Chapter Text
The Forest House, Autumn Court
Eris Vanserra is an alpha known for self-control. Upon his ascendancy to Autumn’s throne, he’d vowed to take a measured approach to all pursuits: both in business and pleasure alike.
He also vowed to never take an omega. With four living brothers, he’d never want for heirs. And after seeing his mother bear six sons without comfort or affection, Eris refused to repeat the abusive cycle.
The first five years of his reign have been spent bringing Autumn back from the brink of ruin: filling the treasury and healing the land, while renewing relations between his Court and fae.
It had all been so tidy—a life of service and a schedule like clockwork—until a brooding omega showed up in Autumn, smelling like sex and sky.
Azriel sauntered into his chambers, the shadows’ lacework skirting along fitted armor and powerful wings. The omega’s scent left Eris feeling unmoored and feral with a need to take, to bite down on the pulsepoint at his neck and claim. He wanted to lap up the nectar that was mist over the Illyrian steppes and the musk of soft leather.
The male was somehow both wild—wind and aether, but home—a field of sweet grass after rainfall. And Azriel had come fresh from his heat cycle, judging by the warmth rising off his golden brown skin, his flushed cheeks and the smokey veil of his green-gold eyes.
Said omega now stands in all his dark beauty, casting a shadow over Eris’s desk.
“To what do I owe this visit, Shadowsinger?” Eris keeps his eyes on the maps spread for his perusal.
A scarred hand reaches out a folded envelope. “You’re invited to Starfall this year.”
Eris lifts his gaze. Since when does Night’s brutal enforcer dole out party invitations? And since when does the shady sadist have dimples? Azriel looks softer somehow; his hair is a starling’s wing and windy curls grace his brow.
Since Beron’s death, Eris has been working more closely with the Night Court and their spymaster in particular. A camaraderie has developed between them and he quietly looks forward to these impromptu visits, even if the male has terrible timing, always showing up right before his ruts—shady sadist, indeed.
Azriel’s shadows now weave around his talons in dark ribbons while he waits for Eris to accept the invitation. Their bobbing and weaving gives the appearance of eager happiness, even as his beautiful face remains unreadable.
A small ember stokes low in his chest as Eris accepts the parchment. “I will make every effort to attend.”
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Starfall, Night Court
Azriel has spent five hundred years—over a thousand heats—as an omega. He’s never been ashamed of his secondary sex, nor of his urges. They are as much a part of him as his shadows or the wings that rise from his shoulder blades in a massive arc.
But he also does not make it public knowledge. His actions, how he sates this basic and fundamental part of himself, is no one’s business but his own.
Some heats he takes suppressants, especially while on a mission away from home. Other times he finds a discrete alpha or beta to stave off his symptoms. Then there are the worst cases, when he rides out his heat alone.
But any way it happens, he knows how to endure disappointment, and the burning cavity in his chest that comes with an empty bed, womb, and heart. He’s one of a kind—a Singer destined for loneliness, even as the shadows’ hum never leaves him truly alone.
So when Autumn’s High Lord declines his invitation to Night at the last minute, without explanation, Azriel tells himself it does not matter. That he hasn’t paid extra attention to the crispness of his tunic and did not polish his siphons and wings with added excitement that morning.
He blocks out the early spring chill, lurking in the darkened threshold. Cass and Nesta waltz by in a rustle of fabric while Rhys and Feyre laugh with their guests. Even Amren seems to be enjoying herself with the Prince of Adriata.
As star matter falls, painting the masonry of the House with iridescence, Azriel tries to drown out the buzz of laughter and music with another glass of Rhysand’s wine.
Why hasn’t Eris come?
Azriel had been the one to suggest his invitation, had even insisted on delivering it, and could not say why the High Lord’s absence tugs at his chest.
All he knows is that his heat is impending, leaving him tired, horny, and if he’s being honest, desperate for touch.
“Take me home.” Glancing around to ensure he won’t be missed, Azriel lets the shadows pull him between darkness and light.