Chapter Text
The art gallery hummed with quiet reverence, the kind that demanded hushed voices and careful steps. I found myself drawn to The Phoenix of Love, an arresting piece ablaze with shades of red and orange. The phoenix seemed alive, wreathed in flickering flames, its fiery destruction both mesmerizing and haunting.
As I stared, a flicker of curiosity stirred within me. The tall, enigmatic figure standing beside me radiated an air of quiet intensity. His presence was like a whisper in the shadows—subtle yet commanding. I didn’t recognize him at first, but then it struck me. Could it really be Azriel, the Spymaster of the Night Court?
His wings, folded neatly behind him, were a dark contrast to the gallery’s soft light. Shadows danced around him, curling and twisting like living things tethered to his form. His hands, clasped behind his back, only added to his poised demeanor.
“It’s a striking piece, isn’t it?” I ventured softly, my voice barely above a whisper, careful not to disturb the sanctity of the space.
Azriel turned his head slightly, his expression impassive, but his whiskey-colored eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise. “Yes. Intriguing,” he replied, his voice low and smooth.
I smiled faintly, more to myself than to him, and added, “It’s always been one of my favorites. There’s something captivating about the way it burns.”
He nodded, gaze still fixed on the painting. “This one is my favorite as well. Quite a sight.”
“Absolutely.” I glanced at him briefly, gathering the courage to continue. “Do you come here often?”
“When I have the time,” he replied, his tone nonchalant, offering no further details.
“I come here often. It feels like stepping into another world,” I said, trying to keep the conversation alive. Talking to the Shadowsinger of the Night Court wasn’t an opportunity one came across every day.
Azriel’s lips curved faintly, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “You’re right. It’s quieter than outside. I don’t care much for noise.”
That small admission surprised me. I turned to him, studying his profile. His eyes, a rich amber, seemed almost alight under the gallery’s golden rays. “I don’t mind noise,” I admitted. “I like people, and I’m definitely more outgoing than most. Sometimes I even overshare,” I added with a chuckle.
He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drawn back to the painting. Only a stray strand of dark hair now framed his stoic face. “I’ve noticed,” he said finally. “But oversharing isn’t always a bad thing.”
“Not always,” I agreed, raising an eyebrow. “But just because something’s common doesn’t make it good. Five hundred years ago, it was normal for humans to serve the Fae. Doesn’t mean it was right.”
For the first time, his expression shifted—softened, almost imperceptibly. “Fair point,” he said, nodding. “Then let me rephrase. Common doesn’t always mean bad.”
“Exactly.” A brief silence passed between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I don’t just come here for the quiet,” I said after a moment. “I love the art, the culture, and the history it holds.”
Azriel tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “An interesting perspective. Velaris does hold much of our history within these walls.” A soft chuckle escaped him, a rare sound that made my chest tighten. “There’s even a painting of me here, from when I was fifty or sixty.”
I raised an eyebrow, amused. “How old does that make the painting? Four hundred eighty years?”
“Something like that,” he admitted, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t remember exactly how old I was when it was painted.”
At twenty-two, the idea of forgetting an age seemed incomprehensible, but I supposed centuries had a way of blending together.
“I don’t think I caught your name,” he said, shifting the conversation. His gaze lingered on me, expectant.
“Vivienne,” I offered with a smile, showing my teeth. “And I assume you’re Azriel, the Spymaster and Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”
“You assume correctly,” he replied, his eyes meeting mine directly for the first time. He didn’t extend his hand, as most would, but I hadn’t expected him to.
“Nice to meet you, Spymaster,” I said, my smile unwavering.
“Just Azriel,” he corrected, a hint of irritation flashing through his tone. “I prefer not to be called by titles unless it’s by enemies. It’s... grounding.”
“Fair enough. Just Azriel it is,” I teased lightly.
“That does sound better, doesn’t it?” he said, a trace of humor softening his voice. For the first time, I felt the conversation shift. He seemed to be opening up, if only slightly.
“It’s certainly less formal,” I agreed with a laugh, our voices low as to not disrupt the gallery’s quiet.
“I’ve never liked titles,” he admitted, his gaze returning to the painting. “They’re a reminder of what I am.”
I tilted my head, smirking. “I could be your enemy too, for all you know.”
Azriel’s lips twitched. “If you were, my shadows would have told me.”
He straightened then, his expression becoming more distant. “It’s time for me to go,” he said, the words clipped.
“Of course,” I replied, my voice tinged with regret. “It was nice meeting you, Azriel.”
“And you, Vivienne,” he said before turning away. His wings shifted slightly as he clasped his hands behind his back once more and strode toward the gallery’s exit.
I watched him go, my gaze lingering on the space he’d vacated. My heart raced in the silence that followed, my breaths shallow and uneven. Slowly, I placed a hand over my chest, feeling the rapid thrum beneath my palm.
I turned back to the painting, my thoughts still spinning. The conversation replayed in my mind, each word and inflection crystal clear. I had spoken to Azriel—the Spymaster of the Night Court—and lived to tell the tale.