Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were, as any sensible woman would confess—though never aloud—quite a number of things a girl might want.

She wanted jewels, of course, the sort that glinted just so beneath candlelight and whispered of old money and just enough flicker of scandal. She wanted dresses, not merely fine, but fashionable—the kind that struck that elusive balance between modesty and mischief, showing just enough collarbone to provoke a suitor's interest and a rival's ire.

She wanted conversation, endless in supply and delightfully inconsequential—weather of precisely the right temperature, neither warm enough to wilt nor cool enough to offend, merely temperate enough to flatter her chosen fabric. She wanted a house—no, a mansion—or perhaps a modest little palace, with enough rooms to lose one's husband in and enough windows to scandalize the neighbours.

Gardens too, naturally. Not mere hedgerows and roses, but sprawling spectacles imported from every known corner of the realm, curated not so much for their scent or shade, but for the envy they might inspire in other lady wives. Above all, she wanted attention—glorious, glittering attention. She wished to be seen in the grandest ballroom, beside golden fountains that sprayed diamond-bright water, as pure and precise as the gems dangling from her ears.

It was, one might argue, not too much to ask.

Girls desired shoes—ballroom shoes in numbers so vast they might populate a small village—each pair perfectly suited for the sort of dancing that made one's heart flutter and one's chaperone sigh. They wanted rivers of paint in colours never before named, and brushes crafted by the trembling hands of artisans who surely wept upon completion. They wanted musical instruments—harps strung with gold, violins tuned to heartbreak—and libraries so vast their shelves might collapse beneath the weight of well-bound genius and scandalous fiction alike.

Girls wanted security, though they would never call it that—too plain a word for something so precious. They wanted whispers, yes, but only the kind that filled ballrooms and drawing rooms, not war rooms. They wanted their children to laugh in sunlit corridors, their elderly aunts to wag their fans and click their tongues at the latest scandalous hemline. They wanted peace, yes—but more than that, they wanted the illusion of prosperity.

What they did not want—what they knew to dread in their marrow—were the horns of war sounding across the hills. For when the battlefield came, it did not knock politely. It tore down doors, and girls were always the first to be dragged from perfumed halls and warm kitchens, offered up to the appetites of violence in ways too old, too familiar, and too quietly borne to be called anything but a tradition.

Lady Liora was one such girl. She wanted all of it—and more—and, most inconveniently, she got it. The bright, beloved jewel of Prythian, her smile shone like morning light on polished marble: warm, blinding, and thoroughly calculated. One smile, and the world obliged. Flowers bloomed faster. Courtiers stammered. Tailors wept with gratitude.

She was the prized petal of the Spring Court, the cherished ward of Lord Thesan himself, and the very embodiment of what a court lady ought to be—if one asked the poets, the painters, or the party planners. She glided through ballrooms like a swan among sparrows, said all the right things with all the wrong intentions, and accepted admiration as one might accept inheritance: with lazy certainty and not a shred of humility.

Spoiled? Certainly. Arrogant? Without question. But comfortable? Oh, more than most kings. She had never known war, nor hunger, nor rejection. And if she had ever known boredom, she had long since powdered it into submission and tucked it behind her ear like a diamond clip.

What girls certainly didn't want was to find themselves cleaning up after the messes boys left behind—especially when those messes involved curses, carnage, and a forest that looked like it had lost an argument with a god. And especially not while standing ankle-deep in ash, face-to-fang with a creature that had once been a boy she'd known—tolerated, even, on generous days.

Lady Liora exhaled once, delicately, before removing her finely tailored cloak and folding it with the sort of precision reserved for war maps and silk lingerie. Her bright green eyes—flecked with gold and faintly glowing in the broken light—assessed the beast with leisurely disdain. Her hands, clad in lace gloves so fine they might as well have been spun from sighs, remained unshaking. Her bright golden hair was braided with delicate artistry, cascading like a waterfall of shadowed silk down her back. Adorning her were jewels that caught the dying sun like fire trapped in glass: layered necklaces of citrine and opal, a gleaming ear cuff of emeralds curling along one fae ear, and a constellation of earrings that suggested taste, and wealth.

And then she smiled—that faint, mischievous smirk that had started wars over wine lists—and said with languid charm,

"Hello, cousin. Long time no see."

Chapter Text

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a male in possession of a respectable title, an impressive kill count, and marginal social skills must be in want of a wife—and a large, exhausting family to match. 

After all, was that not the final measure of happiness in polite society? Marriage, children, the occasional public scandal, followed by private moments?

Not for Azriel.

Not for the brooding, knife-wielding, secret-keeping Spymaster of the Night Court, who at present found himself in the single most soul-splitting environment imaginable: a room filled with both crying children and casual eye-fucking.

To his left, Nyx was wailing about something to do with stolen pastries. To his right, his brother and his brother's mate were making eyes at each other as though the furniture weren't watching. And in the centre of it all, the High Lord—wings flared and voice fraying—was arguing with someone about diplomatic strategy as though war hadn't been replaced with wine tastings.

Peace, evidently, was a fragile and fictional thing.

And then there was her—the eligible female in question. Not the one he was destined to meet eventually by the demanding invitation she was about to send, no. The other one—middle Archeron, perfect posture, eyes vacant face pale as a boarded window—had been haunting his thoughts for months, despite every rational part of him begging for mercy. She did not look at him, and his shadows curled around him all the more tightly, as if shielding him from the futility of his own longing.

Azriel exhaled slowly. There were knives he'd preferred to this room.

And none of them had glittering chandeliers or a seating chart.

Rhysand frowned, the letter in his hand crinkling ever so slightly as he finally spoke. "It's an invitation—from Lady Liora." He said her name like one might say lightning strike. "She requests our presence at her annual banquet, in celebration of the Spring Court's official renewal... along with the supposed harmony of all courts. She also asks that I remain after the banquet for a diplomatic visit."

Across the room, Feyre—High Lady of the Night Court and currently balancing their ever-curious son on one hip—narrowed her eyes. "Who's Lady Liora?"

Mor stiffened, an unmistakable flicker of something like disapproval—or was it respect?—in her posture. "She's the infamous socialite of Prythian," she said, slowly. "Rhys... no one refuses her invitations."

That, Azriel noted, was true. And yet it was the tone that struck him—not even you went unsaid.

Rhysand rubbed his temples with an exasperated sigh that was only half-convincing. His shadows, ever traitorous, whispered something smug and unprintable into Azriel's ear, and he realized—with no small amount of irritation—that his High Lord was amused.

"I'm well aware," Rhys muttered, as if the letter had singed his fingertips.

Nesta's voice, sharp as ever, cut through the silence. "And why, exactly, is no one allowed to say no to her?"

"Because," Rhysand said, glancing at both Azriel and Cassian with measured weight, "she is Tamlin's cousin. High-blooded and high-born, with ties in both the Dawn and Spring Courts. Her balls are never just parties—they're stages. And every performance is political."

Cassian scoffed. "So, Prythian's prettiest trap."

"No," Mor replied, her smile thin. "Prythian's most effective one."

Azriel said nothing. But somewhere deep in his gut—beneath the blades, the secrets, the scars—he felt the first cold flicker of unease.

Cassian's voice boomed through the room, more brawn than tact, as always. "If she's that famous, how come we've never heard of her before?"

Rhysand didn't look up from the letter. "Because she—and several other high-ranking nobles—were sent to safe houses when Amarantha took the throne. She's only recently returned to public life, after Hybern's defeat."

Nesta let out a dry snort. "So... a coward."

She didn't whisper it. She didn't need to. The word hung in the air like a drawn blade.

Azriel's brow furrowed, jaw tight. He said nothing, but the thought pulsed in the back of his mind—cold and sharp.

Right. Just another pampered court darling who had run at the first sound of trouble, while the rest of them bled for Prythian. He could picture it too easily: the silk-lined carriage, the trembling dramatics, the tearful farewells to dresses left behind.

No. She wasn't like Elain.

Elain, who had stayed. Who had survived.

He pushed the thought aside, hard.

And yet—even as he folded his arms and returned to brooding in the corner—his shadows shifted, restless and uneasy.

Feyre spoke next, tone deceptively mild. "And why, exactly, does she want you to stay after the banquet?"

Rhysand set the letter down with the caution one usually reserved for live explosives. "To begin formal treaty discussions. A renewal of ties between the Spring and Night Courts." He paused, then added with something dangerously close to annoyance, "She also enclosed a very detailed—painfully detailed—list of financial reparations for the damage we supposedly caused."

The room collectively frowned.

Feyre's jaw tightened. "We're not actually agreeing to that... are we?"

Rhysand sighed, long-suffering and faintly tragic, as he looked to his mate and the child cradled in her arms. "I don't want to. Every instinct I have says to tell Tamlin and his court exactly where they can shove their reparations. But..." He ran a hand through his hair. "We are no longer at war. And, inconveniently, peace demands more from us than a sword ever did. Politics, diplomacy—manners, even—are the weapons we must wield now."

Because now, the impulsive consequences of the bargain between the high lord and the high lady had its shackles on them. Rhysand could no longer afford to barge into any fight he wished to protect his home, not when his life was tied to his mate. A foolish mistake he had realised later on, though regretful if he needed to resort to polite company and unbearable balls to prevent danger befalling his family he would take it.

It wasn't pride that made him hesitate, Azriel realized—it was memory. Of screaming, blood-soaked corridors and a bargain sealed in desperation. Of Feyre's body failing under the weight of birthing a boy who now cooed into her collar. Of Nesta's hands steady and unrelenting.

Azriel saw it clearly in Rhys's expression: a man who would burn the world twice over, if he could be sure his mate and son would survive it. But he couldn't. Not anymore.

And in the strange, tentative peace that followed the war, there had been arguments—gods, so many arguments—but fewer threats. Fewer doors slammed. Fewer nights spent wondering if one of them would say something they couldn't come back from.

If there was one thing Rhysand and his razor-tongued sister-in-law agreed upon, it was this: Feyre and Nyx must be safe. At any cost.

Even if that cost came with diamonds, rose petals, and a very pretty diplomatic noose.

He could not—would not—let his pride interfere with his son's future. Rhysand had seen enough ruin to last several lifetimes, and while he bore it well, he had no intention of raising his son beneath the shadow of a blade. Peace was no longer a luxury; it was a necessity. And the Night Court's reputation, ever a delicate thing, was at present more bloodstained than dignified. If the other courts saw them as little more than wolves in velvet, it was time they learned that wolves could dance, too.

"We'll go," Rhysand said at last. "Azriel and I will attend the banquet. And we'll stay after."

He didn't glance at his spymaster—he looked at him. Sharply. Intentionally.

Azriel clenched his jaw. Of course. Another transparent effort to drag him away from the middle Archeron sister. Azriel didn't speak. But he didn't object, either.

Feyre looked between them and asked again, this time with the measured tone of someone who was beginning to suspect far too much, "Do you know her? I mean personally. Can we trust her?"

Mor answered slowly, her tone balanced on a tightrope between truth and diplomacy. "She's not cruel. Spoiled to the core, yes—but not malicious. I stopped going to her parties after a while, though. She's... quite fond of Eris."

Azriel's snarl cut through the air like a blade unsheathed. "And that's who we're trusting? Tamlin's cousin, best friends with Eris?"

Rhysand's smile was all amusement and none of the reassurance. "It's hardly friendship, Azriel. More of a necessity. She, Eris, and I were raised in the same political pens. The highborn children of Prythian's elite were always trotted out together at functions—groomed, really—for future alliances."

Nesta's voice, when it came, was oddly quiet. And sad. "So she was raised to be a broodmare for the High Lords' heirs."

Rhysand didn't contradict her.

He only looked away, his face softening just slightly, though his voice remained level. "Something like that. It's what was expected."

And for a long moment, no one said anything at all.

And so it was decided. With all the elegance of a peace treaty signed in barely veiled irritation, the High Lord and his spymaster were to depart for the Spring Court—to smile politely, drink expensive wine, and endure the sort of political theatrics that made war seem merciful by comparison.

No one dared say it aloud, but everyone in the room felt the weight of what was unspoken: that this banquet would be no ordinary affair. That perhaps Prythian's future would not be written in treaties or battlefields, but in subtle glances across marble halls and words exchanged behind embroidered fans.

And with that, the infamous, brooding, knife-wielding Spymaster of the Night Court—who had survived torture, bloodshed, and centuries of darkness—was sent off not to war, but to wisteria-covered ballrooms and perfumed diplomacy. To the delicate petals and dangerous politics of the Spring Court.

But of course—who knew what arrangements might be made behind closed doors?

Society always did love a good twist.

Chapter Text

6 years after Liora found Tamlin in the forest and restored the Spring Court.

It is widely considered fashionable for a lady to rise with the morning sun, to greet the dawn with birdsong, her hair already arranged in gentle curls, her face a masterpiece of restraint and powder, her body draped in the season’s finest silks as she glides through marbled halls without a single care heavier than a teacup.

At least—that is what polite society likes to believe.

In truth, such a vision does not assemble itself. It must be summoned— forged , even—through chaos, command, and a small army of sleep-deprived staff.

A real lady’s routine begins not with songbirds but with the quiet terror of dawn, long before anyone else in the household dares stir. Lady Liora’s chambers, at this hour, bore a closer resemblance to a battlefield than a boudoir. Powdered footmen darted like startled rabbits, gowns flew from wardrobes in rapid succession, and at least two servants were arguing over the scandalous implications of periwinkle versus sapphire.

“Not the daffodil silk,” Liora announced, arms held aloft as three maids wrestled a corset into submission. “I want something welcoming , not desperate .”

A second later, she tilted her chin for a pearl-drop earring to be fastened, only to frown. “No. The rose quartz. This one makes me look kind .”

“Milady is kind,” one brave attendant offered.

Liora arched a brow. “Now now, where did you hear that rumor, Esme.” she chuckled at the forest nymph. It was of course important a lady knew the names of ever single staff member’s name in her own court. Anything less would be a failure. 

Another barked command for slippers, another for tea— the right tea, gods help you —and by the time the sun had actually risen, Lady Liora had been plucked, powdered, polished, and painted into the very image of aristocratic grace.

Because if one must suffer politics, let it at least be while looking immaculate .

After all, a lady must be presentable at all times. Especially when she was plotting. 

As for Lady Liora, the flurry of activity within her chambers was only the beginning .

She sat poised before her vanity, golden hair falling in meticulously arranged waves down her back, each curl precisely calculated to suggest effortless beauty (a lie she paid five servants to maintain). Her fresh green eyes—freckled with glints of gold, like sunlight through spring leaves—sparkled with a familiar, wicked delight as one of her most trusted maids leaned in to whisper the latest update.

Of course, it must be said— without a shred of doubt—that every true lady keeps her own little network of spies. Society might call them maids, ladies-in-waiting, or minor nobility assigned to her service, but Lady Liora knew better. They were her informants, her whisper-collectors, her scandal-sniffers.

Where a male of high standing might refer to such arrangements as intelligence , ladies called it gossip . But then, ladies had always been better at intelligence anyway.

Liora smirked, the corner of her rose-painted lips lifting in a way that would’ve made most court artists faint and at least one diplomat lose track of his sentences.

Everything, it seemed, was in place. The seating arrangements, the lighting, the imported swanberry wine, the string quartet trained not to flinch when arguments broke out mid-waltz— all of it . Even the Night Court delegation, as whispered in her ear not a moment ago, was en route.

The lords were coming. The dance would begin.

And Lady Liora, ever the perfect hostess, ever the spoiled Jewel of Prythian, had a ball to host. 

Lady Liora walked— glided , rather—through the polished halls of the newly restored Spring Court mansion, her heels tapping a rhythm of command against marble floors that gleamed like water under sunlight. She did not rush; ladies never did. But her pace held the quiet urgency of a general before a siege.

A bolt of silk floated beside her, unspooling mid-air like a ribbon caught in a breeze held by her magic. Sheets of parchment hovered obediently at her side, annotated with sketches of floral arrangements, seating charts, and sharply annotated guest lists that would make any military strategist weep. Her quill, dipped in rose-gold ink, scribbled notes at her dictation with tireless devotion, pausing only when she did.

“No lilies in the east wing,” she said crisply to a wide-eyed servant carrying two armfuls of greenery. “They remind Lord Asten of his late wife. And no one wants tears near the punch bowl. Replace them with violet hyacinths. Symbol of rebirth—let’s pretend we’re all very optimistic.”

Her tone was kind. Almost sweet. And yet no one disobeyed her.

She passed beneath a chandelier she had designed herself—glass blown to resemble blooming branches, with crystal dew suspended mid-fall. It glittered above a room that had once been war-torn, now reborn in golden light, clean lines, and scandal-ready corners perfect for whispered betrayals.

The Spring Court mansion, once a symbol of decay and broken vows, had been remade—not by Tamlin, of course—but by her . Liora had overseen every inch of its resurrection. The drapery, the frescoes, the lighting angles designed to make every noble look half a decade younger. She’d even redrawn the ballroom walls by two degrees to improve acoustics and visibility for dramatic exits.

This was not just décor.

Of course, the beauty of the Spring Court mansion was no accident. Nor was it the work of trembling decorators or simpering architects. Every arch, every corridor, every shimmering mosaic was born first in the ink-stained sketches of Lady Liora herself. After all, a lady had to have an array of skills which for Liora included architecture. 

Yes, the ballroom glittered. Yes, the dining hall was a masterpiece of light and acoustics. But beneath the floral arrangements and golden sconces lay a foundation of unshakable stone—and even more unshakable intent.

Lady Liora had redesigned the Spring Court’s ancestral seat not merely as a palace, but as a fortress dressed in silk.

There were hidden doors tucked behind gallery walls, passages narrow enough for a single body to slip through in silence. Staircases that spiraled nowhere for all but the trained. Reinforced stone woven discreetly beneath ivy-laced facades. Magic-bound thresholds keyed only to her signature, and a wine cellar that—on paper—did not exist.

From the outside, it was a jewel of Prythian. But Lady Liora, ever the realist behind the rouge, had ensured it could very well be the last standing stronghold should another war come storming through their lives.

She had seen enough ruin in childhood to know one never relied on walls simply to look pretty.

A lady, after all, must be prepared for every kind of battle.

And tonight’s battlefield would be lit with chandeliers.

A lady’s version of battlefield preparation. No swords, no blood. Just tastefully lethal upholstery, lighting that flattered her allies, and seating arrangements that might end careers.

“Move the red velvet to the west side,” she murmured, catching a glimpse of the swatches before her. “I want Lord Eris to feel warm enough to sweat.” she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. After all he did favour such colours of passion. 

Lucien Vanserra entered the grand hallway like a man quite used to dodging danger—though, at present, it took the form of levitating fabric swatches and frantic maids rather than swords. A bolt of charmeuse silk nearly clipped his ear as he ducked, weaving around a floating bouquet and sidestepping a huffing footman with a tray of crystal glasses.

And in the eye of the storm stood Lady Liora, as effortlessly poised as a painting that had come to life with opinions.

Lucien smiled. Warmly. Fondly. “I always forget how impressive your elevation magic is, Lili,” he said, eyes flicking to the floating notes and hovering fabrics around her.

She turned at the sound of his voice, dismissing the surrounding servants with a graceful wave. The smile she gave him was softer than the ones she reserved for diplomats—familiar, if not entirely unguarded.

They had grown up together, after all. Two misplaced souls in gilded cages—he, the disowned son of a cruel Autumn Lord, and she, the golden niece of another court entirely. When Lucien had once fled from fire and fury, it was in the Spring Court’s softer lands that he’d sought sanctuary… and found her.

So when she had asked him to come and aid her, he had not taken even a moment to think. 

And now, six years into the slow, often maddening restoration of Spring Court’s dignity, he still found himself surprised by how steady her presence remained. It had taken effort—on both their parts—to make it this far.

She stepped forward to greet him, the long flowing sleeves of her robe-glass gown fluttering around her like mist. The fabric, a blush-gold shade with subtle vines embroidered in shimmering thread, caught the light with every movement. Her gloved hands, adorned in lace, rested lightly on his shoulders as she embraced him.

“Oh, Lucy ,” she teased with a glint in her green-gold eyes. “You know me. A lady should never carry weight in her own hands.”

Lucien chuckled, bowing slightly as he took one of those lace-covered hands in his own and pressed a courtly kiss to its back. “Indeed,” he murmured, his tone half amused, half reverent, he took his time as he let his lips touch her gloved hand.

They were a well-matched pair in that moment—she, the embodiment of courtly elegance; he, the exiled emissary who knew the weight behind her every well-timed smile. Raised within court politics, both understood the game. But unlike many others, they played it with affection. A pity that he was the seventh son. 

Lucien lingered a moment longer over her hand—perhaps out of habit, or perhaps nostalgia—and then, with a small smile, offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to breakfast, my lady.”

She laughed—light, practiced, and far too pretty to be innocent—as she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “As long as you promise not to spill tea on the guest list again,” she said sweetly.

He winced. “That was one time.”

“And yet the Duchess of Tidewater still insists you did it on purpose. ”

—-

The breakfast hall of the Spring Court, once left in ruins and dust, had been restored to something almost noble again. Sunlight filtered through new lattice windows, falling in golden slants across a long whitewood table set with blooming wildflowers, silver spoons, and just enough luxury to suggest that things were trying to be fine.

Tamlin sat at the head of the table, shoulders broader than they’d once been, his expression calmer—but still bearing the faint stiffness of a male long accustomed to snarling and snapping rather than speaking. His beast form lingered in the shadows of his gaze, a tension in his hands as though he hadn’t quite unlearned the claws. But he tried. Or at least, this morning, he was trying.

Lucien, ever the diplomat, took his seat at the corner—angled just right for conversation and tactical exits—while Lady Liora sat opposite, her dress a soft lavender silk with a vine motif that caught in the light like starlight snared in fabric. Her sleeves spilled over the table edge, and her posture—relaxed yet regal—suggested she was exactly where she belonged.

For a brief moment, it felt like the old days.

Almost.

Liora’s gaze lingered, just for a second, on the empty seat to her left. There should have been another voice there. Another laugh. Andras had once sat beside her, always quiet, always steady. His absence pressed at her ribs like tight stays.

She remembered, as she always did in quiet moments, the nights when life had been simpler. 

Young Andras had been her assigned sentinel, tasked with ensuring she did not wander too far or too foolishly. Naturally, this meant she made it a personal mission to do exactly both. He would curse under his breath every time she vanished from the manor grounds, only to find her hours later, barefoot and delighted, laughing among the villagers like she was not the jewel of Prythian but just another girl with dirt on her hem and mischief in her smile.

He never stopped her. Not once.

If anything, he only sighed—and followed.

Most nights ended the same way. Liora, Tamlin, Lucien, and Andras—their little, ill-matched quartet—would end up dancing in the lantern-lit squares of nearby villages, slipping into the rag-tag joy of those who had no titles, no treaties to consider.

 Tamlin, ever reluctant but soft where it mattered, would bring his fiddle. Lucien, for all his grumbling, would charm half the crowd. And Liora—giddy and unbothered—would twirl until her hair came loose and her station meant nothing.

They would return just before dawn, breathless and exhausted, only to be met at the estate gates by Tamlin’s Lady Mother, arms crossed and voice cold as moonlight.

“You,” she would snap at Liora, “were meant to be watched , not encouraged. And Tamlin! You are meant to be an example for her, not join her!”

To which Liora, even then, would curtsy with perfect form and say, “And yet we turned out delightful, didn’t we?”

That had been a different time. A different Tamlin. A different her .

Now, she simply stirred her tea, eyes briefly distant, and said nothing at all.

Fae lived for centuries. Yet some losses refused to age.

Still, she smiled—because a lady must. And she passed the basket of peach scones to Lucien as if nothing had caught in her throat.

“I believe,” she said lightly, spreading honey across her toast, “we can begin collecting the tithe again next month. The farmers have reported stable yields, and the land redistribution initiative appears to be bearing fruit—quite literally.”

Tamlin hummed low in his chest. 

Liora continued “But let’s start calling it a tax. It’s more… in trend, I hear.” Tamlin frowned. 

“Why?”

Liora blinked at him once, then gave a dramatic sigh. “Cousin, it’s the same thing. We’re just rebranding, darling. It’s simply more palatable these days. Besides—no more sending patrols after late payers. Honestly, hunting them down like beasts? It’s so barbaric and so last season. ”

She sipped her tea without flinching. Tamlin looked vaguely affronted.

Lucien chuckled into his cup. “A notice and a warning will do just fine. Less blood. More ink.”

“Exactly,” Liora said with a cheerful nod. “Governance with a smile.”

“Or at least without a growl,” Lucien muttered, giving a pointed look at the High lord across the table. 

Tamlin sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, ever so slightly. “You two are impossible to convince.” shaking his head though still smiling. 

And just like that, for one moment, it was almost the Spring Court she remembered. Tamlin for all his faults had never had a chance to learn what it was like to govern differently, becoming a High lord at a young age without a mentor or a guide, alas that was why Lucien and Liora were here for. 

—-

Liora set down her teacup with a soft clink, brushing an invisible crumb from her skirts as she rose.

“I shall have to excuse myself,” she announced, smoothing the delicate silk along her waist. “Preparations await. Hair to tame, sleeves to adjust, entire courts to conquer via floral placement.”

Tamlin glanced at the sun, still high in the sky, and raised a brow. “Isn’t it a bit early for battle prep ?”

Liora gasped with mock scandal. “Cousin, really . There are tablecloths being pressed as we speak. Men may walk into war with half a plan and one boot on, but a lady walks into a ballroom knowing exactly which duchess she’s about to humiliate with seating arrangements.”

Lucien snorted into his tea.

Tamlin gave a dry smile, leaning back in his chair. “I do sometimes wonder how we ever survived your girlhood. You were a terror.”

“I was delightful,” she corrected sweetly. “You were just too grumpy to appreciate it.”

Lucien added, “You did try to bribe a dressmaker with wine at mere twenty, you were but a child.”

She flicked her hair over one shoulder with theatrical grace. “And the dress was perfect , wasn’t it?”

Tamlin gave a reluctant chuckle. “My Lady Mother would have said you were insufferable.”

Liora’s smile wavered, just a flicker, before she softened it into something warmer. “She also said I’d rule the court one day. Which, technically, I suppose I am.”

Lucien stood, pulling her chair out with an exaggerated bow. “Go, then, Empress of Petals. May your heels be sharp and your enemies seated poorly.”

She laughed—real and light—and offered him a mock curtsey. “And may you , my dear, avoid spilling anything on your lapels tonight.”

With a final teasing glance at both males, she swept from the hall, sleeves trailing behind her like a whispered challenge.

The moment she was gone, silence settled for just a breath.

Tamlin exhaled. “She really is delightful.”

Lucien shrugged. “Terrifying, but yes.”

—-

The night had arrived.

Lady Liora stood before the tall gilded mirror in her bedchamber, the last rays of sunlight slipping past the window and catching in the cascade of gemstones threaded through her hair. Her maids flitted around her in quiet reverence—pinning, smoothing, adjusting—until at last, there was nothing left to fix. Nothing out of place. Nothing that would betray the storm beneath.

Her gown was a masterpiece of deliberate suggestion: ivory silk overlaid with sheer gold-threaded chiffon that shimmered like starlight when she moved. The neckline dipped just enough to be daring, the sleeves long and draped like falling petals. Tiny sapphires were embroidered across the bodice in a sweeping pattern meant to evoke the Spring Court crest—cleverly rearranged to look like blooming thorns.

Her fae ears were adorned with a series of delicate earrings—gold cuffs, sapphire studs, and a single dangling diamond shaped like a drop of dew. Her hair had been coiled and twisted into an intricate style braided with glinting strands of gold chain, woven with minute jewels that caught the light like constellations. Every detail had been chosen, and not a single one was innocent.

She studied her reflection now, tilting her head slightly. She was a vision. No one would see the weight in her chest, the tension in her fingers. No one would see the thunder in her veins.

So, she did what she always did.

She smiled.

The signature smile—the one that launched alliances, shattered egos, and kept every court guessing.

Let them see the jewel. Let them see the careful illusion she crafted over the centuries.

Tonight, she had a ball to host. And the High Lord of the Night Court to negotiate.

Let the games begin.

Chapter Text

The ballroom was nothing short of magnificent.

A vast, vaulted hall of glass and gold, its ceilings soared like a cathedral of light, every arch etched with vines and blossoms that seemed to bloom anew under the chandeliers. The floors were polished to a near mirror-finish, reflecting the swirl of silks and the flicker of candlelight in a thousand fragmented waltzes.

Every detail was deliberate. The marble statues lining the walls—each carved to represent one of the seasonal courts—were subtle in their messaging: the Spring Court, naturally, stood taller and grander than the rest. The long tables along the edges of the room overflowed with fruit pyramids, floral confections, and wine in gleaming crystal decanters. Each display was a celebration of Spring Court’s bounty—its flourishing agriculture, its recovering trade, its return to civility.

It was, quite clearly, not just a ball.

It was a declaration .

The lords had come. From every court. Robes shimmered in Day Court gold, furs lined the Winter Court collars, and the Night Court’s shadows had just begun to slink into the room like trailing ink. But at the heart of it all—spinning slowly beneath the glittering chandeliers—stood Lady Liora.

She dazzled.

Draped in starlit gold, crowned in sapphire and silk, she was a vision of power wrapped in grace. The music paused when she entered, if only because the orchestra forgot themselves for a breath. And then the night resumed, more electric than before.

Nobles swarmed like moths to flame, each one eager to welcome her return to society—some with flattery, some with veiled assessments. She navigated them all like a queen on a chessboard, smiling with perfect charm, offering just enough sweetness to keep them wanting more.

In the midst of it all, she caught sight of a familiar silver crown.

“Vivienne!” she greeted, her face softening as she approached the Lady of Winter.

Vivienne’s eyes lit up as she opened her arms. “You were missed, Liora. Prythian is far duller without your theatrics.”

Liora laughed and gave her a gentle embrace, nodding respectfully to Kallias beside her. “Congratulations, by the way,” she added, glancing at Vivienne’s barely noticeable swell beneath her velvet gown. “Truly. We must have tea soon—I have an entirely impractical set of baby gifts I’m simply dying to give someone.”

Vivienne smiled, her voice warm. “You always did have excellent timing.”

They shared a brief touch of hands, one moment of real affection amid the sea of political performance, and then Liora was swept back into motion—gliding, smiling, commanding.

The Spring Court had opened its doors once more.

And Lady Liora was ensuring the world knew it had not just survived.

It had returned to glory .

—-

She turned, her smile shifting into place like clockwork—flawless, glittering, and entirely of her own making. It was a mask honed over centuries, crafted with precision from pearls and lies, and it never faltered.

But then—

“Lady Liora,” came the drawling, silken voice from behind her.

She turned just as Eris Vanserra extended his hand, every inch the picture of highborn protocol. The heir to the Autumn Court stood in a tailored jacket of ember-red and burnished gold, a polished cane at his side more for flair than function. He bowed just enough to be polite and not an inch more.

And of course, he was smirking .

That signature smirk—one part wolfish, two parts fox—curled across his face with infuriating ease. There was a glint in his amber eyes, not of joy, but amusement. Calculation. Mischief. The kind that said I know exactly what you’re thinking, and I’m already two steps ahead.

She took his hand with equal ceremony, the corner of her mouth lifting in mirror to his expression.

“Lord Eris,” she said lightly, her tone wrapped in silk and spice. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to bow.”

“I never forget things I can do for a lady as fair as you,” he replied smoothly, pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles, holding just a touch too long.

They stood there, two predators in pearls and velvet, exchanging pleasantries sharp as polished blades. He leaned in just slightly, their movements too practiced to be mistaken for affection— but just familiar enough to raise an eyebrow or two from across the room.

She had missed the fox, infuriating creature that he was.

And judging by the way his eyes glittered, so had he.

They moved like a well-rehearsed lie.

Lady Liora and Eris Vanserra glided into the centre of the ballroom, drawing attention without asking for it—two glittering figures dressed in fire and gold. Every step was perfectly timed, every gesture rehearsed over decades of court training. They were not simply dancing. They were performing —for the room, for each other, for the carefully watching eyes tucked behind fans and goblets.

Their movements were a study in contrasts: his sharp, fluid, predatory grace; her soft, flowing elegance with just enough steel to match him step for step. The hem of her gown swept in graceful arcs, the gold thread catching candlelight like wildfire. His hand rested at the small of her back with infuriating ease, their hands brushing with just enough pressure to speak volumes.

They had both been bred for this. Raised among courtiers who traded affection for influence, who taught children to waltz before they learned to trust. And they thrived in it.

As Eris spun her expertly, leaning in close, he murmured—low enough for only her to hear, his breath brushing the shell of her ear:

“Good to see you back in the social scene, Liora.”

She smiled then. A rare one. Not the airy confection she wore for nobles and ambassadors, but something real—sharp, knowing, just shy of a smirk.

He remembered that smile. She only ever wore it when she was hunting.

“A lady must maintain an air of innocence,” she murmured sweetly, her eyes flashing. “Though with you, I suppose there’s no need to pretend.”

He gave a low laugh, twirling her into another turn as the orchestra swelled.

“I hear Prythian has been in chaos in my absence,” she continued, her voice smooth as wine. “Particularly the Autumn Court. Do tell me, Eris—when do you plan to make your move? Lord Beron’s scowl is starting to wrinkle. It’s rather unpleasant décor.”

His jaw tightened—just a flicker—as their steps brought them close again. Another pivot, another brush of fingers against silk.

“It would’ve been a lot easier,” he hissed under his breath, “if you’d accepted my offer, Liora.”

His hand slid over her bare shoulder as they turned—soft, lingering, far too familiar.

Ah yes. The offer .

His oh-so-strategic proposal of marriage—framed in flattery, laced in gain. Beneficial, certainly. For him .

She tilted her head, lashes lowering over glittering green-gold eyes. “And trade my freedom for a title and your father’s temper?” Her voice was all velvet and venom. “Tempting.”

He chuckled darkly. “You wound me.”

She smiled again, that same dangerous curve of her mouth. “Only where it counts.”

And still—they danced. Perfect. Poised. Predatory.

While the room watched and whispered.

For Lady Liora—who had everything a court could offer, every title, every diamond, every whisper wrapped around her gloved finger—the idea of binding herself to the Autumn Court , with all its blood-stained traditions and patriarchal temper, was less a future and more a punishment dressed as privilege. She would rather set the whole thing ablaze than be shackled to its history.

As Eris dipped her in one fluid, show-stealing motion, his hand slid lower than decorum allowed, his nose brushing the curve of her neck with feigned intimacy . For any blushing maiden it was a move breathtaking, for Lady Loira it was a familiar tease.  The crowd around them saw only flirtation—how elegant, how dangerous, how divine. But beneath the surface, it was anything but.

Her voice, when it came, was soft enough to be mistaken for sweetness, though her eyes sparkled with frost.

“Please, Eris,” she murmured, lips barely moving. “You know I don’t do charity work.”

His brows twitched, faintly amused.

She smiled. Cold. Radiant. Deceptive.

“And besides,” she added, her voice like silk drawn over a blade, “I’d sooner slit your throat than wed myself to any lord. ”

She straightened in his arms with precise grace, the perfect hostess again. The perfect liar .

Eris’s chuckle was low and rich as they resumed the steps of the dance. “My, my,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “Still got your fangs, I see.”

Her smile widened, utterly unbothered. “Darling,” she whispered, “they’re sharper now.”

And still—they danced.

Elegant. Unshaken. As if threats were simply another form of flirtation.

As the final notes of their dance drew to a close, Eris stepped back with theatrical precision. He bowed low, catching her gloved hand in his and pressing a kiss to it—lingering, of course, just long enough to be inappropriate by anyone else’s standard.

She curtsied in kind, graceful as ever, her smile still polished to perfection. But before he released her hand, he murmured, voice low and pointed, “My mother wishes to arrange tea with you.”

Her expression didn’t falter—but her eyes shifted, sharp and alert beneath the gilded gloss of courtly delight.

Ah. Tea.

Everyone in polite society knew that tea was never simply tea. It was never about pastries or polite weather. Lords might carry the titles and roar in council chambers—but the real maneuvering happened in the parlours, over clinking china and murmured observations. While lords went to their boyish ventures picking a fight with any rival they might find it was the lady wives who held the courts together. And no one held court over a teapot quite like the Lady of Autumn.

Delicate from a distance, tragic in the tales, and terrifying once one got close enough to count the rings on her fingers. A woman draped in bruises—whose smile could bless or bury, depending on the steep of the brew.

She had been one damn good mentor, if one to use a crude phrase. Or perhaps something more cunning—a mirror polished over time, reflecting all the ways a woman might survive a court built to destroy her. After all not every lady was cut to survive Lord Beron and raise seven sons. 

Lady Liora’s smile returned, slow and gleaming. “How could I refuse?”

Their eyes met—fox to fox, both raised in houses that trained their daughters with etiquette in one hand and daggers in the other.

“Do tell her,” Liora added as Eris turned to go, “I shall bring the latest gossip.”

Eris chuckled. “She’d expect nothing less.”

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter Text

 It is often said—by those with a tendency for facts over delicacy—that in the wild, it is the female who hunts while the male lounges in the sun, proudly chewing the largest share of her kill. High society, for all its embroidery and etiquette, has always insisted it rose above such animal instincts.

And yet, in Prythian, the illusion wore rather thin.

For all the silks and rings and whispered titles, the courts were not so different from the wild. The predators simply wore cologne. And in this grand ballroom, beneath chandeliers and harpsichords, it was Lady Liora who moved like the huntress.

Her smile dazzled. Her laugh charmed. But her eyes—ah, her eyes—had fixed on something far more satisfying than compliments and pastries.

Across the room, tall and dark in finely cut midnight blue, the High Lord of the Night Court stood like a shadow given form.

He was not subtle.

Violet eyes followed her with studied ease, trailing the curve of her spine, the fall of her sleeves, the arch of her brow when she pretended not to see him. To any lesser woman, it might have felt intrusive. But Lady Liora was not lesser. She was a creature of fans and daggers, and she knew a challenge when she saw one. He was here for business. 

So she turned, ever so slightly, allowing the light to catch the jewels in her hair just so, the train of her gown to sweep in a precisely exaggerated flourish.

In Prythian, diplomacy happened rarely at the negotiating table and far more frequently under the stars—on secluded balconies where the air was cooler and the wine was stronger. That was where courts shifted, where promises were whispered behind fans, where a well-placed touch could do what entire war strategies could not.

And so, as Lady Liora sipped her wine and offered a laugh at some lesser lord’s joke, she was already calculating the angle of the balcony door, the weight of her fan, and the likelihood that the Night Court’s Lord would follow it to her.

Because the hunt had begun.

And she had always preferred fresh prey.

They moved through the crowd like opposing stars caught in the same orbit—separate, luminous, and fated to collide.

It was Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, who extended his arm. The gesture was smooth, courtly— measured. And Lady Liora, ever the mistress of performance, placed her gloved hand upon his with the ease of someone who knew the eyes of a hundred courtiers followed her every step.

They made their exit in the name of air —as was custom, as was code.

The balcony awaited them: carved white stone draped in ivy, cooled by the hush of spring air. Beyond it, the newly restored gardens unfurled under the silver light of the moon, every rose and ripple in the fountain positioned just so beneath starlight. The night hummed with crickets and politics.

Rhysand stood beside her, his posture relaxed but never careless. His gaze swept the horizon, though not without appreciation for the view closer at hand.

“A fine banquet, Lady Liora,” he said at last, his voice a perfect balance of charm and authority. “The Night Court appreciates the invitation.”

Liora sipped her wine delicately, then flicked open her fan with a sharp, graceful motion that sliced the air with a whisper of silk. Her smile was the kind painted onto portraits—timeless, poised, and very slightly amused.

“And my thanks,” she replied, “for the generous financial reparations you’ve sent. Oh, and the personal gifts. The jewellery, in particular—your taste, High Lord, is as priceless as ever.”

Rhysand inclined his head, lips curling in a knowing smile.

“I thought it fitting,” he said, “a gesture of goodwill. And a reminder that peace between our courts benefits us all. ” His gaze drifted over the gardens. “I must say… you’ve done a remarkable job with the Spring Court.”

Liora gave a dramatic sigh, the kind that would have sounded delicate if not for the sinful smirk curling on her lips. She rolled a grape across her tongue with slow, theatrical mischief, eyes glittering like a cat just before the pounce.

“A true shame you left the social scene before I entered it,” she drawled, voice silk over sin. “You and I both know… it would have been far more fun to explore together.”

The implication hung between them like perfume—light, lingering, and undeniably provocative.

After all, behind locked doors and beneath the powdered civility of polite society, every heir knew the truth. The courts whispered of treaties by day and tasted temptation by night. Rivalries were blood-deep, yes—but so were the indulgences. And one might say, with a smirk and the right vintage of wine, that every heir had sampled one another at one point or another… sometimes all at once.

Before her debut, it had been Rhysand and Eris who ruled such soirées—legendary for the sort of gatherings not recorded in court minutes but remembered in blushes and bruises. The High Lord of the Night Court had once shared more than a few indulgences and females with her cousin Tamlin—though neither ever confirmed nor denied the specifics.

Fae, after all, had appetites. And very little shame.

Rhysand, now High Lord in truth and menace, chuckled low in his throat. That unmistakable look gleamed in his violet eyes—a flash of memory, amusement, and dangerous charm all coiled into one.

“You would have no such curiosity,” he murmured, “if you hadn’t thrown a tantrum the moment our fathers began negotiating our betrothal.”

Ah. So he was still salty about that.

Liora took another measured sip of her wine, eyes gleaming behind the rim of her goblet. She had almost forgotten that long-ago proposal— almost . It had been another clumsy attempt at court diplomacy, one of those doomed ideas hatched by fathers in council chambers over brandy and bruised pride. A union to “heal the rift” between the Spring and Night Courts.

She was barely a girl. He was older than her, already all quiet menace and brooding charm. And she—well.

Liora, for all her polish now, had been something of a difficult child . Too clever by half, too opinionated, and far too unafraid to scream in lace.

She remembered the meeting vividly: the High Lord of the Night Court’s heir arriving in all his cool, collected glory… and her, promptly bursting into tears and calling him a monster in front of three High Lords and a very startled staff.

The engagement had not survived the afternoon.

Then again, it had not been the first arrangement she had dissolved with a well-timed tantrum and an expertly thrown tea set.

Being known as a spoiled brat was, in her estimation, vastly preferable to being shipped off like a decorative hostage.

And judging by Rhysand’s smile now, he remembered every detail.

She hummed thoughtfully, fanning herself once before giving him a slow, sweet smile that did not reach her eyes.

“Oh please, my lord,” she said airily, voice dripping with false innocence. “Your court is highly undesirable for a lady of my disposition.”

Rhysand raised a brow. “And what disposition would that be?”

She fluttered her lashes just once, like a dagger curtsying.

“The kind,” Liora said smoothly, her fan fluttering once, “that prefers not to live under mountains. Though , I hear your court is quite different now? A secret city, tucked away like a lover behind closed doors.”

Rhysand’s violet gaze sobered. “We try.”

She chuckled then—soft, melodic, but her words landed like glass splinters.

“Oh my, I doubt the revelation that you’ve poorly governed half your territory while lounging in a hidden city will do wonders for your court’s reputation.”

His spine straightened. Only slightly. But she noticed.

“Please,” she went on, casually swirling her wine, “perhaps if you hadn’t abandoned the social scene so prematurely , you might’ve known better. Rhys.”

The name dropped between them like a challenge. No title. Just sharp familiarity.

Her voice turned lighter, sweeter. That dangerous tone she reserved for smiling executions.

“Your court is crumbling. No one wants to trade with Velaris. Not openly, anyway. The seasonal courts—especially Summer and Winter—are furious with you. That… petty little act of vengeance your mate executed? It cost massive displacement, burned a viable agricultural corridor, and shattered a longstanding trade route. Rather inconvenient for those of us who eat.”

Rhysand said nothing. But his jaw flexed.

She leaned in slightly, her tone now a purr wrapped in politics.

“Kallias, in particular, is livid. You see, the Winter Court relied rather heavily on Spring Court exports before the whole place was lit on fire for… what was it again? Love? Justice? A dramatic gesture, perhaps?”

His eyes narrowed, but Liora only smiled brighter.

“And naming a human girl with barely eighteen years of fae awareness as High Lady, when there were dozens— hundreds —of court-trained females with centuries of diplomatic experience?” She gave a mock wince. “Darling. That did not go down well with the high-ranking noble ladies. I fear your mate’s reputation, much like your diplomatic standing, is… how shall I put it?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

“Less than favourable .”

She said it all with such elegance—such radiant poise—that an onlooker might think they were discussing the weather. Only the flicker in Rhysand’s gaze betrayed the weight of her words. That, and the way his shadows shifted at his heels, darker than before.

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed, the violet darkening like storm clouds behind glass.

“That’s rather bold of you, Lili ,” he said, the nickname laced with sharp familiarity—an intimacy that cut more than it comforted.

But Lady Liora, ever composed, simply plucked another grape from her glass bowl and rolled it across her tongue with the nonchalance of a woman entirely unbothered by High Lords or veiled threats.

“Ah, don’t be so dull , Rhysand,” she replied lightly, her tone breezy as spring wind through thorns. “I invited you here for peace—if nothing else, for the memory of your sister. She was… a good friend. One of the few who managed to survive all the boring courtiers and insufferable suitors.”

Rhysand inhaled sharply.

Once upon a time , when the world was younger and friendships had not yet shattered and when Rhysand and Tamlin had still been friends, Liora and his sister had been inseparable. She had adored Liora’s wit, her irreverent tongue, the way she turned every ball into a battlefield and every flirtation into a negotiation. She had called her the golden tongued serpent , and meant it as praise.

Liora turned her face slightly toward the moonlight now, smiling—graceful and cunning in one impossible expression.

“Although,” she continued, drawing out the word like a ribbon, “even my balls may not be enough to salvage the reputation you’ve so thoroughly ruined for your court.”

She gave a small, perfectly measured curtsy—mocking and maddening in its poise.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she added, her golden hair catching the light in one last bright flicker, “I believe Tarquin has requested a dance.”

And just like that, she was gone—slipping through the doors like a starlet exiting the stage, trailed by silk and whispers.

Rhysand watched her go, his jaw tight until he reached for another grape and popped it into his mouth with an air of resigned amusement. As always she had the finest taste…

She had been eating them all evening. Equal parts theatre and message.

Every fruit, every wine, every perfectly sculpted table was a quiet reminder to the courts: Spring thrives. Spring feeds .

He watched her go—watched the sway of silk, the flicker of gold, the way the room bent subtly around her like she was not merely a hostess, but the axis of the entire evening.

Her ball might not fix the damage—not entirely. Reputations were fragile things, and alliances more fickle still. But Lady Liora had reminded them all tonight that the Spring Court still knew how to flourish , how to feed , how to entertain . And, most of all, how to survive .

No, the ball would not mend Prythian.

But having her ?

Her , with her fan and her teeth and her glittering lies?

That might.

If she could restore the ruined Spring Court and its High Lord in mere years…

Rhysand smiled faintly to himself, another grape between his fingers.

She had always been a strategist in silk gloves.

And if all went to plan— his plan— Prythian’s golden jewel would soon be tied, legally and publicly, to the Night Court.

To his spymaster.

And Lady Liora, for all her grace and glitter, would be his sharpest diplomatic weapon yet.

Chapter Text

Liora

A lady , as everyone in polite society well understood, must possess an appreciation for three essential things: excellent alcohol, impeccable tailoring, and the ability to see value where others saw none.

After all, even diamonds—those glittering darlings of courtship and coronation—began their lives buried in the dirt. It was only the eye of the discerning that transformed them into power.

Lady Liora had, over the centuries, honed that eye to an art form.

Now, seated in her private study with one elegantly crossed leg and an expression of amused scrutiny, she examined the jewellery Rhysand had sent from the Night Court.

Her study, like the rest of the estate, had been remade under her direction: high-vaulted ceilings painted in soft dusk tones, ivory bookshelves lined with titles in seven languages, and a roaring hearth trimmed in veined black marble. Heavy velvet curtains—emerald, of course—hung open to let in the moonlight, and a silver tea set sat steaming on a side table, untouched.

Before her, on a table of polished darkwood, lay an open velvet box of jewellery. Rings, earrings, a collar-necklace encrusted with starlit sapphires and onyx stones— Night Court finery , unmistakable in its dark elegance.

Liora leaned forward, a precision loupe raised to one eye, her gloved fingers steady as she turned the necklace beneath the magnifier.

“Hm,” she murmured, lips pursed. “At least he didn’t send rubies again. I do hate being pelted with metaphors.”

She examined the clasp, the gemstone cuts, the metalwork—a whisper of a smile curving her lips. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Magical filigree worked into the silver, designed to reflect not light, but shadow —a charming little boast, if unsubtle.

Of course, she knew exactly what this was.

A gesture of peace, yes. A bribe, absolutely. A test? Most certainly.

She tilted the necklace once more, watching how the onyx stones seemed to catch her reflection in pieces.

Typical, she thought. Even their gifts see everything but say nothing.

Still, it was beautiful.

And Liora had never been one to reject beauty—especially when it came with a challenge tied in ribbon.

She smiled to herself, gently closing the box.

“Oh, Rhysand,” she murmured. “What lovely bait .”

She plucked up a slender jeweller’s loupe and placed it to one eye, adjusting it with the care of a surgeon. Beside her rested a small set of precision tweezers, a gemstone gauge, a metal loupe, and a charm-crafted scribing wand that shimmered faintly with magical detection.

“Mm,” she murmured, rotating one of the rings between her fingers. “Good clarity. Pity the setting looks like it was designed by someone who thinks filigree is a substitute for taste.”

She moved on, studying the clasp of a brooch through her magnifier. The craftsmanship was solid— almost refined—but something about it tugged at her memory.

Another murmured sigh “Hewn City silver,” she noted aloud, brows furrowing. “Mined deep, poorly refined. Crafted in Velaris… and clearly without outside influence.” She set the brooch down with a soft click and reclined in her chair, gaze flicking over the rest of the collection.

It was high-quality work. It was also terribly outdated .

Centuries behind the new court trends. Too heavy in detail. Too afraid to be bold. And for all its polish, it screamed of a city that had been hidden away far too long—its aesthetics preserved in amber rather than evolved.

It was telling, really.

When polite society whispered that a lady’s love of jewellery was mere vanity, it only confirmed their idiocy.

For Lady Liora, jewels were never just gifts. They were information —shaped, polished, and offered up on velvet cushions. A single necklace could tell more truth than a dozen diplomats.

And this particular collection—courtesy of Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court—told her more than he likely ever intended.

She turned the pendant between her fingers once more, inspecting the metal with cool precision. Hewn City silver—dense, heavy, and unforgiving. Clearly mined through gruelling labour, likely by those who had no choice but to serve. Then sent to Velaris to be shaped, adorned, and sold as though it had not come from beneath a mountain of blood and shadow.

That distinction, that economic segregation , was damning.

Heavy labour in the dark. Refinement in the light. A tale as old as Prythian itself.

It was all there, in the clasp. In the weight. In the design that tried too hard to say civilised while carrying the stench of something very much still fractured.

If Rhysand thought this was diplomacy, he had misjudged his audience.

She sighed again—tired, more than anything. Not at the gift, but at the pattern it revealed. A court so desperate to appear unified, they failed to see the cracks widening beneath their feet.

Velaris, for all its famed elegance, had been isolated for too long. Stagnant in its secrecy. Liora doubted a single noblewoman outside the Night Court would willingly wear such a piece. Not because it was ugly—it wasn’t—but because it felt like a relic. A remnant of a city frozen in amber while the rest of the world had moved on.

And really, what use was a gift if it said we have not changed at all ?

She placed the necklace back into the box and closed it gently, her movements as measured as a court ruling.

She picked up the necklace once more, studied the clasp, and then shook her head. “Isolation does nothing for taste.”

Then she stood, smoothing the front of her gown, and murmured—mostly to herself:

“Fashion changes. Courts fall. Only fools fail to notice the difference.”

A beat.

Then a sigh.

“It’s not my court,” she said crisply, removing the magnifier and setting it down. “ Not my problem.”

With a flick of her fingers, she summoned a parchment and a quill, scribbled out a brief note, and tucked it atop the collection.

“Send it to the Day Court,” she instructed a passing maid without looking up. “See if Helion’s lapidary guild can salvage it. Perhaps they can remount it into something wearable. ”

And with that, Lady Liora rose, stretching her limbs with lazy elegance and no small amount of disdain.

Jewels, after all, were meant to be powerful—like the women who wore them.

And these?

Poorly crafted though they may have been, even the roughest gem held the promise of brilliance—and Lady Liora, if nothing else, had always possessed an excellent eye for potential.

After all, was it not the hallmark of a truly accomplished lady… to repair the messes that lords so reliably left behind?

Azriel

Azriel growled, the sound low and unrestrained, like it had clawed its way out from some ancient place in his chest.

“You want me to have an arranged marriage,” he bit out, shadows lashing at the corners of the room, “with the spoiled cousin of fucking Tamlin ?”

The air in Rhysand’s guest wing study shifted. His shadows widened, siphons glowing faintly, the magic he usually kept in careful check sparking at the edges of his skin. Books rustled. A paperweight cracked in two.

But Rhysand didn’t look up.

He sat behind the desk with infuriating calm, his pen gliding smoothly over parchment—inking another line of the settlement Lucien had sent, diplomatic and neutral, but written with the precision of a blade. The proposed alliance. The marriage agreement. The signature lines left open and waiting.

“I don’t know why you’re so angry, brother,” he said mildly, eyes still on the contract. “You’ve always wanted to be treated as an equal among the nobility. You should rejoice. This is a typical Tuesday for a nobleman.”

Azriel’s laugh was hollow and sharp. “A Tuesday doesn’t usually come with a leash.”

Rhysand arched a brow at that, still not looking at him. “Don’t be dramatic. I didn’t say leash. I said marriage . Entirely different thing. One is far more bothersome.”

“This is politics, not marriage,” Azriel snapped, jaw clenched. “She’s the Jewel of Prythian . A manipulative court princess who has no idea how the world works outside of her soft silks.”

Rhysand finally set the pen down.

And looked at him.

“She’s also the most strategically placed noblewoman in Prythian. Dawn and Spring Court lineage. Backed by Lucien, whispered to by Helion, and adored by enough lords and ladies to start a minor rebellion if she so much as coughs in the wrong direction.”

Azriel’s wings twitched. His shadows pulsed.

“And you think binding her to me will make her obedient?”

Rhysand smiled slowly. “Oh, Cauldron, no. I’m counting on her being the opposite.”

He leaned back, gaze gleaming with something Azriel did not find reassuring.

“She’ll challenge you. Probably humiliate you. Possibly throw things.”

Azriel’s glare could have scorched ink.

“But,” Rhysand continued smoothly, “she will not let our court fall. She cares too much about power to be on the losing side.”

There was silence then. Long. Heavy. Azriel’s shadows slithered over the corners of the desk, and Rhysand merely waited.

Azriel’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

“What about Elain ?”

The name tore out of him—raw, unguarded, too sharp to hide.

Rhysand finally looked up from the document, gaze cold, precise, and far older than the grin he often wore.

“Elain,” he said flatly, “has a mate.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, shadows hissing at his shoulders.

“I am not ,” Rhysand continued, voice like frost creeping up glass, “risking Lucien’s allegiance or his animosity. Not now. Not after everything. And you—” he paused, tone slicing deeper “— you , brother, need to move on.”

Azriel opened his mouth again, but Rhysand’s eyes narrowed— High Lord narrowed—and it stopped him mid-breath.

“I am your High Lord, Azriel,” Rhysand said, voice soft in that terrifying way only command can be. “This is a political sacrifice. One for the betterment of our court. I will not hear more objections. You are to wed Lady Liora. That is final.”

Azriel’s wings twitched, his snarl low and sharp as he shook his head.

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, expression shifting to something far more amused.

“Oh, don’t be so grim, brother. Maybe you’ll grow to like her.”

Azriel’s lip curled. “I doubt it.” He snarled. “She’s a spoiled brat ,” he spat. “An arrogant, preening noble girl who thinks every male will bow to her feet  just because she’s pretty.”

Rhysand chuckled, a quiet, infuriating sound. “Well, that too. But at least she’s not unpleasant to look at. You’ll manage. You could do much worse.”

Azriel averted his gaze, nostrils flaring, shadows curling in tight.

He didn’t respond.

—

After the meeting with Rhysand, Azriel all but stormed out of the manor’s east wing, the door clicking shut behind him with more restraint than he felt. He needed air. Space. Distance from the suffocating scent of ink, old paper, and command masquerading as conversation.

Fuck Rhysand. Fuck the court. Fuck their twisted, glittering politics.

The fury pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat—tight, fast, unrelenting. That his High Lord had spoken those words so casually, so coldly: You are to wed Lady Liora. That is final.

As if she were an asset.

As if he were.

He clenched his jaw, his shadows restless against his skin, reacting to the rage he could barely contain. Azriel would never— could never —tolerate a female like her. Arrogant, spoiled, self-obsessed. The kind who sneered at shadows and courted power with honeyed lies. Born into silk and never once touched by suffering. She had not seen war, hidden like some precious jewel, and had not known what suffering looked like. 

He hated everything she stood for. She was the polished emblem of the nobility that had always looked down on him. The kind that never saw his scars—only his silence.

And yet—his steps faltered.

He had wandered blindly, breath tight, until he reached the gardens.

The Spring Court gardens had always been lush, but now, under the cool silver light of the moon, they were near dreamlike—vines coiled around marble archways, blossoms glowing faintly with dew, stars tangled in the trees.

And there—at the heart of it—stood a figure bathed in moonlight.

Lady Liora. His shadows whispered as if he needed the clarification. 

She walked slowly, fingertips brushing the petals of a pale orchid, her touch reverent, almost absentminded. Her gown was a vision of gold—soft, fluid, as though spun from light itself—and it shimmered with every quiet step she took along the stone path. Jewels glittered at her throat, her ears, her wrists: emeralds and citrines nestled into delicate chains, not gaudy, but chosen to match the green-gold glint of her eyes.

And her hair—Cauldron, her hair —a cascade of burnished gold, braided with tiny chains and fresh flowers, spilling over her shoulders like the sun had never set.

Azriel stopped. Forgotten how to breathe.

For one damning second, he simply stared.

She was… breathtaking.

And everything he resented.

His hands curled into fists.

Perfect. Of course she would look like this. Like a portrait come to life, like the very image of what power without pain looked like. She was the exact kind of female who had always believed she was above him—soft hands, sharp tongue, and not a trace of blood under her nails.

He nearly turned away.

And then—

Just as he was about to leave, or perhaps simply curse the gods—he heard it.

A voice. Low, delicate, and cool as dew settling on morning grass.

“You know,” it said, lilting with mild amusement, “it’s improper for a male to stare at a lady at this hour without announcing himself.”

Chapter Text

It was a truth universally acknowledged that any meeting held beneath the moonlight in a labyrinthine garden between an unchaperoned lady and a gentleman was destined to breed nothing but scandal.

And so, it went without saying that such an encounter—unguarded, unsupervised, and thoroughly ill-advised —could only ever be described as a mistake .

​​Caught with no graceful avenue of retreat, Azriel cleared his throat—sharp, awkward, and thoroughly unpractised in the art of being seen . Words tangled in his mouth like thorns, refusing to fall into proper formation as the golden-haired beauty before him turned to regard him fully.

She stood poised beneath the moonlight, every inch the image of dangerous refinement, her amused smile framed by lips far too clever, and those forest-green eyes—flecked with gold and mischief—watching him as if she already knew how this conversation would end.

He clenched his jaw.

He hated her. Her poise, her pride, her endless ability to look unbothered while he simmered with irritation. But he could not— absolutely could not —afford to be rude to her. Not now. Not with what Rhysand had told him. Not when their names would soon be inked side by side on a document that bound their fates tighter than any blade or bargain.

So, with all the effort of a male who had survived centuries of torture but not a single etiquette lesson, Azriel forced civility into his spine.

And tried—if nothing else—to be courteous.

At least on the surface.

“My apologies,” Azriel said stiffly, the words dragging over his tongue like rusted iron. “I wasn’t aware you were here, my lady.”

The title sounded bitter in his mouth. Too formal. Too forced.

She didn’t turn to face him, but he saw the slow curve of her lips—a delighted, low chuckle escaping them like silk slipping through gloved fingers. The sound was light, feminine… and yet it made his shadows shift uneasily, curling tighter around his shoulders.

“I would hope,” she said, her tone full of mock-injury, “that the infamous Spymaster of the Night Court is better at noticing his surroundings than this .”

He said nothing—only watched.

Watched as she stepped deeper into the garden’s heart, moonlight gilding her golden hair, her gown whispering over the stones like trailing light. She stopped before an orchid—its petals a pale blush, delicate and trembling at the touch of the breeze.

She lifted one hand, slender and elegant, and reached for it with reverent grace.

The picture was perfect: a lady in moonlight, fingers brushing the blossom like a lover’s cheek.

And then— snip .

She snapped the stem clean.

The sound was crisp, quiet.

Like a neck breaking.

Azriel’s eyes widened before he could help it, something cold settling in his gut.

She turned at last, holding the orchid in her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She smiled then—graceful, composed, radiant.

And entirely terrifying .

Noticing his surprise—no, discomfort , she would say—Lady Liora tilted her head ever so slightly, the orchid still caught between her fingers like a fragile truth.

“It was growing quite differently than the others,” she said with a sweet, practiced smile. “It disturbed the coherence. It had to be dealt with.”

The words were delivered as though they were the most reasonable thing in the world. As if dealing with things was merely another part of garden maintenance—like pruning hedges or repotting lilies.

Azriel’s blood turned cold. Then hot. Then boiling beneath his skin.

His wings twitched, shadows writhing tighter, his rage rising before he could stop it.

“So,” he said, voice low and lethal, “you believe that just because something is different , it’s meant to be dealt with ?”

She blinked at him, confused—not frightened, not even particularly insulted. Simply… bemused. Like he was misreading a poem.

That made it worse.

He didn’t see a delicate noblewoman anymore. He saw every council room that had fallen silent when he entered. Every sneer tucked behind a wine glass. Every courtier who looked at his scars and saw a weapon , an ill-bred bastard mutt,  not a male.

The way they had always looked at him.

Exactly how she had just looked at that orchid.

“Oh my,” she murmured, tilting her head just so—an angle of feigned innocence honed to weaponized precision. “Have I upset you, perhaps? After all… it’s only a flower.”

Her voice was light, nearly playful. But the gleam in her eyes? That was anything but innocent.

Azriel halted, muscles coiled beneath his skin. For a moment, he questioned himself. Had he overreacted? Had he just snapped at a woman for snapping a flower ?

No—he couldn’t let himself be baited. He needed to control it. To breathe. Rhysand had made it very clear that any further insubordination would not be tolerated.

And Lady Liora, ever perceptive, seemed to sense his hesitation like a scent on the wind.

Before he could retreat into silence, she extended her arm toward him—delicate, elegant, and thoroughly disarming.

“Come,” she said sweetly. “I find myself in need of a chaperone. And I wish to walk the garden. It is rather beautiful under starlight… don’t you think?”

The way she said it, as though it were the most natural request in the world, made his teeth grind.

He looked at her—at the smug, self-satisfied curve of her mouth, the mischief dancing behind those green-gold eyes—and wanted to refuse. Wanted to turn away. Wanted to see that expression vanish from her face like mist in sunlight.

She was exactly the sort of female who had always believed no one would dare deny her.

And yet—

He remembered what Rhysand had said. Do not provoke her. Not yet.

Lady Liora was known for many things: charm, beauty, scandalous influence, and when thwarted— tantrums of near diplomatic consequence. He had read the reports himself. Broken arrangements. Shattered alliances. A minor noble once exiled for less than a cold stare.

So, with a quiet snarl under his breath, Azriel forced his shoulders to straighten and offered his arm—stiffly, unwillingly, but with just enough grace to be court-acceptable.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

And together, they began their moonlit stroll.

Fine , he thought bitterly. If I must marry her, I may as well start learning what brand of nightmare she truly is.

—

There were few things left in the world that could surprise a male who had built his life on torture, shadows, and secrets—

but, as it happened, the indefatigable stamina of a supposedly frail lady promenading across several acres of manicured garden was evidently one of them.

Azriel cast a sidelong glance at the fragile-looking lady beside him—flawless posture, serene expression, not a single bead of sweat on her brow, nor the faintest hitch in her breath.

It was beginning to trouble him.

What he hadn’t quite realised—until he was several leagues deep into winding hedges and curated pathways—was just how vast these noble gardens truly were. Larger, in fact, than some of the Illrian training camps, and yet Lady Liora strolled through them with all the effortless grace of a duchess attending a salon.

He, meanwhile, was beginning to wonder if this moonlit promenade was meant to test his endurance .

And yet… it had been quiet.

Not awkward, not heavy—simply quiet. Which, frankly, surprised him more than anything else.

He had expected—no, braced for a constant stream of courtly nonsense, idle gossip, or some predictably highborn commentary on fashion and flower beds. But the lady beside him had offered none of it. She seemed, inexplicably, content to walk in silence, matching his pace without complaint, her hand still resting lightly in the crook of his arm.

That, at least, was tolerable.

More than tolerable, even. It was welcome .

He had no desire to talk to her. No desire to trade words with a woman who thought her sharpest weapon was a fan and a marriage contract.

But just as the quiet began to feel oddly… manageable—

—as if the gods themselves had overheard his thoughts—

—they decided to test his patience.

Because Lady Liora finally broke the silence, her voice calm, curious, and entirely unwelcome.

“Tell me, Spymaster,” Lady Liora asked, her voice lilting with a sweetness so polished it made his stomach tighten, “do you have many battle stories?”

Azriel nearly gagged.

Of course. That sort of question.

His jaw clenched as his eyes flicked ahead, refusing to meet hers. Right—this was exactly the kind of thing noble ladies liked to ask. The sort of hollow inquiry that wasn’t truly meant to be answered. They didn’t want the truth, not the blood, not the grit. They wanted painted tales of courage and glory, heroic silhouettes on moonlit ridges, honour won without consequence.

They wanted a soldier polished for poetry, not a killer carved by war.

Elain would never have asked such a thing. She would have sat in silence, or whispered something soft, something safe. Not this—this glittering curiosity masquerading as conversation.

And before he knew it, he realised he hadn’t responded.

She was watching him.

Those green-gold eyes studying his face with a gaze too steady, too still. Not mocking. Not faint. Just… waiting.

“None that a lady would wish to hear.”

His voice was clipped, final, polished like a blade. He did not look at her as he said it, nor did he soften the words. He had offered his answer, and by all standards of polite society, the conversation should have ended there—with an awkward silence and a well-bred withdrawal.

But instead—

She smiled. Brighter .

It was the kind of smile that made his stomach twist—graceful, amused, maddening.

“Ah,” she said lightly, almost cheerfully, “you must be quite the expert in ladies’ minds then, Spymaster, since you seem so sure of what a lady might wish to hear—or not.”

He froze.

For the first time, he looked at her fully. Her tone had been light— too light. There was no edge, no scorn, no wounded pride. Nothing in her posture suggested insult. But her eyes…

Those eyes—green, flecked with gold, like sun-dappled forest glass—had shifted. They shimmered, almost, like fractured mirrors, glowing with something that was not anger, not pain, but something intense . Something unreadable.

It unsettled him.

He braced himself, the shadows at his back prickling as if reacting on instinct.

Right.

Of course.

He should have expected it. A noble lady like her—gilded, praised, handed compliments like wine—she would never take kindly to being denied . Not by someone like him. Not by a bastard with blood under his fingernails and scars he didn’t try to hide.

She was probably wondering how dare he refuse her a story.

A good story.

Because noble ladies like her didn’t care where it came from. They only cared that it was told prettily.

He sighed, low and quiet, the sound barely audible above the hush of night-blooming petals and the soft rustle of silk beside him. His shadows fluttered like restless birds in the cool garden air—never quite still, never quite silent. They curled through the hedgerows and slipped between leaves, curious by nature, difficult to restrain.

He was trying. Cauldron knew he was trying .

He didn’t want to frighten her. For all his frustration—for all the walls he had built around himself with silence and sharpness—Azriel was not so far gone as to wish unease upon her.

But the shadows had minds of their own, and she…

She had seen him tense. Felt the shift in the air.

And yet, rather than recoil or gasp, rather than clutch her pearls or retreat behind a lace handkerchief, she merely tilted her head and said, in a tone so light it bordered on breezy saving him the pain of having to come with an answer, 

“Ah, do not be frightened, sir. I am merely teasing.”

The words, though simple, landed with unexpected softness. Not a taunt, not a jab. A mercy, of sorts—tossed like a silken lifeline across the bramble of their almost-conversation.

Azriel blinked once.

She had saved him. Or at least spared him the awkwardness of explaining himself—something he loathed nearly as much as diplomacy.

His shadows calmed, sensing the shift. Even they, it seemed, were grudgingly charmed.

And though he said nothing, merely inclining his head slightly, the edge of his jaw unclenched.

She said nothing more either.

They simply walked.

Azriel glanced at her, assessing as one might a particularly well-dressed weapon—beautiful, yes, but not to be trusted. She appeared awfully calm, far too composed for a lady recently informed of her impending marriage to a bastard-born spymaster with blood on his hands and shadows at his heels.

He had expected resistance—some flurry of scandalised protest, perhaps a dramatic display befitting her reputation. His research had been quite thorough, after all. Lady Liora was said to have a particular talent for theatrics: broken engagements, threatened reputations, tearful letters sent to High Lords whose sons dared insult her gowns.

And yet—here she was.

Serene. Civil. Conversational, even.

He studied her as they walked, the soft rustle of her golden gown keeping time with their steps. She was to be sent from the glittering ballrooms of Spring and Day—of her world—into the quiet, brooding dark of the Night Court. To wed a male with no title, no lands, no courtly pedigree. A male who made his living through secrets and screams.

And yet, not a single tremble in her voice. Not a single outburst.

Perhaps, Azriel thought grimly, he had misjudged her.

Not entirely, of course. He was not so quick to trust.

But it was a possibility. A quiet mercy even. 

They had reached the end of their walk.

Azriel slowed his pace as the great ivy-clad columns of the west wing came into view, moonlight spilling across the flagstones like silver thread. The manor loomed grand and silent, each window aglow with warmth, each lantern flickering like it belonged to another world entirely.

And in that light—faint and celestial—Lady Liora turned to him.

She smiled, and for a moment, Azriel forgot to breathe.

Starlight caught in her hair, turning each golden strand to liquid light, as if some goddess had poured sunlight down her back. Her skin, pale with a touch of warmth, seemed to glow—not with power, but with something quieter, more beguiling. The sweep of her lashes, the gleam of green-gold eyes that shimmered like glass catching the edge of a flame—it was a beauty so carefully constructed, so utterly effortless, it became something otherworldly . Not mortal. Not quite fae. Something… untouchable.

And he hated it.

Hated how perfect she was.

Perfect in every manner he resented: poised, polished, untouched by blood or consequence. She was everything the courts had prized for centuries—everything he had never been allowed to become. Her presence, her stillness, her ease —all of it mocked the weight he carried.

Azriel clenched his jaw, his gloved hands still tucked neatly behind his back. No one could see the scars beneath them—the thick, raised reminders of chains and fire, of a boy broken and remade beneath stone. Hands that had no right to escort a lady of her station, let alone be bound to her in name.

“Many thanks, sir,” she said then, turning toward him with the faintest curtsy. “I don’t believe you told me your name?”

He blinked. That smile still danced on her lips—bright, guileless.

“Azriel,” he replied shortly.

He couldn’t help the frown that followed. Surely , she knew. Surely she had read the same documents, heard the same whispers. Did she truly not know the name of the male she was to marry? Or—perhaps worse—did she know, and simply not care ?

She paused, tilting her head slightly, as if tasting the name. “Ah. Quite the fitting name, I suppose.”

He didn’t know what she meant by it.

Before he could ask, she added sweetly, “Please do send my regards to your High Lord. And my thanks, of course, for his most generous gifts.”

He inclined his head in a bow—precise, shallow, the kind he had seen Rhysand give to unfriendly monarchs and unpredictable council lords.

Then, without another word, he stepped back—and vanished into the waiting shadows.

She remained there on the stone steps, still smiling, still aglow.

Perhaps, he thought bitterly, as he slipped through the dark, she would be tolerable.

She had not cried. She had not cursed the arrangement. She had not recoiled from his shadows or reached for his silence with empty niceties.

Perhaps Rhys was right. To the nobility, even marriage was a matter of appointments and convenience.

Just another Tuesday.

Chapter Text

There were many things in Prythian that might provoke fear—monsters in the mountains, magic in the shadows, beasts wearing crowns—but none came close to the fury of a female scorned.

Males feared battlefields and bloodied blades, war drums and death songs. But a male who did not fear the wrath of a lady whose patience had worn thin was, quite simply, a fool .

Indeed, beneath the polished smiles and glittering jewels of polite society, there existed no creature more formidable than a woman who had been dismissed. For behind every gracious curtsy and softly murmured endearment was a mind that remembered every slight, every exclusion, every decision made without her .

And Lady Liora—renowned Jewel of Prythian, architect of whispers, sovereign of social manoeuvring—had just been informed, through a web of loyal servants and silver-tongued confidantes, that a certain trio of males were currently discussing her future. Her marriage .

In a drawing room she had designed.

Sitting at a table she had commissioned.

In a mansion she had rebuilt from ruin with her own coin and vision.

All without her presence. Or permission. Or even the courtesy of a footman at the door.

Male idiocy, she thought as her eyes narrowed, was truly one of the great, unstudied tragedies of Prythian.

The moment Lady Liora’s ever-loyal servants whispered—hushed and breathless—of a closed-door conversation between Lucien, Tamlin, Rhysand, and that infuriatingly brutish spymaster, her expression remained perfectly serene.

But within her? A storm raged.

Her marriage.

Her future.

Discussed by males with egos far too large and titles far too flimsy, seated around polished wood as if her life were just another trade agreement—another land treaty to pass between courts.

She did not shout. She did not throw the crystal goblet in her hand, though her grip upon it whitened her knuckles.

She merely stood—smooth, composed, and glittering with restrained fury.

Her chambers, opulent and tranquil in tone, had been designed to soothe: soft creams, pale golds, gentle moonlight drawn in through gauzy curtains. But the servants knew better. Knew the signs. Knew that when Lady Liora’s eyes took on that precise shade of glinting green-gold, and her mouth curved not in pleasure but in precision , it was time to leave.

And so they did—silently, swiftly. Disappearing like mist from the room she now paced.

Because even the bravest knew: it was one thing to face a lord in battle, but to face a lady whose fate had been decided without her consent ?

That was sheer idiocy.

And tonight, idiocy was about to be corrected.

The scream tore through her chambers like a blade through silk—sharp, guttural, unladylike in every conceivable way.

Liora stood abruptly from her vanity, the velvet chair screeching across marble as her limbs shook with fury. She swept her arm across the polished surface, sending brooches, pearls, and gold-tipped combs clattering to the floor. She threw a gleaming necklace and it caught the edge of the mirror and shattered it in a rain of glass.

Her chest heaved, each breath burning.

Her hands trembled—not with fragility, but with a fury too tightly leashed, too long restrained beneath perfume and pleasantries.

The furniture trembled with her. The curtains swayed from a wind that hadn’t touched the windows. Even the candles flickered, casting mad, erratic shadows as if the room itself dared not settle while she raged.

Her eyes—normally so bright, so perfectly charming in their green-and-gold sheen—blazed now. No courtly composure, no wry amusement. Just fire.

How dare they.

How dare they.

She had been born of the oldest bloodlines in Prythian. She had been bred, trained, carved for the world of power. She had danced at every court, spoken every language of politics, worn the mask of the perfect noble lady with such devastating grace that queens had envied her and lords had feared her. She had rebuilt this gods-damned court from ash .

Stone by stone. Name by name.

And now— now —after centuries of playing the game, of winning it in heels and pearls and gowns tailored to kill—

They would sell her off ?

To a lowborn spymaster ?

A male with no title. No lands. No etiquette. Whose hands were soaked in blood and secrets and who would not even look her in the eye without clenching his jaw like she offended him by breathing.

Her lip curled. Not in grief. Not in despair.

But in fury.

Is this what I’ve earned? she thought, fingers digging into the edge of her vanity. After centuries of perfection? After clawing this court into something worthy again? After making them all forget the ruin they left me in?

To be bartered like a parcel between bored High Lords.

No.

No, she would not let it stand.

Her breath came unevenly—tight, shallow, every inhale a battle not to scream again. The air in her chamber felt thick, hot with fury and magic, her pulse thrumming like a war drum beneath her skin.

Liora stood before the shattered mirror, surrounded by the glinting wreckage of the jewels she had once so carefully selected—gifts from kings, tokens from courtiers, each now lying scattered across the floor like discarded illusions.

Her reflection stared back at her through fractured glass.

Hair—immaculate, as always. Braided and coiled like golden silk, not a strand out of place. Jewels still adorned her throat, her ears, even the pins glinting in her hair, as if mocking her.

But her eyes —green ringed with gold, glowing faintly with the raw edge of her power—burned.

She clenched her hands into fists, feeling the bite of her nails through her gloves.

No.

She would not let them do this to her.

She would not let a circle of idiot lords—lords who had never bled for a title, who had never been bartered themselves, never worn a smile as armour—to decide her fate behind a door she had not been invited through.

She had sacrificed too much for this life. For her freedom .

Her hand moved instinctively—pressing to her stomach, just below her ribs. A subtle motion. One no one would have noticed, had they seen her.

But the memory surged like poison beneath her skin.

The things she had endured.

The things she had buried.

The parts of herself she had traded, quietly, willingly, ruthlessly, just to remain standing in a world where women like her were meant to be married off, passed around, kept docile and beautiful and obedient .

No.

They would not break her.

She clenched her jaw so tightly she thought she might grind enamel to dust.

She had gotten out of worse.

Yes— far worse.

And she had done it without screaming, without sobbing, without ever allowing the world to see her break. Lady Liora, the jewel of two courts, the darling of nobles and the terror of their sons, always got what she wanted. Always. And this—this insult—would be no exception.

There would be hell to pay.

Without another breath of hesitation, she turned, her skirts snapping with every step as if they, too, carried her fury. Her hair—still pristine—flowed like molten gold behind her as she moved, but nothing about her pace was graceful now.

It was commanding .

Servants leapt aside without needing to be told. The wisest of them didn’t even raise their eyes. They had seen her like this only once before—and the last lord who had stood in her way during that storm had ended up politely exiled to the continent under the guise of an extended diplomatic sabbatical.

Her footsteps echoed through the west hall, sharp as war drums on polished marble.

Click. Click. Click.

Each one a promise. Each one a warning

Outside, as if answering her mood, storm clouds began to gather above the Spring Court sky—clouds that had no business forming in such a gentle land. But the wind shifted. The air thickened. And the blooming vines that curled through the stone archways of the manor seemed to bristle as if something ancient had stirred.

The mansion itself knew better than to stand in her way.

And as Lady Liora strode toward the council chamber where four lords dared negotiate her fate like livestock, her face was composed—polite, even.

But her fury?

Oh, it walked ahead of her.

Like lightning before the thunder.

Two sentinels stood outside the grand meeting chamber—stoic, unmoving, loyal.

But as Lady Liora approached, stormlight crowning her golden hair, her footsteps ringing through the corridor like judgment, they faltered .

There was something in her eyes—no longer the polished charm of the court’s darling, no longer the sweet smile beneath the chandelier. Her gaze now was molten. Raw. Unyielding. And it pinned them in place like a blade to the throat.

“My lady,” one began, his voice half-courage, half-prayer, “I’m afraid you can’t—”

She didn’t let him finish.

“ Move ,” she growled, low and commanding.

A flash of lightning split the sky outside the stained-glass windows, illuminating her silhouette in a blaze of gold and fury. The corridor trembled. The ivy along the walls curled tighter, as if the very estate feared her wrath.

The sentinels exchanged no words. They simply stepped aside .

She didn’t thank them. She didn’t look back.

Liora would burn this entire gilded cage to the ground before she allowed herself to be shackled to some lowborn brute with blood beneath his nails and a High Lord’s signature as her leash. She would salt the roots of Spring itself before letting them sell her off like a prized mare—bred, branded, and dressed in lace for slaughter.

The doors to the grand council hall loomed ahead—ornate, heavy, and etched with symbols meant to evoke peace.

She didn’t knock.

She entered .

With a surge of power that cracked through the air like a whip, the double doors flew open , slamming back into the stone with such force the tapestries swayed on the walls. The lords within—Lucien, Tamlin, Rhysand, and Azriel—looked up mid-discussion.

And silence reigned.

Lady Liora stood in the threshold like a storm draped in gold. Her gown shimmered with each breath, her posture regal, her fury palpable. Power clung to her skin like perfume, humming through the air with barely restrained menace. Behind her, thunder rumbled like a warning.

The males froze.

Not one of them dared to rise, nor utter a single word.

Outside, thunder cracked like a battle cry, and lightning followed in a jagged arc across the sky—unnatural, angry, and wholly out of place in the eternally temperate Spring Court. But it came, again and again, as though summoned by her fury alone.

And there she stood—at the heart of it.

The light from the storm spilled through the arched windows behind her, casting her in stark brilliance. Her golden hair gleamed like fire-crowned metal, and her gown shimmered like the storm-wet earth, regal and unyielding. Her eyes— Cauldron, her eyes —burned emerald, but the golden flecks within had ignited to a glow that matched the lightning outside. Alive. Furious. Blazing.

She was the storm.

Chapter Text

It was a rather curious phenomenon—how a room full of grown, self-important males may sit in perfect comfort discussing the future of a young lady, yet it is one of them who managed to appear both bored and put upon, as though he were the victim of the arrangement rather than its beneficiary.

Azriel tried—truly—to steady his thoughts, though they spun like stormwinds behind his carefully blank expression. His shadows curled tighter around him, cloaking his face, his stance, his very presence in that familiar, suffocating veil.

Rhysand and Tamlin sat across from one another, quills in hand, nodding gravely as they reviewed the final conditions of his marriage—as though they were determining troop deployments, not assigning him a wife .

Every dip of the quill felt like a nail driven through his ribs.

Every line inked on parchment only served to carve out the distance between him and Elain— soft, gentle, beautiful Elain —the light to his shadow, the balm to his violence. The one woman he had wanted, who was never his to have. Promised. Claimed. Off-limits.

And now?

Now, he was to be bound —for duty, for politics, for peace—to a spoiled female who had no how the real world worked. 

This marriage, Rhysand had said, would tie their courts. Bind Spring and Night more securely than any parchment treaty. It was a gift of stability. A sacrifice for the good of Prythian.

Azriel swallowed down the bitterness.

How very noble.

How very tragic.

How very typical , he thought dryly, that the male being given a beautiful, powerful noblewoman was the one sulking in the corner like a wronged poet.

  Indeed woe was Azriel as he had to endure the horrible fate of having to be gifted with a beautiful and politically strong wife. 

He noticed—pointedly—that Lady Liora was not even present .

Not a glimpse of golden silk, not a whisper of perfume. No polite curtsy or gracious entrance, not even the barest flicker of acknowledgment for the male she was so grandly being tethered to.

Azriel clenched his jaw, shadows tightening like a second skin. She had not even bothered to attend.

Clearly, the arrangement meant so little to her. He meant so little.

No doubt she saw the whole affair as beneath her—some inconvenience to be dealt with later, perhaps after a nap or a wardrobe fitting. The Jewel of Prythian , they called her. As if jewels were not vain, brittle things that shattered under pressure.

She was probably still asleep in one of her silk-draped beds, wholly unbothered, while he sat here being neatly packaged and signed away like a cursed relic no one quite wanted to touch.

He grit his teeth harder.

Spoiled brat.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t protest. Merely sat like a blade strapped to the wall, silent, sharp, and not yet drawn.

Across from him, Rhysand’s fingers tapped once—firmly—against the edge of the contract.

A silent warning.

Azriel felt the brush of his brother’s power across his mind like talons against stone.

‘Behave.’

He was behaving. He hadn’t broken a chair. He hadn’t insulted anyone—yet. And he certainly hadn’t voiced the fact that they were signing him off to a woman who, by all appearances, couldn’t even be bothered to attend her own betrothal proceedings.

A woman who had power, beauty, nobility—and apparently, not an ounce of respect .

He said nothing.

Well—at the very least, once the marriage was done, he needn’t see her again.

Surely, they could live separately. Politely. Like many noble couples who shared only a name and an estate, and precious little else. That would suit him just fine. And, he was certain, her even more so.

He doubted Lady Liora—the famed Jewel of Prythian, darling of court gossip and social warfare—would have any interest in the Night Court’s brooding executioner. Not when his hands were scarred and calloused from centuries of bladework, not when his wings bore the unmistakable mark of lesser fae lineage. He was a brute forged in dungeons and battlefields.

And she?

She was bred for ballrooms, not bloodshed.

Not that she had bothered to appear today. He supposed that said enough. She likely considered this entire arrangement beneath her—an administrative inconvenience she would glance at after her morning tea.

The marriage contract, the negotiation, him —all not worth her precious time.

Azriel forced his expression to remain blank, even as a flicker of bitterness twisted in his chest.

Let her stay away.

Let her smile her courtly smiles at someone else, somewhere else.

They would be married, yes. But only in parchment. Not in presence.

He would never have to look at her.

And she would never have to look at him .

And then—just as the thought settled like a bitter comfort—

The chamber doors slammed open.

And every assumption Azriel had so carefully constructed shattered like glass under a storm.

Azriel, the infamous Spymaster of the Night Court—who had faced kings, monsters, and murderers without flinching—came to understand three rather crucial truths in the span of a single thunderclap.

The first: he had been entirely wrong to assume Lady Liora knew anything about this marriage arrangement.

The second: he had been even more wrong to believe she would be indifferent to it in any capacity.

And the third—perhaps most damning of all—was this:

Every male in that chamber, High Lords included, seemed to visibly shrink beneath her fury.

She entered like lightning personified—golden hair ablaze, eyes alight with power, storm trailing at her heels—and not one of them dared to speak.

Azriel had expected a spoiled court lady, bred for parlours and pleasantries.

What he got… was a storm in a pretty dress.  

“You dare sell me like a fucking broodmare behind my back— in the room I built! ”

Her voice cracked through the chamber like a thunderclap, raw and primal and so violently alive that it made the very air shift. It was not a voice trained for court diplomacy nor for tea-table civility. It was a roar , low and furious and unrelentingly real .

The ornate glass doors rattled in their frames. A vase tipped on its pedestal and shattered like ice on stone.

And from the sky outside— lightning struck again . Closer this time. Too close. Close enough that the thunder chased it in an instant, shaking the walls and the floor beneath their feet.

Azriel flinched. Not from fear—but from shock .

Gods.

He had faced beasts that howled and soldiers that begged, had walked through shadows thick with screams, but he had never— never —heard a sound like that from a lady .

Least of all from her .

Lady Liora—who was always the picture of poise. The court’s perfect daughter. The delicately-spoken noblewoman with a laugh made of crystal and diplomacy in her bones. Her fury now was something else entirely.

Something wild.

Something sacred.

And terrifying .

Her golden hair was a halo of disarray, wind catching the strands that had broken free from their elegant braids. The silk of her gown, once fitted and ornamental, now clung to her with the storm’s damp weight, the embroidery gleaming with threads of gold and rage. Her posture was regal, but there was nothing gentle left in her.

Her eyes—green with veins of molten gold—burned with something ancient and devastating. They were locked now, unflinching, on Tamlin —the High Lord of Spring.

And for the first time in memory, he looked unsure of himself.

Azriel’s shadows stirred behind him like restless animals sensing a predator in the room.

And for once—it wasn’t him .

It was her .

Across the room, Rhysand rubbed his temple with the air of a male suffering through a very long, very predictable headache.

Azriel’s jaw locked, fury and disbelief colliding in his chest as he reached through the mindlink, shadows curling tighter with his restraint.

‘She didn’t know?!’

Rhys’s reply was immediate, clipped and edged with a weariness that suggested he’d known this reckoning was not a matter of if , but when .

‘We wouldn’t have even gotten this far if she had,’ he responded.

Azriel’s hand curled into a fist at his side.

—-

Her roar echoed like a warhorn down the spine of the estate, but it was what followed that chilled the blood of every male in the room.

It didn’t just ring in their ears—it echoed in their bones .

The force of it rippled through the very air, and for a moment, it felt as though the ground beneath them had shifted. The tapestries on the walls trembled. The storm outside lashed harder against the windows, as though it, too, answered to her .

Lucien flinched—his ever-composed face faltering into something that looked far too close to guilt. Even he, the silver-tongued emissary, lowered his eyes as if the weight of her wrath struck somewhere beneath his ribcage.

Tamlin, on the other hand, reacted as expected.

With arrogance.

A growl rippled from his throat, low and heavy, the sound of a male still trying to cling to power in the only way he knew how— by baring teeth and pretending that was strength .

“ Liora, settle, ” he snarled, lifting his chin. “ I am your High Lord. ”

The words rang out like a command, sharp and cold, cut from centuries of patriarchal expectation.

And they did not move her. Not an inch.

In fact, they infuriated her further.

Her head turned slowly—too slowly—and her golden eyes locked onto him with something so ancient, so feral , that even the storm seemed to hush for half a breath.

“ You are NOTHING. ”

Her voice cut through the chamber like a blade, clean and final, slicing through Tamlin’s growl with all the ease of thunder splitting sky. The High Lord of Spring flinched as if struck, and the room held its breath.

Liora stepped forward, her gown trailing like smoke, her power thrumming in the air like a war drum. The firelight glinted off the shattered pieces of her carefully cultivated mask, revealing not fragility—but fury.

“I built this fucking court from ruin ,” she snarled, eyes burning like molten gold, magic flickering at her fingertips. “Stone by stone. Trade by trade. I fed it, clothed it, restored it when no one else could be bothered. You—” she spat the word like poison, “—you vanished, and I stayed. I stayed through the whispers and the rot and the debt. And you dare —after everything I have done —to sell me off without my consent ?”

Tamlin tried to speak again, but she silenced him with a look.

Her voice dropped—lower, darker, full of venomous grace. “And to him , of all people?”

She didn’t turn to Azriel. Didn’t need to. Her words landed like arrows regardless.

“A lowborn Illyrian brute. A bastard with no title. No lands. No legacy . When I have lords — High Lords’ sons —chasing my hand?”

Her laughter was bitter. Beautiful. Deadly.

“I am the Jewel of Prythian,” she said, voice curling with scorn. “Not some coin to trade for peace between men too frightened to build it themselves.”

And still—none of them spoke.

Because she wasn’t just angry.

She was right .

And the truth in her voice was sharper than any blade Azriel had ever carried.

Every word cut deeper.

Lowborn. Brute. Bastard.

They echoed through him—not just as insults, but as confirmations. As truths he had spent centuries locking beneath armor and shadow, truths he had swallowed like poison and worn like second skin.

Azriel stood perfectly still, but inside, he was shaking.

His shadows stirred restlessly at his feet, coiling tighter around his frame as if to shield him. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath his cheek, and his wings—his damned, scarred wings—twitched before curling in closer, instinctively folding as if to hide .

But the final blow had yet to fall.

And when it did, it wasn’t shouted. It was spat, like venom from a beautiful mouth.

“I am the most prized lady in all Prythian,” she said coldly, her chin high, voice ringing across the chamber like a judgment, “and you would sell me off to a fucking winged monster !”

Lightning struck again, closer, the flash illuminating her face in brilliant white, casting the others in stark silhouette. The windows groaned under the weight of the storm. Wind howled through the cracks of the great hall.

But Azriel heard none of it.

Only that one word, echoing like it had been ripped from his nightmares.

Monster.

His hands clenched at his sides, the gloves tightening over the ruined flesh they hid. He said nothing. Couldn’t. There was nothing to say.

What had he expected?

That she would be kind? Polite?

That she would look at him—truly look at him—and see something more than what he was made of?

That she might, somehow, tolerate him? Respect him?

Love him?

He was a fool.

He had been right from the beginning. He knew exactly what kind of noblewoman she was.

The kind that saw a male like him and thought only of dirt on polished marble.

The kind that never looked down on him—because they had never looked at him at all.

She was everything he had always known they whispered behind silk gloves and closed doors.

And he— he had been the idiot who forgot.

It was Lucien who stepped forward next.

Of course it was.

Carefully, cautiously, he moved through the suffocating stillness of the chamber, as if approaching a storm he had once weathered before. His hands were raised slightly, palms open—not in surrender, but in quiet appeal. His voice, when it came, was low and familiar, meant for her ears alone.

“Lili… please,” he said gently, the nickname softening the air between them. “Try to calm down. We—we’re sorry. We should have told you. But this—” he took one more step, his gaze steady “—this is the only way. You know it is. For the good of our courts. One last signature, and the blood feud ends.”

Azriel stood rooted in place, unmoving, but the muscles in his jaw tightened until it ached.

He watched the male approach her, watched how Liora’s shoulders did not rise in fury, how the fire in her eyes dimmed just enough to listen . To hear him.

As though Lucien were not just a voice among many, but her voice of reason .

Azriel knew it then.

Knew it in the way her chin tilted slightly toward Lucien’s, in the way her magic faltered for just a breath, in the way she didn’t scream again—not yet.

Lucien— Lucien , of all males.

The fox.

The emissary.

The mate to the female Azriel had wanted with a desperation that had nearly broken him.

And now, that same male was the only one Liora—the woman he was being bound to —seemed to listen to.

It was almost laughable.

Had the situation not already carved itself deep into his pride, into the rawest parts of his self-worth, Azriel might’ve found the irony poetic.

Instead, he stood in silence, shadows curling like smoke around his boots, as the male who had taken Elain now stood between him and whatever this was meant to be .

And all Azriel could think—beyond the fury, beyond the shame—was that this marriage, this bond, this future—

Had already chosen sides .

And he was not on hers.

Liora faltered—but only for a heartbeat.

Her fury did not wane. It simply reshaped itself, hardening into something colder. Sharper. More lethal.

She clenched her jaw, lifted her chin, and finally turned her gaze.

Not to Azriel.

She did not so much as glance at him.

As though he did not exist. As though he were not the other half of this arrangement, not the male meant to be bound to her life. As though she were addressing the true wielder of power in the room—the one who dared seal her fate with ink and political convenience.

Her burning green-gold eyes locked onto Rhysand.

And when she spoke, it was not with the voice of a court lady.

It was with the force of a High Queen not crowned , power dripping from every syllable.

“It will be on my fucking terms ,” she said.

The words cracked through the chamber, and the air shivered . Her magic flared—not wild, not chaotic, but precise —and the walls of the carefully curated negotiation room trembled under its weight. Scrolls curled at their edges, ink bled through parchment, and every ornate arrangement—the polished contracts, the crisp diplomacy—was undone in an instant.

Rhysand, to his credit, only bowed his head.

Slightly.

Respectfully.

“Whatever the lady demands,” he said.

And just like that, it was over.

She turned, golden hair sweeping like a war banner behind her, and walked from the chamber with the same storm that had carried her in. Lucien followed—silent, steady, her shadow in red and gold—his presence needing no words.

And Azriel—

Azriel could only watch.

No glance.

No word.

No acknowledgement that he was the male at the center of the conversation that had just shattered like glass at her feet.

Just the storm departing.

And the quiet ache of being left behind in a room full of lords and treaties—

feeling like the only one who wasn’t needed at all .

Tamlin sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Apologies for my cousin’s… unbecoming state.”

Rhysand only chuckled—low, dark, as if he were laughing at a secret no one else was privy to. “None needed,” he said smoothly. “I believe the Night Court will do quite well for her… state .”

Azriel frowned, his jaw tightening. Without a word, he turned and excused himself, slipping into the corridor in search of air—of silence—of anything that didn’t feel like the walls closing in.

—-

Azriel hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

He hadn’t even intended to find her.

But part of him— some quiet, pathetic part buried beneath centuries of shadow—had hoped . Hoped that if he came across her alone, outside the storm of the council chamber, she might speak with less venom. That the words she’d hurled like blades— monster, brute, bastard —had been spoken in rage, not truth.

He knew what anger did to a person. He knew how it slipped between the teeth before thought could catch it. Maybe this was the same. Maybe she hadn’t meant it.

Maybe.

And if he was to be shackled to her—married in name, in duty, in binding—then surely it was worth trying. Worth one attempt to gauge if there was something beneath her fury. Something real. Something he could endure.

She had, after all, just been sold —by her own cousin. That alone should’ve earned his understanding. His silence.

But he was tired of silence.

So he walked—slowly, quietly, not with shadows this time, but as himself. Just a male. Just a soldier. Just someone looking for the woman who would become his wife—

And hoping, gods help him, that she would not look at him like a curse .

It was because of that reason—because he wanted to believe there might be something more, some path forward through this chaos—that Azriel found himself standing outside her chambers.

He hadn’t meant to. Truly. And even now, his instincts screamed at him to leave, to walk away before he heard something he couldn’t unhear . But his shadows had already crept beneath the threshold, already curled beneath the door, and so had he—cloaked in silence, hidden in stillness.

And then he heard Lucien’s voice.

“Lili,” he said softly. “Please, just try to understand—”

“ Understand what, Lucien? ” came her voice—sharp and seething. “Arranged marriage? Fine. I know my duties. I always have. I knew this would be inevitable. But to him ?”

Azriel didn’t breathe.

“To a fucking bastard Illyrian with no land, no titles— nothing ? A spy ? A male who tortures people for a living?”

Her voice cracked then—not with sorrow, but with outrage.

“I am the Jewel of Prythian . I was raised to rule beside a High Lord—not to rot in shadows!”

Lightning didn’t strike this time.

But the silence that followed was louder than thunder.

Azriel stood motionless, shadows pressed so tightly around him they pulsed with restraint, pain curling like smoke in his chest.

She hadn’t meant for him to hear.

Which only made it worse.

Because now he knew .

There was no anger. No misunderstanding. No “heat of the moment.”

Only truth.

Undiluted. Unforgiving.

He had always known what he was.

But hearing it—spat so precisely, so perfectly articulated by the one person who had not even looked at him in the room where they signed away his future—

That was a wound no blade had ever taught him to bear.

—

Azriel halted—frozen just beyond the gilded doorway.

The words. Cauldron , the words.

They cut sharper than any dagger at his hip. And gods, he’d carried enough blades to know the feel of being sliced open.

But this?

This was different.

She hadn’t screamed those words. Hadn’t hurled them in fury, didn’t spit them in the heat of outrage.

No.

She’d spoken them with calm . With precision. With the kind of cool contempt born from belief . Each syllable carved with the ease of a woman who meant every inch of it.

His dagger, strapped close to his ribs—imbued with truthsteel—had not so much as flickered . Not a single lie crossed her lips.

And that was what shattered him.

The storm inside his chest surged. Shadows, normally so loyal, faltered at the violence in his magic. He exhaled once, long and tight.

And then—he disappeared into them.

Slipping into the dark, as silent as he’d come. Not a footprint left. Not a breath.

He didn’t look back.

Because he’d been wrong .

Wrong to hope she might be more. That behind the glittering gowns and sharp tongue lay something— someone —who could see him as anything other than what the courts had always whispered behind closed doors.

He was nothing but a fucking bastard . A brute. A spy born from blood and brokenness. Not meant for dining halls and golden salons.

And to her?

He wasn’t even worth the air she breathed.

All the lords of Prythian would one day lay beneath her heel, and still, she would wrinkle her nose at him .

A dark part of him—buried deep, unspoken, ashamed —purred in twisted delight at the thought.

That she was shackled to him now.

That no matter how high she held her head, she would bear his name. That all her elegance, her precision, her carefully cultivated pride—could be broken . That he could make her crawl to him, the bastard she so hated. 

And he could be the one to do it.

He hated himself for thinking it.

He hated her more for making him want to .

Azriel took flight—wings slicing through the wind, into the storm above the manor, seeking the open sky like it might quiet the screams in his skull.

And in that moment, there was not a single soul on the continent he despised more than her.

The prideful, perfect Lady Liora.

He hated her with every essence in his being.

Chapter Text

“I am the Jewel of Prythian. I was raised to rule beside a High Lord—not to rot in shadows!”

Lucien frowned—quiet, patient, ever the diplomat. He had weathered Liora’s tempests before, always with the calm of someone who understood the shape of her fury. But this time, his patience only ignited her further.

“He is a good male, Liora,” Lucien said softly, trying—always trying—to reason.

She laughed.

Sharp and bitter, the sound cracked through the ruined quiet of her chambers. Not a lady’s laugh. Not the practiced lilt that had charmed courts from Summer to Day. No—this was raw. Mocking. Uncaring.

Her posture had long since abandoned court formality. She stood in the wreckage of her own making—hair half-loosened from its braids, sleeves wrinkled from clenched fists, eyes wild. Shards of shattered crystal glinted at her feet. Gilded combs and emerald necklaces were strewn like corpses across the marble floor.

“I don’t give a fuck if he’s a saint sent by the Mother herself,” she snarled, voice shaking, “he’s a fucking bastard! ”

Her jaw locked, breath trembling as she dragged a hand through her hair, tearing through the tangled curls, nails scratching her scalp in frustration.

Why didn’t Lucien get it ?

Why didn’t anyone?

It didn’t matter if the brooding, shadow-wrapped male was honourable or quiet or perfectly competent in his duties.

It didn’t matter if he was the best male in existence .

Because Liora hadn’t been raised to choose goodness.

She had been raised to be chosen —by power.

She had been trained, shaped, and polished to stand beside a High Lord, to wear a crown, to command nations with a whisper. To be the envy of every ball, the match of kings, not the reluctant bride of a silent male born in chains and shadows.

Lucien said nothing.

Just watched her—fury unraveling inch by inch, pride scraping itself raw against expectation.

And for all her rage, all her heat, somewhere deep beneath it—beneath the jewels and the glass and the storm of her voice—

Liora felt something crack .

And she hated that too.

It came not in a scream, but in a crash .

A guttural, maddening sound as she swept her arm across the last untouched shelf, sending a cascade of perfumes and glass vials shattering against the floor. The scent of jasmine and crushed rose bloomed into the air like grief.

Liora stood in the wreckage—hair wild, gown rumpled, fingers trembling as they curled into fists at her sides.

She was not supposed to break .

She was the perfect lady. The living portrait of nobility.

Her smile had never cracked. Not once.

She ate just enough to keep her figure enviable, but not enough to draw comment. Her beauty was always effortless —or so they thought. She dressed with immaculate taste, never repeating a gown, never appearing too opulent, but never plain enough to be overlooked.

She had walked the line perfectly . Every day of her life.

Just enough skin shown to stir desire. Just enough charm to be adored without being shamed. She caught the eyes of lords and heirs like silk snaring wind—but never earned a whisper of scandal.

Every smile. Every glance. Every perfectly timed flap of her fan had been calculated since the day she was old enough to hold one.

Because that was what she had been told .

That if she was perfect— truly perfect —she would be rewarded .

That her sacrifice would be worth it.

That if she endured the lessons, the rigid posture, the whispered criticisms, the suffocating standards…

Then she would be granted the reward promised to women like her:

A life of luxury . Of stability . Of endless sunny afternoons and glittering ballrooms. A powerful lord at her side. A court of her own to rule. Influence, legacy, and peace.

But instead—

She was being bartered . Like meat. Like a pawn.

Sold to a male who came from shadows and blood, whose hands were made for pain, not rings.

And now, standing barefoot in the wreckage of her curated world, hair clinging to her face, magic humming at her fingertips—

Liora laughed.

Low. Breathless. Almost broken.

Because the girl who had smiled through lessons, who had trained to be the perfect bride, the perfect ruler, the perfect thing —

Had just been told she was never going to be enough to choose for herself. For all of the political and magical power she possessed she would never be able to escape of her position as a commodity that is merely adored and be looked at. 

She didn’t care— couldn’t care—that perhaps this arrangement was some twisted blessing for Lucien. That maybe, just maybe, it gave him the freedom to finally court that wide-eyed child of a mate he’d been chained to. Let him play house in the shadows of the Night Court, if that was what he wanted.

She knew her duty. Knew what was expected. Knew that this marriage— this sacrifice —would seal alliances, stabilize her court, and end the centuries-old blood feud that had plagued their borders like rot beneath golden leaves.

But still—

Fucking Rhysand.

The cunning bastard.

He had a habit , didn’t he? Of collecting powerful females like precious stones for a crown only he wore. Feyre. Nesta. Even Morrigan,  in her own quiet orbit, of course knew their names she had done her research before inviting him. Each one a force of nature, each one wrapped in his charm, his diplomacy, his web .

And now— her .

Liora, the Jewel of Prythian, reborn architect of the Spring Court, sculpted for rule, trained in elegance, draped in silk and steel.

And Rhysand would have her too—bound to his court, under his terms, married to his most broken blade .

She snarled under her breath, pacing the wreckage of her chambers, the storm still clawing at the windows.

She would not be a gem in his collection.

She would not be handled .

And gods help them all if they thought she’d go quietly.

Lucien didn’t raise his voice. He never did with her.

“Why do you care so much what he is?” he asked quietly, watching her with that maddening calm that made her want to scream. “You’ve never cared for such things before. We both know that.”

Liora froze .

Just for a heartbeat.

Because she knew what he meant.

She had covered for him— gods , how many times had she lied for him? When he’d snuck off to see that lesser fae girl , when whispers of his stolen hours in peasant cottages had begun to curl through court corridors like smoke, it was she who had doused the flames.

Because she understood.

Because she thought—once—that he understood her .

Her jaw clenched as the memories rose like bile.

He didn’t get it.

He never had.

“Because if I don’t marry a High Lord ,” she snapped, voice rising, “then all of it was for nothing! ” 

The last word tore out of her in a ragged scream, her voice cracking like glass under pressure. 

Truly she had not wanted to marry at all, hence why she broken every single engagement, she and hoped..she could have a free life. But if she were to be chained she never thought it would be to someone so beneath her station. 

She paced again—barefoot over broken jewels and silk hems, her chest heaving, her hands trembling at her sides. She couldn’t look at him.

He didn’t get it. How could he?

He was a male —the son of a High Lord. For all of Beron’s cruelty, Lucien’s reputation would never be ruined. His worth was never measured by his restraint, his purity, his usefulness to a marriage contract.

He could fall in love with anyone. He could chase affection in moonlit fields and still return to court respected. Desired .

But she?

She had been raised for this. Sculpted from birth to wear a crown beside power. Every lesson, every smile, every dress, every sacrifice— all of it —meant to culminate in a match that would define her legacy.

And now they expected her to accept less ?

A knife instead of a crown?

A male feared for his silence and blood-soaked past, instead of one who could share a throne and smile beside her in the sun?

No.

If she did this—if she accepted this —then the years she spent playing the perfect lady, the bones she broke to build this court, the dignity she lost… meant nothing .

If she didn’t get what she was raised for— what she was promised —then what had it all been for?

What was the point of the pain, then?

All of it—every lesson, every bloody inch of perfection carved into her skin—would be meaningless.

Liora had not been raised —she had been bred .

Trained. Starved. Sculpted like marble in the cold hands of tradition.

Her meals measured by the ounce, her waist by the string of a corset. Not to nourish her—but to shape her into the ideal consort: slim, delicate, desirable. A living trophy.

While other children played in gardens, she recited seven dialects before she was twelve. While sons of high lords sparred with blades, she memorized treaties, trade routes, and the names of long-dead queens whose power had always been borrowed through marriage.

She mastered fine arts. Politics. Economics. Diplomacy. Decorative sciences , they called them.

And when she stumbled?

When her tongue tripped, or her pen trembled?

They did not beat her body.

That would leave marks . Damaged goods do not wed well.

No— they bought her a Daemati .

A gift only the wealthiest nobles could afford.

An invisible whip.

Every mistake, every moment of rebellion or fatigue, was met with pain . Pain inside her head, inside her memories, inside the softest parts of herself. Agony without bruises. Screams no one could hear.

And so, Liora learned to build her mind like a fortress.

Not of marble and silk.

But of ashwood and claws .

The last time that bastard had tried to crack her open, she gave back exactly what he’d given her.

She had dragged him into her own mind not to shield no, to attack—into a forest of thorns and blackened bark and teeth like splinters. She had wrapped his consciousness in vines of razorleaf and fed him his own cruelties until he begged— begged —to be released.

He never touched her again.

But the lesson remained.

Her body was theirs to shape. Her future theirs to barter. But her mind?

Her mind was her only sanctuary. Her only rebellion. Her only truth .

Lucien froze, his breath caught in his throat as her voice cracked—truly cracked—for the first time.

“You don’t get it! ” she yelled, her tone no longer the tempered silk of courtly anger, but a scream , ragged and broken. “You’re a male —you get to roam the court however you please! You don’t know what it costs to be born without a fucking cock! ”

The last word shattered something in the room.

Not glass. Not furniture.

But her mask .

The one she had worn every day of her life.

It fell with a finality that echoed louder than the storm outside. Gone was the polished lady, the artful daughter of courts and crowns. In her place sat something far more real. Rough . Raw. Splintered and still standing.

She let out a trembling breath and sank into the edge of her love sofa—once chosen for its perfect curve and positioning by the hearth—now barely remembered as her hands rubbed her temples in uneven circles, as though she could massage centuries of pressure out of her skull.

Lucien took a slow step forward, voice soft but lined with grief. “You know I do.”

She snorted .

A harsh, bitter sound that didn’t even try to mask its mockery.

“Oh, please,” she muttered, not bothering to lift her gaze.

She knew what he meant.

His mother . The Lady of Autumn. The elegant prisoner in Beron’s golden cage—who endured centuries of cruelty behind polished doors and silent glances. Whose bruises never made it to her face but lived beneath her ribs.

But Liora couldn’t stomach the comparison.

“No, you don’t ,” she snapped.

Her voice was lower now, steadier. But the poison in her words was unmistakable.

“If you did,” she said, eyes narrowing with quiet fury, “you’d be planning to kill Beron every single day you’re alive. Not playing matchmaker on my behalf.”

Lucien flinched.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone but someone who knew him to see it. But she did. She saw the flicker behind his golden eye—the breath he didn’t take.

And still, she didn’t back down.

Because Liora meant what she said.

She had always known Lucien liked to play the diplomat. She had never blamed him for it. She too enjoyed the indulgence, the luxuries of careful charm, the thrill of soft politics and beautiful distractions.

But he didn’t get to scold her.

Not today.

Not when his brother — Eris —had been left in that hellhole for centuries. Not when every second of Eris’s life in that court was a knife-edge, a performance, a secret war being fought beneath Beron’s nose.

Eris, who had played the villain because the alternative was watching their mother die .

Eris, who everyone called cruel—because no one knew what it took to stay .

And Lucien, knowing all of it , still smiled at court dinners and made matches like they weren’t all survivors of the same fire.

So no, Lucien didn’t get to lecture her .

Not when she had spent her life pretending, and Eris had spent his life bleeding, and Lucien—sweet, golden Lucien—had the audacity to flinch when she screamed.

Lucien left in silence.

The door clicked shut behind him with all the ceremony of a guillotine.

And then—Liora screamed .

It wasn’t a dainty gasp, not a single silver tear trailing down a blushed cheek. No gentle sigh of a lady suffering in silence.

No—this was a roar .

The sound that ripped from her throat was something feral , raw and ancient , as though it had lived in her ribcage for centuries and only now found its voice.

She trashed her chambers.

Chairs flew. A gilded table split in half with a crack that echoed down the corridor. The books she had so carefully alphabetized—on diplomacy, on high court etiquette, on cultural graces—were hurled against the walls like curses.

And then the magic came.

It burst from her in ragged, unfiltered waves—violent and golden, laced with molten heat. It struck the walls, the ceiling, the carved paneling, leaving holes scorched into the stone. The painted vines and blooming lilies on the plaster blackened and withered .

The curtains caught fire at the hem before dousing themselves in her rage.

This was not a tantrum.

It was an eruption .

The kind of wrath centuries of silence had bred in her bones. The kind of grief no one had allowed her to name.

Liora staggered, breath trembling, and collapsed onto her vanity—gripping the edge as if it were the only thing tethering her to this realm.

The mirror before her was shattered, a fractured thing with jagged edges, reflecting pieces of her as if they no longer fit.

Hair, once perfectly arranged in soft golden coils, now fell in wild snarls around her shoulders. A crown undone. A ruin.

Her skin glowed faintly, flushed with power, sweat, fury.

And her eyes —

They were no longer just green with golden flecks.

Now, they glowed nearly all gold —brilliant, blazing , inhuman . The hue of sunlight warped through flame. The kind of light that burns .

Her breathing heaved.

And then—

Her claws began to emerge.

Slowly. Reluctantly. As though the beast beneath her skin had been watching. Waiting .

Long, obsidian-sharp talons pushed from her knuckles, glinting in the fractured light of the room.

She growled low, a warning to no one . Or perhaps to herself.

The mask was gone.

The beast— her beast —was no longer hiding.

And Liora, Jewel of Prythian, who had managed to make herself less to be adorned by this society was finally cracking. 

She had thought— hoped —that if she played the game well enough, she might buy her freedom.

That if she smiled just right, wielded her fan like a blade, and danced through every ballroom with just enough charm to be desired but never touched , she could outmaneuver it all.

Marriage. Ownership. Submission .

So she crafted herself into legend.

The spoiled , untouchable lady. The one who threw elegant tantrums and shattered every carefully arranged proposal. The one who insulted High Lords’ sons with sugar-sweet poison, who sent noble egos home in shards.

They called her difficult.

They called her dramatic.

They called her unruly .

And she let them.

Because it was better to be feared and mocked than owned .

But none of them knew the truth. Not really.

She wasn’t just stubborn.

She had been conceived in magic—born in the heart of Calanmai, forged in a swell of untamed power and sacred fire. Her mother had whispered it to her once, trembling and proud: that she’d been carried with a cost, blessed by something older than the courts themselves.

And she had always felt it.

The rawness beneath her skin. The storm behind her eyes. The wild in her blood.

If she had been born male , she would have ruled this court.

Not Tamlin.

Her cousin had always been afraid of power. Of true power. Of what it would mean if someone like her —a female, a wildfire, a creature of silk and teeth—ever had the right to take the throne instead of just warm it for a man.

Instead, she was paraded. Displayed. Bartered.

Because that was all a jewel was ever meant to do:

Shine. Not lead.

She bowed when needed. Smiled when expected.

Even at the males who had dreamed of raping her.

Because that was what polite society demanded of females like her.

To nod. To curtsy. To thank the wolves for not devouring her in public .

If it hadn’t been for Eris , she wouldn’t have survived her debut.

When she’d first stepped into the courts—barely a woman, barely prepared, barely breathing—she had been thrown to the lions. And the lords had circled like vultures, their eyes gleaming, their laughter too sweet. The way they looked at her—like meat , like conquest, like something to unwrap and ruin—haunted her still.

And it had been Eris—cruel, cunning, cold-as-winter Eris—who had taught her how to survive.

Not kindly. Never gently.

But with precision.

With purpose .

He had taught her how to speak like a weapon and smile like a threat. To lie so good that even she would doubt the reality. How to use silk as a shield and wit as a dagger. He had sharpened her, clothed her, paraded her like bait—but never let them touch. That was the arrangement. She would be his sweet bait, enough to draw in alliances for him and he would not let them touch her until she had her own power and reputation. 

He had raised her into something they couldn’t reach .

She wore the mask he helped her build every single day .

The perfect lady. The courtly prize. The Jewel of Prythian .

All grace. All composure. All lies.

Because she knew what would happen if she let it slip.

She knew what these halls held when no one was looking.

And so, she smiled.

Even when she wanted to scream.

Even when she wanted to burn it all down.

Because it was better to be silent and untouched than loud and ruined.

Ladies did not speak unless spoken to.

Ladies ate what they were served—but never gained weight.

No one saw the cold meals scraped into handkerchiefs beneath silk napkins. No one knew the ache in her ribs from days of fasting before every banquet. The dizzy spells passed off as delicate sighs. The way she learned to cut her hunger with sips of wine and laughter. 

Ladies did not look when something bothered them.

Ladies did not feel pain, they did not feel rage, they did not show their sadness, they were the perfect marble statue. 

They smiled. Tilted their heads. Played dumb. Played sweet . Pretended they didn’t hear the comments whispered behind fans, didn’t see the hands that lingered too long at the curve of their backs.

Ladies were to be looked at —not heard.

And gods, she had mastered it.

Liora had given everything . Her body. Her hunger. Her silence. Her soul .

She had become the perfect lady.

Every step curated, every expression practiced, every breath aligned with a standard written centuries before she was born.

And for what?

What was her reward?

After centuries of playing the game—of smiling through blood in her mouth and hunger in her belly— this was what she got?

To be bartered like livestock?

To be handed to a male who didn’t want her, who looked at her like a punishment, while the others stood by and applauded ?

She had clawed her way to the top.

Bitten her tongue. Worn the mask. Survived everything the courts threw at her.

And now they were tossing her aside like a soiled ribbon.

Like all of it —every lesson, every sacrifice—had been for nothing .

Her nails dug into the wood of the vanity. Her reflection—a ghost of a perfect woman—stared back at her with wide, glowing eyes.

And somewhere beneath the grief…

Rage bloomed like fire.

Not the kind that flickered.

The kind that devoured .

Why, why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, whywhy, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, whywhy, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, whywhy, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why why, why, why, why, why just fucking why was she never enough?  

When would it end? When would she ever get to throw away the mask? Had she not given enough?  

Her hand instinctively went to her stomach again feeling the poisonous memory burn. Tears from rage streamed from those now fully golden eyes. 

Liora needed to think .

She needed to remember who the fuck she was.

The perfect lady.

The Jewel of Prythian.

Not the girl who screamed. Not the woman who shattered mirrors and wept with golden eyes.

She wiped her face—rough, swift, uncaring of grace—and stood taller.

They thought her early morning rides were habits of aristocratic routine. Leisure. Discipline. A pretty woman maintaining a pretty body.

No.

Every dawn, before the sun kissed the manor walls, she ran—not as a lady, not in silks or smiles.

She ran as a beast .

Claws out. Breath ragged. Magic wild. She let her true self free for just one sacred hour in the woods. Let her instincts take over, let the predator beneath her skin remember what it meant to be untamed.

And then she would  returned.

Brushed her hair.

Laced her bodice.

Painted her lips into a smile so flawless it could hold a kingdom together.

Not a trace of the beast she was. 

She wore her shackles like they were the finest jewelry —bracelets of etiquette, a necklace of obligation, a collar of civility.

Because there was nothing more dangerous to a woman than a man who sensed she had been rattled.

Liora would not give them that satisfaction.

They would not see her bleed.

They would not see her bend .

Let them believe she had cooled.

Let them think the tantrum had passed, that she’d come to her senses.

Tomorrow, she would be the perfect lady again. Playing with the cards she had been dealt with like it was a summer breeze as she had always done. 

The cherished jewel. The pride of Spring. The golden heir with the smile that never cracked .

Chapter Text

It is rather a truth universally ignored by polite society that the management of estates—or, in this particular case, a mansion the size of a minor kingdom—is quietly left to the lady of the house.

Naturally, such responsibilities are never spoken of aloud. To speak of coin, after all, is terribly indelicate . And for men—those noble creatures who gamble fortunes and commission armies with the flick of a quill—the discussion of actual money is considered almost feminine . Crude, even.

One doesn’t ask how the golden fountains are maintained, or why the imported chandeliers don’t simply bankrupt the household. No—such things are handled, quietly and efficiently, by the same women expected to smile sweetly and not speak unless prompted.

It is a great comfort, apparently, for High Lords to believe that luxury simply exists .

That banquets replenish themselves.

That wealth is inherited rather than managed.

But of course, it takes a woman—usually with a ledger in one hand and a fan in the other—to keep the illusion intact.

And no one kept illusions intact better than Lady Liora.

That, of course, was precisely why Lady Liora now sat—polished and poised like a statue of divine marble—at the head of the grand meeting table in the Spring Court’s western wing.

She was every inch the vision she was raised to be.

Her gown was a masterwork of seasonal opulence—blush silk embroidered with winding gold vines and tiny beaded buds that sparkled like morning dew. The sleeves were sheer, delicately off-shoulder, with translucent chiffon draping like fog at her wrists. Every thread shimmered when the light caught it. Her bodice, sculpted to perfection, dipped just low enough to make the lords fidget and pretend not to look.

Her hair—gods, her hair—was arranged in a crown of braids and soft curls, pinned with clusters of pearls and peridot that matched the gold-flecked green of her eyes. A matching diadem nestled at the top of her head, not a true crown, but a reminder .

And her face—flawless.

Not a single trace of last night’s storm remained. Just the soft flush of polished cheeks, the faintest rouge at her lips, and eyes like sunlit emeralds veiled in frost.

She was fanning herself, slowly and elegantly, with a carved ivory fan painted in floral script. Beside her, a porcelain teacup steamed faintly, untouched. Across from her sat the High Lord of the Night Court, far too composed, with that signature amusement in his violet gaze—one that suggested he enjoyed the game as much as the prize.

And to her left, almost swallowed by his own shadows, brooding as though the tea had personally offended him—

The spymaster.

Azriel.

Liora did not look at him.

Not once.

But she knew he was watching her.

Probably thinking she was playing the perfect lady again.

Which, of course, she was.

And yet— not .

Because at that long, glistening table, in a room full of men who would rather speak of blood and blades—

Lady Liora was calmly, clinically, and publicly discussing the very thing they all avoided:

Finances.

“So let me get this straight,” Rhysand said slowly, folding his hands atop the polished table, “you want land from both Velaris and the Court of Nightmares—”

“ Fertile land,” Liora cut in sweetly, not even glancing up from her neat stack of notes.

Her fan fluttered in slow, deliberate rhythm, pale ivory feathers catching the light as if gilded in calm indifference. Her golden hair tumbled in loose, glistening waves around her shoulders, catching the breeze from the fan as if she were born to be painted like this—serene, untouched, divine.

There was not a trace of the roaring storm they had witnessed just a day ago.

Only the curve of her lips—poised in a faint, delightfully infuriating smile—and those forest-green eyes, laced with flecks of molten gold, sharpened like glass hidden in velvet.

Rhysand inhaled through his nose.

“Right,” he said slowly, dragging out the syllable with all the grace of a male trying very hard not to bare his teeth. “Fertile land. From both of my courts.”

He rubbed his temples with two fingers, his polite smile twitching at the corners like it was considering resigning on the spot.

Across the table, Azriel shifted in his seat, a flicker of shadow curling tighter around him. He hadn’t said a word. Had barely looked at her. And yet, Liora knew he was listening .

“On top of your dowry , as well as what ?” Rhysand’s voice was clipped, too polite to be friendly, too measured to be casual. “A monthly allowance? Access to my treasury ? And a wage , now?”

He blinked once, slowly.

“For what, exactly ?”

Across the table, Liora smiled.

No— beamed .

She lifted a single cherry from the crystal bowl beside her and popped it between her lips, the red of the fruit matching the delicate stain on her mouth. Her fan fluttered faintly, lazy as a summer breeze.

“Well,” she said, voice light as sugared cream, “I have a household to maintain. The allowance is merely traditional. And let’s be honest, Rhysand— you’re buying me to save your court from ruin. That’s work.”

She folded her fan with a gentle click and leaned forward ever so slightly.

“Work, as you must know, requires wages .”

Azriel shifted.

Rhysand stilled.

“Oh,” she added sweetly, “and I’ll require a palace of my own. It’s entirely unheard of for a lady of my station to live with…” her nose wrinkled, adorably offended, “ my in-laws .”

Silence.

Then—

Rhysand gave a short, tight laugh, the kind laced with disbelief and danger. “I only have the Moonstone Palace, I’m afraid. Not exactly suited to your taste, Lady Liora.”

She shrugged, the motion elegant, dismissive, devastating.

“Ah, please,” she said, waving one gloved hand as if brushing off a speck of dust. “If you have no other , that will have to do .”

Her smile was dazzling. Rhysand’s smile was dangerous . Azriel looked like he wanted to set something on fire.

But the ledger was open. The terms were clear.

And Liora?

Liora was winning . After all, she was quite good at getting what she wanted despite how horribly her cards were dealt with. 

“Oh, another thing,” Liora said airily, her tone far too casual for what came next.

She reached into her delicate clutch, drew out the glittering piece of jewelry Rhysand had gifted her—an opulent, obsidian-and-sapphire pendant carved with Night Court artistry—and tossed it onto the polished meeting table.

The sharp clink of gem against wood echoed like a gauntlet thrown.

It landed squarely atop a stack of finance ledgers and silence.

“I want the mine ,” she said, smoothing a lock of golden hair behind her ear. “The one in the Court of Nightmares where this was extracted.”

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed. His fingers stilled.

Across from her, Azriel didn’t move—only the shadows curled tighter around his boots, tighter around his silence.

Liora’s lips curled upward in a delighted, mischievous smirk.

Let them squirm.

Let them regret every line of this alliance.

She wanted them tired . She wanted them rattled . She wanted them to realize she would not be conquered with titles or half-hearted jewels.

And when Rhysand’s eye twitched in restrained irritation— perfect —she offered him a too-sweet smile and tilted her head with mock innocence.

“What?” she asked, voice lilting like a melody from a poisoned harp. “Am I too much for you, darling Rhys?”

That last word— darling —dripped with the kind of courtly familiarity only used between lovers or enemies.

Rhysand’s lips twisted into a sharp smirk, irritation flashing like a blade just behind his eyes. “Not at all, Lili .”

The petname cracked like a whip between them.

He leaned back in his chair. “It shall be done. Anything else? ”

Liora hummed, as if truly considering.

Liora leaned back in her chair, the silk of her gown whispering against the carved wood, the fan now resting lazily in her lap.

There was no going back from this.

She exhaled softly, a mockery of a sigh, her tone the picture of wearied civility. “Nothing much,” she said, eyes still fixed on the gilded trim of her teacup. “Just a few… conditions for the marriage.”

Her words dropped into the room like blades wrapped in lace.

She didn’t look at Azriel.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

Rhysand raised a dark brow, that ever-amused smirk twitching again. He said nothing—waiting.

His gaze met hers, full of ice and irritation.

“And what,” he asked, voice low, flat , “ are those?”

“Oh, and the usual,” Liora added breezily, as though she were discussing luncheon menus rather than matrimonial warfare. “Keep up the appearances, don’t embarrass me in public. You’ll need to show your face when I request it—festivals, galas, treaty signings, that sort of thing. Other than that, you’re free to do what you like.”

She paused delicately, tapping a manicured finger against her chin in mock thoughtfulness.

“But you will kindly refrain from causing scandal. At least in public.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said, tone dipped in honey and poison, “We’ll need to pretend we’re mates in public. You know, for appearances.”

The words hit like a death sentence.

Azriel all but snarled .

Rhysand stiffened in his seat, expression finally cracking into something between a frown and a grimace, his hand tightening subtly at the edge of the table.

The Mate Bond . Sacred. Rare. Binding in ways even High Lords feared to fully define.

And now—weaponized. Said so casually like it was nothing at all.

Azriel’s chest rose and fell with deliberate control, but it wasn’t enough to hide the fury beneath. Not from Rhys. Not from her .

But Liora only tilted her head, mock confusion dancing behind those golden-green eyes.

What? she thought she had done her research. As she did with everything. It wasn't like he had a mate so why was he so emotional about it?

And still—still—it felt like an arrow had been driven straight through Azriel’s chest.

“Why would you even—”

Azriel’s growl, low and dangerous, was cut short the moment Rhysand lifted a single hand. No magic. Just command. The kind that needed no power behind it to be obeyed.

Azriel stopped mid-step, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

Liora didn’t even flinch. She raised one perfectly arched brow and took another sip of her cooling tea, the porcelain cup balanced in fingers that did not tremble, her expression the very picture of mild annoyance .

Emotional much? she thought, resisting the urge to yawn.

Rhysand’s voice filled the silence instead, smooth and sharp. “What Azriel means to ask,” he said carefully, “is why you would need such a… fabrication?”

Liora blinked.

Then blinked again.

As if the question was genuinely stupid .

She leaned back with a soft sigh, the golden embroidery on her bodice catching the light, her lashes fluttering like the breeze from her fan. “Oh, don’t be stupid , Rhys,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

Rhysand’s eye twitched.

Azriel’s shadows flinched.

“My reputation would be in ruins ,” she continued, as if the answer were obvious. “I’ve turned down heirs , high-ranking males with full titles and multiple estates. And now I’m to be married off to a bastard Illyrian with no land and a public profession in torture?”

The words were spoken lightly.

Casually.

Cruelly.

Azriel flinched .

Truly flinched.

As though she had put a blade to his ribs and twisted.

His shadows stirred violently at his back, writhing around his shoulders as if they, too, had been struck.

But Liora was already speaking again, the tempo of her voice rising with irritation as if they were the ones being difficult .

“They’ll talk , obviously. They’ll think there’s something wrong with me. That I couldn’t secure a proper match after centuries of preparation. That I was cast off to rot in the shadows. The only plausible explanation would be if they assumed we were… mates .”

She gestured vaguely with her fan, as if that sealed the matter.

And in her mind—it did.

She was genuinely baffled by their reaction.

What did they expect to happen?

Did they think she would simply accept public humiliation in exchange for political salvation? Did they think she had clawed her way to the top just to let the court whisper that something must be wrong with her ?

No.

If she was to marry the blade of the Night Court, she would make them believe it was destiny —not desperation.

Liora had never cared for the concept of mates . If anything, the very idea repulsed her. To be magically bound — fated , they called it—to a male she had not chosen, did not want —the thought left that familiar bitter taste rising in her throat, the one she had buried decades ago and refused to name. No, she wouldn’t remember it now. Wouldn’t let that particular shadow crawl back into her mind.

Regardless, she had always hated the very notion. And truly, what was the big deal , anyway? She was right— of course she was. The moment the news broke, the court would be circling like vultures. They would ask . Why had Rhysand not simply taken her as a second wife, as most lords would have done, sealing the alliance through power and prestige rather than tossing her into the arms of a lowly spymaster? Why bind her to the shadows instead of keeping her in the light?

Surely he should have thought of the optics before trying to buy her off with silver, mountain mines, and empty compliments wrapped in poisoned treaties. The more she thought about it, the more she knew—she had saved this arrangement with her brilliance, not them .

But then—her gaze drifted, just briefly, to the male half-swallowed by the gloom in the corner, so stiff and brooding, shadows whispering like restless things around him—and something strange settled into her chest. A flicker.

She tapped her fingertip gently against her teacup, eyes unreadable as she watched him from the corner of her vision.

That reaction . The way he had flinched—not physically, but somewhere deeper, like a wound pressed through silk. The curl of his wings. The tension in his throat. A weakness . It startled her, not because it existed—but because he had shown it. So visible, so unguarded for a male so cold.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, Lady Liora found herself biting the inside of her cheek and thinking… curious .

She sipped her tea.

The game, it seemed, might be more entertaining than she’d expected.

Azriel snarled , shadows snapping at his heels like wolves tasting blood.

“Do you really care so much about your damned reputation ,” he hissed, “that you would defile a sacred bond just to protect it?”

The words were laced with fury—not just at her, but at what she represented. What she dismissed .

Liora didn’t flinch.

Instead, she set her teacup down with a quiet click , the porcelain ringing sharply against the polished wood.

Her eyes, bright and blade-like, narrowed.

When she spoke, her voice was no longer sweet, no longer dressed in silk and civility. It was commanding —a tone that did not rise, but cut .

“That damned reputation , Spymaster,” she said, each word clipped like the snap of a fan, “is a lady’s only armor .”

She rose to her feet, slow and deliberate, her gold-trimmed gown whispering around her ankles like gathering stormclouds.

“And unlike your scar-patched leathers and stitched-up shadows,” she continued coldly, “ mine took centuries to earn—and can be shattered in seconds. You think I will risk that armor so your feelings about a mythical tale of a bond doesn't get hurt?”

She stared him down, voice now like frost over flame.

Azriel’s voice rose again, this time strained with disbelief, his growl deep and feral as he turned sharply to his High Lord.

“You can’t possibly allow this!”

His siphons glowed faintly, his wings twitching with contained fury. Shadows licked at his boots like a storm barely leashed.

Rhysand rubbed his temples, the perfect image of a male who had lost both patience and will to argue. “She’s not wrong, Azriel,” he muttered, his tone tight. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Then—louder, flatter, as if the words physically pained him—“ Fine. We have a deal. Shall we sign the papers?”

Across the table, Liora smiled.

Not politely.

Not sweetly.

But satisfied —a queen accepting the tribute she was owed.

Finally, some control over this mess. It wasn’t the victory she’d wanted, but it was a throne she had carved herself.

The spymaster, however, had not taken it well.

She barely turned her head when he let out another growl—this one childish and dramatic in its own delicious way—and disappeared into shadows with a violent sweep of magic, the room pulsing faintly in his wake.

Liora only sighed, the sound dainty and theatrical. “Men,” she murmured with mock disappointment, brushing invisible dust from her gown.

Then, rising to her feet with impeccable grace, she turned to Rhysand and dipped into the kind of curtsy that made courtiers lean in and enemies grit their teeth.

“Pleasure doing business with you, High Lord ,” she said, voice light and poison-sweet.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me… I have a wedding to plan. On very short notice.”

She paused, golden eyes flashing with wicked delight.

“I’ll send you the expenses .”

And with that, she turned—her hair bouncing in soft, effortless curls, her gown sweeping behind her like a silken war banner—leaving behind only the faint scent of jasmine and an exhausted High Lord .

Rhysand groaned, dragging a hand down his face as the heavy doors clicked shut behind her.

“She’s not even wed yet,” he muttered, slumping back in his chair, “and she’s already draining my pockets .”

The silence that followed was only broken by the quiet clink of her discarded teacup still steaming at the table’s edge—a silent monument to the siege she had just orchestrated.

The mine. The treasury access. The allowance. The dowry. The palace .

And now— wedding expenses .

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.

He looked to the empty corner Azriel had vanished from, shadows still curling faintly where the spymaster had stood, and shook his head.

“…Gods save him ,” he muttered, already reaching for a bottle of wine.

She hadn’t even put on the dress yet, and somehow, the bride had won this battle of the war.

He only hoped she was a worthy investment.

Chapter Text

It is, of course, expected of any eligible male of noble standing to possess a calm disposition and a mild, agreeable temper. Naturally. 

The nobility prided themselves on being above such animalistic rage —a trait far more suited, in their opinion, to the battlefield or the back alleys of lesser courts. Raised brows, cool voices, and pointed restraint were the preferred weapons of polite society.

 A true lord, after all, did not growl. He sighed . He did not storm. He withdrew with dignity . And he certainly did not—under any circumstance—let himself be visibly rattled by the words of a beautiful woman wielding a teacup and twenty generations of political immunity like a blade.

Alas the brooding male of this story was no gentleman.

—- 

Azriel was raging .

He stormed through the Night Court’s hallways like a blade unsheathed, each step too fast, too sharp, his shadows roiling around him with a pulse that echoed the tempo of his thoughts—dark, violent, and utterly uncontainable . His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his siphons flaring along his arms in a silent cry for something— anything —to strike.

He had sat there.

Sat at that damned table, listening like some mute brute while that— that woman —tossed out insults as though they were flower petals. Calling him a bastard without a flicker of hesitation. Speaking about his bloodline, his lack of title, his worth, like it were merely a footnote in her negotiations. As if he were part of the dowry exchange. A tool. A leash.

And worse still— she had demanded half the treasury . Requested palaces like gowns. Turned sacred land into signatures. And then— then —had the audacity to look him straight in the eye and suggest they pretend to be mates .

Fated mates .

The words burned like acid beneath his skin.

He couldn’t even say why it tore at him so viciously. Perhaps because of what it mocked. Perhaps because of what he had once wanted . Or perhaps because she had said it so casually , so carelessly—without understanding the weight of what she played with.

And now—he couldn’t get her out of his head .

Not the golden hair bouncing with every victorious step.

Not the sharp flick of her fan.

Not the venom in her smile when she called him nothing .

She had branded herself into his mind like a curse—and he didn’t even know why .

Azriel turned the next corner like a blade cutting through the stone, barely registering the startled servant pressed against the wall to avoid him. He needed to move . Needed to hit something. Needed to get the image of that woman— Lady Liora, Jewel of Prythian and certified nightmare —out of his damned thoughts before it consumed him whole.

And yet—

Still she lingered.

Her voice. Her eyes. Her mocking smile .

Like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

Like a match he couldn’t stop from striking again and again and again.

Lady Liora.

The perfect, prideful jewel of Prythian.

Sitting there—so composed, so untouched —with her hair gleaming like the sun itself bent to her will. She’d worn her grace like armor, thrown her fan like a dagger, and spoken of the sacred bond as though it were a punchline to some cruel joke.

Pretend to be mates, she had said.

Just a detail. A political flourish. A lie to protect her image.

How many years had Azriel dreamed of that bond? Quietly. Desperately. Prayed to gods long since fallen for someone—anyone—who might look past the shadows and the scars and see him ? How many times had he stood at the edge of a room, watching as Cassian found Nesta, as Rhys clung to Feyre, wondering when it would be his turn?

And now?

Now this glittering, poisonous woman tossed the very thing he had ached for into the dirt and stepped over it in heels laced with gold.

It burned. Cauldron, it burned .

His shadows snarled, restless and furious, echoing the rage he kept buried beneath a century of silence. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His fists were clenched so tightly he swore the bone might splinter through his gloves. He wanted to scream, to break something—anything—but all he could do was stand there, strangled by the weight of her voice still lingering in the air.

She had no idea what she’d done.

And yet—somehow—he doubted she’d care if she did.

After all, why would a perfect highborn lady want a bastard anywhere near her?

Not even his shadows dared touch her now.

She was untouched. Untouchable. And she had made damn sure he remembered it.

Azriel took a breath.

A long one.

He had to.

Because for a moment—just a sliver of a moment—he considered it. Not murder. No. But perhaps… an accident . A well-timed fall. A poorly chosen horse. One slip of footing on one of those treacherously polished stairs in whatever glittering palace she’d demanded.

It wouldn’t be hard .

Lady Liora—the perfect porcelain puppet, all powdered pride and petty demands—would probably faint dead away at the first sight of his bloodied hands. At the weight of what he was —what he had done . Let her choke on horror.

He gritted his teeth, the idea half-formed and immediately swallowed back into the dark place it had come from.

No. He wouldn’t kill her.

But the shadows in him whispered that he might not miss her, either.

Before the thought could root deeper, a familiar voice cut through the haze like a dagger to the ribs.

“Well,” Rhysand said smoothly, appearing beside him with that infuriating air of ease. “You look positively murderous .”

Azriel snarled low in his throat. “Not a good time, brother.”

Rhysand’s smile widened, all teeth and trouble. “Oh, I think it’s the perfect time.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes.

“Come,” Rhysand said with maddening cheer, clapping a hand to Azriel’s shoulder. “Walk with me. Before you punch a hole through the mansion, it is newly redecorated I hear.”

—

Any member of polite society—no matter their rank, court, or house—knew that the real conversations never happened at the negotiating table.

No, the important talks always happened on balconies .

Which is precisely where the scorned, brooding spymaster and his infuriatingly composed High Lord now stood: overlooking the gardens, the night air cool and laced with faint perfume from the Spring Court’s endless floral indulgence. The stars blinked above them, oblivious and unsympathetic.

Rhysand was chewing on a cherry.

One of the very same cherries Liora had been popping into her mouth not hours before—those scarlet jewels she had eaten with such idle, taunting grace as she gutted their treasury and dignity alike.

Azriel didn’t miss it.

Didn’t miss the smirk either, when Rhys caught his stare and, ever the bastard, offered one up with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“Want to try it?” Rhysand asked casually, holding out the fruit like an olive branch dipped in poison. “Lili always knew how to pick out the best fruits.”

That pet name again.

That tone .

Azriel’s voice came out sharper than he meant. “ No thanks .”

Rhysand shrugged, undeterred. “You’re missing out.”

Azriel’s shadows twitched like a muscle spasm, and he snarled under his breath, stepping closer to the railing, as if distance might preserve his sanity.

“What did you want to talk about?” he bit out. “Get it over with, brother.”

Rhysand didn’t answer right away.

Just popped another cherry into his mouth, chewing like a male who hadn’t just witnessed the slow, diplomatic immolation of his spymaster’s will to live.

Azriel wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw him off the balcony or himself.

—--

Rhysand hummed, gaze drifting over the glowing gardens below like he hadn’t just handed his most lethal male over to the most expensive headache in Prythian.

“What do you think of Lady Liora?” he asked lightly, as though they were discussing wine, or horses, or weather.

Azriel snorted .

The sound was half-laugh, half-indictment.

“Are you going insane now?” he muttered, wings twitching with irritation. “Did you not hear her when she called me a winged monster ? Or when she negotiated my dignity like a line item in her wedding ledger?”

His voice was flat, but the memory still burned. Her voice, so casual. So dismissive.

Rhysand didn’t flinch. He only gave a small, maddening smile—the kind that suggested he knew far more than he was saying.

“Ah. That .” He waved one hand like he were brushing away a fly. “She’s quite a good liar, don’t you think?”

Azriel’s shadows twitched behind him.

Rhys went on, tone as infuriatingly casual as ever. “Though, I’ll admit… she could use a bit more creativity . ‘Winged monster’? Honestly, I expected something newer.”

Azriel turned to him, eyes narrowed.

“You’re not serious.”

Rhys tilted his head. “Oh, I’m very serious.”

Azriel froze .

“What the hell are you talking about?”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that came before blades were drawn—before the killing blow landed. His shadows stilled with him, as if they too were waiting, watching.

Rhysand didn’t flinch.

He only chuckled , low and bitter, a sound like dark wine poured over broken glass.

“Az,” he said, turning to face him now with a rare seriousness beneath the smirk, “do you really believe I would let my brother marry a female who truly thinks he’s a monster?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

Because no—he didn’t believe Rhysand would be cruel . Manipulative, yes. Calculating, always. But not vile .

Rhysand let the silence hang a beat longer, then added, “I may be a bastard, Azriel. But not that kind of bastard.”

Azriel stared at him, waiting.

Suspicious.

Confused.

And something else now—something twisting just beneath his ribs that he couldn’t quite name.

Rhys turned back to the balcony railing, his fingers drumming once before he exhaled and said, with infuriating ease, “I assumed she’d react like that. After all… she said the exact same thing to me when our fathers tried to betroth us.”

Azriel went still.

A different kind of still.

Not the controlled, lethal calm he was known for—but the shocked stillness of someone who’d just had the ground quietly pulled from beneath him.

Rhysand? Her?

They— ?

His shadows stirred, agitated now, like dogs bristling at a scent they couldn’t name. The idea sat wrong in his chest. Heavy. Twisted.

There was a past here. A personal one.

And Rhysand wasn’t done.

Did he have a past with her?

The thought snagged something deep in Azriel’s chest, something colder than suspicion and heavier than jealousy. His shadows stilled entirely—not in fury this time, but in unease . Why, he couldn’t say. Only that they didn’t like it .

Rhysand continued, still looking out over the gardens with that maddening calm.

“Why do you think she’s still unwed despite her age and position, brother?” he asked, voice low and thoughtful now. “She’s not wrong, you know. Dozens of nobles have tried—sons of High Lords, foreign emissaries, even a few courtiers with crowns in their eyes. And yet every time, she’s found a way to end the proposal.”

Azriel said nothing. He couldn’t.

“I was young,” Rhysand went on. “She was even younger—but a child marriage wasn’t uncommon in our circles. Strategic. Neat. Our fathers thought it’d be a tidy little bow over centuries of feuding. I barely knew her. She cried. Screamed. Thrashed, actually. A full spectacle. Quite impressive, really—would’ve convinced anyone.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I might have believed it,” he added, “if not for… well. You remember, once, Tamlin and I were friends. And after the engagement was broken, she and my sister grew… rather close.”

That made Azriel’s head tilt.

Rhys smiled faintly at the memory. “I remember her pestering Tamlin to take them to Windhaven. She was relentless. Determined to fly despite being told she couldn’t. I think she nearly bit his arm once when he said she couldn’t fly without having wings.”

He laughed quietly.

“You should’ve seen her face—small and red like an apple from rage. All curls and snarling and stubbornness. Quite adorable, really.”

He shook his head, the memory slipping behind his grin like a leaf on the wind.

“Well. I suppose she’s grown out of such habits.”

Azriel didn’t know what to say.

He couldn’t picture it.

Couldn’t reconcile it.

The cold, poised, perfectly composed Lady Liora— the jewel of Prythian —as a child flushed with rage, snarling over wind and wings, practically dragging Tamlin by the wrist.

That version of her didn’t exist in the woman who had called him a monster and priced out his worth over tea.

Did it?

He clenched his jaw, a flicker of something unfamiliar tightening in his chest.

Not affection.

Not sympathy.

But the first, fragile crack in the image he’d built of her—perfect, cruel, untouchable.

“Why are you telling me all this?” Azriel asked, voice low, careful—like a blade half-drawn from its sheath.

Rhysand didn’t answer immediately. He stood still, arms folded, gaze still fixed on the horizon as if the truth were stitched into the stars themselves.

Then, with quiet resolve, he said, “Hate her, if you must.”

Azriel flinched at the blunt permission in the words. He had expected a lecture. Not this.

Rhysand went on, voice gentler now, yet edged in something older. “She’s changed a great deal since she was young. Her time with Eris—whatever that entailed—shaped her, I don’t doubt. Hardened her. But Azriel…” He turned, finally meeting his brother’s eyes. “If you’re going to hate your bride, at least hate her for the right reasons .”

Azriel’s shadows stilled.

“She wasn’t trying to hurt you , not truly,” Rhysand continued. “Those words? That performance? It was the same one she’s always used to get out of any engagement she didn’t want. You just happened to be in the path.”

He gave a dry, humorless smile. “Don’t take it to heart.”

Then, with a flicker of amusement—or sympathy—he added, “Well… not the wings part.”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because they both knew the rest of it already.

The bastard . The brute .

The one who tortures for a living .

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter.

That part wasn’t a lie. His dagger had confirmed it. And that truth—that ugly, irrefutable truth—cut deeper than her words ever had.

Maybe she wasn’t as evil as he’d believed.

But he didn’t hate her any less.

Not yet.

Rhysand sighed, turning back to the rail. “Do try to play nice until the wedding is over, Az.”

Azriel said nothing.

He just walked away.

Leaving behind the stars, the scent of cherry still lingering in the air, he realised he hated the scent of cherries now too.

He had a lot to think about.

Lady Liora.

The prideful, perfect jewel of Prythian—cold as marble, sharp as crystal, and just as hollow, or so he kept telling himself. He still hated her. That hadn’t changed. Her words echoed in his skull, carved their way down his spine .

But he would endure .

For Rhysand. For the court. Until this damned wedding was over.

Until he could return to Velaris and pretend this had never happened. Until he could see Elain again—soft, quiet, gentle Elain—like balm on a wound he was beginning to suspect would never heal.

He would play nice. Wear the mask. Smile if he had to.

He just had to stop thinking about how pretty her delicate lady neck would look like when his shadows wrapped around it as she begged for air.

He clenched his fists until his gloves creaked, breathing harder than he meant to.

He hated her. And hated those damned cherries.

Chapter Text

There is no event quite like a wedding—whether in the glittering halls of polite society or among the peasant class. The difference, of course, lies not in the ceremony itself, but in what it means.

In one, it is a celebration of joy.

In the other, it is a quiet trial—a ritual that marks the beginning of a test, one in which the woman is slowly, inevitably, stripped of her freedoms .

Lady Liora had realized long ago that she preferred a gilded cage —one lined with silk and gold, filled with fine dresses and whispered respect—over the open air of freedom… and poverty.

After all, what was love, really, when weighed against comfort? Safety? Power?

Love, she decided, was an acceptable trade for financial security and societal stability .

And in the world she lived in, that was the smartest kind of romance .

As with any grand event in polite society, a wedding was considered the crowning moment in a lady’s public life—the one opportunity to dazzle the world so thoroughly, so unforgettably, that the memory of it clung to her name for centuries.

And if Lady Liora was to be placed in a gilded cage?

Then by the gods, it would be the most magnificent cage anyone had ever laid eyes upon.

She would line it with roses from all seven courts, trim it with velvet imported from beyond the Sidra, and hang diamonds from its rafters like falling stars. It would shimmer. It would burn . And she would sit in the center of it all, smiling that well-practiced, utterly impenetrable smile that had made the nobles of Prythian crown her their jewel.

After all—a wedding was simply a more expensive party.

And Liora loved parties.

Especially the kind where she was the center of gravity around which the entire court spun.

At that precise moment, the west wing of the Spring Court manor resembled something between a royal war room and a florist’s fever dream. Dozens of servants scurried like mice—clutching swatches of silk, trailing garlands of starlight-touched roses, adjusting seating charts that changed with every political ripple.

In the middle of it all stood her .

Lady Liora.

Arms crossed lightly, her gown a cascade of pale gold and blush silk, her hair piled high in gleaming waves pinned with sunstones. And around her— her magic .

Delicate, graceful, and ruthlessly efficient .

It shimmered in the air, holding up a dozen fabric samples mid-hover, flicking through floral arrangements, floating place cards and embroidery mock-ups before her keen eyes. A quill scribbled notes on parchment beside her, dabbing itself with ink as it kept pace with her murmured thoughts.

“No, not peach ,—burnt rose,” she said calmly as a servant nearly tripped over a crate of crystal flutes. “And shift the Night Court delegation two tables back. I’d rather not have Rhysand’s mood sulking near the champagne.”

Another flick of her magic and an entire silver centerpiece rotated mid-air, examining itself for imperfections before landing in place with a pristine clink .

And of course, one must assume it is a groom’s duty to support his bride during such arduous and stressful times— which is precisely how the brooding, emotionally repressed, and slightly mentally unstable male love interest of our tale found himself dragged —not invited, mind you, but dragged —by a pair of frighteningly efficient servants into the vast, echoing ballroom where Lady Liora was orchestrating wedding arrangements like a general preparing for war.

Azriel, famed Shadowsinger of the Night Court, discovered—rather suddenly and with great personal offense—that he now hated the scent of peaches.

He hadn’t minded them before. Hadn’t even thought about them. But now, as he stood like a sullen statue in the doorway of the grand ballroom-turned-chaos-pit, he watched the ever-composed, ever-perfect Lady Liora lift a soft slice of peach to her lips—those same lips that had, just days ago, casually referred to him as a winged monster —and smile .

It was over for peaches.

He was running out of edible fruits by the day.

The chaos around her had not touched her. It never did. She stood in the center of it like the eye of a storm: calm, immaculate, and entirely self-assured. Her golden hair had been styled in another one of those maddeningly elaborate updos—an intricate braid-crown twined with miniature sunstone combs and golden filigree vines that shimmered under the ballroom’s high crystal lights. Not a strand out of place. Not a curl that dared disobey her.

She wore another new gown—because of course she did. He was starting to suspect she had never repeated a dress in her entire life.

This one was sculpted from layers of sheer ivory and sun-glow silk, embroidered with metallic thread that shifted between gold and blush as she moved. The sleeves fell off her shoulders like water, held in place by tiny jeweled clasps that glinted with every commanding gesture she made.

And gods, she commanded .

Azriel hated how easy it was to find her in the room. Hated the way the light found her, the way her magic drifted lazily like petals in the air, arranging chaos with the elegance of someone who didn’t know how to lose.

She looked like art. Like wealth. Like trouble in every sense of the word.

And worst of all?

She hadn’t even noticed he’d arrived.

She looked up with a lazy elegance, that infuriating smile curling on her lips like she had all the time in the world and knew exactly how little of it he was worth.

Azriel inhaled slowly, trying to calm the fraying edges of his temper—he had promised Rhysand he wouldn’t cause trouble. Not until after the wedding.

And then she approached .

Light on her feet, voice as bright and chirpy as a songbird at dawn, smile positively delighted —as if she hadn’t called him a brute and a bastard mere days ago. As if she weren’t the very embodiment of his spiraling nightmares.

Her presence made his skin itch. Not from fear, but from the dissonance of it all. Her whole being felt like a lie .

Where was the girl who had snarled at High Lords?

Who had shattered mirrors and threatened to set the manor ablaze?

Where were the fangs ?

The claws ?

Because the woman standing before him now looked like she belonged on a music box—gone was the wild power that split the sky mere days ago. He almost preferred her growls over whatever smile this was. 

And somehow, that unnerved him more.

“Ah, perfect ,” she chirped, gliding toward him with the radiant purpose of someone who expected the entire world to adjust its schedule to hers. “Now we have a couple of things to go over.”

Azriel barely had time to brace himself before she was already sweeping past him—leaving a flustered tailor’s assistant scurrying in her wake, arms full of fabric samples, sketches, and what looked suspiciously like pearl-threaded gloves.

She was muttering to herself, issuing instructions like a war general disguised as a socialite, when her voice cut sharp across the ballroom. “Will the rings be ready on time?”

The servant she addressed nearly tripped over himself, stammering under the pressure of her gaze. “U-umm, the ring master said the notice was too short for the custom design you requested, my lady.”

Liora came to a slow stop—right in front of Azriel.

Her expression shifted into something displeased, but not surprised. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t glare.

She simply… assessed .

Her eyes dragged over Azriel’s leathers, his tunic, the set of his shoulders, the exact angle of his boots—and for some reason, it made him uneasy. Unnerved. Even his shadows stirred, curling close like they didn’t know whether to shield him or flee.

Why was she looking at him like that?

Like she was measuring something.

Without turning her head, her voice cut through the air—poised, calm, and lethal.

“Well, remind him,” she said, “that I still pay for his niece’s healer apprenticeship at Thesan’s court.”

The servant swallowed hard.

“I want those rings in a week . Pay him double if you must.”

And with nothing but a flick of her gloved hand, she dismissed him like one would a fly.

Azriel blinked.

Right.

She was terrifying.

He wasn’t used to being this close to her.

Not in the quiet moments. Not when she wasn’t performing for a room full of nobles or snapping commands like whip cracks.

Up close, she was… quieter . More precise. And far more dangerous.

Azriel clenched his jaw as she muttered under her breath, seemingly to herself, eyeing a few swatches of cloth and a rack of tailored coats. “Well,” she said, voice soft but sure, “I think we can work with these.”

He frowned. “What do you mean—”

She didn’t look up.

He exhaled sharply. Swallowed his irritation. “What do you mean , my lady?”

At the sound of her title, she looked up at last—slowly, deliberately—and offered him a smile so innocent it could have been bottled and sold at tea parties.

Deceptively harmless.

And entirely constructed .

Azriel’s breath caught. She was closer than he’d realized.

Shorter , too. Still tall for a female, yes—but close enough now that the top of her head aligned with his lips.

He tried not to notice it.

Tried not to think about how that was the perfect height for—

No.

His eyes narrowed. He focused on the far wall. Anywhere but her.

She smelled like peaches today.

Of course she did.

He cursed under his breath, so softly even his shadows barely heard it.

Because this was exactly the problem. She was too close. Too composed. Too good at slipping under his skin without even trying.

“Oh, we’ll need to get you a new set of court attire,” she said breezily, as if discussing the weather. “And one for the wedding, of course. I absolutely cannot allow my husband to look like he’s been living in a barracks his entire life.”

She didn’t even glance at him—just moved on to the next fabric swatch as if her insult had been a casual observation. He hated the way she said ‘my husband’ ... hated it so much he felt his stomach move like he would throw up right then there. Hated the way all of this  performance came so easily to her. Hated that she had been bred for this moment, to call a strange male she didn’t even tolerate her husband while that word meant everything to him..would have if it was someone else  saying it. 

Azriel stiffened. “I don’t need new tailored clothes.”

Liora blinked at him like he’d just declared he preferred eating dirt.

“Nonsense,” she said, already raising one hand. “Not many boutiques spell their suits to account for Illyrian wings, and besides—tailored clothes always fit best.”

Before he could protest again, she clapped once, and a door burst open.

He didn’t even see the maids until they were on him.

Five of them. Measuring tapes in hand. One already circling his chest with a look of mild judgment.

He looked around, betrayed by his own shadows, who didn’t even twitch to help him.

“This is unnecessary,” he muttered under his breath as a pair of nimble fingers took his arm span.

But Liora only smirked. The smirk of a woman who had waited decades to exact this kind of casual power over an irritated male.

“Stand still, darling, ” she said, voice laced with false sweetness. Azriel for a moment saw how she and Rhysand had been part of similar circles now. “It’s for the good of Prythian, after all.”

He gritted his teeth.

And swore if one more tape went near his inner thigh, he might just call the wedding off himself. Though he suspected that was exactly what she was counting  on. Push him enough so it would be the Night Court who had to deal with consequences of a broken alliance. 

She had seated herself on a velvet-backed chair like it was a throne, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, parchment hovering in midair as her magic scribbled notes at a pace that would make military scribes weep. Bolts of fabric floated around her like orbiting moons, and she barely looked up as she said:

“Tell me—do you have any allergies? Past illnesses? A record of medical history, perhaps?”

Azriel blinked.

Was she conducting a wedding or preparing to enlist him in a war campaign?

She didn’t even pause—just moved on to cataloging fabric textures as if she were recording troop movements. Her voice was efficient, her tone businesslike, her quill merciless.

Rhysand’s voice echoed mockingly in his skull.

Play nice until the wedding.

Right.

He exhaled slowly. “No allergies,” he said flatly. “And I haven’t done a check-up in a while.”

She frowned, her lips pursing with genuine concern—or what passed for it in Liora’s highly administrative version of care. “Well, we’ll have to take care of that too.”

She flipped a page with a crisp snap of magic. “I’ll schedule you an appointment for this afternoon. There’s a new healer stationed in Spring—trained under Thesan. Specializes in winged Fae anatomy.”

She said it as casually as if she were discussing the weather.

Azriel stared at her.

She snapped her ledger shut and finally looked up. 

With a snap of her fingers, the staff vanished.

The entire ballroom—once a flurry of fluttering fabrics, hovering swatches, and darting assistants—fell into an unnerving hush. All that remained were two people: one slightly unhinged Shadowsinger who looked like he’d rather be in a war camp, and one Lady Liora, seated like a queen in silk and sunstone, her gaze sharp enough to cut marble.

She tilted her head, those assessing green eyes with gold flecks narrowing just slightly.

Gods. That look .

Azriel’s shoulders tensed. Should he speak? Say something clever? Something scathing?

But, as ever, she saved him from the effort.

“How’s your dancing?” she asked lightly, plucking another peach slice from her plate.

The question caught him completely off guard. “Um… decent,” he muttered.

He cursed himself. Decent ? Really?

Her smile curled, amused. She wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her fan with one hand, “we’ll need to arrange rehearsals. Our first waltz must be timed, of course, and… oh—”

She looked at him again, more calculating now.

“How far do your wings stretch, exactly?”

Azriel stiffened, his wings twitching in suspicion. “Why would you need to know that?”

She popped the peach slice into her mouth with maddening calm, fanned herself slowly, and replied, “So I can resize the ballroom stage for our first dance.”

She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I assume it’ll need to accommodate your wingspan,” she added, “and the chairs, naturally.”

He stared at her.

She blinked back, utterly unbothered.

The silence that followed was only broken by the delicate flick of her fan and the sound of one very uncomfortable Illyrian reassessing every life decision that had led him to this moment.

He blinked, barely registering it—his shoulders loosening ever so slightly, his wings shifting with the smallest pull of breath.

They unfurled. Not fully. But just enough.

It was unconscious. Unintended. He normally kept them tucked in tightly, folded and shadowed at his back like something to be hidden. Contained . Years of self-conscious habit, sharpened by too many glances, too many whispered words. Even in the Night Court, where he was known, respected— feared —he could still feel the weight of what they meant to others.

But the way she’d spoken…

So casually. As if his wings were no more unusual than a flower arch or a centerpiece that needed rearranging. As if they were just another line item in the schedule. Just another thing to plan around—not judge, not question.

He didn’t understand her.

Not at all.

One moment she was snarling insults and spitting venom, calling him a bastard , a brute , with fire in her eyes and storm in her voice. And the next—she was sitting in sun-drenched silk, eating peaches and casually measuring his wingspan for a waltz rehearsal.

As if everything was perfect.

As if he belonged in her carefully crafted world. As if she had the power to make him fit, arrange the world so it accommodated him too. 

Azriel sighed quietly.

He didn’t know which version of her was real.

He wasn’t even sure which one unnerved him more.

But one thing was certain—he desperately wanted this wedding to be over. 

Before he had sworn off to another fruit. 

Chapter Text

Liora stood before the vanity, hands resting on its gilded edge, the golden-framed mirror reflecting a bride worthy of legend.

She took a breath.

Slow. Shallow. Careful not to disturb a single strand of hair.

She looked perfect.

Her gown—a masterpiece of silk and spellwoven glass—fell around her like a waterfall of moonlight. Her hair, half-braided in courtly tradition, glinted with emeralds and gold, pinned in a crown of deliberate precision. Her earrings swayed with every breath, and her necklace—a relic once worn by her mother—rested just above her collarbone, catching the light like a quiet promise.

Her skin glowed, her lashes curled, her lips glossed to a delicate blush.

Every detail was flawless.

Except her expression.

Liora stared at herself, willing calm into her bones, trying to slow the riot of her heart. They were waiting. Guests. Nobles. Envoys. Lords. The entire Court of Spring dressed in ceremony. And the Night Court too, of course. He would be waiting—somewhere in the crowd, dark and unreadable, the blade she was meant to bind herself to.

She had fasted for two weeks. Only fruit. Just enough to stay upright. Just enough to simulate enjoyment at the feast that would follow. She’d practiced every movement, rehearsed every breath. Every word she’d say tonight had already been tested in front of mirrors, her tone perfected like an aria.

She clenched her fists slowly, careful not to wrinkle the lace gloves.

She could do it.

She had to do it.

But gods, she hated it.

Not the dress. She had designed it herself.

Not the banquet, or the music, or the candles that lined the aisle in floating spirals of spring air and illusion.

No—she hated the performance .

The fact that every moment, every vow, every silent glance would be recorded and dissected by courts older than the land they stood on.

It was all hers. The planning. The design. The spectacle.

And still… it felt like a cage .

She had always hated cages.

Since childhood, Liora had only one recurring nightmare.

A faceless lord.

A white gown heavy as chains.

A wedding altar she could never run from.

And now— this .

She opened her eyes.

Still perfect.

Still polished.

Still hers… and not.

The jewel of Prythian.

Right, she thought.

She was the Jewel of Prythian.

And jewels didn’t shatter. They refracted.

She had a plan. Of course she did. She always did.

Let the spymaster of the Night Court sulk and simmer. Let him brood in silence and choke on his pride. Eventually, he would break. He would walk away. And when he did, the blame would lie squarely at his feet—not hers. Not her court’s. Her hands would remain pristine, her name untarnished.

But first… there was a wedding to attend.

Her wedding.

Liora reached for her mask—the one more delicate than lace, sharper than any blade—and slipped it on with the ease of long practice.

The signature smile. The one that had disarmed diplomats, seduced entire rooms, and hidden fury like a blade behind silk.

Smile, bitch, she reminded herself as her lips curved upward.

Perfect hair. Perfect body. Perfect dress.

Perfect lie.

She turned from the mirror, the long train of her gown sweeping behind her like the tail of a comet.

Her heels clicked softly on marble as she stepped into the hall, chin high, light catching the gold in her hair and the emeralds at her throat.

There were eyes waiting. Music playing. Vows written.

And a performance to deliver.

Let them all believe she wanted this.

Let them all believe this was love.

Liora smiled.

And walked into the dream she had spent her life trying to escape.

Azriel

The wedding had been thrown together in haste.

And yet, it was still the most extravagant, excessive, and immaculately staged affair Azriel had ever witnessed.

The ceremony was held in the grand ballroom of Tamlin’s ancestral estate—transformed into a garden of light and illusion. Magic hung in the air like perfume. Dozens of floating candles danced between arching floral arrangements, while charmed orchestras shifted seamlessly between melodies. The scent of roses, wine, and spring clung to every breath.

Only two from the Night Court had come.

Rhysand.

And Azriel.

Azriel stood at the altar alone, his shadows silent and still for once—as if even they knew this moment was too heavy to disturb.

His fingers twitched, restless in their gloves. He hated how well the suit fit him. Hated that the deep midnight fabric moved like water when he shifted, how it had been tailored perfectly around the spread of his wings and the weight of his siphons.

The colors—dark sapphire with subtle silver embroidery—brought out the glint in his siphons and sharpened the icy edge of his stare.

It was flawless.

Too flawless.

And that’s what unsettled him most.

Had she chosen it herself?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t want to know.

This was happening.

Really happening.

They’d signed the bond. Skipped the vows. Everything was already binding.

All that remained now was performance .

The first dance.

The charming of guests.

The smiles that meant nothing and the touches that meant even less.

And then… the last step.

He didn’t want to think about that part.

He clenched his jaw.

Hard. As if biting down on the grief.

He thought of Elain.

Soft, gentle, unreachable Elain—the only one of the three sisters who had not been given to him. The one whose smiles he’d memorized like scripture. Whose light he had held onto like salvation.

And this was it. The moment he would lose her forever.

This marriage, political or not, would mark him in a way no invisible string ever had. And Elain, the delicate garden of his silent longing, would be lost to him.

Forever.

Then the music shifted. Harps, low and lilting. A piano following with perfect restraint.

He knew that sound.

The bride had arrived.

His bride.

He inhaled slowly, forcing his shadows tighter around him, trying to make them still—polite. Invisible. Unthreatening.

But they stirred.

Flickered.

Twitched and shifted like smoke beneath his skin.

And when his eyes lifted—when he saw her—

He understood why.

She descended the marble staircase like a goddess descending from some old tale, her hand resting lightly on Tamlin’s arm—her reluctant escort, though no one would dare call it that.

And for one unbearable second, Azriel forgot how to breathe.

Her gown was spun sunlight. Gold silk layered with sheer panels of misted ivory, embroidered in fine green thread that echoed her court and made her eyes seem impossibly brighter. Emeralds winked from her ears, her hair, the fine circlet set at her brow. Her golden hair—half braided, half left in perfect waves—shimmered with each step, jewels catching the candlelight like fireflies.

A train trailed behind her like the tail of a comet, and above her heart, the fabric was sculpted with such delicate magic it gave the illusion of blooming vines curling toward her throat.

But it was her face— that face —that hit him hardest.

Because she was smiling.

That same polished, radiant smile she wore like armor. The one that fooled every emissary, every noble, every room she walked into.

She was magnificent. His shadows pulsed around his boots. He didn’t blame them. This was his bride.

Liora.

The nightmare. The vision.

The trap.

And the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He barely registered when they had arrived.

Tamlin had brought her down the last steps with practiced grace, his hand still resting lightly over hers as if she were glass, and Azriel stood frozen until that moment—until Tamlin gently placed her hand into his.

Their fingers touched.

She smiled at him.

That smile.

The perfect one. The one crafted for courts and councils and masks, polished smooth until no feeling could crack it.

Azriel blinked.

And took her hand.

He bowed slightly, as expected. As instructed. As duty demanded. And pressed a gentleman’s kiss to the back of her gloved hand.

Her skin was cold beneath the lace.

Colder than it should have been.

He frowned, just barely. Was she cold? 

There was no time to ask. No moment for hesitation.

The music began.

A slow, aching waltz. One they had rehearsed in silence and calculation. Their bodies moved before thought could catch up—muscle memory and duty guiding them to the center of the ballroom, where the guests watched from their golden seats like spectators at a performance.

They began to dance.

It was flawless.

His arm curved around her waist, her gloved fingers rested lightly on his shoulder, and together they spun—graceful, poised, and hollow. She moved like she weighed nothing, like she had been born to waltz beneath chandeliers, to smile with still eyes and glide across marble floors.

He followed her lead, though no one would notice.

They moved as one.

And yet—

All Azriel could feel was the chill of her skin against his palm, the scent of peaches and perfume, and the deep, inescapable knowledge:

This wasn’t a wedding.

It was a show .

And they were both the star actors in a play neither of them had asked to join.

All eyes were on them.

The Jewel of Prythian and the infamous Shadowsinger—dancing together beneath the chandeliers like they were the perfect union of light and dark.

Azriel’s hand rested on her waist, light enough not to be improper, firm enough to guide her through the slow, sweeping rhythm of the waltz. Her gloved fingers curled over his shoulder with effortless poise. She looked the picture of a glowing bride: smiling sweetly, posture flawless, eyes lit like the golden flecks in a glass of fine wine.

Between her teeth, still smiling, she murmured, “Smile. It’s your wedding, not a funeral. We’re happily married mates , remember?”

He clenched his jaw. Gods, it took effort not to let it show on his face.

Of course. Appearances.

They had an audience to entertain. An illusion to maintain.

So he turned her delicately in his arms, every movement precisely measured. He kept just enough distance to avoid the illusion of intimacy—careful not to pull her too close, careful not to let himself feel more than the stiff fabric of her bodice beneath his hand.

He tried to smile.

It was a grimace wearing a suit.

She turned her face toward him, her radiant expression never faltering as he spun her. They came together again, her body brushing his for the briefest of seconds—and her breath ghosted against his ear.

“Gods, you have a horrid smile, Shadowsinger,” she whispered, voice silky and venomous all at once.

He gritted his teeth, smile still plastered on like a poorly glued mask. “Apologies,” he murmured, tone sharp enough to cut silk. “It’s rather difficult to fake happiness when I’m being shackled to my loving wife… my lady .”

He added the last part with a bow of mockery in his voice.

She laughed . Tossed her head back in delight like he’d said something truly amusing. The room probably thought it was charming.

He thought it was maddening .

t wasn’t funny.

There was nothing amusing about being shackled in silk to a woman who had done nothing but insult him since the moment their paths had crossed. And yet—there she was—laughing. Her head tossed back, eyes gleaming with faux delight, as if they were the image of a couple so enamored they simply couldn’t stop whispering sweet nothings to one another on the ballroom floor.

And then it struck him.

Of course.

It was a performance. A well-rehearsed illusion for the benefit of the watching crowd. They would see a joyous bride and her utterly smitten mate, sharing private jokes and radiant smiles beneath floating lanterns and divine music.

A matched pair. How lovely.

His heart clenched—not with longing, but hatred .

Of course it was a game to her.

Everything was.

He doubted she could laugh for real. Doubted she had any true feeling at all beneath the marble façade and emerald jewelry. It was all calculation. A glint here, a tilt of the head there, every expression sharpened to perfection and hollow as glass.

He looked at her again—radiant, laughing, untouchable.

A doll sculpted by her own ambition.

And gods help him… he loathed her for it .

Chapter Text

It is, of course, every gentleman’s private wish to be rid of his new bride as swiftly as politeness will allow—particularly when said bride is dazzling, manipulative, and utterly insufferable.

And so, once our brooding, fruit-hating, winged groom had fulfilled his matrimonial duties—smiling through clenched teeth, dancing without killing anyone, and surviving a round of insipid congratulations—he promptly excused himself with all the grace of a storm cloud retreating to its corner of the ballroom.

There, cloaked in shadow and silent fury, Azriel sulked.

He watched as his new wife—radiant and relentless—glided through the crowd, laughter on her lips, charm at her fingertips, and not a single crack in that perfect smile.

The Jewel of Prythian sparkled for the room.

And the Bastard of the Night Court glared at his wine.

Azriel took another slow sip of his wine, letting the burn distract him from the ache beneath his ribs.

His shadows stirred restlessly, whispering every scrap of gossip that drifted through the ballroom. He’d ordered them to stop over an hour ago, but they disobeyed in tiny, loyal flickers—too attuned to his moods to leave him entirely alone.

He already knew what they were saying.

How lucky he was.

How shocking it was.

How utterly absurd it seemed that the most beautiful woman in Prythian had been shackled to a scarred, winged brute from the shadows.

He gritted his teeth and drank.

Across the room, Liora sparkled like a constellation brought to life—charming noble after noble, her laughter effortless, her grace unshakable. She danced, she twirled, she whispered with gloved hands brushing arms and shoulders like a breeze.

As if her husband didn’t even exist .

Azriel exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest pressing tighter.

Well. That was fine. Better, even .

As long as she wasn’t trying to talk to him .

His relief, like any good marriage, was short-lived.

Because just as he was beginning to enjoy the illusion of solitude, a voice—too bright, too confident—sliced through the hum of the ballroom.

“Ah, the lucky groom.”

Azriel didn’t need his shadows to tell him the male was trouble. He knew the type. Smug grin. Polished boots. The kind of confidence only inherited wealth and decades of undeserved praise could produce.

The male before him was Day Court stock— clearly . Handsome in a delicate, syrupy sort of way. Cheekbones too sharp, hair too perfectly sun-kissed, robes tailored within an inch of absurdity. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a wine-soaked painting.

Azriel’s fingers curled loosely around his glass.

The male continued, stepping just a touch too close, his words laced with the sort of politeness that made it feel like the wine in Azriel’s hand might sour.

“You see, I’ve always been rather friendly with our little jewel,” he said, voice dripping with insinuation. “And I must confess—we’re all a bit shocked, really. I thought our mothers matched equals … not bastard mutts with… how shall I say—” he gestured vaguely at Azriel’s wings, “— with purebred stock ”

Azriel’s shadows darkened.

Not a flicker. Not a whisper.

A warning .

The kind that coiled low around his boots, ready to strike. His grip tightened around the glass in his hand, and a low growl rumbled from deep in his chest—too quiet for most to notice, but primal enough to still the air between them.

Purebred stock.

As if she were some prize mare to be admired, assessed, and bred.

Not even the decency of using her name .

Just another glittering thing for males like him to covet. To claim. To ruin.

Azriel’s mind snapped into razor focus. He could see it: one flick of his siphon, one movement of his hand, and this over-sunned little lordling would be gasping for air beneath his boot, his words dripping down the marble floor in blood.

He was ready.

Ready to wipe the smirk from his face with steel.

But then—

Her voice.

Light and smooth, like a breeze slipping through the summer leaves. Calm. Controlled. Calculated.

“Darling, finally found you!” she said sweetly.

And her hand slid around Azriel’s arm like it had always belonged there.

His muscles tensed, startled—but she was already smiling up at the noble, her expression radiant, warm, and utterly false.

“Ah, Lord Thalen ,” she said sweetly, her voice the picture of gracious hostess charm. “What a delight to have you among the guests.”

Azriel stiffened—just slightly.

He still wasn’t used to her touch. The way she’d slid her arm through his like they’d done it for years. The way she leaned in with effortless familiarity, like his shadows weren’t coiled around his spine like drawn blades.

Lord Thalen—yes, that was the name—smiled, all teeth and gilded arrogance.

“It is always a pleasure to see you, my lady,” he said with a slight bow. “I was just extending my congratulations to the Spymaster here. It’s rather… lucky, isn’t it? That such a prized young lady should be mated to someone of his—how shall we say— disposition .”

The pause.

The fake politeness.

The smug twist of his lips.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, a low growl rising in his throat. His siphons flared softly, his shadows prickling in anticipation.

And then—

A pinch .

Small. Sharp. Perfectly placed just at his side where no one else would notice.

He blinked.

Frowned.

She didn’t look at him. Her smile was still trained on Thalen, radiant and unbothered. But her fingers—those perfectly gloved fingers—had warned him in the most ladylike way possible to stand down.

Was she really trying to come in defence of this fucking male?

“Why would you ever be surprised, my lord?” Liora’s tone was light, lilting, her smile untouched by malice. “After all, would you not agree… the most prized jewel deserves a worthy protector?”

Azriel felt the shift before it hit.

The slight stillness in the air. The tightening of Lord Thalen’s jaw.

Liora continued, her voice syrup-sweet. “And my husband, ” she said, eyes shining like polished emeralds, “ is the best warrior in the land. And the skies.”

Azriel blinked.

That hadn’t been what he expected her to say. Not a boast. Not that kind of boast.

But she wasn’t done.

“Oh—this reminds me,” she said, ever thoughtful, placing a gloved finger to her lips in mock recollection. “How is your knee, my lord? I heard there was quite the incident last week. Something about a rather unfortunate fall while you were riding in the gardens with your niece?”

Her brows lifted, the very picture of polite concern.

“Horses can be so dangerous,” she added gently. “Especially for those with… delicate joints.”

Lord Thalen paled.

Visibly.

A flush of humiliation crept up his neck, and whatever smug composure he’d entered with now splintered like thin glass.

“I—of course, my lady, forgive me—I must return to my father,” he stammered, bowing too quickly before disappearing into the crowd like a dog kicked back to its leash.

Liora watched him go, still smiling.

Still serene.

Azriel looked down at her, brow faintly furrowed.

My husband , she had said.

The words echoed with unwelcome weight, and Azriel gritted his teeth.

“I didn’t need your help,” he muttered under his breath as she slipped her arm from his.

She said nothing at first—only raised her wineglass to her lips and took a generous sip. Then another. Then, with a quiet sigh, she leaned back against the wall, her posture still mostly poised… but not perfect.

Not quite.

Azriel frowned.

There was a flush high on her cheeks now—not the delicate glow she painted on for court events, but something real. Her eyes darted across the ballroom, not with elegance, but with the quick, restless tracking of someone struggling to keep still. For the first time, the jewel looked slightly dulled.

And when she spoke again, the sweetness was gone from her voice entirely.

“Good. Because I didn’t do it for you.”

Her gaze didn’t meet his, but her tone was flat and sharp. “Your name is tied to mine now. So you’d better stop letting these slimy old lords step on you like you’re something beneath their shoes.”

She took another long gulp of wine, exhaling roughly afterward.

Azriel blinked, taken aback.

She was rather… blunt . No venom, no fanfare, just raw honesty slid under her breath like a blade in silk.

He studied her for a moment, shadows flickering faintly.

Perhaps it was the alcohol.

Azriel leaned against the wall beside her, careful to keep a sliver of distance between them. From the corner of the ballroom, they watched the nobles chatter and flirt, toast and whisper like a flock of overdressed crows.

He didn’t look at her when he finally spoke.

“I didn’t think you cared,” he muttered, bitterness staining every word. “Considering what you called me.”

She didn’t answer immediately.

And then—to his complete shock—she let out an unladylike snort , short and inelegant.

“Oh, please,” she said, waving her half-empty glass lazily, “get over it.”

Azriel turned, frowning—but she wasn’t done.

“You’re a bastard Illyrian, ” she said flatly. “And I’m a piece of well-groomed breeding stock sold off for her womb. There’s no point getting emotional about things that are facts .”

The words landed like a slap. Not because they were cruel.

But because they were too honest.

He stared at her, startled—not by the insult, but by the ease with which she said it. Vulgar truth, spoken with the same voice she usually reserved for guest lists and wine pairings.

There was no venom in it.

No malice.

The formidable Jewel of Prythian—untouchable, radiant, ruthless—referring to herself as a breeding stock like it was a joke she had no power…

And gods help him, it didn’t sit right.

His voice was low when he answered. Measured.

“Don’t worry,” he said, eyes on the crowd, not her. “ You can’t have my heirs.”

A long silence stretched between them.

She froze.

It was the first time Azriel had seen her falter—truly react —as if his words had pierced through something she hadn’t braced for.

Her spine went rigid, that bored, wine-softened posture snapping taut. Her eyes flashed, and her voice dropped into something harsher, rawer, far closer to what he imagined lay beneath all that poise.

Had she wanted children that bad?

“Why would you say that?”

He blinked, frowning slightly. “Because… of the wings. Illyrian physiology makes childbirth dangerous for females without the right anatomy. I assumed…”

She was already easing again, her shoulders lowering, her expression smoothing into something almost… dismissive.

“Oh,” she said, voice quieter now. “Right. That .”

Azriel narrowed his eyes slightly, filing the reaction away in the back of his mind. Noted the way her voice had changed, the way her body had gone still before she recovered. It hadn’t been shock at the Illyrian biology.

It had been something else .

He said nothing more, watching her with that careful, measured stillness that had earned him his reputation. His shadows stirred gently, flickering with a curiosity they rarely indulged. And despite everything—despite how much he hated this union, hated her attitude, hated the polished cruelty of her tongue—he couldn’t help but admit it:

There was more to her.

And he was starting to want to know it.

Even if it only made hating her more complicated.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, studying the subtle shifts most wouldn’t catch.

She was fidgeting again.

Not much—just a slight sway of her hand against the stem of her glass, the way her foot tapped out a rhythm that didn’t match the music, her gaze darting restlessly over the ballroom as if she could not settle, not even for a moment.

It was… interesting .

Without the layers of perfection, without the stage-ready smile and the sculpted grace, she almost seemed…normal.

Perhaps even— bearable .

His brow twitched.

“Are you drunk? ” he asked, low enough that no one else would hear, his voice flat but not unkind.

She didn’t stumble. Didn’t slur. But Azriel noticed the signs—the small betrayals. The way she blinked slower between sips. The slight delay in her reactions. No one else in this room, certainly not the preening lords she dazzled earlier, would have seen it.

But he did.

She didn’t answer.

Just lifted her glass and drank more.

A slow sip. Measured. Defiant.

Azriel exhaled, barely more than a breath.

Of course she wouldn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if it was pride, performance, or simply exhaustion—but whatever it was, it was no good.

Especially not tonight.

Not with what still lay ahead.

The final step.

He felt his shadows curl tighter at the thought—sharp and ready, like they were preparing to guard something sacred. Or protect him from something they couldn’t name.

Because after the dancing, after the toasts and the smiles and the performances—

They would be alone. And it was most certainly not a good idea to take a drunk female to his marital bed… He certainly did not want to deal with her throwing up on him either. 

Without a word, Azriel reached toward the nearest table and took a small silver plate—one artfully arranged with delicate, cream-filled sweets dusted in gold leaf and rose sugar.

He held it out to her.

“Eat,” he said simply.

She frowned, blinking at the plate, then at him. “No.”

His eye twitched.

This little brat.

His voice dropped, low and dry as a blade sliding from its sheath. “Eat… or I’ll make you.”

She stared at him—green eyes slightly unfocused, wine-warm and rebellious. Her jaw clenched. But after a long beat of silence and prideful glaring, she snatched the plate from his hands.

“ Fine ,” she muttered, like it was a personal defeat.

He watched as she picked through the delicate sweets with all the dramatic reluctance of someone preparing for war. She took small, precise bites—chewing like she was punishing the pastries for existing. Though he was satisfied to see she started to devour the pastry toward the end.

And then—

Then she licked the cream off her fingertip.

Slow. Thoughtless. Innocent.

Azriel looked away. Fast.

Because nope . He was not about to develop an opinion on that.

Still, he sighed.

Yeah.

Drunk Liora was… tolerable.

Almost.

They stood side by side, leaning casually against the ballroom wall—close enough to look the part of a couple who simply couldn’t stay away from each other.

In truth, they were both bored out of their minds.

The celebration dragged on. The music had shifted into something languid, nobles growing sleepy with wine and indulgence. The final courses were being served. And they… had nothing to do but wait for the final step.

Then her voice cut through the stillness, soft and lazy, not quite drunk but still warm with wine.

“Shall we play a game?”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “What kind of game?”

She grinned, tilting her head toward the crowd. “You’re the Spymaster, aren’t you? Let’s wager who can guess the next move of our darling guests.”

He gave a low, dark chuckle. “Are you sure you want to go against me , little thorn?”

The nickname dropped from his tongue without warning—uninvited, unfiltered. He froze for half a heartbeat, surprised it had escaped him.

Thorn . Gods. She was one. Right in his side.

Perhaps he’d had more wine than he realized.

But she didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she did and simply chose to file it away, as she always did. Either way, she smirked like a cat sizing up a challenge.

“What would you lose?” she purred. “Or are you afraid of being bested by a lady?”

He glanced sideways at her, lips curving slowly.

“No,” he said with a soft, dangerous smile. “We have a bet.”

They leaned shoulder to shoulder against the wall, half hidden behind a drape of ivy and shadow, watching the ballroom like foxes studying prey.

“Lord Halven will drop his glass,” Azriel murmured, lips barely moving.

And sure enough, the aging lord’s cup slipped from his fingers, shattering on polished marble.

Liora giggled—an actual giggle, proud and undignified and somehow still devastating. “Lucky guess,” she said, elbow nudging his. He gave a huff, already watching his next mark.

“Lady Marissa will fake a fainting spell in three… two…”

She collapsed against a startled noble like a wilting orchid. He smirked.

But Liora only leaned in, the scent of peaches and expensive perfume curling around him like a charm.

“You see, Spymaster,” she whispered, voice too close to his ear, “ a lady always knows what truly goes on in the court. Your shadows might tell you what is in front of you—but it’s what is not seen that decides everything.”

And she was right, Azriel the infamous spymaster was losing to a court lady…

By the time their game had devolved into a drinking game Azriel was positively drunk, blinking slow and watching her lips move more than he listened. She liked winning he noticed. She was quite competitive as well. 

Her cheeks were flushed, golden hair mussed, and she looked less like a polished statue and more like something alive .

Her proud giggle when she won the final round made his chest tighten unexpectedly—and before he could stop himself, he smiled back.

His eyes lingered on her lips for just a second too long, shadows curling low like they too had leaned in, as if caught in the same invisible thread now drawing him closer to the very female he swore he couldn’t stand.

“I won,” she whispered, so soft it barely passed between them—closer to a breath than a statement.

Azriel could feel it ghosting against his skin.

That quiet, wine-warmed exhale.

A slight buzz hummed beneath the surface of him, trailing down his spine where her voice had brushed past. Something in his bones tightened as he leaned a fraction closer, gaze lowering to her lips, her throat, the pale column of her neck as she swallowed once—slow, tense, unthinking.

“You won,” he murmured hoarsely, the words barely audible, as if speaking louder might break whatever fragile thread was drawing them in.

His eyes traced her then, slow and deliberate.

Not with hunger.

With curiosity.

With wonder .

The faint flush in her cheeks. The undone strands of golden hair slipping from their pins. Her scent—fresh fruit and wine—was almost too much, dizzying in its sweetness. She was too pale, he realized. Paler than she should be. Something he’d file away. Something he’d ask about later.

But in this moment?

She didn’t look like marble.

She looked real.

Unmasked.

And gods, she looked beautiful .

He had the sudden, maddening urge to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. To feel its silk slip between his fingers. Those golden locks he wanted to feel in his hands so badly. But he didn’t dare.

Not with his hands.

Not with scarred, bloodstained fingers that had broken things far more fragile than her.

“What is my prize?” she asked, her voice soft again—but this time with something else curling beneath it. Something playful. Dangerous.

His lips twitched, his heart heavy and light all at once.

It’s the alcohol, he told himself.

“The winner deserves a prize, no?”

She tilted her head.

And then—

“What do you desire, little thorn?” he asked quietly.

Chapter Text

“What do you desire, little thorn?” he asked quietly.

It is, as the laws of nature and good storytelling dictate, a well-established truth that when two dangerously attractive enemies finally begin to tolerate one another—fueled by alcohol, poor decisions, and the ancient art of eye contact—a gentleman of sound moral compass must intervene.

Whether to prevent scandal, avert a questionably consensual entanglement induced by substance, or, most often, to cockblock with all the self-righteous timing of fate itself—such interruptions arrive precisely when lips are inches apart, breathing has become uneven, and readers are on the very edge of their seats.

And so, as expected, the moment shattered—

With the arrival of a third party.

Uninvited. Inconvenient.

And infuriatingly sober .

And in that moment, as tension curled like smoke and Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter with every heartbeat, such noble duty fell— of course —to none other than the ever-well-beloved, perpetually inconvenient, high society gentleman himself:

Lucien Vanserra.

With the precision of a blade and the timing of a curse, Lucien strolled into view—wine glass in hand, smile just wide enough to be irritating, and an unmistakable glint of knowing in those fox-bright eyes.

Azriel had been too caught in the haze—of her scent, her warmth, the closeness of her breath ghosting across his skin—to notice Lucien’s approach.

Only when she abruptly pulled away, her posture snapping back into something composed and performative, did he register the presence of another male. Too late. His senses dulled by wine and far more distracted by the glint of golden hair and green eyes than he’d care to admit.

“I see you’re doing well,” came the smooth, silken voice that made Azriel’s jaw clench before the sentence had even finished.

Lucien Vanserra.

Ever the court’s favorite fox.

It wasn’t the bow that irritated Azriel—though it was executed with all the charm of a well-rehearsed seduction. It wasn’t even the lingering kiss Lucien placed on the back of her hand, just a beat too long for propriety.

No, it was her laugh.

A soft, almost real laugh.

The kind Azriel had never heard from her. Not once.

His shadows surged before he could stop them—prickling with unease, with something darker that coiled low and possessive. He reined them in tightly.

“ Lucy! ” she said with bright affection, her voice laced with familiarity that dug under Azriel’s skin like thorns. “You know me. When have I ever not done well at a party?”

The nickname.

The ease.

As if the last few minutes hadn’t existed at all.

As if he hadn’t existed at all.

Azriel straightened, cold settling back into his bones. Whatever had just passed between them—whatever charged, fragile moment had hovered too close to real—it was gone.

She had slipped back into her role.

And he?

He shook his head.

What moment?

There were no moments with Lady Liora.

Only infuriation . Wrapped in silk.

“May I steal you for a moment, Lili?”

Lucien’s voice was easy—casual in the way only someone certain of being welcome could speak. Neither he nor Liora looked at Azriel as she slipped her hand into Lucien’s offered arm, her laughter still dancing in the space Azriel had occupied only moments before.

And just like that, he watched yet another woman walk away with Lucien Vanserra.

He gritted his teeth, jaw aching from the pressure.

He could understand Elain. He tried to understand Elain. She was Lucien’s mate—bound by magic and fate and something Azriel had no right to want. But Liora?

Liora was supposed to be his.

His wife .

By law. By contract. By every gods-damned political signature inked onto paper and sealed with gold.

So why— why —did Lucien get to take her, too?

Why was it always Lucien?

Was it because the male was highborn? Because he had a name that didn’t come with blood on its syllables, because he had lands and titles and never had to fight to be seen ?

Because he was charming, soft-spoken, elegant—everything Azriel was not?

Not broken.

Not shadow-born.

Not a reminder of the things people would rather pretend didn’t exist.

Azriel stood alone in the ballroom’s corner, watching them disappear into the crowd—her golden hair catching the light like fire, her laughter no longer for him.

And in his chest, something bitter curled around his ribs and squeezed.

Azriel downed the whiskey in one brutal swallow, the burn trailing fire down his throat.

It did nothing to steady him.

If anything, it worsened the blur behind his eyes—the weightless, spiraling sensation already dragging at his limbs. He shouldn’t have had more. He was already drunk. Too drunk.

But he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sight across the ballroom.

Liora and Lucien.

Familiar.

Too close.

Her laughter rang out again, soft and melodic— real in a way it never was with Azriel. It scraped against something raw in his chest.

He reached for another drink. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to drown.

And then his shadows shifted.

Sluggish. Blurred. As drunk as their master.

They slithered toward the pair—whispering back what they found, fragments of words like notes plucked from behind a closed door.

“Tonight—” Lucien’s voice, quiet but intent. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

Azriel winced, a sharp groan leaving him as something throbbed behind his eyes.

What was he talking about?

What tonight ?

But before the shadows could bring him more—

A searing burn shot through his chest, white-hot, like fire ripping down his spine.

His shadows recoiled.

Instantly. Violently.

Like children scolded by a wrathful parent.

They snapped back to his side, trembling, wounded.

And across the room— there —

She was watching him.

Liora.

Her golden-flecked eyes glowed too bright, narrowed in thin displeasure. Her lips were pressed together, polished calm masking unmistakable irritation. And though no power flared openly, he knew —

She had done that.

She had seen his shadows, shooed them away , ripped them from her presence with a flick of her magic like they were no more than insects.

Azriel stared back, his jaw locked.

No words.

Just the low simmer of humiliation and the sting of rejection wrapped in magic and wine.

And the sick, bitter truth:

He didn’t know what shamed him more—

That she’d seen him spying.

Or that she hadn’t even blinked as she shut his shadows out like scolded children caught after their bedtime. 

It was the sound of her heels that warned him first.

That sharp, measured rhythm—polished, deliberate, and far too familiar—clicking closer across the marble floor like a countdown to disaster.

Azriel didn’t turn.

He didn’t have to.

He could feel her approach like a storm rolling in from the coast—controlled, precise, but brimming with contained fury. And when she finally came to a stop beside him, there was no sign of that infuriating, court-approved smile she wore for the rest of the world.

No mask. No velvet-edged charm.

Just raw, simmering irritation.

And gods help him… he liked her better like this .

Her eyes glowed brighter, golden flecks crackling like embers beneath her glare. Her cheeks were flushed—not delicately, but fiercely, like fire had kissed her skin. Her chest rose and fell with measured, agitated breaths. And for a long, dangerous second, he forgot what made her angry in the first place. 

He was so fucking drunk .

Too drunk.

His shadows throbbed at his back like a second heartbeat, still recoiling from her rejection.

And yet… he could only think about how she looked when she was angry. How that temper carved her into something real —something sharper, wilder than the jewel everyone else saw.

Azriel blinked slowly, trying to focus.

He was supposed to be furious.

She’d shut him out. Embarrassed him.

But his mind kept circling back to the way her lips were parted—just slightly. The heat in her face. The rise of her chest. The power coiling behind her eyes.

And somewhere beneath all that alcohol and rage, a very stupid , dangerous part of him wondered—

Would she slap him if he kissed her? 

Now that could be interesting,  he couldn’t help but think. Seeing her so furious that she forgot all the courtly acts of a perfect lady. 

“Were you trying to eavesdrop on me and Lucien?”

Her voice was quiet—but not soft. There was steel behind it, sharpened, each word pressed between her teeth with a restraint that made his shadows coil like smoke.

Azriel didn’t meet her eyes.

His shadows had already shrunk away from her like children chastised—still licking their wounds from whatever magic she’d used to send them fleeing. He could feel their unease, the flickering pull of their guilt… and his own.

“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered, low and hoarse, trying very hard not to slur the words.

It wasn’t convincing.

She sighed.

Not dramatically. Not theatrically.

Just the weary kind. The kind that said she was trying not to lose her temper again. And for some reason, that irritated him even more.

Of course she could calm herself. Of course she was always composed, always so polished and perfect, even after drinking half a bottle of wine and shutting down his shadows like it was nothing.

His jaw clenched.

“What did he want?” he asked, voice tight.

He hadn’t meant it to come out like that.

But the low snarl that slipped through his throat on the last word betrayed him—sharp and unmistakable.

A mistake.

A big one.

Especially when standing this close to the most self-possessed, center-of-the-universe female in all of Prythian.

She gave him an amused smile. “Oh? Jealous already? Keep it up, Spymaster, and people might actually start believing we’re mates.”

That smile. That gods-damned, all-knowing smile. The one she wore like armor, like a challenge.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. He wanted—Cauldron, he wanted to wipe it off her face. Smear her perfect lipstick, tangle that silk-soft hair in his fists, shut that bratty mouth of hers with his cock—

No. No, no.

Definitely drunk. Really drunk. 

She watched him in silence for a moment—until it became unbearable.

Then, her voice cut the air again, quiet but clear. “He was saying I don’t have to perform the marital act … if I don’t wish to.”

She said it with a sigh. Not heavy, not theatrical. Just tired. Practical.

And with that, she turned back to her spot beside him, leaning once more against the wall as if it were the most natural thing in the world to speak of such things and then say nothing at all.

Azriel’s frown deepened.

Right. The consummation. The final seal. The expected tradition.

He hadn’t thought about it—not really . It had hovered in the back of his mind like a sword he hoped would stay sheathed. A duty neither of them wanted. A ritual bound more in politics than desire.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

Still flushed. Still glowing faintly from the wine. But there was nothing seductive in her now. Just a woman in a dress too heavy with expectation.

“What did you say?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

She didn’t look at him. Not right away.

And gods, a part of him hoped— hoped —she’d said no. That she would not subject herself to that final humiliation. After all… she was probably untouched. Naïve. Raised for ballrooms, not beds.

And what would it mean for a female like her— the Jewel of Prythian —to be taken first by a bastard Illyrian brute? A male with scarred hands and shadows coiling in his bones.

He stared ahead, jaw tight.

Of course she wouldn’t want that.

Who would?

She shrugged beside him, as if they were discussing weather, not their impending bedding.

“We have to, otherwise the suitors will have claim to annul the marriage,” she said coolly. “Half the males in this ballroom have proposed to me at some point, and they can be quite… insistent , shall we say.”

Azriel stiffened.

Her words hit harder than the whiskey had. And faster . It sobered him instantly.

Insistent .

The way she said it—light, casual, almost flippant—only made it worse. His mind churned with questions, with the implication beneath her tone. Had they threatened her? Pressured her? Had they tried to- 

Before he could ask—before the sharp, protective growl rising in his chest could break through—

She turned to him.

And smiled.

That smile . 

“Besides,” she added, voice slipping into something more wicked, more playful, “I’ve never had an Illyrian. Should be fun.”

He froze.

Completely .

Her eyes—bright green with golden flecks—dragged slowly over him, a glance that wasn’t coy or delicate but deliberate. Hungry. Drinking him in like she knew exactly what power she held in that moment.

Azriel’s shadows flickered wildly, confused and heated.

He clenched his jaw, tried not to shiver beneath her gaze. Gods, he didn’t know whether to run from her or take the bait and let himself burn.

He wasn’t used to being the one on edge. He was used to being the one in control. 

And he hated how much she was enjoying it . Then again it was among the many things he hated about her. 

She noticed his shock—and laughed.

A delighted, wicked thing that echoed like crystal over wine, far too pleased with herself.

“Oh, my naive Spymaster,” she purred, brushing a curl from her shoulder. “Please. I can have any male I want. Do you really think I haven’t had my taste of the buffet?”

Then, a little smirk. A challenge. “Unless, of course… you wish not to .”

Oh?

Azriel didn’t know if it was the wine—or the heat in her voice as she casually implied a parade of males at her feet had pleasured her—but something in him snapped .

And before he could stop himself, he had her.

One hand gripping her arm.

The other yanking her flush against his chest, shadows curling low and hot around their feet like smoke. Her breath caught— but she didn’t flinch .

His face dipped low, his lips brushing her ear— more threat than promise. His teeth grazed the corner of her ear, his voice a low, vicious rasp.

“I’ll make you scream so fucking loud, little thorn ” he growled, “ that you’ll forget every name on that buffet you’ve tasted.”

His voice dropped lower—dark silk laced in fire. “Until you can  remember only mine .”

Liora’s pupils dilated. Her breath stuttered.

But she didn’t pull away.

Not an inch.

Her smirk curved back up, slower now. More dangerous.

He had assumed—wrongly, it seemed—that she would be a shy lady in bed.

Polished. Repressed. All show and no fire.

He thought his tastes—his appetites —might be too much for her. That she’d tremble and retreat the moment things turned dark, rough, real .

But she didn’t retreat.

She leaned in.

Slowly. Purposefully. Until her lips hovered a breath from his—close enough that he could taste the wine on her exhale, feel the whisper of heat between them.

Her voice was a purr, silken and self-assured, as she looked up at him through thick lashes and said,

“Oh, my darling Spymaster… shall we have a bet on that?”

Azriel’s grip tightened.

And whatever restraint he’d been clinging to? Gone.

Dangerously.

Because gods , this woman had just turned his threat into a game.

And he didn’t know what he wanted more,  to win—or lose. Possibly both if he could had a say in that. 

Chapter Text

It is, of course, a gentleauthor’s sacred duty to fade graciously into black following a cleverly placed seductive exchange—particularly when reputation, lace, and the innocence of readers are at stake.

However, it is equally well-established—especially in the rich and time-honoured tradition of bodice-ripping literature—that one must not be so tightly corseted by propriety as to deny the readers the undeniable pleasure of witnessing two devastatingly attractive, recently wed individuals doing what married people are often expected (and frequently delighted) to do.

After all, it would be most improper to tease a consummation… and then fail to let it properly, deliciously consummate .

—----

Azriel wasn’t entirely sure when they’d been escorted to the bedchamber.

The Spring Court, in all its flowery formality, had spared no detail for the tradition. The soft candlelight. The perfumed sheets. The petals scattered like a blessing—or a warning.

It had come, then, to the final step.

Consummation.

Even the word felt too heavy in his chest.

By the time the doors closed behind them with a soft, deliberate click, whatever drunken haze had dulled the edges of his thoughts had long since lifted. The wine was gone. The fantasy stripped away.

All that remained was this room. This moment. This woman .

He sighed.

Not out of annoyance.

Out of something else—quieter. Heavier .

His hands moved with slow, practiced ease as he loosened his short black tie, unfastening the buttons of his formal shirt. But his thoughts… they tangled like thread in a broken loom.

His shadows stirred at his back, twitching not with jealousy or rage now, but something else.

Anticipation .

Of what?

Of finally knowing how her silken hair would feel beneath his fingers? Of learning if the stubborn tilt of her chin would soften under his touch?

He pushed the thought away.

Now that sobriety had returned, it came dragging with it all the voices he tried to silence. The ones that whispered he wasn’t worthy. That she hadn’t chosen this. That she deserved silk sheets and soft kisses—not a bastard scarred by war and shadow.

He exhaled through his nose, voice low and measured as he shrugged off his shirt. The words barely reached the candlelight between them.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said quietly, not yet turning to look at her. “Not if you don’t wish t-”

What he did not expect—what he absolutely was not prepared for—was the sight that met him as he turned.

Liora.

Very naked.

Utterly, gloriously bare beneath the soft blush of candlelight, her wedding gown pooled in a delicate heap around her feet like it had melted off her. Her skin glowed, kissed by the golden hue of the moonlight that filtered through the lace-draped windows. She stood with the kind of poise only a true predator possessed—every inch regal, every curve intentional.

And her hair —

Gods.

That cascading sheet of golden silk fell around her bare shoulders like a waterfall of sunlight, strands clinging to her skin in ways that made his mouth go dry.

She made no attempt to cover herself.

No false modesty. No shame.

Just those forest-green eyes—lit with flecks of gold and glinting with something feral. Something hungry . Gods, that look alone made his cock strain in his pants. 

She tilted her head, her grin slow and entirely wicked as she looked him over.

“Well,” she purred, voice like warm honey and shattered composure, “I did say I’ve never had an Illyrian.”

And Azriel—legendary Spymaster, war-scarred male of restraint and shadows—

Forgot how to breathe.

Azriel sucked in a painfully slow breath.

Drunk or sober—it didn’t matter.

There was no denying it now.

The Jewel of Prythian stood before him, bare and unafraid, and she was the most beautiful female he had ever seen. Not in the way nobles liked to describe beauty—glittering and distant—but living , breathing , real. Made of sharp smiles and golden fire, not porcelain fragility.

Temptation, made flesh .

He took a step toward her.

Predator-smooth. Deliberate.

His wings twitched at his back, reacting to her scent—lush and sweet and alive —as if even they couldn’t resist her. His hazel eyes, usually so controlled, had darkened to molten gold as they raked over every inch of her with a slow, reverent hunger.

He didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

But he was close enough to see the rise and fall of her breath. Close enough to hear the way it caught in her throat. Close enough to see the pride in her eyes burn to something else—something that answered the thing clawing loose in him .

She raised an infuriating eyebrow—slow, sharp, smug.

It was the kind of expression that made kingdoms fall and warriors lose their minds. Azriel’s blood surged with heat. Cauldron boil him , he wanted to erase that smirk from her lips until the only sound she could remember was his name gasped into the dark.

“What are you waiting for, Spymaster?” she murmured, voice silken, dangerous. “Or were you all bark and no bite?”

The growl that left him was not human. Not polite.

He took another step, and now they were nearly touching— almost .

His nose brushed the slope of her neck, dragging a slow, deliberate breath against her skin as he took in her scent. Fresh wild peaches. Something darker beneath it all. Something hers .

Her skin was delicate, impossibly soft. Her neck bare. Vulnerable.

Perfect.

He wanted to ruin her.

Mark every inch of her flawless body until she forgot every rule, every lord, every lie she’d ever learned.

Until she was his .

“Careful, little thorn,” he rasped, the words hot against her throat. “You may not like what comes out.”

But she only laughed—low and wicked—and leaned in to take a daring, rebellious nip at his ear.

He groaned, shadows slipping free from his skin like desire made flesh.

“ Bite me, ” she whispered, her smirk pure sin.

And with a snarl, he did.

She smirked again.

That was the moment he lost it.

“Fucking brat,” Azriel growled, grabbing her by the waist and shoving her back onto the mattress. Her golden hair splayed around her like a damn halo. He hated that—how divine she looked, how untouchable she acted. Like the world bent for her.

Not tonight.

She blinked up at him, cocky, lips parted just slightly. “Temper, temper, Shadowsinger.”

His eyes darkened. Shadows slithered over her skin like a warning. “Keep talking,” he snarled, crawling over her, fully naked now, every inch of him solid, dangerous, controlled—but barely. “See how long you last with my cock in your throat instead of my name.”

Her gaze flicked down, widening slightly at the sight of him. He smirked.

“Like what you see?” he taunted, fisting her wrists and pinning them above her head. “Careful, princess. You’re staring.”

“I’ve seen better,” she lied, breath hitching.

He leaned down, lips brushing her jaw. “Liar.”

She gasped as his teeth sank into her neck—biting, claiming. Her thighs clenched beneath him, hips shifting, but he didn’t move yet. His shadows crept up her legs, stroking her inner thighs, making her twitch.

“You think you can tease me, prance around like you’re owed attention?” he growled against her throat, licking the mark he’d left. “You think you can have any male you want, just flash those pretty eyes and pout that spoiled little mouth?”

Her back arched—whether in defiance or desperation, he didn’t care.

“You want it?” he asked, grinding his cock against her. She moaned, head tipping back. He grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

Without warning, he thrust into her. Hard. Deep.

She cried out, biting down on a moan, but he caught her jaw in his hand, forcing her to look at him.

“No. Don’t fucking hide it. Let me hear you. Use that pretty mouth.”

Punishing thrusts followed, hard enough to shake the bed, and she shattered beneath him, green eyes rolling back as he bit her collarbone, her throat, her shoulder. Each one a brand. Each one a punishment.

“Much better when you’re moaning instead of mouthing off,” he panted. “Tell me, princess—do you still think you’re in control?”

She whimpered beneath him, fingers curling in the sheets, lips swollen and trembling.

“Beg me,” Azriel said darkly, slowing his pace to a brutal grind. “Beg me to let you come. You don’t get anything unless you ask nicely. Learn some fucking manners.”

She tried to speak, but he pulled out just enough to make her whine.

“Try again,” he warned.

“Please,” she breathed. “Please, Azriel—”

He thrust back in, harder. “Good girl.”

She shattered around him, sobbing his name, and he followed with a low groan, biting her shoulder one last time as he came. Possessive. Claiming. Brutal.

The night was just starting and Azriel had every intention to make the most of it. 

—-

She was smirking again—barely clothed, sprawled across his bed like she owned the damn place.

Azriel’s jaw ticked.

“Still testing me, princess?” he said, voice like velvet over steel. He stepped closer, shadows curling off his shoulders like smoke.

Liora gave a teasing shrug, lashes fluttering. “Maybe I just like watching you lose control.”

A growl broke in his throat—low, dangerous, primal. He was in front of her in a blink, pressing her down onto the mattress, pinning her by the wrists as his shadows snapped around her ankles, dragging them apart and tying her to the bedposts.

She gasped, half-laughing, half-thrilled.

“Wild little thing,” he chuckled darkly, eyes glittering. “You want to act feral, I’ll treat you like it.”

She writhed beneath him as he stepped back, slowly—just enough for her to see the outline of his cock, hard and thick.

Well the rumours about wingspan were correct after all…

Her thighs squeezed together, or tried to—but his shadows pulled them wider. Her cunt glistened for him already.

“Look at you,” he muttered, cock in hand, slowly stroking himself as he watched her struggle against her bonds. “Dripping before I even touch you. Where’s all that bite now, hmm?”

She tried to sit up, to mouth something smart—but his shadow snaked across her chest, curling around her throat like a collar, pressing her back down.

“I didn’t say you could speak.”

Another tendril of shadow slithered between her thighs, tracing her folds in long, lazy circles. Not quite on her clit. Just enough to make her twitch and gasp.

She groaned, hips bucking.

“Ah-ah,” he said, the shadow tightening just slightly around her neck. “You don’t get to come. Not until you beg .”

“Fucking asshole—” she growled between her gasps, he only chuckled, moaning as he stroke himself watchging her desperation. 

But his shadows slid lower, one teasing at her slick entrance, pushing just the tip in—then pulling back out. Again. And again.

Her whole body trembled. Her nipples peaked in the cool air. The sheets were a mess of her struggling.

“Sensitive already?” he murmured. “I haven’t even given you half of what you want yet.”

His shadows wrapped around her thighs like ropes now, holding her still as one tendril tapped her clit—just once, sharp and perfect. She cried out. Then again. Again. Each one rough, fast, precise— but never enough.

“Say it,” he growled, voice rough with arousal. “Say you need my cock.”

She whimpered.

“No more games, Liora. You think you’re in control? You’re fucking trembling.”

The shadows thrust into her again—shallow, teasing, wicked. Her eyes rolled. Her mouth fell open.

“Say it,” he whispered in her ear, bending over her flushed body. “Say you’re a spoiled little brat who needs to be wrecked.”

“I—I need you,” she gasped. “Please,. Please—your cock—I need it, I need you—”

He smirked, pressing the head of his cock to her soaked entrance.

“That’s more like it. Wasn’t so hard now was it?”

And with one brutal thrust, he filled her—deep and thick and claiming—ripping a scream of pleasure from her lips as her whole body arched. His hand wrapped around her throat again, and his mouth dragged over her skin as he thrust hard, fast, unrelenting.

“Next time you act up, remember this,” he grunted, biting her neck.

“Because I’ll have you begging even faster, wild little thing.”

—---

He hadn’t even caught his breath.

Still panting, chest slick with sweat, shadows twitching like they didn’t know whether to retreat or coil tighter—and that’s when she moved.

With a growl, she flipped him, catching him off guard for the first time in decades.

Azriel’s back hit the mattress, shadows scattering like smoke in the wind, and she was already crawling over him—hair wild, eyes glowing molten green-gold, her skin flushed with power and heat.

Her nails scraped down his chest, and he shivered.

Gods, that hair —it cascaded like silk over his wings, over his ribs, catching on the dips of his muscles. It tickled his skin like a lover’s whisper. His cock twitched under her before she even touched it.

She noticed.

With a satisfied, feline purr, Liora sat on him—slowly, deliberately—hands planted on his chest, her hips pinning him down.

“My turn to play,” she murmured, voice honeyed with satisfaction.

He snarled low in his throat, muscles tensing—but her shadows now whispered back at his, twining, dancing, seducing .

Then she sank down onto him, inch by inch.

He cursed.

“F—fuck.”

Her smirk deepened as she rolled her hips, grinding down, making him feel every tight, wet second of it. Her hands pressed harder on his chest when he tried to buck up.

“No,” she whispered. “You stay right there , Spymaster.” Azriel’s eyes widened as tendrils of soft vives started to crawl over his body, moving holding him in place. Noticing his surprise she gave a delighted chuckle. “Oh my darling spymaster, you’re not the only one who knows how to play.” 

Azriel gritted his teeth, veins standing out on his neck, jaw tight, shadows flickering helplessly around his limbs.

Liora rode him slow. Cruel . Perfect. Her pace was a punishment. 

“No one told you how perfect you look like this?” she asked sweetly, dragging her fingers across his stomach, his ribs.

“All flushed and moaning under me?”

He let out a deep, broken sound—a moan, hoarse and raw.

“I—fuck—”

She laughed, rolling her hips again. “What was that? Didn’t quite catch it.”

He was losing it. The pressure, the wet heat, the tight grip of her body milking his cock—he wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to being the one begging.

And gods help him, he loved it .

“So noisy,” she purred, leaning down, kissing his throat as she bounced harder, faster now. “Did I break my Spymaster?”

Azriel’s hands clawed at the sheets. His cock twitched inside her at the sound of her voice the way she said ‘my spymaster’...

His voice was ragged, almost pleading. “—gods, I’m gonna—”

“Hmm. Only if you ask nicely.” Her eyes glinted. “Beg me. Pretty like you begged me to stop earlier.”

He stared up at her, wrecked, trembling, completely undone beneath the golden-haired brat he swore he hated.

“Please,” he gasped, “please, —let me come—please—”

And with a sharp twist of her hips and a kiss pressed to his chest, she whispered, “Good boy.” he came with a shuddering moan, wings twitching violently as his head tilted back, eyes rolling, hips bucking to her chasing more of her warmth. 

—-

Azriel lay on the bed, chest still heaving.

Sweat glistened on his tanned skin, muscles trembling faintly from exertion. His shadows rippled across the sheets like smoke trying to remember how to behave—curling around her ankles, brushing the curve of her bare thigh.

She was glowing.

Naked, golden hair tousled and wild, strands floating around her like she was some untouchable goddess risen from the bed they’d just ruined. Her skin shimmered in the candlelight. Her bare feet padded across the stone as she returned from the side table, holding a carved silver cup in one hand.

He took the water without thinking, fingers brushing hers.

But his eyes—

They didn’t leave her.

Not when she tipped her head back and popped a grape between her lips, lips curling as she sucked the juice from it. Gods, he couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop feeling . His cock twitched again at the sight of her tongue slipping out to catch the drop at the corner of her mouth.

Then her gaze drifted.

To his wings.

He froze.

Her eyes had softened—truly softened—as she looked at them. No smirk. No gleam of challenge. Just… something quiet. Something reverent.

His wings twitched—reflexive, self-conscious.

She’d been careful .

All that chaos, that wild riding and gasping and snarling—and not once had she touched them without invitation.

He didn’t say anything. Just drank the water slowly, throat bobbing, heart still a little too fast.

And then: “Now what?”

His voice was rough, cracked from use. He sat up beside her, the shadows settling down around his waist, still restless where they brushed her skin.

She hummed, smile like the sun after a storm.

“We have forty more days to spend in this chamber.”

He blinked. Stared.

Nearly choked.

“ What? ”

She laughed—head tipping back, laughter dancing off the stone walls like chimes.

“It’s a Spring Court tradition,” she said between giggles, “to ensure fertility, consummation is expected to last forty nights.”

His mouth fell open. “ Expected ?”

She licked juice from her thumb and shrugged, maddeningly serene.

“I hope you’ve been hydrating, Spymaster.”

Azriel blinked at her. The water halfway to his lips.

“…Forty nights?” he repeated, like the words might rearrange themselves into sanity if he said them again.

Liora just smirked .

The worst kind of smirk—the one that said she knew exactly what she was doing and was already planning how to make him suffer for it.

“Can you even last that long?” he asked, voice dry, low.

That golden gaze snapped to his. Her eyes narrowed, lips curling into something wicked and wild.

“Why don’t we make it interesting,” she said, shifting so her bare legs straddled his lap again. Her fingers dragged across his chest, deceptively soft. “Let’s have a bet. Who lasts longer, Spymaster?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

The cup hit the floor with a clatter as he tackled her, pinning her to the mattress in a blur of shadows and muscle.

“You really don’t learn, do you?” he growled, voice already thick again, mouth at her neck, kissing, biting.

She was laughing— laughing —even as he forced her wrists over her head and his hips slotted between her thighs. Her breath hitched when she felt him—already hard again.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s eager,” she murmured, taunting.

His teeth grazed her collarbone, and then he bit down, making her gasp.

“Forty nights,” he whispered darkly, shadows creeping over her wrists, her waist. “You’ll be begging for mercy by night four .”

Her laugh was breathless this time.

“You wish.”

And with a vicious twist of her hips, they were at war again—bodies clashing, breath tangled, shadows and gold hair sprawled like chaos across the sheets.

The bet had begun.

And neither of them had any intention of losing.

—--

They had spent forty days and nights in that chamber.

The air itself had changed. Thick with sweat, sex, and magic, the scent of her twined with his so completely that anyone within a mile would know—she was his.

And gods, something primal inside him purred at that. At the claim, the scent-marking, the way his shadows wrapped around her without thought now, possessive and protective in the same breath.

He hadn’t meant for it to get like this.

He’d meant for her to be a mistake. A fling. A brat to tame and discard.

But in the days, he’d watched golden strands of her hair float through steaming bathwater, catching sunlight like flame. He’d sat behind her in the tub, hands gentle as he helped her rinse it—fingers tangling through silk he could never seem to get enough of touching.

In the nights, they only stopped for water, for food—though that too had become a battle.

She didn’t eat unless he told her to.

There were times she’d poke at her plate, distracted, already shifting her thighs beneath the table like she wanted him again. And he—gods help him—had to growl , pin her wrist, and threaten her with denial.

“Finish your meal or I’ll edge you all fucking night and not let you come once.”

That always worked.

She’d glare, then obey—chewing her food slowly, deliberately, like she was punishing him for winning.

But he also noticed how her lips curved when he praised her after.

Gods did that smile want to make him want to praise her even more. There was something strangely adorable in the way she craved to be satisfied so much she would drop the stubborn act eat her food while pouting. Azriel thought he had to make sure she never learned that with that pout and sparkling eyes he would have caved in for anything she asked for. 

He’d learned something else.

Liora liked being spoiled.

Yes, she liked it rough—liked it when he pinned her down and fucked her senseless, liked it when his shadows dragged her apart and made her beg.

But in the mornings, she purred.

When he woke her with his mouth between her legs, ravenous and unrelenting, she’d thread her fingers in his hair and arch like a queen being worshipped.

That satisfied little noise she made—somewhere between a moan and a purr—it haunted him.

And worse… he realized he liked giving it to her.

Spoiling her. Watching her melt.

But it was never one-sided. Not with her.

He’d wake in the middle of the night, groaning as he found her lips around his cock, tongue licking lazy, hungry strokes , her wild hair falling over his thighs. She wouldn’t stop until he was moaning, fingers tangling in her hair, hips twitching from the overload.

“Gods,  Liora —fuck—”

She’d glance up at him with that wicked gleam, proud of how she made him lose control.

And still—still—he told himself it didn’t matter. That this chamber, this ritual, meant nothing.

He didn’t have to like her to fuck her.

He didn’t need to crave the sound of her laugh, the way she curled into him after, the way she sometimes touched his wings like they were sacred even though she never actually laid a finger on them.

But deep down, under all the shadows and sharp words, he knew:

Forty days were enough to learn someone’s body.

Forty nights were enough to start needing their presence.

And he wasn’t sure what terrified him more—

That it was over soon.

Or that it wasn’t.

Forty nights had been enough to ruin him.

Enough to learn that she was not just a pampered Spring Court jewel. Not just golden hair and smug smirks and moaning lips.

She was carefree, yes—lavished in silk sheets and fine oils, her laughter like a chime of indulgence. She loved luxury like it was her birthright. She stretched across satin pillows like a cat bred for comfort.

But gods—beneath that marble, proper-lady mask—she was wild.

And he meant wild in the way a storm was wild. Untameable. Full of heat and teeth and depth.

She burned, and he’d spent forty nights learning how to taste the flame without getting devoured.

And still, there were moments that pulled him deeper.

Like the time—half-spent, sweat-drenched, lying in a heap on the tangled sheets—when he’d asked her, voice low:

“You… you’ve been taking the contraceptive tea, right”

She’d only shrugged. Not evasive, not flippant. Just unconcerned.

“I have my own blend,” she murmured, turning her face into the pillow with a lazy purr. “It’s more effective.”

That had stuck with him.

And what stuck harder was the ritual of it.

Every day—exactly the same time, without fail—she prepared that tea.

Always from the same pouch. Always steeped exactly three minutes.

And the scent—gods, the scent.

Sweet. Thick. Almost cloying. Not like normal herbs. It filled the chamber like a spell, saccharine and floral and heavy enough that he sometimes tasted it on the back of his tongue when he kissed her after.

He couldn’t help but wonder.

Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court, trained to notice patterns, had noticed.

The unwavering consistency. The oddly exact ritual. The way her eyes sometimes gleamed a little too knowingly when she sipped it—like she knew he was watching.

And she always knew when he was watching.

He hadn’t asked again.

Because he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer.

But every time that scent filled the room, and she cradled the cup in her hands, delicate as a secret…

He watched her.

And wondered—

What the hell was in that tea?

—-

Between the passionate nights , the moans and growls and whispered curses, there had been other nights.

Quieter ones.

Nights where exhaustion won out over lust. Where breath evened out, muscles slackened, and their bodies simply folded into each other like they’d done it for years.

Azriel would wake sometimes to the hush of candlelight still flickering low.

And there she’d be.

Curled on his chest, golden hair spilling across his collarbone like threads of sunlight, limbs tucked in like a sleeping cat—soft, unguarded, breathing slow and even.

Tucked in as if she’d been chasing his warmth in the dark.

At first, it had startled him.

He’d stayed stiff, unmoving, afraid to breathe too hard and wake her.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Night after night, she found his chest, his shoulder, the hollow of his throat—and nestled there. As if her body knew where it belonged, even if her mouth would never admit it.

And he…

He got used to it.

To the feel of her—warm and real and silently tangled in the sheets beside him.

To the weight of her leg slung over his.

To the slow rise and fall of her breath, syncing with his in the dark.

To the way his shadows no longer bristled when she shifted in her sleep—they welcomed her. Draped across her spine, brushed her hip like a familiar touch.

He’d wake and just watch her sometimes.

Not lustful. Not possessive. Just… quietly captivated.

And somewhere in that stillness, in the scent of her skin pressed against his chest, Azriel found a thought creeping in he didn’t know what to do with:

Perhaps…

Perhaps he could get used to this sort of life after all.

Not the courtly rituals. Not the rules or the politics or the ridiculous forty-night tradition.

But this.

Her.

Him.

The quiet between the fire.

The warmth of her sleeping on his heart like it was hers .

And maybe, just maybe—

He didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

Azriel was sleeping.

Truly sleeping—for the first time in what felt like decades.

It turned out, apparently, that a month-long Spring Court honeymoon steeped in ancient traditions (and near-endless consummation rituals) could tire even the most brooding, battle-hardened spymaster. That, and the presence of a beautiful female now curled up half on his chest like she belonged there.

Which, somehow, she did.

The early morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting pale golden patterns across the sheets. He barely stirred, his body too heavy with satisfaction, his shadows coiled in lazy arcs around the bed like they too were drunk on her.

Even in his half-conscious state, his mind drifted back to the night before.

It had been… intense. Rougher than most. Her neck bore evidence of it—bruises like scattered kisses, every inch of her soft skin marked in some way by his hands, his mouth, his shadows .

Not that she’d complained.

Cauldron , no.

She’d loved it.

Begged for it, even, with that wicked grin of hers and her maddening habit of biting back when she should’ve surrendered. There may or may not have been some… creative choking involved, courtesy of his shadows. She had whispered his name like a sin, over and over again, until it echoed in his bones.

But still—even now—he didn’t touch her with his bare hands when the candles were lit.

Not often.

Not unless the room was dark enough that she couldn’t see the scars.

And not unless she reached for them first.

His chest rose with a slow inhale as he shifted slightly beneath her, careful not to wake her.

She always slept longer after nights like those. He’d noticed. Liora—elegant, untouchable, insufferably prideful—liked to sleep past noon when she was well-used and well-pleasured. When her legs still trembled from the way he’d owned her the night before.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

Perhaps he could get her something sweet from the kitchens. She liked fruit in the mornings, especially the soft ones she could lazily eat from the comfort of the bed while giving him that smug little smirk as if she hadn’t spent the entire night begging him for mercy.

Azriel exhaled softly.

Spoiled, impossible, perfect.

And his.

The idea was strange, to ever be able to call something his.

What Azriel did not expect was to wake up to cold, quiet emptiness.

His body registered it before his mind did—the absence of warmth, of breath, of the familiar weight curled against his side. It struck like a blade between his ribs.

His eyes snapped open, panic crawling up his spine.

The bed was half-made, the sheets on her side smooth and cool. Too smooth. Too cool.

He sat up—half-naked, shadows flaring instinctively—eyes scanning the chamber with trained precision.

But the room…

Gods.

The room was wrong .

It wasn’t just empty. It was cleansed . Stripped. Silent in the way only grief was.

Gone were the scattered brushes on the vanity, the embroidered robes she would toss haphazardly over chairs, the delicate lace things she wore just to drive him mad. Her jewelry—always left behind like a deliberate taunt—was gone from the tray.

And worst of all…

The scent .

The scent that had drenched this room for weeks—wild peaches and soft floral soap tangled with the darker musk of him —was gone.

Erased.

As if she had never been there at all.

His heart thundered in his chest, the aftertaste of sleep turning bitter.

Where was she?

His mind raced through the possibilities— was she in danger? Had someone taken her? Had something happened while he slept? No. No , he would have known, his shadows would have known—

Unless…

Unless she had left.

On her own.

Why would she—

He shoved the thought down, standing abruptly, heart clawing against his ribs. No note. No whisper. No trace.

Only silence.

Only absence.

Only her , gone.

He tore through the halls barefoot, half-dressed, shadows snarling at his heels as he pushed through the sunlit corridors of the Spring Court estate. His heart pounded, still fogged with sleep and dread, his body caught between the ghost of her warmth and the ice-cold certainty that she was gone .

He rounded the last corner—

And stopped dead.

There she was.

Liora.

Standing at the front steps like a queen overseeing a battlefield—only her weapons were silks and pearls, and her soldiers were an army of maids and staff scurrying about, struggling beneath a tower of luggage.

Her hair was perfect.

Her gown—flawless, fitted, rich as ever.

Gloves dangled delicately from one hand, the other gesturing lightly as she directed a pair of footmen toward the carriage. Her voice was cool, efficient. She was composed. Regal.

And smiling.

That smile.

Gods, that smile.

The one he had come to hate with every cell in his body. The one she wore in court when she was performing. Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.

Gone was the woman he’d tangled limbs and breath with in the dark.

Gone was the warmth of their tangled sheets, the bruises he’d left on her skin like confessions, the low sounds she made when he pressed her too close.

She didn’t smell like him anymore.

He noticed it at once—painfully. The scent of their joined bodies, of shadows and peaches and pleasure, had been scrubbed away.

She had washed him off.

Erased every trace of him.

As if he had never existed.

He took a step forward, dazed. Lost.

And she didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t look back.

Just issued another order to a servant, her voice clear and bright in the morning sun—while his heart, still beating ragged in his chest, cracked beneath the weight of a silence she hadn’t even bothered to break.

The hall had gone still the moment the servants caught sight of him—disheveled, shirtless, barefoot. The infamous Spymaster of the Night Court… reduced to a half-naked male blinking into the morning sun like he’d been dragged from a dream.

And in truth, he had.

A dream that had ended with cold sheets and a colder reality.

Every head turned. Every whisper caught in the throat.

And then— her .

Lady Liora turned with agonizing grace, her golden hair glinting like sunlight spun into thread, a picture of courtly perfection. Not a strand out of place. Not a trace of him on her.

She smiled.

That smile —calm, practiced, utterly impenetrable.

“Oh my,” she said sweetly, voice laced with that infuriating poise he’d come to despise, “you’re awake!”

Her tone was too bright, too light. A melody of mockery disguised as courtesy.

She clicked her tongue at the nearest maid with a flick of her delicate wrist. “Now, now. It’s quite improper to stare at one’s new husband—however scandalously shirtless he may be.” She said smiling with no real bite in her tone. The servants giggled behind their hands as they turned and quickly scurried off, leaving the grand hallway echoing and empty.

Azriel said nothing.

His jaw clenched. His fists clenched.

He stared at her.

But she didn’t falter.

With the servants gone, she turned her gaze back to him, entirely unchanged. As if they hadn’t spent a month wrapped around each other. As if he hadn’t heard her cry his name in the dark.

“Bathe,” she said coolly, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her gloves. “And get dressed. Our carriage is waiting.”

He blinked. “What carriage?”

But she was already turning, already walking away—her gown whispering over the polished floor like it had secrets to tell.

No answer. No explanation. No softness.

Just the same silence she’d left behind in their bed.

Azriel’s shadows stirred—unsteady and fraying with the fury that coiled beneath his skin.

What had he expected?

That a couple nights tangled in sheets would turn the jewel of Prythian into someone his ?

That she’d be smiling and soft and smitten with a bastard like him? “I never had an Illirian…” of course …it was just a game for her. He was just another momentary thing she could get whenever she demanded. 

He clenched his fists harder, the sting biting into his palms.

Fool.

He was a fool to think she could be anything other than the darling cold spoiled jewel of prythian. That there may be softness beneath that prideful marble smile she always wore.

He was a fool to think that. 

He had been right to hate her. And now somehow that hatred managed to grow even more, clutching his heart with an unbearable ache.

Chapter Text

Azriel stood still as stone beside the awaiting carriage, shadows thrumming around him like a storm held at bay by sheer will.

And he watched.

Lady Liora, the jewel of Prythian, moved with practiced elegance—her voice lilting, her smile effortless. She offered Tamlin a brief embrace, all courtly grace and measured warmth.

But then—

Then came Lucien .

Azriel’s dismay deepened as the other male stepped forward. And she— she —greeted him with a soft look, the kind that twisted something low in Azriel’s gut.

She leaned in for the embrace.

Too close.

Too familiar.

And Lucien—gods damn him— murmured something in her ear. Words Azriel couldn’t hear but didn’t need to.

Liora’s smile twitched. Subtle. Real.

And Azriel’s shadows snapped .

They slithered restlessly at his boots, reacting to the tension he wouldn’t let show on his face. His jaw clenched, hard enough to ache. He curled his fingers into his palms until they stung. His eyes never left them.

Not the way Lucien lingered half a heartbeat too long.

Not the way she said goodbye like she meant it.

As if that male was someone to miss.

Azriel swallowed back the growl clawing at his throat. She hadn’t so much as looked at him since that morning.

And yet here she was.

Smiling. Leaning. Listening.

His shadows coiled tighter.

Not for the first time, Azriel wondered whether the title of “husband” meant anything to her at all.

It had been decided , apparently, that they were to arrive at the Night Court together.

In the same carriage.

Liora’s personal carriage, of course.

For appearances’ sake.

That explanation—delivered with polite indifference by a steward—had been a blade twisted just beneath Azriel’s ribs. He hadn’t questioned it. He didn’t need to. He knew the game she played. Knew she could’ve requested separate transport. But this— this —was the final nail in the perfect image she intended to craft.

So he stepped inside.

And immediately noticed.

The carriage had been altered.

Tall enough for his wings. Wide enough for his frame. Cushions lined in soft, shadow-toned velvet offset by gold-threaded embroidery. Faint scents of peach and gardenia still lingered— hers . Not overpowering. Intentional.

He hated how thoughtful it was.

Hated how she was already there, seated across from him, an image carved from polished marble and sunfire.

Lady Liora, the flawless jewel of Prythian.

She wore emerald today—deep, dark, opulent. The color of power, of wealth, of someone untouchable . Her gown was tailored to perfection, every fold of silk cascading around her legs like a waterfall. Her gloves matched the stitching in her bodice. Gold shimmered at her throat and from her ears, dancing with the movement of her fan.

A fan she now wielded with slow, deliberate grace—just enough to stir the air and lift the ends of her golden hair, letting them float like sunlit ribbons.

Azriel’s shadows twitched—drawn helplessly toward her.

It took effort to still them. To keep them from curling around those strands of gold like they had every right to.

They didn’t.

Not anymore.

She didn’t so much as look at him as the wheels turned and the carriage rolled forward, leaving Spring Court behind.

And Azriel, jaw clenched and shadows restless, reminded himself that he was merely playing his part.

Husband .

Spymaster .

And, once again…

Unseen.

He did not understand her at all—and that, of course, made him hate her even more.

It was most inconvenient to find oneself utterly perplexed by one’s own wife, particularly when said wife had the uncanny ability to leave a bed—and a male—in complete ruin, only to reappear hours later with her hair styled, her gloves impeccably matched, and no acknowledgement whatsoever of the storm she’d left behind.

She had vanished like a ghost in the early morning, as if the shared warmth of their tangled limbs and whispered nights had meant nothing . And now? Now she had reconstructed an entire carriage— an expensive, custom-designed carriage —to accommodate his wings and frame without so much as a word. No smugness. No performance. She had done it with the same detached efficiency with which she organized floral arrangements and silenced foreign emissaries.

It was infuriating .

As if his comfort, his existence, had been merely another item on her to-do list.

She did not mention the night they had last shared, nor the bruises he had left blooming across her skin like poetry written in teeth and shadows. She did not mention why she had disappeared before he woke.

 And Azriel—like any rational, emotionally repressed male with far too many knives—decided, quite logically, to respond in the only appropriate manner.

He would be petty .

Unapologetically, pointedly petty.

He would ignore her. He would ignore her gown, her gloved hands, her fan, the way she smelled of fresh peaches again, and most certainly the elegant curve of her mouth when she smiled politely at everyone but him .

If she would not speak of it— neither would he .

After all, nothing said “mature marital partnership” quite like mutual avoidance and well-honed passive aggression.

The carriage had only just begun its smooth, silken glide through the lands of Spring when she finally spoke.

“Right,” Lady Liora said, as if she were addressing the help and not her newly wed husband, “we have a few things to discuss.”

Her voice was pleasant, crisp—like the first cut of a finely honed blade.

“I will be residing in the Moonstone Palace, of course. You shall have your own room should you wish to visit, though you are more than welcome to keep your primary residence at the House of Wind. I find the company there most unpleasant.”

Azriel said nothing.

She continued with the grace of someone reciting a guest list.

“Secondly, I ask only that you refrain from causing any scandal. Whom you see, where you go, and what you do in private is entirely your concern. I ask only that you be discreet, as any respectable husband would.”

A pause.

She adjusted her gloves delicately, as though the arrangement of his freedom were no more troubling than a wrinkle in silk.

“Thirdly,” she went on, “you may be required to attend some court functions—balls, luncheons, things of that nature. You are not expected to enjoy them. Merely to appear. And to smile.”

He snapped. Rage brimming with every word she uttered by the second. 

Before she could finish the next word, his voice cut through the carriage like a blade through velvet.

“Who I’m with is up to me ?” Azriel snarled, the words leaving his lips more forcefully than he intended, harsher than the polished walls of the carriage deserved.

His shadows reacted first—curling, tightening, writhing . The air around him shifted, cold and thrumming with unspoken rage. The light dimmed once more, as if the carriage itself had the sense to cower.

Across from him, Lady Liora did not flinch.

Of course she didn’t.

She only tilted her head slightly, as if assessing an inconvenient noise at a dinner party. As if his fury was something she might entertain , but not indulge .

He leaned back against the seat like the distance might settle the roiling inside his chest.

It didn’t.

What the fuck was she talking about?

Separate residences— hers nestled in the Court of Nightmares, of all places. Alone. Without him. The thought clawed against his ribs. And then her gracious permission to bed whomever he pleased in secret?

As if it meant nothing to her.

He swallowed hard, bile rising like acid. Clenched his scarred hands on his knees, grounding himself before the shadows slipped too far.

Of course.

Of course he was never going to be enough for her.

He knew who she was.

Knew the truth the moment she’d smiled like he was air beneath her heels the morning after their wedding. She was the perfect, polished daughter of nobility. Raised for courts and crowns. And he—he was a bastard. A brute. Illrian-born and shadow-wrought.

What use did a woman like her have for a male like him, except to prove she’d sampled him?

A notch on her belt. A story to whisper behind a fan. Forty days of fun with a lowborn cur.

His teeth ground together. Remembering her words…that how she could have any lord and even had any lord she wanted…She surely must already have someone if she was offering thşs condition without even trying to have a amiable marriage. 

Lucien.

Was that who she meant to see?

The thought struck deeper than it should have, his jaw tightening with it. Had she ever looked at him the way she looked at the fox-hearted emissary? Had any of her touches meant something more than duty and curiosity?

He stared at her now—her lashes lowered, expression serene, utterly unreadable.

And he hated her for it.

Not because she was cruel. He would have preferred her cruelty, her venom, her claws and anger. 

But because she simply did not feel anything. That everything was merely a game just another performance, nothing about her was real.

She looked up at him through half-lowered lashes and offered an expression so infuriatingly serene it might’ve been painted onto her face.

“Oh, of course,” she said, as if commenting on the temperature. “It’s an arranged marriage. I do not expect loyalty, darling. That would be rather naïve of me.”

Her fan flicked open with that signature snap, the faint scent of peaches trailing behind it.

She went on, smooth as glass. “Besides, you needn’t worry for me. I am a lady . It is part of our education, you see—to expect that our lord husbands will take mistresses. It’s practically a pillar of courtly life.”

She smiled.

Smiled , as if she hadn’t just gutted him with that casual cruelty disguised as reason.

Azriel stared at her.

And for a moment, he didn’t see the bratty noble, or the polished jewel of Prythian who flung tantrums with gilded grace.

He saw a girl.

A child .

Taught to expect that marriage meant being looked over, passed by. Taught that her worth was in appearances, not affection. Taught to anticipate betrayal from the man she was bound to—and to accept it, gracefully .

He frowned.

Hard.

His chest ached in a way he didn’t understand. The shadows around him quieted, as if they, too, were listening now instead of snarling.

Was that what she  truly believed marriage was? No love, just a contract. Like she was completely comfortable with the idea of being sold like a bartering object. She should have been angry at him at his court yet she just felt nothing…

er words echoed in his skull like the cruelest of lullabies.

“I’ve had a taste of the buffet… I can have any lord I want.”

Of course she would say that.

Of course she would mean it.

Why wouldn’t she? She was the Jewel of Prythian, after all. A lady of high breeding, sculpted elegance, and polished cruelty. And maybe— Mother help him —maybe she already had someone. Maybe there was already some secret lover waiting on the sidelines. Someone who wasn’t a brute with shadows for blood and scars etched into his hands. Someone noble. Proper.

Someone worthy .

The thought shouldn’t have twisted like it did.

Shouldn’t have settled like lead in his chest.

After all, wasn’t this what he’d wanted?

Hadn’t he hoped— expected —to be rid of her after the wedding? To keep the appearances, play the part, and quietly live separate lives until the bond of arrangement dissolved into silence?

Wasn’t this better?

He could still pursue Elain. Sweet, golden, kind Elain. The sister everyone adored. The one who reminded him of light and gardens and forgiveness . The one who had smiled gently even when he bled. The one who—

Who belonged to someone else.

Like always.

Just like Nesta had found Cassian, and Feyre had chosen Rhys.

Azriel had wanted that. Wanted the sweet sister everyone liked, the agreeable sister that was beloved by every member of his inner circle.

To be chosen.

To not be the monster in the corner.

And instead, he was bound to her .

The cousin of fucking Tamlin. The long-time friend of Eris Vanserra. The noblewoman who twisted him up with a look, and then discarded him like the wrinkled corner of a dance card.

He had been a fool.

And now he was a married fool.

To a woman who didn’t want him, and who had no problem reminding him of it.

And yet—

Still, he couldn’t stop himself.

His voice came low, rough with something he didn’t care to name—bitterness, perhaps, or something far more fragile.

“I am not a lord. I have no need for mistresses.”

The words fell between them like a stone in still water.

He didn’t mean it as self-pity. Nor accusation. Merely fact. A final line in the long ledger of what he was not. Not high-born. Not noble. Not the kind of male bred for courtly games and arranged marriages sealed with wine and silence.

He watched her carefully.

And there— there —it was.

The smallest shift. Barely perceptible. But he was a Shadowsinger. He had built his life on noticing the tremble before the avalanche, the flicker behind a lie. His shadows were already desperate enough for the smallest reaction from her.

Her eyes widened.

Not by much. But enough.

Enough for him to see it. The flash of surprise she hadn’t meant to show. That something in his simple admission had struck a note not written in her rehearsed script.

Whatever she felt, it vanished a breath later.

Her lashes lowered, her mouth curved again into that infuriatingly perfect, practiced smile. The one she wore like a shield. As if nothing he could say would ever land.

But it had.

For just a second—it had.

And then she turned her face to the window. 

—--

Liora

The remainder of the carriage ride passed in silence—a silence Lady Liora found not unpleasant, though her new husband brooded beside her like a storm cloud forced into formalwear. She entertained herself, as any respectable lady might, with a book. Though to call it entertaining was rather generous—it was a thin volume on the agricultural history of the Night Court, which, much like its high society, proved to be all style and very little substance, not many things suited the soil in the night court to grow, their main industry being the mines.

With a sigh, she closed it. There would be a lot of work to do once she had arrived. Though as any proper lady she did enjoy a challenge. After all, was it not a lady’s duty to make her residence beautiful? 

Outside, the landscape shifted, soft Spring green giving way to the duskier tones of borderlands. She rested her gloved fingers against the glass, eyes lingering on the curling mist and the greenway vanishing behind them.

Forty days.

It had been longer than she’d intended.

Longer than she expected to enjoy.

And she had enjoyed it, hadn’t she? In her own foolish, reckless way. She could still see the look in his eyes—when he’d woken alone, confusion masked in steel. She had unsettled him. She had meant to.

But that didn’t stop the ache in her chest.

Not for him. No, certainly not. But for the forest. The silence of the early dawns. The wildness of her true self, released only in secret sprints beneath the trees while the rest of the world still slept and thought her pretty, docile, and perfectly dressed.

She would miss it.

She would miss the sharp-tongued banter of her cousin, even his infuriating brooding. She would miss the servants who knew when to avoid her chambers and when to bring peach wine. She would miss being home —even if it was not the sort of home she would ever admit to needing.

And yet, like any jewel worth its title, she would shine regardless of setting.

Even in the cold marble of the Night Court.

Even if she had to claw the light from the shadows themselves.

She did not understand what had the Spymaster in such a twist.

Yes—the sex had been good.

Well, more than good, if one were inclined to be honest. Thorough. Skilled. Possessive in a way that both thrilled and threatened. But surely he understood it for what it was. Nothing more. Certainly not a declaration of affection. Not in her world.

Liora had been taught, from the moment her body began to take shape beneath velvet and lace, how to read and wield a male’s desire with the same precision others wielded steel. She had been trained to be admired, envied, touched—but never tethered . A lady might want many things—fame, power, indulgence—but love? No, love was for fools and servants.

She was neither.

And now, even with all her jewels and titles, she was shackled.

It did not matter if the male she had been forced to wed was cruel or kind, highborn or lesser, scarred or divine. The spymaster could have been a dream sculpted from moonlight itself and it would still change nothing .

She would not be bound.

Not after everything she had endured to be free.

Her hand went instinctively to her abdomen , to a place that still carried ghosts of decisions made in darker days. Her jaw tightened. The silk of her gloves creaked with the pressure of her clenched fist.

She had given up too much.