as though silently instructing Lucien not to answer.
“Rhysand,” Azriel growled weakly, his voice trembling. “Where the fuck is she?”
“You want answers? Fine.” Rhys dragged a chair up to Azriel’s bedside, the scraping sound cutting through the heavy silence. His movements were deliberate, calculated, like a predator sizing up his prey. He sat down, his ankle resting casually on the opposite knee, though the posture felt anything but relaxed. Folding his hands in his lap, his expression sharpened into something commanding, almost disdainful—a mask of haughty superiority designed to corner Azriel into submission.
“How does this sound?” Rhys said, his voice quiet but firm enough to leave no room for argument. “You give us answers, and we’ll give you answers. Fair trade. You don’t talk, though? Well, then we won’t talk either.”