Chapter Text
The Hewn City, Court of Nightmares
No one had warned Azriel that the free fall into madness started with a scent: the sandalwood oils of Sangravah, the cloves stored in oak barrels at the Palace of Bone and Salt. How it shifted with the male’s moods.
Sadness took on an Autumn thunderstorm—fat raindrops cooling layers of moss. Fury, a bonfire—smokey peat and scorched earth. Cinnamon followed the dimple in his mate’s left cheek, and then, there was the male’s arousal. An Autumn forest of maplewoods and silver birch.
That Azriel, feared Shadowsinger and spymaster of the Night Court, Carynthian warrior, and one of the most powerful Illyrians in history, was cataloging the scents of an Autumn Court brat, was madness.
Said brat’s smooth voice came from across the table. “Well, if that is all, I’ll return next month to discuss further activity at the Spring border.” The red-haired fae pushed up from his seat with a smirk and turned towards the door. His grace was preternatural, woven into well tailored suits and long limbs. Azriel hated him. He desired him. And mostly, Azriel hated himself for this monstrous desire.
But no one had warned him that the golden cord strung between them was a no-win situation. Accepting the bond tied him to one of Prythian’s most notorious and cunning fae for an immortal lifetime. Rejecting it could lead to further madness. So, Azriel did what had kept him safe for centuries: he took all his hopes, fears and loneliness, and buried them behind a wall of shadows and denial thicker than Illyrian granite.
The retreating Autumn male glanced in his direction, but the Spymaster kept his expression neutral, cold eyes trained on the wall ahead. If he noted the fireling’s amber eyes dim at the quiet rejection, Azriel would not say. He released a breath as the other male winnowed away.
“He’s hiding something.” Rhysand’s eyes met his brothers’ from across the obsidian table. “Why so secretive about his trips to Day’s libraries?” He rubbed his chin.
Then, stated with all the authority of a High Lord of Night, “Az, find out. Visit Autumn before our next meeting. Get it from him there. I would prefer not to bring him back here for direct questioning. That could irreparably damage our alliance and become a diplomatic nightmare.”
A look of concern flickered in the other males’ eyes. Asking a fae to imprison his own mate, even one unwanted, would be extraordinarily cruel for all parties concerned. The three Illyrians sat in heavy silence.
But then, violet eyes twinkled, and a smile stole across the High Lord’s face. “Perhaps you can be…persuasive with him.” Azriel’s wings snapped back. He would not entertain this right now.
Cassian released something between a snort and a laugh. “There are worse ways to get information.” The general offered his most irreverent smile, adding, “you are mates Az. It’s only natural, and with a face like yours, it’s no wonder the Mother blessed you with a pretty male.”
Azriel’s shadows swooped down, darkening the space for a heartbeat. A low growl echoed in the war room.
Rhys shook his head at his best friends’ antics, preparing to winnow them back to Velaris, as Azriel countered, almost to himself, “what the Mother has blessed me with is a cunning liar and a lot of trouble.” His brothers hummed in agreement and for a second, Azriel couldn’t bear the pity he saw in their eyes.
Cass and Rhys were worthy of their mates: the legendary Archerons, beloved by the Night Court, and true saviors of Prythian. But that was not Azriel’s story. He was a monster who dwelled in the shadows. After all the blood he’d spilled, he deserved to be bound to a wicked male—one he could never love, yet would never fully escape.
* * *
The Forest House, Autumn Court
No one had deigned to warn him. He was a well read male, a trove of fae history, culture and lore. Yet, Eris Vanserra, eldest son of a High Lord, heir apparent, and general of the Autumn Court, had not expected his mate’s scent to bring him so low.
The male’s essence was the mist that clung to cedar forests, the crisp wind that crept along the pines at dusk.
Since the mating bond had snapped on the floors of a Dawn Court palace, Eris was in over his head. The Shadowsinger had wrapped scarred hands around his throat, as heavy Illyrian armor pressed him down.
And when their eyes had met, Eris had been unable to breathe. Azriel leaned down and whispered against his ear, “I will find you again, Autumn.” Eris had gasped for air as those hands tightened one last time, and the spymaster added, lower, "I will always find you.” Eris, even with the threat of death looming above, had never felt more alive.
True to his word, the Shadowsinger found him later that night. And they’d fucked hard and fast, frenzied and wild. It had been that way with them ever since: clashing in dark corners of the world, a secret so full of pleasure and pain, Eris was surprised it did not leave permanent marks. They continued to this day—denying and repressing the bond, until one of them snapped, the passion burning them alive.
But it was just sex and it was usually Eris who gave in first. He was an Autumn male after all—fire in his blood, all that business.
No one from Autumn knew other than his trusted spymaster; he would sever the bond first. Better to die broken by madness than by Beron. This knowledge would throw his Court into an unwinnable war.
His father would never let his mate live, would use the bond to destroy Eris and the Night Court. Rhysand and Feyre would rally Prythian and obliterate Autumn in Azriel’s name. It could never be.
And only in the darkest, smallest hours of night, would the Autumn heir admit that the Shadowsinger’s death would be his own undoing. Maddening bond.
Eris sank into an enormous bath warmed by his magic. His bathing chamber was filled with vials of oils and soft linens. The fireling inherited a love of sensual pleasures from his mother, whom he took after in looks, demeanor, and magic. It was one of the many things Beron found lacking about his heir, lamenting his son’s “pretty face,” particularly when trying to humiliate or control him.
He sank under the water, attempting to soak away the day’s stress and exhaustion.
Eris had arrived at the Hewn City, where he’d dutifully sat through the Inner Circle’s regular meeting in an underground war room that made his skin crawl. He couldn’t fathom a life without seeing the sky or feeling the wind, and for a fireling, whose very essence was dependent upon the air, it was a crime against nature.
Then, there had been the ache of his problematic mating bond. The shame of being the Illyrian’s dirty secret, even as Eris burned with a need to lean into the other male’s body, to taste his skin, to hear his name on Azriel’s lips.
Gods, he was sunk. He slipped beneath the water again.
Eris had shared Beron’s political machinations with Rhysand and his Illyrians, as required by his end of the alliance. But it was never enough for the Night Court: demanding full transparency from him, while offering nothing in return. It was exhausting, and Eris wasn’t having it this time. Rhysand wanted answers, but his business in the Day Court was his own.
The Night Court had their own version of events, their own narratives, often overlooking that Eris always put his court and family first. How the heir’s quiet victories centered on controlling the otherwise unchecked destruction that was Beron Vanserra. The Autumn male learned how to wield power quietly and to bide his time. He was a sharpened blade tucked into the softest sheath.
Eris left the bath, skin glowing dry with a metallic tang of magic, flames crackling in the hearth. He donned his softest pants and tunic, as a familiar thumping of tails hit the wooden floor.
Two sets of black eyes stared up at him. “I’ve missed you, Fitz.” The Autumn prince ran a hand over the beloved Smokehound’s head, scratching behind his ears. The sleek hound huffed and padded to the rug.
Chanson, his second oldest, tilted her lovely face towards Eris. He walked around their pile on the rug and tucked into his favorite chair. Pulling his hair up into a loose knot and picking up a book, he stared at the massive page. Gods, he was tired.
The morning’s travels from the Night Court were followed by meetings with farmers, then lords, all to negotiate his new trade agreement between Winter and Autumn. Winter needed fresh fruit and grains, of which Autumn had an abundance. And Autumn desperately needed assistance at their Spring borders.
There had been an influx of Spring refugees at Autumn and Summer’s borders. Mostly faefolk seeking protection from roving bands of Naga and other creatures who were no longer contained by Tamlin’s magic. Then there were faeries who could not pay their tithes, because the land was wild, and they could not farm it. All were fleeing the chaos of Spring.
But the real problem was the civil unrest these forced relocations caused. Fae craved power, but also desired security, and these dual instincts made them extremely territorial. Autumn did not readily welcome Spring, but Summer was no better. Vandalism, vigilantism, and bigotry kept Spring refugees from entering their towns.
Tarquin had offered sanctuary to any Spring refugee who approached his borders. And while Eris respected the young High Lord’s progressive ideals, he saw this lofty promise for what it was: a short-term kindness, not a lasting solution. Eris made a mental note to meet with Tarquin’s emissaries next.
No, for long term peace, Prythian needed a stable Spring Court. Even Rhysand and Feyre, who were responsible for destabilizing Tamlin’s court to begin with, were now working with Eris, Lucien, and the Summer Court to make it so. This was yet another way Eris was quietly governing Autumn while undermining his father.
A log popped in the fireplace. Fitz lazily stretched his flank and placed a single paw on Chanson’s back. Eris, still staring at his book, had not read a single word. Glyphs in Old Fae blurred off the page. His bare foot slinked against Chanson’s rump, making its way to nudge Fitz. The hounds stirred, eyes bright and tails thumping the floor.
A single shadow crept along the chair, curling around Eris’s bare ankle. The fireling stood, and with a subtle flick of his wrist, lowered the flames in his hearth to a dull hum. He poured two glasses of Autumn whiskey and turned with an arched brow.
“Come out bat. I’ve poured your favorite drink.” Amber eyes trained the corner beneath the rain streaked beveled windows, branches scratching the panes with a tsk tsk tsk.
The Illyrian’s classically beautiful face surfaced from the shadows—impossibly high cheekbones, inky curls that fell over a smooth forehead, and a jaw chiseled by the Mother’s hand. But it was the glowing hazel eyes that burned deep holes into the prince.
Azriel’s eyes were an entire kingdom onto themselves. Pupils like a Samhain sky, ringed in the gold of the gingko and birch of his forests. Gold melded into tawny greens and browns—the Autumn heartland, where farmlands and vineyards thrived. These were the eyes of his mate, his Cauldron-blessed equal. This male, who held Eris’s charred and pitted heart in scarred hands, would never love him, but desired him. It was enough.
* * *
Azriel walked towards Eris, wings tucked behind his broad shoulders in a guarded stance. But he reached out and took the glass. “Rhys has sent me to discuss your presence in Day. My shadows say you’ve been spending a great deal of time there. Letters between you and Helion confirm this.”
Eris smirked, looking at the Shadowsinger with cool disdain. His mate's favorite mask, now firmly in place.
“I did not realize our alliance was exclusive, spymaster. Am I not allowed to have business with other Courts?” The courtier’s full mouth was sly curly. “I have heard Illyrians are possessive, but there is no need for jealousy.” Eyes glittered with suggestion.
Azriel’s hand wrapped around the wrist of the male before him. “Do not play games, Eris. You know the Solar Courts are closely aligned, Day and Night in particular. And you poking around, communicating with our most powerful ally, is concerning.”
Eris tugged his hand away, but Azriel went on. “I have orders to uncover your purpose for said interactions with Helion, and if you do not give me answers, I can bring you to the Hewn City and question you in a more official capacity.”
Azriel swore the Autumn male’s shoulders stiffened, sandalwood shifting to smokey fear, before Eris hissed, eyes taking on a scheming light.
“A date in your dungeon, Shadowsinger? I know how much you love wrapping those hands around my throat. Maybe you will even use your Truth Teller this time?” Eris’s slippery whisper was like a lover’s breath against the other male’s ear, a cool blade grazing his skin.
Azriel should have known he would not make it easy. Nothing was ever easy with his mate. But Azriel did not like the scent of fear and woodsmoke, however brief, that lingered. The Illyrian could not say why, did not want to examine why Eris’s fear unsettled him. He needed to get back on familiar footing. Anger. That, he could endure.
“Do not make me choose between you and my High Lord.” The Illyrian's jaw remained set at a determined angle, but his tone softened, almost entreating.
It was at this moment Eris froze. "What type of fool do you take me for?" His chin rose and his spine stiffened, nostrils flaring in anger.
Now this was the notoriously wicked prince who left his betrothed in the forest to bleed out. This, Azriel could endure, because he knew what came next. Eris would call him a brute, or Rhysand’s loyal beast. And Azriel would slap back with five hundred years of anger and unanswered questions.
With a predatory stillness, Eris narrowed his golden eyes. “As if you would ever choose me, Shadowsinger.”
The viper’s mask was fully in place,“You would choose your High Lord and Lady, your brother and his mate—” a long index finger pointed towards Azriel’s chest, “before me.”
Azriel had the strangest urge to grab Eris’s wrist and put that finger in his mouth.
Absolute madness.
***
Eris threw back another drink from his glass before slamming it to the table. The hounds watched with glittering, wary eyes. He had the passing thought that they looked disappointed with him. Well, today he would not be traveling the high road.
Fine. Eris was petty and exhausted, and above all else, he was fucking jealous.
“And let us not forget the precious Mor.” He should stop. But Azriel hurt him so effortlessly, with such ease, and the heir wanted to lash out and strike back.
“Hel, you would choose my brother’s mate over me.” At this, Azriel growled low in his throat. Eris was pleased, wanted the Shadowsinger angry. Wanted it to hurt. Wanted Azriel to hurt him back.
This was familiar. This, they could endure.
The room was perfectly still. Silent, but for the crackling fire. Fitz stood, Chanson at his side. Their low warning growls broke the spell. Eris nodded towards his beloved hounds, a quick reassurance.
The Shadowsinger’s face was colder and harder than it usually was at the mention of Mor, his family and home. As if the names of these hallowed parts of his life were sullied having passed Eris’s lips.
Azriel took two long strides forward, grabbing the other male by his shirt front, and whispered, “Eris, stop.”
Autumn’s prince braced for whatever blow came next, would return it twofold. For nothing he said, however venomous, was untrue.
But just as quickly, scarred hands released him, and fingers splayed across Eris’s neck, brushing in a painfully soft whisper across his collarbone. Azriel pushed his forehead against his, taking in a single deep breath.
Ever so slowly, Eris uncurled his fists, palms spreading against the Shadowsinger’s chest. They were of a similar height, looking straight into each other’s eyes.
The pair were well matched in strength as well. Where Azriel was broad in shoulder, with the defined muscles of an Illyrian warrior, Eris was lean and lithe, possessing a predatory grace that afforded speed and agility on the battlefield and discretion in courtly spaces.
Azriel put a single finger beneath the Autumn male’s chin and held it to stare straight into his eyes. Don’t look away, they seemed to say.
Eris complied, his golden gaze unflinching. I can take anything you give me.
Scarred hands skimmed down his back slowly, feather light, leaving chills along the way, before wrenching his narrow hips forward with a bruising grip.
“Are you jealous?” The Illyrian taunted, throwing the courtier’s earlier accusation back in his face, even as he nudged his thigh between Eris’s, offering friction.
When Eris grabbed his mate’s shoulders and Azriel smirked knowingly. He likely felt the same urgency. This too, was familiar and safe: fucking and fighting. This, they could endure.
***
Azriel chuckled at the red-haired male’s hips seeking friction with his own. “So needy,” he hummed against the High Fae’s pointed ear. He nudged the delicate golden hoops with his nose.
Eris gasped a breath as he grabbed fistfuls of silken hair and pulled that swollen, bratty mouth towards his own. Their kiss became one of possession. Cedar mingling with warm spice.
He bit his mate’s lower lip. “Gods Autumn, your fucking mouth.”
Eris pulled away breathless, ember eyes saying, I want you. I adore you. You are mine.
But Azriel must be mistaken. Eris adored nothing and he, a winged and broken creature, belonged to no one.
The Autumn prince slowly lowered before him, knees hitting the rug. The hounds had made themselves scarce, thank gods.
***
Eris looked up at the beautiful male standing above him, as his hands gently stroked the backs of Azriel’s thighs, the swell of his ass, and up to his lower back.
Unlacing the Illyrian leathers, Eris pulled the waist band down to expose golden brown skin over the hardened planes of his mate’s torso. He hummed with appreciation, leaning in to brush a single kiss atop Azriel’s right hip bone. His warm lips slid across the muscled torso to repeat, pressing a longer, open mouth kiss on the left hip bone.
The Autumn male pulled back, lips slightly parted, and looked up, straight into his mate’s hazel eyes. Please be mine. Never stop being mine, they seemed to say. But Eris must have misread. For no one had ever wanted or chosen him, and certainly not forever.
Azriel’s hands trailed across his face, thumbs grazing against the pillow of his lower lip.
And with a tenderness that cracked something in Eris’s chest, the Shadowsinger tucked a strand of red hair behind a pointed ear. This was soft and new, and Eris was not sure he could endure it.
So, the prince did what he knew. He could fight and he could fuck. He pulled Azriel’s hardened cock from his leathers and in one fluid motion, took the male into his mouth.
***
When Azriel was finally able to open his eyes and look down, he was nearly undone. Eris’s pupils were blown out so wide that only a slender ring of gold remained. How did this male looked so impossibly fucked out with his clothes still on?
The fireling’s mouth was a dream. It was wet and warm, and drove him to madness. Grabbing handfuls of silken hair in both hands, he pulled him further onto his cock. The sounds Eris made, the humming and swallowing were filthy and they were all his.
“Look up at me, Eris. Let me see you.” Azriel must have said it out loud this time and once again, his mate complied. Gods, he was beautiful like this. Moon pale skin and a constellation of golden freckles on the arch of his nose, eyes like the sun, all framed by hair that burned like a sheet of fire. Tears ran down his cheeks, clinging to lush lashes. But it was the male’s mouth, his mouth that taunted and soothed, with sharp words and soft lips.
Eris kept a steady rhythm with his tongue, his hands, and his throat.
“Take out your cock and stroke it. I want to see you touch yourself.” Azriel’s gravelly whisper was barely audible, but Eris pulled a hand away and untied his own pants. He pulled his cock out and circled it with long pale fingers.
The Illyrian looked down to see his mate was already impossibly hard, already weeping and close to release, just from the taste of him, from his hands and praise.
Azriel whispered again, “That’s it. You feel so good.” He grabbed fistfuls of Eris’s hair and pushed deep into his throat. “Come for me, Eris.”
As the Illyrian pulled his cock out of the male’s throat, forcing Eris to look up right into his eyes, air pulling back into his lungs, the Autumn male gasped, taking a ragged breath as his release came, streaming down his wrist and hand.
“Hold my thighs now. That’s it.” Eris did as the Shadowsinger asked. Strong slender hands held the backs of hard thighs, still clad in smooth leather. Azriel pushed past his lips again.
There was a familiar tug at the base of Azriel’s spine, and as if he knew, Eris took him even deeper. He hollowed out his cheeks, and right when his mate stiffened, the wicked Autumn male reached up with two fingers and grazed the leathery skin of the Illyrian’s wing. Azriel came with a guttural exhale, and Eris took it all down his throat.
As his breaths slowed, Azriel looked down to see a pearly drop slip past his mate’s swollen lips. The Illyrian groaned when Eris pulled off his cock, and with a single finger, scooped the drop of come from his chin, licking his finger clean. This male would end him. No, this he could not endure.
Eris rose on shaky legs. Azriel noticed, placing a steady hand on his waist. Autumn’s gilded eyes seemed to say, Stay. Be here with me, be mine to keep.
Plush pink lips fell into a natural pout and Azriel wanted to kiss them, to take his mate to the warm bed and hold him. To kiss that pout away and map out every inch of his body. But that was not why he’d come.
He was spymaster, meant to gather information for his High Lord, his family, and his Court. Yet even as the thought passed his mind, Azriel knew it to be a lie.
A lie he needed to tell his mate, the world, and most importantly, himself. He turned away from those eyes, those lips and the scent of cloves, sandalwood with the undercurrent of something sad.
Rain still tapped against the windows, but the scent of thunderstorms on moss was one the Azriel knew well. He’d hurt Eris, simply by looking away. And he hated how heavily it sat on his chest.
The metallic tang of magic swept through, cleaning up the evidence of their release, as Eris turned away to make himself a drink. He looked back at Azriel, a brow arched in question. Azriel nodded and sat on the low backed chair.
Eris handed him the refilled glass, avoiding an accidental brush of their fingers, as a light blush crawled across his cheeks and down to his pale neck. Azriel wanted to taste it.
The Autumn male sat across from the Illyrian on a velvet chaise of forest green. He leaned back, his hair a river of flame across the edge of the lounge. A sleek silver hound padded up and placed her narrow muzzle on his knee as Eris stroked her head. The other remained on the rug staring at Azriel in silent warning.
With the rainfall outside and the hushed crackle of the fire, it was all too still. Azriel hated it. His chest felt cracked open. He should just get the information he came for, but instead, that fissure in his chest, needing to be filled, prompted him to stay. “What are their names?”
Eris scratched behind the pretty hound’s ears. “This one is Chanson.” Eris looked up from his drink, his eyes settling on the other hound slowly making his way towards Azriel. “And he’s Fitz.”
“Fitz seems…displeased with me.” Azriel’s voice was laced with wary amusement as the graceful hound huffed and lay back down in front of Azriel’s feet, eyes never leaving the Illyrian’s face.
“Fitz is protective. He was my very first hound. My mother gave me Fitz, Chains, and their brother on my seventh birthday.” Eris looked at Azriel, head cocked to the side. “Do you like animals, Shadowsinger?”
Azriel sat up. It was a question no one had ever asked him. As spymaster, he asked the questions, observed and recorded in the shadows. And when that did not work, he got his answers through fear. Violence was a last resort. He was rarely asked anything about himself, and beyond what he cautiously doled out to his closest few, was unknown. But Eris often took him by surprise this way.
“Illyrians don’t keep pets. Animals are for labor, protection, or food.” Another sip. Eris waited, expectantly. “But there was a gray cat at Windhaven, the training camp I moved to when I was eleven. The cook used her to keep mice away.”
Azriel had loved that cat. “She was sleek and silent, reminded me of my shadows.” He blushed, about to put an end to the conversation.
But the scent of sandalwood and the sight of a single dimple had him blurting out, “most of the younglings knew each other, being from the same camps and villages. But I didn’t know anyone, so it was hard that first year. The cat followed me around, played with my shadows. I left her scraps and let her sleep on my bedroll. But she was mostly wild.”
Azriel took another drink, uncomfortable with how much he had shared. “So, yes, I like animals…I liked her.” When he looked up, Eris’s eyes glimmered with mirth.
“Well, if you want Fitz to stop glaring, offer him a gift.” The male’s dimple was back out. He plucked a small orange square from a pocket between the worlds.
Fitz’s head immediately rose, ears perking up. Eris stood, walking over towards Azriel’s chair. He held the square out, placing it in the Illyrian’s palm. Azriel cocked a black brow.
“Fitz loves cheese. It’s the way to his heart.” Eris returned to his perch on the chaise. He pulled a leg to his chest, chin resting on his knee.
Azriel had no idea how to feed a legendary Smokehound. They were fierce and magical creatures of Autumn, known for their predatory grace, loyalty, tracking skills, and speed. Eris had twelve.
And he couldn’t help but feel like this was a test. The Illyrian took the square of cheese, breaking it in half. He held out his hand “Friends?”
Fitz padded up and sniffed the cheese, then his hand. A wet nose tickled. Azriel smiled as Fitz took the cheese between his bone white fangs, warily watching the Singer’s face. When he swallowed, the hound’s long tail wagged and he pushed his face against Azriel’s leg with affection.
The Illyrian looked up at Eris, who was watching closely. “What about the other?” Azriel nodded towards Chanson. “Does she enjoy…cheese?”
***
Something cracked open in Eris’s chest. Fitz liked Azriel, and his mate liked the hound. It shouldn’t be so important, but it was. To Eris, who was taught that love was something to be used as a weapon or a bargaining chip, these hounds were often all he had.
“Chains, go get your cheese, girl.” Eris spoke directly to the graceful hound at his feet, whose coat was the color of moonbeams.
“Chains--a nickname?” Azriel asked.
Eris stood to refill his drink. He turned and filled Azriel’s without being asked.
“I named her for a style of romantic Autumn song, the chanson. They are my mother’s favorite. And Chanson’s howl, as a pup, had a musical quality.”
Azriel felt himself grinning.
Eris chuckled. “But Lucien was a half-feral youngling, having no knowledge of classical Autumnal music.”
Azriel’s eyes widened and Eris wasn’t surprised. He rarely talked about his youth, or his brothers, preferring to keep his past private.
“Lucien, being a wildling, called my fiercest hound Chains-On. And it stuck. Now we call her Chains, with affection of course.”
Azriel hummed, chuckling at this small memory. This was rare for them, making it seem more fragile, more precious. Collecting little moments of joy and pleasure, of normalcy.
But like the flames and the shadows that defined their magic, these moments were fleeting. Azriel stood, placing his empty glass on the liquor cabinet.
Walking over, he fed the single piece of cheese to Chains, who took it delicately between her incisors.
Azriel stroked her once between her eyes, then appeared to brace himself. “I still need answers Eris. About the Day Court. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, please.”
There was the silence again.
Eris studied Azriel—his stiff wings and hands fisted at his sides. But it was the tugging of the bond that spoke volumes.
His mate’s guilt and shame were sharp pangs shooting beneath his ribs. And above both was a layer of disgust. Even without the bridge between them, it was all over the Shadowsinger’s beautiful face.
Then it hit him, a bolt of searing pain. Azriel had used Eris’s desire against him. Sure, the Shadowsinger had enjoyed himself, as much as any male would enjoy getting his cock sucked into oblivion, but not in the way Eris needed him. And the prince had gone to his knees, had all but given himself over to be played, like some pathetic instrument.
A familiar flame licked up Eris’s spine. He should just send Azriel away. Anything else. But he was burning, fire his constant companion.
As a lonely youngling, left with cruel tutors, an often despondent, sad mother, and a terrifying father who hated anything smaller and weaker than himself, all he had were his flames.
Because even more than weakness, Beron hated strength. Gods help the fae who proved to be lesser, but being too strong also spelled one’s doom. And suspended in this lonely, impossible spot, Eris had learned to depend on nothing and no one save himself.
His fire would keep him sane and safe, remind him that he was alive. So, the prince pushed flames through his hands toward the hearth.
It terrified the male before him, but Eris needed to show strength and power. And this was power in Autumn. This was strength in the Vanserra dynasty.
Azriel took a step backwards, instinctually reaching for the dagger at his thigh. Shadows skittered protectively around him. Eris could burn him, could burn the whole Forest House down, but he wouldn’t.
The Shadowsinger’s eyes hardened, soft Autumn meadows now covered in a layer of frost. He was clearly trying to regain the upper hand, realizing he’d let desire distract him. They both had.
“I told you my purpose for coming when I arrived. This, Eris,” Azriel gestured at the space between their bodies, “can’t be. Will never be.” A step forward, his scarred hands outstretched like he was placating a wild, injured thing. His tone softened. “But we can work together, in honesty. Just give me something.”
Once again, Azriel’s words cut with such precision and ease, Eris wondered why the famed torturer ever bothered with a blade. So, Eris did what he did best. He lied.
A jagged laugh escaped his lips. Lips that had been so soft, almost loving just minutes before, twisted into a cruel sneer. “As if I would ever want anything from an Illyrian bastard. Do not equate a good fuck with something more, spymaster.”
Azriel stiffened at the change in tone. “I have an order from my High Lord, to find out what you are doing in Day. I will get answers. My court, my High Lord, and my family come first. Just like you said. You are not above my questioning.” He said the last line through gritted teeth, wings bristling.
They both knew what had been tossed between them. Most of Prythian would quake at the threat of being questioned by the feared Shadowsinger and spymaster.
Eris Vanserra remained unfazed. He knew violence. This, he could endure. It was his father’s first language.
What the cruel prince of Autumn could not endure was the softness he’d felt, for a heartbeat, across the bond. Shared stories of their youth, the little offerings they’d exchanged—Azriel, tucking a piece of red hair behind a pale, pointed ear. Scarred palms offering cheese to a hound’s nose.
The warrior’s blush, when he spoke of an old barn cat—only for the male to take that softness back, to rip it away, like it was nothing, like they were nothing.
That was a cruelty Eris could not endure; he would never survive it.
So, with centuries of practice, Eris lashed out, needing Azriel to return that pain.
Anger, rejection, and centuries of secrets carved into his heart pushed against his lips, needing release. “Being an Illyrian brute, I should have known it would end in your dungeons. Typical Night Court. Ruling at the edge of a sword. Torturing your allies though, your mates, that is low, even for your ilk.”
Azriel growled, wings flaring, even as Eris felt relief. This was how he would endure. He would push his mate away before he could get hurt again, before the spymaster could make him soften once more.
He pressed on. “But I shouldn’t be surprised after watching Rhys Under the Mountain. For fifty years, the male tortured all of Prythian. He even tortured his own mate, while she was a mere human.” Eris knew he was close to the kill, close to truly hurting his mate, but he was furious. In some ways, knew he was right.
“But you wouldn’t know, would you, Shadowsinger, tucked away in your City of Starlight? So precious, that all of Prythian was served up on a platter to keep it safe. Winter younglings, mortal girls, brave Summer and Day Court rebels, ripped to shreds, to keep you safe. Even your High Lord and Lady were not spared at the end. But you Azriel, you were.”
It was still. The rain had stopped, the hearth died down. The hounds had retreated. Regret and pain coiled between them.
Eris had gone too far, had known even as the words left his mouth. It wasn’t fair to blame Azriel for his time Under the Mountain. Knowing the male, he was tortured every minute he could not save his brother and High Lord.
“Azriel…” Eris whispered his name, an apology, a prayer who would not finish.
Azriel gathered his shadows around his wings. He looked at Eris, without a shred of softness. Gone were the Autumn meadows and forests. The immovable granite of Illyrian mountains had taken their place. “I will get the truth. I will know what your business is in Day, if I have to carve it from you.”
He began to retreat into the shadows, Eris watching with a mix of fury and regret.
“And Eris? You’re right.“
The prince felt his magic gutter to a dull flicker.
But Azriel had the final word. “I would choose anyone over you, anything over this bond.”
Shadows retreated, stealing the scent of cedarwood, until nothing was left but Eris clutching his charred and pitted heart.