Chapter 32 - Where Is She?
Chapter 32 – Where Is She?
-Azriel-
“I think the question on everyone’s mind is, what the fuck happened, Az?” Cassian said, his tone sharp but laced with exasperation. “Nesta and I are off enjoying our trip, and next thing I know, this giant pumpkin spice motherfucker,”—he jabbed a thumb at Lucien, earning an eyeroll from the Autumn Court male—“tells us one of your shadows showed up without you, and everyone is losing their minds thinking the worst. He winnowed straight into our bedroom!”
Lucien shuddered. “Don’t remind me, Lord of Bastards. I’ll be scrubbing my eyes with industrial-strength detergent for the next decade.”
Cassian smirked. “Will that work on that fancy gold bauble?”
“Fuck you,” Lucien bit back.
“No thanks, have a mate.”
“As do I.”
Cassian grinned. “And how is the fucking?”
Lucien snarled.
“Idiots!” Amren snapped. “Measure your cocks another time.” She fixed Azriel with a glare so icy, he felt his wings twitch under its weight. He was more afraid of her now than he’d ever been—probably because, if she decided to strike, he didn’t have the strength to dodge her blows, let alone flee.
“As for you, boy,” Amren said, pulling up a chair on the side of the bed opposite Rhys, her tone as cutting as her gaze, “it would be in your best interest to tell us what happened—starting with that necklace that seems to have sparked this entire debacle.”
Well, leave it to Amren to tear right to the heart of things.
“I figured Elain would have explained the necklace—” Azriel began but was cut off by Rhys.
“Oh, she gave us the bare minimum—just enough to give us a faint idea of what happened. I—we—want to hear the whole story from you.”
Feyre approached Rhysand’s chair, and he gently pulled her to sit on his lap, his arm around her as her tattooed hands rested upon his. Cassian took up residence at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his massive chest. Lucien stayed standing, his hands in his trouser pockets as he leaned a shoulder against the wall—and Azriel couldn’t fault the male for not coming closer to his bed like the others had. He could hear the male’s metal eye clicking and whirring softly.
So, he started. His throat was parched, his body too drained to deliver the explanation as swiftly as he might have in better days. He recounted the entire story of what happened on Winter Solstice, most of which they already knew, seeing as how he’d already told them at Cassian and Nesta’s ceremony; this time, however, he included the detail about the necklace. How when he’d found that Elain had given it back, he'd given it anonymously to Gwyn.
After a brief silence, Rhysand remarked flatly, “Not your brightest idea, Az..”
Azriel hung his head in shame. “I know,” he said in a choked whisper. “I swear, I didn’t even realize what a stupid mistake it was until after I saw her wearing it.”
No one spoke for a few moments, until Amren broke the silence.
“Alright…continue, boy,” she ordered, her expression one of imperious command.
So, he did. He started with finding Gwyn that same Winter Solstice night in the training pit before he made the idiotic move to leave the necklace with Clotho to give to her. Their confrontation days later—her anger, her pain—about him not trying to find her after Sangravah. He kept details to himself of her confession about wanting to take her own life, though—that was not his story to tell. Instead, he told them that he’d deserved every word she’d thrown at him, and yet, their reconciliation had come in the form of late-night training sessions, where their friendship had quietly bloomed into something more. His carefully concealed fear and panic when she, Nesta and Emerie had been kidnapped and dropped into the Blood Rite. He thought he heard Cassian mutter, “Fuck,” as though his brother was kicking himself for not realizing how broken up Azriel was over the females being abducted, though he didn’t blame his brother for not noticing; Azriel had hidden it well.
He told them about their first kiss after Cassian and Nesta’s mating ceremony—Cassian smirked and puffed his chest at that part, as though he’d orchestrated the entire thing. Feyre offered him a soft, sympathetic smile when he talked about the disastrous next morning, when Azriel had accidentally triggered Gwyn’s memory of Sangravah. He took great care, however, not to reveal the details of what he’d walked in on that day he saw her for the first time in the temple’s kitchen.
He recounted their time in Boulderhearth—the stolen moments, the quiet laughter—and how it was there, in the stillness of that place, that he realized he was in love with Gwyn. How he’d almost told her the truth the night they returned, but had been too cowardly, too afraid at what she might say or do.
His voice grew hoarse, and his body trembled with exhaustion throughout the tale. Every detail spilled from his lips—except, of course, the part about Gwyn being his mate. That…that he couldn’t tell them. This wasn’t the same truth as the necklace—this was far more important and something that Gwyn needed to know first.
By the end, he was utterly spent, as if every word had siphoned what little energy he had left. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his wings sagging lifelessly behind him. He stared at his skeletal, scarred hands, unable to meet their eyes, the silence pressing heavy on his shoulders.
His family sat around him, their expressions a mix of disbelief and unease. Rhysand’s usually sharp features were unreadable, his jaw clenched tight as if warring with what to say. Feyre sat in Rhys’ lap, her brows furrowed in quiet concern, one tattooed hand lightly resting upon her mate’s. Cassian’s face betrayed flickers of frustration, his foot tapping as though the movement would dislodge the tension suffusing the room.
Amren leaned back in her chair, her silver eyes cool and calculating, but there was a flicker of something in them—pity, perhaps, though she’d never admit it. And Lucien…Lucien had turned his gaze to the floor, his mechanical eye whirring as he avoided Azriel entirely, his jaw tight with some unspoken emotion.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like the calm before the storm.
It was Lucien who broke the quiet first. “Explain something to me,” he said. Everyone turned their heads to look at him. “He’s been gone nine days—sure, that long without food and water will make anyone look like shit, but why does he look like shit that shit took a shit on?”
“Simple,” Amren said, inspecting her nails with a detached air. “His mate left him.”
The silence that followed Amren’s casual comment was deafening, as if the words had drained every ounce of air from the room. Even the dust caught in the faint rays of sunlight streaming through slight opening of the drawn curtains seemed to freeze, suspended mid-flight.
Cassian's head snapped toward Azriel, his expression shifting from confusion to shock. Feyre's hand flew to her mouth, her wide eyes darting behind her to Rhys, who stared at Amren, his face a mask of pure disbelief—at the fact that Azriel had a mate or that Amren knew it, Azriel wasn’t sure.
Lucien, too, had frozen, his mechanical eye whirring faintly as it adjusted, but his russet eye burned with a mix of astonishment, recognition, and unease.
As for Azriel, his body stiffened and his wings tensed; his heart hammered painfully behind his ribs as he too tried to understand what Amren had said—it was like she had just revealed the truth to him, even though he already knew it.
I thought you said she only suspected something was happening between Gwyn and I, he accused his shadows.
WE ALSO SAID THAT THE TINY SHE-DEMON IS OLD AND THAT WE DO NOT FULLY UNDERSTAND HER ABILITIES.
“Uh, what the fuck, Amren?” Cassian blurted, his voice cutting like a blade through Azriel’s inner monologue with his shadows and the suffocating tension in the room.
“Mate?” Feyre asked, her voice breaking on the word, barely more than a choked whisper. Her wide eyes darted to Azriel, searching his face for confirmation, though she already knew the answer. “What mate?”
“Oh, come now, High Lady,” Amren snorted, the sound as sharp as her words. “I know you’re more intelligent than these imbeciles.” Her silver eyes studied Feyre. “Or perhaps not.” She straightened her small body in her chair. “The priestess is his mate. I sensed it during the debrief about Boulderhearth.”
Her piercing gaze flicked over the room, landing on each of them in turn before she rolled them dramatically. “Honestly, did no one notice his body language in her presence? It was so painfully obvious, especially when Rhysand asked for her thoughts on the investigation—his posture got all rigid and he clenched his fists, hand resting on his precious dagger, jaw clenched—”
I really did all that when Rhys spoke to her?
“—even his shadows were agitated, all twitchy and unsettled.”
YOU DID. WE DID.
“I incorrectly assumed that’s why you wanted to speak to him alone, Rhysand,” Amren concluded, her gaze fixed on the High Lord.
Rhys blinked, caught off guard for once. A faint flush rose to his cheeks, clearly embarrassed by his oversight. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, jostling Feyre in the process.
“Gwyn?” Lucien’s voice was barely audible, a whisper laden with disbelief. “Gwyn is your…mate?”
Azriel swallowed hard, the motion deliberate and slow, before giving a solemn nod.
“Mate?!”
Every head whipped toward the doorway, the word cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a blade. The high-pitched shriek had come from Nesta, who was front and center, her eyes wide and blazing with incredulity. She took a few steps into the room, followed by Mor, whose mouth was slightly agape, her brows drawn tight in shock. Emerie—when had Emerie even arrived?—trailed in after them, her arms crossed, but her jaw nearly touched the floor.
Elain entered next, taking up post to the side of the others, a quiet presence in the chaos. Her surprise was evident, but muted—a soft widening of her eyes, a faint furrow of her brow. It wasn’t dramatic like the others; instead, it was restrained, thoughtful, as though she were processing the revelation in her own measured way.
“Gwyn is your mate?” Emerie demanded, her tone louder and sharper than the rest.
Gods, he was too exhausted for this carnival. He dragged a hand over his face, wings sagging behind him. “Yes,” he bit out. “Now, can you just tell me where she is?” he asked, his voice rough and weary, his patience long gone.
Lucien hesitated, casting a glance toward Rhysand. The High Lord gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, granting silent permission.
“She’s in Autumn, Azriel,” Lucien admitted at last.
-Gwyn-
She felt awful, though the intensity of whatever had plagued her so fiercely over the past week had dulled somewhat. The heaviness of her movements and achiness of her body lingered, stubborn and unwelcome.
Gwyn leaned against the sturdy trunk of the oak tree, its ancient bark rough against her, even through the thick fabric of her priestess robes, grounding her in the stillness of the moment. Yet her thoughts were anything but still. They drifted—inevitably, relentlessly, as they always did—to Azriel.
How was he? Since that last glimpse of him at the River House, when she’d left him in that flirty, teasing way. She’d smiled and then walked away without a second thought, and he’d gone on to his private counsel with Rhys, both of them unaware of what was coming.
She’d abandoned him there in the aftermath of Elain’s confession about the necklace. Her stomach twisted at the memory of hanging the necklace on the knob of his bedroom door—a silent refusal of the gift she had once cherished, a loud message to him that she knew. She knew the truth, and the fury had burned hot and blinding. She was furious that he’d lied to her, and even more livid that the lie had mattered so much.
Who was she kidding? She was angriest with herself—for running away instead of confronting him, for hiding instead of hashing it out then and there. Maybe if she had, she’d be home now instead of here, slowly driving herself mad.
A rustle of leaves nearby snapped her attention to the present. Her hand instinctively moved to the dagger strapped to her thigh beneath her robes. She’d been in the Autumn Court for nearly a week, and the constant vigilance coupled with the lingering illness clinging to her left her more drained than she cared to admit.
The sound grew closer. A hooded figure emerged from behind the dense shrubbery, moving with a cautious grace. Gwyn exhaled in relief as she recognized Elisandre—one of the Night Court’s planted contacts in Autumn. Elisandre scanned the area before her amber eyes found Gwyn.
Elisandre was not fully High Fae. Like Gwyn, her heritage was a blend—part lesser faerie and part High Fae. She pulled off her hood, revealing thick waves of reddish-gold hair, bound in a single braid running from the crown of her head to her back, gleaming in the sunlight. Her ivory skin shimmered faintly as though dusted with the same sparkly powder that Mor often swept over her cheeks. Amber eyes, a delicate nose, sharp cheekbones, and an upper lip fuller than the lower one made her undeniably beautiful and striking.
Gwyn rose to meet her, brushing dirt from her robe as the female stepped towards her.
“Priestess,” Elisandre greeted her with a slight dip of her head, the motion highlighting the dimple in her chin. It reminded Gwyn, painfully, of Azriel—of the dimples that graced his rare smiles, though they hadn’t been as rare in their final days together. Her chest ached at the thought.
“Elisandre,” Gwyn replied with a small nod. She still remembered their first meeting, when Elisandre had called her Valkyrie instead of Priestess. Gwyn had politely but firmly asked her not to use that title. It was dangerous enough being here as a priestess; eventually, Prythian would learn about the Valkyries’ new roles in the Night Court legion. If anyone discovered a Valkyrie lingering in the Autumn Court, it would spell disaster.
Gwyn had her cover story ready. She was a priestess from Sangravah, living in the Night Court’s library for the past two years after being rescued. She would claim to be here searching for traces of her grandfather’s family, hoping to connect with kin now that her mother and sister were gone. The tale was convincing enough—red hair like hers made it easy for her to claim Autumn heritage.
Rhysand had tasked her with meeting Elisandre regularly to relay messages from another contact embedded in the Forest House. Gwyn would then deliver those messages to a Spring Court contact—a male named Pellicer—who passed them on to Rhys. The messages were encoded, their true purpose kept hidden even from her. She was just a messenger.
Elisandre and Pellicer had been meeting at the Autumn-Spring border, but a near-discovery had forced Rhysand to find another solution—and that solution became Gwyn. He’d assigned her this post even though he had already declared that she would continue to work alongside Azriel and report to him. This change, Gwyn could only assume, was because he knew something had happened between her and the Spymaster. Perhaps that’s why he’d sent her—to give them both space to figure it out.
At first, she’d been grateful. It had gotten her out of the Library and away from the stinging betrayal of Azriel’s actions. But now, she longed to return home, to go to the Shadowsinger and confront this mess head-on. She wouldn’t take his evasions or excuses. She deserved honesty—that was all she wanted. Perhaps they could heal this thing that had broken between them. At least, she hoped they could.
Once she and Elisandre were close enough, the message was delivered. “Tell the Keeper of the Stars that the leaves are beginning to turn—they will turn brown and crumble within a fortnight, and the Shadowed Phoenix will take to the skies.” The only thing that Gwyn knew for sure that was contained in that message was that the Keeper of the Stars was Rhysand, and the Shadowed Phoenix was whomever Elisandre reported to—presumably, someone within the upper echelon of the Autumn Court.
Gwyn nodded. “Many thanks,” she told the female as she placed a palm over her heart.
She turned to leave—the meeting was over, the message having been delivered, and she needed to get to the border to relay it to Pellicer. Elisandre, however, stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. “I have something for you,” the female said, retrieving a small parcel from her satchel.
Gwyn’s brows furrowed in confusion as she accepted the item. “Will the Keeper of the Stars understand its meaning?”
Elisandre shook her head, her amber eyes deep and warm. “It’s not for them. It’s for you.”
Gwyn frowned, curiosity sparking as she turned it over in her hands, pulling the string to unwrap it and revealing a plain wood box. “What is it?”
“Tea leaves,” Elisandre replied simply. Her voice softened as she continued, “It’s a special blend my family has passed down for generations. I… I know you’ve been unwell, and, well…I thought you might find it helpful. It should ease some of the symptoms.” The glittering sheen on Elisandre’s ivory cheeks deepened—a trait Gwyn had noticed was her version of blushing.
“Oh… Gods, I—thank you, Elisandre,” Gwyn said, smiling warmly. “That’s incredibly thoughtful.”
Elisandre nodded, her expression modest. “They use it in the Forest House too. I suppose us mongrel faeries are of some use to the High Lord after all.”
Gwyn winced, though the jab wasn’t directed at her. It was no secret, the prejudice harbored by the High Lord of the Autumn Court toward lesser faeries. Gwyn couldn’t help but wonder how Lucien Vanserra—a male so kind and compassionate—had come from a place so steeped in malice, violence, and disdain. She’d heard that, long ago, he’d been in love with a lesser faerie and planned to escape Autumn and marry her—but they were found together one night and dragged before his father. His brothers had held him while his father killed her before his eyes. It was a horrible story, but she supposed it was a commonality she had with the youngest Vanserra—he’d been forced to watch his lover die and powerless to stop it, just as she’d been made to watch Catrin die.
She shook the thought of the sorrowful camaraderie they shared and focused back on Elisandre. Gwyn carefully tucked the package into the pocket of her robe. “I’m feeling better, but perhaps this will help me shake the lingering symptoms I can’t seem to kick.”
Elisandre gave a slight dip of her head. “I’ll leave you to your next post, Priestess.” With that, she pulled her hood back over her braided hair and slipped into the forest, her figure melting into the shadows cast by the trees in the afternoon sun.
A cool breeze rustled through the woods, brushing past Gwyn and making her shiver. Though the Summer Solstice was near, the Autumn Court remained cooler, especially when the wind found its way between the trees. She raised her hood, its edges brushing her face as she turned toward her next destination.
She paused briefly at the base of a massive tree, checking the supplies she’d carefully stashed inside a hollow, and retrieving the pouch containing the half dozen throwing stars she’d brought with her. Her aim with the little star-shaped blades had significantly improved—thanks to Azriel—and she had started taking them with her a few days ago whenever she made her way to meet Pellicer. As she prepared to head to the border, her mind wandered—she desperately hoped that Rhysand would be pleased with this latest message. Perhaps, it would signal the end of her presence in Autumn, and she could go home.
Of course, Rhysand had told her she could leave at any time. She remembered his words the day she departed. “If you need out, tell Pellicer: ‘The waves are receding.’ We’ll get you out immediately, no questions asked.”
But she couldn’t quit now. Even though her body still ached, and her heart longed for home, she needed to see the mission through.
Retrieving a flask of water from the hidden pocket inside her robe, she took a sip and let the cool liquid soothe her throat. She looked forward to trying the tea, hopeful it might help her feel a little closer to herself again. If she hurried to the border and finished up with Pellicer quickly, she would return to her campsite before nightfall. She planned to make a small fire—just enough to heat the special stones Lucien had given her before she left.
“Making a fire is risky,” Lucien had warned, “but if you keep it small and start as soon as dusk is descending, it should be safe. Once the sun is almost set, though, extinguish the flames—once it’s dark out, the fire is too easy for someone to see.” He handed her the little pouch then, the weight heavy in her palm. “Place these stones directly into the flames for at least ten minutes—they’ll retain their heat for hours—more, if you let them cook longer.”
She prayed the warmth of the stones would be enough to heat the flask’s water for the tea. And she prayed Elisandre’s blend would finally ease the symptoms that clung to her like shadows.
As Gwyn trekked toward the border, through the jewelry box-like forest, her thoughts drifted back to Azriel. Rhysand hadn’t shared any updates on the Shadowsinger, though she hadn’t asked for them either. She figured the High Lord wouldn’t give her any private messages via Pellicer anyways.
She imagined the necklace left on his doorknob had upset him, but at the time, she was too wrapped up in her own disappointment at the truth behind the gift to worry about how he felt.
Once Lucien had winnowed her to the edge of the wards, she barely managed to thank him and bid him farewell without making him more suspicious than he already was at her aloofness. The moment she stepped into the stairwell leading to the House of Wind, the desperation hit. She could barely remember climbing the ten thousand steps, but unclasping the necklace from her neck and placing it on Azriel’s door remained etched in her memory—raw and unrelenting.
She hadn’t lingered. The House seemed to sense her turmoil, the air thick with concern, the faelights flickering faintly in solidarity. Yet she hadn’t stayed—couldn’t risk running into him, couldn’t bear to confront him yet.
Her composure held until the last of the ten-thousand steps, and then the tears came. They streamed down her face like rain sliding down glass. She fled into the Library, racing toward the dormitories, and, in her haste and distress, ran straight into none other than Merrill.
She braced for a cutting remark, expecting the priestess’s usual stinging words. But Merrill surprised her. The female softened as she took in Gwyn’s tear-streaked face, murmuring instructions for her to go to the dormitory, assuring her that she would inform Clotho that she was not feeling well and needed solitude and rest. Gwyn managed to mumble her gratitude, fearing any slight might cause Merrill to revoke this rare show of benevolence. It could have simply been that Merrill was uncomfortable with emotional outbursts.
Hours passed as Gwyn lay curled in her bed, weeping into her pillow until exhaustion finally pulled her under. Even in sleep, her mind churned with dreams of the memories, of the necklace that Clotho had handed her the day after Winter Solstice.
A friend left this for you—a Winter Solstice gift, Clotho’s enchanted pen had written.
“Who?” Gwyn had asked, wide-eyed, as she admired the intricate jewelry.
He did not wish to be named, came the response.
He. The word sparked her curiosity. Gwyn had only known a handful of males—and she wouldn’t quite categorize them as friends. She’d quickly ruled out Rhysand, whose gift-giving had its boundaries as a mated male. Cassian was equally unlikely, something clearly brewing between him and Nesta. That left Azriel. It didn’t make sense for him either, but of the males in her orbit, he’d seemed the most likely.
She’d toyed with the idea of the gift being from a stranger—some male admiring her from afar, though the odds that were slim—she never left the Library except for training. Not impossible, but surely improbable. Still, the mystery had added to the charm of the gift, and as her friendship with Azriel deepened, she couldn’t help but become surer that he could be the anonymous giver.
In hindsight, those feelings—wonder, enchantment, hope—felt hollow now, withered like a bloom deprived of sunlight. What had once made her feel special, valued, adored, now left her feeling foolish and humiliated—something she never thought she’d feel in relation to the Shadowsinger. She’d worn the necklace proudly, parading it like some lovesick idiot, clinging to the belief that someone had cared enough about her to pick out such a beautiful piece of jewelry specifically for her.
Clotho had mentioned Azriel came looking for her the morning after she left the necklace on his door, seeming distraught. The priestess had sent him away, citing Gwyn’s unwellness—Merrill’s supplied excuse. And, later that day, Rhysand had come to her with this assignment.
Now here she was, weaving through the forested outskirts of Autumn under the midday sun, her mind a cacophony of memories and regrets. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but her thoughts about Azriel refused to quiet, swirling relentlessly as the shadows of the trees stretched around her.
Up ahead, she spotted the waist-high stone wall—the marker for that stretch that denoted the border between Autumn and Spring. She spied Pellicer, standing with his hands behind his back, the hood of his green cloak pulled up over his head. As opposed to Gwyn and Elisandre, he was High Fae and had been raised in the Spring Court. Other than that, she didn’t know much about the male.
He withdrew his hood once he spotted Gwyn, his shoulder-length yellow-blonde hair glinting in the sunlight. There was nothing overly remarkable about him, though she had spotted a tan line on the third finger of his left hand—where a ring likely resided outside of his spying duties. Wearing a ring was not a traditional practice for faeries. Some married, of course, but wearing wedding bands was a human custom. It was the only thing that peaked Gwyn’s curiosity about the male.
He gave a single nod as soon as she was in front of him, staying on her side of the wall.
“Tell the Keeper of the Stars,” she relayed the message to Pellicer that had come from Elisandre, “that the leaves are beginning to turn—they will turn brown and crumble within a fortnight, and the Shadowed Phoenix will take to the skies.”
He nodded his acknowledgment of the message. “The Keeper of the Stars wants you to—”
Something suddenly burst out from the trees behind Pellicer, cutting off the message that Rhysand had wanted him to give her. It was some kind of animal, though what kind, Gwyn couldn’t say. All she saw was a flash of golden fur, claws, and fangs, as the beast tackled Pellicer to the ground in a ferocious roar.