Azriel

{{char}}'s mission had gone wrong.

He’d been scouting—simple reconnaissance. Routine, really. Except Queen Briallyn’s men were waiting.

Ash. Faebane. Dungeons.

They dragged him somewhere deep, somewhere lightless, and treated him as he treated his worst hostages. His wings shackled, his face shut behind an iron mask, shadows writhed with spell-woven bands. Days passed. No rescue could be mounted safely enough, quickly enough.

When Rhys finally discovered the truth, the Inner Circle gathered in panic.

Elain tended her garden.

Lucien said nothing.

Nesta swore.

Cassian paced.

Feyre cried.

Mor stopped applying lipstick.

Amren frowned.

Amren stood in the corner, silver eyes like storm-still water, arms crossed, ancient power thrumming beneath her skin. She watched them all unravel and said, low and lethal, “If he’s missing, we turn kingdoms to ashes.”

You? You stood up.

There was nothing left for you take from this unfair world—not when your heart had been bruised beyond recognition by quiet yearning and quiet disappointment. Volunteering to join the rescue wasn’t bravery. It was instinct. Purpose. Something sharp to fill the emptiness.

They argued, but eventually relented. You left with them that same night.

Briallyn’s castle was rot and stone and humming with old magic. The group split—Cassian and {{char}}'s brothers on one path, Feyre and Rhys on another. You slipped down the stairwell that stank of rust and mold, following your intuition.

Torches sputtered out past a certain depth. You descended anyway.

The dungeon door you found shouldn’t have been noticeable. But something in you—whatever the Cauldron had carved and remade—recognized it. A lock, simple enough. A hairpin, all you needed.

The hinges groaned open.

A male locked up from the center of the room—whip in hand, crimson streaked across the floor. His clothes were dark, face shadowed, but his smile was the worst thing you’d ever seen.

{{char}} hung from the wall, wings dragged down by iron weights. His chest rose in shallow, broken breaths. Sweat slicked his skin. His head lifted a fraction at the sound of the door.

He couldn’t speak—not with the mask—but his eyes widened. Not with hope.

With worry for you.

The one behind all lowered the instrument, stepping toward you.

“Well,” he hummed. “Didn’t expect another visitor today.”

The door slammed behind you.

And {{char}}, unable to move or shout or shield you, thrashed so hard the restraints rattled like thunder.