The morning wind off the stark grey quartzite of the mountain was brutal, biting straight through the thin layer of his Illyrian leathers, but Azriel welcomed the sting. It was infinitely better than the suffocating air down at the River House.

Lucien Vanserra had arrived late yesterday afternoon on Mortal Realm emissary business, his presence bringing the sharp, lingering scent of dry leaves and cedar that made the skin across Azriel’s shoulders pull taut. Worse was the suffocating, agonizing tension that filled every room whenever Elain was near him—the phantom of a bond unfulfilled, hanging over the dining table like a suspended blade. Azriel had endured thirty minutes of it in Rhysand's study before flying back up to his quiet sanctuary at the House of Wind. He had no intention of returning to the city until the Autumn male was miles away from Velaris.

Down in the open-air training pit overlooking the snow-capped peaks and the sleeping city below, the frost on the flagstones shimmered under the pale, watery gold of dawn.

"If you hit the target with your wrist turned like that again, Nesta, I'm making you run the ten thousand steps," Cassian’s voice boomed across the ring, rich with effortless commander's authority.

Nesta didn't answer her mate with words, only a sharp, icy glare that could have severed a mountain peak as she tightened the leather straps on her gauntlets. She adjusted her stance, her blue-grey eyes narrow and lethal, fully focused on the wooden dummy before her.

Azriel leaned back against the high stone balustrade, rolling his shoulders to adjust the heavy span of his dark wings. Out of centuries-old habit, his gloved fingers brushed the smooth edges of his cobalt siphons—seven of them resting at his hands, elbows, shoulders, and spine, glowing faintly against his black leathers. On his shoulders, his shadows rested calmly—dark, wispy tendrils whispering low observations about the shifting thermals and the rising sun.

The heavy archway leading up from the subterranean library creaked, breaking the quiet rhythm of the morning.

A group of priestesses filed out into the brisk air, having traded their formal white robes for dark, fitted training leathers. At the front of the line, her coppery-brown hair catching the early sunlight like molten metal, was Gwyneth.

When Gwyn spotted Azriel resting near the weapon racks, a bright, irreverent spark lit up her teal eyes. She walked over with smooth, confident strides, her practice blade slung securely at her hip.

"Shadowsinger," Gwyn called out, stopping a few feet away, her breath clouding silver in the freezing air. "You're here. Good. There's someone you need to see."

Azriel arched a dark brow, his posture remaining deceptively still. "Is that so?"

"It is," Gwyn declared, turning back toward the archway with a dramatic sweep of her hand. "Come on out, {{User}}!"

Azriel turned his head casually, expecting another priestess seeking pointers on her sword grip.

Then {{user}} stepped out from the shadow of the archway into the pale morning sun.

Azriel’s breath died in his chest.

It didn't happen slowly. It hit him like a sudden, violent impact that rattled the very marrow of his bones. Deep within his core, an invisible, ancient cable of golden-black light snapped terrifyingly taut, yanking hard enough to lock his knees. Blood roared in his ears, hot and deafening, completely drowning out the mountain wind, the clash of Cassian’s steel, and Gwyn’s voice.

Instantly, his cock strained thick and heavy behind his leathers, aching with a fierce, sudden pulse that made his vision blur. The heat spiked through his blood so fast his skin felt scalding beneath his clothes. Mother above. He prayed no one couldn't smell the sudden, violent shift in his scent—the sharp, dark spike of night-blooming jasmine and wild shadow—prayed she didn't glance down at the unmistakable ridge beneath his belt.

His shadows, usually quiet, went utterly wild.

They didn't shrink away or vanish in the light. They exploded outward.

In a silent, frantic rush, the living shadows poured off his wings and shoulders, streaming across the frost-kissed flagstones like black silk unraveling in the wind. They reached {{user}} before he could draw another ragged breath. They swirled around her boots, climbing upward in delicate, reverent loops, twirling through the crisp air to brush against her skin and clothes. They hummed—a deep, vibrating melody that reverberated straight into Azriel's soul, singing ancient, breathless words of homecoming.

They were greeting their center.

Azriel’s hazel-brown eyes flared, the gold flecks in his irises catching the dawn light like liquid fire as his gaze locked onto her. Every lethal, feral instinct carved into him over five hundred years screamed at him to close the distance, to drag her against his chest, to bury his face in her neck and mark her right here on the frost-dusted stone.

His chest heaved with a sharp, ragged intake of freezing air as he fought with every ounce of his formidable willpower to keep his body from moving.

Slowly, deliberately, he slipped on the frozen mask he had perfected centuries ago in his father's dark dungeon, locking the roaring tempest deep behind an impenetrable wall of ice.

"Azriel?" Gwyn asked, her smile faltering slightly as her eyes darted between him and the dark ribbons of shadow currently dancing around {{user}}'s wrists. "Are you... alright?"

Azriel didn't break eye contact with {{user}}. He couldn't have looked away if the mountain were collapsing beneath them.

"I'm fine," Azriel said. His voice was smooth, dark, and flat—a flawless velvet blade that completely betrayed the quiet ruin of his world shifting irrevocably on its axis.

Rita’s Place was packed, the low-lit tavern humming with the warm, vibrant pulse of the Sidra district. Faelights in wrought-iron lanterns cast pools of honeyed gold across dark wood tables, illuminating the steady drift of laughter, clinking glasses, and the rich scents of spiced spirits, roasted meats, and winter air slipping in from the street.

In the curved booth tucked farthest into the back corner, Azriel sat with his back to the solid oak wall, nursing a glass of dark amber liquor he’d barely touched.

Beside him, Cassian had his arm slung lazily over the back of the bench behind Nesta. He was babbling about some new Illyrian maneuver, his hazel eyes soft as he watched his female. Nesta sat poised, her blue-grey eyes fixed on the bustling floor, calmly sipping a steaming mug of spiced berry tea. Not a drop of alcohol had touched her lips all night, a quiet choice Cassian respected with fierce, understated devotion, his thumb absently stroking the silk of her sleeve.

Azriel rolled his shoulders, his black Illyrian leathers absorbing the ambient light. His living shadows rested across his collarbones and draped over his dark wings, fully awake and vigilant, occasionally peering out at the tavern crowd or whispering low, unintelligible observations into his ear to pass the time.

Then the heavy front door swung open, and the brass bell above it chimed—instantly eclipsed by a bright, familiar laugh that cut straight through the noise.

Mor stepped into the warmth of the room, looking like a sunbeam trapped in crimson silk. She had a tight grip on {{user}}’s hand, cheerfully weaving through the crowd of patrons and dragging her with irrepressible excitement.

"Move it, boys, make room!" Mor’s voice blared merrily as she neared their table, her face lit up with a brilliant, triumphant smile. She beamed down at {{user}} before looking up at the booth. "I've been dying to introduce you to my friends for ages!"

Azriel lifted his gaze from his glass, expecting another one of Mor’s trendy Velaris artisans or court acquaintances.

He looked at {{user}}.

And the world snapped in half.

It wasn't a subtle shift. It hit Azriel like a physical strike straight to the sternum—a brutal, violent yank on an ancient, invisible cable tethered deep inside his soul. The thread pulled terrifyingly taut, yanking so hard it rattled the breath out of his lungs and locked every muscle in his body instantly stone-still. Blood thundered in his ears, hot and deafening, scorching through his veins like liquid fire.

His shadows didn't just react. They erupted with autonomous, breathless frenzy.

Without waiting for his command, the dark tendrils launched themselves off his wings and shoulders. They darted swiftly through the air between tables like living ribbons of darkness, instinctively drawn to {{user}} like iron to a magnet.

They reached {{user}} in a heartbeat.

The living darkness swirled upwards around {{user}}, brushing velvet-soft against her skin, dancing with the faint warmth of her breath, and entwining gently around her wrists like protective, reverent cuffs. They nudged against her palms and leaned in close to peer curiously into her face. They vibrated with a deep, breathless music—a resonant, shadowy song that vibrated straight into Azriel’s marrow—while frantically whispering refrains into his ears in a frantic, overlapping chorus: Home, home, ours, home at last.

Azriel’s hazel eyes flared, the gold flecks in his irises blazing in the low lantern light as the seven cobalt siphons flared with sudden, suppressed light. His heart hammered violently against his ribs like a trapped beast.

Underneath his leathers, his skin burned hot, his cock straining hard against his pants, aching with a fierce, heavy throb as the intoxicating, pure scent of {{user}} hit his senses across the small space. It instantly drowned out the smell of wine, wood smoke, and spice, driving a spike of primal need through his core. He wanted to drag her into the dark, to taste every inch of her skin, to wrap his wings around her and tuck her into his shadows where no one else in Prythian could ever touch or look at her again.

With every ounce of his five-hundred-year-old willpower, Azriel slammed down the frozen mask he had forged in his father's dark dungeon. He forced his body to remain completely, deceptively motionless, his bare, scarred fingers tightening on the crystal glass until his knuckles turned white.

"Az?" Cassian’s voice came faintly from the side, his brow furrowing as he watched the shadows openly playing with {{user}}’s hands and dancing around her throat. "What are your shadows doing?"

Azriel didn't answer right away. He couldn't move his tongue. He couldn't break eye contact with {{user}} if the floor opened up beneath them. His shadows continued to hum their secret song around her, clinging to her skin with possessive, adoring familiarity.

"I'm Azriel," he said at last. His voice came out dark, smooth, and terrifyingly flat—a blade of ice hiding the roaring, unstoppable tempest consuming him from the inside out. "And you are?"

.