Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

– Part I. – 

The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you  — 

it's strange what desire will make foolish people do.

[1]

It was said in old stories, faded with the memories of generations gone by, that once Illyrians were able to fly.  Maybe that was the reason Azriel loved the heights, the open sky, the clouds. He hummed as he looked out the window, his gaze following the houses becoming small rectangles, the fields morphing into patches of greens and yellows, roads turning into single, narrow lines. It all seemed inconsequential, when he was up in the air, his eyes level with the soft puffs of cloud and the clear, glimmering blue stretching in front of his vision until it melted into one with the ground. How he wished he could do this without a metallic structure weighing thousands of pounds to support his flight. But although the Illyrians still possessed their magic, at least some of them did after generations of mixing their blood with mortals. They were now all born wingless. Yet the love for the heights, the kiss of the wind, and the rush of freefall remained engraved in them. Azriel, however, felt something else missing: an anchoring string that would guide him back to the ground each time he fell. Maybe that was why he felt adrift; born to surge through the wind, yet yearning for the pull of a string. Like a kite without its tether, he wanted to soar, but longed for something, or someone, waiting for him to come back down to. Blaming it on the lack of wings, on something vital taken from him and beyond his control, was an easy way out. Otherwise he’d have to look at the things he could change, yet didn’t — and he turned away from the thought before it could settle. But the idea was already there, tightening his chest. Crushing truths perish from being acknowledged, he remembered wryly.

Azriel enjoyed the life he led, what he was able to carve out for himself.

Sure, it was one where he did everything by the book, Rhys’ book, to be precise. He went where he was ordered to, did what he was ordered to, and by doing so earned a clap on the shoulder, and a seat at Rhysand’s table. Even as the table became larger, able to accomodate more, first Feyre, then Nesta, Elain, and even fucking Lucien, the traitorous thought started to prickle Azriel. Maybe the seat at the round table wasn’t so hard to earn? Maybe he shouldn’t grind for it so much, day and night in fear of falling out of favor? It has been decades, after all. He mused, the tight feeling in his chest not easing as music poured from his earbuds, filling the space around him. He was alone in this section of the plane, which was kind of weird. Seemed a bit… too intentional. He didn’t buy a first class ticket, yet the attendants insisted on him taking this exact seat, in this cabin. They said it was to balance the weight of the plane, since many passengers cancelled at the last minute.

He shrugged the uneasiness off as the plane took off. Mere coincidence, that was all. He intended to make the most of the eleven hours he’d be spending in the air. Reading a book, maybe zoning out with his thoughts. He was just about to search where he left off in Poets of Day, Dawn and Night, when the sliding door separating him from the rest of the plane moved. Without turning his head, from the corner of his eye he saw a figure approaching languidly. Wine-red silk, a gold-threaded brocade waistcoat, a blazer sharp enough to cut, and polished oxfords flashing under the cabin lights. Not saying a word, the man dropped himself gracefully in the seat to Azriel’s left, stretching his long limbs in the process. His scent settled over them like a cloud, the first, sharp notes invading Azriel’s senses. Cinnamon bark and dried clove followed by something burnt and sweet like charred orange peel. His eyes darted around the room, counting all the empty places until it settled on the person beside him, who regarded Azriel with a knowing smirk. Azriel glanced to the right, where the small window was, providing a glimpse to the outside world, only to turn back to look at his unwanted companion, who seemed entirely too pleased with trapping Azriel between himself and the plane’s wall. All the fucking seats in the world, all the empty cabins, and he had to choose this exact one, Azriel grumbled. The man was combing his shoulder-length vivid red hair with five ring-adorned fingers, his molten amber eyes never faltering from their sole target, Azriel. The air was still in the cabin, and the smell around him changed to something less sharp. More demanding, suffocating, making him lightheaded. Warm woodsmoke laced with hints of amber resin, and beneath it all the scent of ashen incense… and something that scratched the back of the throat, coppery. Like blood. That cocky, insufferable mouth was saying something for minutes now, but it was drowned out by the pounding music in Azriel’s ears. The man seemed to catch on this, his stare narrowing in displeasure before he suddenly reached for Azriel’s head. He caught the man by the pale wrist as slender fingers pried out his earbud, nails scraping slightly the sensitive inside of Azriel’s ear.

“How rude of you,” the man clicked his tongue. 

Azriel’s stare became icier. “I can read lips. I don’t have to hear you.”

“But you didn’t answer me.”

“Because I don’t want to.”

The man’s grin widened. “This will be a lovely eleven hours.”

Irritation sizzled through Azriel in an instant.

“Can’t you sit anywhere else?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t disobey the crew’s orders,” the man replied in a saccharic, dishonest tone. “That is your designated seat,” he pointed at Azriel’s lap, then at his own. “And this is mine.”

An exasperated grunt left Azriel. Releasing the man’s wrist from his grip he snatched the earbud back. With the noise cancellation he wasn’t able to hear what the other was talking about, but it didn’t seem to dishearten the redhead. Not in the fucking slightest. There were no real exits, just one sleek sliding door at the far end of the cabin, locked and monitored from outside. No emergency hatches, no security panel within reach. No airflow either, the cabin was vacuum-sealed for luxury. The lights were low, intentional. Ambient, warm-toned, designed to calm the nervous elite, to make them feel safe. It made Azriel itch. There were four seats in total, their two armchairs sat angled slightly toward each other, upholstered in honey-brown leather, too soft to brace against. Between them, a slim mahogany table, elegant, but also bolted to the floor. The cabin was soundproof, of course, which meant no prying eyes, or witnesses. It irritated Azriel, like claws scraping him from within, to see from the periphery of his vision the man eyeing him while he casually leaned closer, his entire body invading Azriel’s personal space. And the guy was still fucking talking. For minutes now, while he had been reading the same line over and over again. He sighed, closing his book, then tapped his left earbud twice. 

“The fuck do you want?” Azriel asked suddenly, his head snapping to the left.

With a smug grin, the redhead flashed his pearl-white teeth and uncomfortably sharp canines.

“To talk to you, of course. Now that you’ve been so kind to engage.”

 The guy raised his right hand towards Azriel. He stared at the perfectly shaped, long fingers, the variety of golden rings and the neat manicure. For some reason unknown even to himself, the sight of that hand annoyed Azriel even further. Slowly, he tore his eyes to look into the twin pools of swirling, orange-gold irises.

“The fuck do you want?” He repeated, his voice dropping lower. The stranger didn’t seem to mind his menacing stare, or his darkening aura. Shadows slowly gathered around him, enveloping his figure but not hiding him completely. Their smoke-like shapeless forms swam in the air, crowding and scattering, leaving trails like black spots of smeared ink. 

The redhead reached for one darker patch, but before his fingers could touch the blackness the shadow shied away, retreating to Azriel. He scoffed internally. Were his shadows afraid of this guy, really? The man smiled, intrigued by the strange, moving darkness, his eyes shining with delight, crackling in yellowish sparks like embers popping in a dormant log. Of course, Azriel thought then, slapping himself mentally. His shadows were afraid of the man’s fire.

“I only wished to introduce myself,” the redhead said then, a strange softness coating his voice. Azriel bristled when hearing it.

“No need.”

Like he didn’t hear Azriel, the man nodded curtly. “Eris Vanserra, at your service.”

“I know who you are. So you can stop this charade.”

The redhead clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“We were never formally introduced. I already tried one time, but you walked away.”

“And what if we are introduced?” Azriel scoffed.

“Then we can finally be on a first name basis, Azriel Shadowsinger.”

A slight shiver cascaded along Azriel’s spine upon hearing his own name fall from that mouth. It carried an intention far too evident for his liking. He wanted to absorb himself in his shadows, to ignore his unwanted travel companion altogether. It was strange to him that he had already managed to spit out this many words, just to reply to Eris fucking Vanserra. Yet there was one problem with Azriel: he always wanted to uncover the reasons. He had a natural, bone-deep curiosity within himself of wanting to understand the logic and hidden patterns of the world’s occurrences. That is why he was a good spy, and also why instead of shutting him out he wished to know what the everloving fuck Eris wanted from him. That, too, was why he had boarded the flight at all, fully aware it would not unfold cleanly.

The man in question still regarded him with a scorching intensity that made Azriel’s skin itch. His fingers flexed, not wanting to give in to the urge to scratch his nape in discomfort. Maybe what Eris wanted was already written plainly enough. But also, was anything ever that easy with a Vanserra, especially the first born heir? Azriel guessed not.

“Where are you headed, Azriel?” Eris purred.

Azriel huffed a dry laugh.

“Of course, our destination is the same, if you don’t wish to jump out of the plane mid-flight.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Azriel grumbled. The answer seemed to delight his companion.

“What I meant to inquire about, is what business do you have at our final destination?”

Azriel hummed to himself. Maybe it was that easy. The Vanserras wanted to gather intel on Rhys’ plans and movements. Shame this whole trip was supposed to be about Azriel’ own research, and nothing to do with the politics of the Night. 

When no answer came, Eris continued talking.

“You know, this is already a lot more words than you said to me during our first encounter. If my memory serves me right, and it always did, on the first occasion I only managed to earn two words in total from you.”

Azriel wanted to reply with a curt fuck off, but he rather remained silent. He never could be the one to back down, but somehow staring into Eris’ eyes for too long made Azriel want to rub the back of his hands, he felt the tug of old scars on his skin, itching, stretching, as if they'd only just begun to heal. It was all in his head, Azriel berated himself. Becoming agitated, shadows rolled from behind him in thick dark waves, blackening the space around them slowly.

“Fascinating,” Eris mused, not frightened in the slightest.

A flight attendant with a strained smile and a pencil skirt slowly stepped into their cabin, her movements anxious in her magenta high heels. Her concerned gaze was flicking between him and Eris and at the growing darkness around them.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you please, ehm,” she swallowed, then put on her best customer service smile, the one she presumably used with the most problematic passengers, “reign in the darkness? It worries the other passengers and the crew.”

Eris brushed the air with a light wave of his wrist. “All good, Carla.”

Azriel shifted in discomfort, closing his eyes for a moment and focusing on his breathing. When he opened his eyes to slowly breathe out the last intake of oxygen, he noted the shadows retreated back, only a few lingering around his figure and tentatively creeping towards Eris. The redhead man was gazing at the patches of blackness with a calm, honest curiosity in his eyes.

“I always wondered,” he asked then, “do you instruct them to materialise or do they do it on their own? I assume it’s the latter, you don’t usually control them like that, do you? Is it dependent on your mood?”

Azriel eyed him for a few seconds before nodding.

“People assume you’re able to conjure them, but it’s not the case, is it? I’ve noticed they appear where shadows already are, thickening and sort of peeling from their original place.”

After a bit of silence, Azriel gave another slight nod.

“Do they fear the light? I wonder how they would react to my fire, ” Eris said, smirking as he reached with an index finger towards a lonely floating shadow. The little mass of darkness immediately shied away from his touch. “Ah, that answers, they know I have fire, don’t they?”

“They know a lot,” Azriel supplied.

“I wonder how much that is. Do they tell you all willingly, or do you have to ask very specifically in order to get the answer you want?”

Azriel snorted. “The latter.”

“Hm,” Eris dipped his head in thought. “Are they really talking to you or is it just… the voices appearing in your head like when someone enters your mind? Do we also hear it just not understand the language they speak?”

Azriel was weighing his answer. It’s not like this information was a secret per say… people just never really bothered asking him before. Besides Ryhs of course. But his brother wanted to know how his magical ability worked in order to clearly understand its limitations and liabilities. It had nothing to do with wanting to know Azriel, not really. Why was Eris asking all of this?

“Why does it interest you?”

“You have my interest.”

“Why?”

“You’re dying to know what caught my attention, aren’t you, Shadowsinger?”

Eris smiled - a slow, amused curl of his lips - as he crossed his legs with deliberate ease. He was clearly mocking him, and relishing every second of it.

The gears in Azriel’s head kept turning. Should he admit that indeed, he was curious? Or should he put up a front, pretending to be unaffected by the whole fiasco?

“Shadowsinging is an ability possessed only by Illyrians. And even within their circles it’s very rare. Currently I’m the only known person who has it. Maybe there are others, but they’re hiding it well. You’re not the first person to be interested in it, and won’t be the last,” Azriel stated coldly.

Eris gave him a contemptuous smile, the kind you give a child who needs everything explained twice, all infinite patience and no sympathy. 

“I think I said you have my interest, not your ability.”

It was so blunt, so matter-of-fact, it caught Azriel off guard.

“Why?” He could’ve punched himself for walking right into Eris’s trap.

With a single arched brow, he asked in return, “What do you think? What else could it be, if not those oh-so-menacing little shadows of yours?”

The scars on Azriel’s hands tightened and itched, but he refused to scratch them. Looking into the dormant inferno in Eris’s eyes he thought back at their first interaction.

***

Eighteen months ago

Rhys remained the picture of perfect ease as he slid one hand casually into his pocket, but the slight tilt of his head and the sharp lilac tint flashing in his deep purple eyes betrayed his sour mood. Azriel schooled his expression, unimpressed, as he remained silent and firmly rooted beside his brother. Cassian had already fucked off to Mother knows where. Or rather, Azriel glanced to the side, he knew very well where his brother went. Harassing the only woman who clearly wasn’t interested in him. The thought of Cass’ relentless pursuit almost brought a faint smile upon Azriel’s lips. His brother's attempts to coax Nesta remained an endearing testament to perseverance, albeit a fruitless one, so far.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Rhys’ voice cut through his wandering thoughts. Azriel looked his brother in the eye and nodded. All Archeron sisters were present at the party, which meant Rhys had some harassings to do on his own as well. Azriel sighed, as he aimlessly strolled through the grandiose hall. He supposed he could start pestering the middle sister instead, not that the idea brought him any real joy. During their few interactions Elain never outright refused him, she always remained polite and kind in a manner that was keeping the arm’s length distance secured between them. He had been used to this with Morrigan for the past sixty-two years, maybe this was why it hurt him all the more than a clear refusal would have. Being kept around like this had its own twisted cruelty. Azriel sighed as he picked a glass of fairy wine from the tray a bashful waiter offered him. The small bells attached to youth’s silver hairpiece jiggled playfully as he bowed his head towards Azriel, before scurrying away. How strange it was to see fae, even if lower class, to bow their heads to an Illyrian bastard like him. There was a time once when it flattered him, yet as the years went on and he reached past seventy-five, it became all the more dull, these meaningless forms of acknowledgment.

He weaved his way through the crowds gathered in the Winter Court’s grand hall, the hundreds of lanterns igniting the path before him. Their rosy-orange light danced on the never-melting icicles and droplet-shaped crystal garlands that hung from the ceiling, and shone through the meticulously carved ice statues of creatures that scattered along the spacious room. Azriel lost himself gazing into a translucent body of a wolf, in the arches of the lines that shaped its fur, the way its glossy surface shifted from pale blue to yellow and purple as the light refracted on it. Until a faint, tingling sensation crept up his spine. He carefully, slowly looked around behind him. Yet he couldn’t find the source of this feeling. Something unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place what exactly. He was surrounded by people, who all occasionally took distrusting glances in his direction, although that wasn’t it. Azriel couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched. Of being intensely stared at. It happened from time to time, during gatherings like this, but today he refused to shrink from it.

Who is it? Azriel asked, but his shadows remained unhelpful, cryptid little bastards. 

Embers stir where stillness sleeps,

and fire walks on silent feet - they replied.

Azriel scoffed, the mention of fires usually meant danger, given Azriel’s personal fear since childhood, yet this warning wasn’t anything specific. His shadows kept whispering into his ears in their usual, twisted, metaphorical ways. He tried to filter out the useful bits to tell Rhys later. Yet the more he tried to be present, the more he felt his head slipping underwater in the muddy depths of his own mind. Azriel felt the world slowly fading away from his vision, the lines washing together, the colors blurring into amorphous shapes. The golden lights of the hundreds of orange lanterns kept flickering, their light buzzing and unsteady as if anticipating something. And then he felt it again. That pricking sensation at his nape, the unmistakable sign of being stared at, intensely. An irritated sigh left him as he made his way to the grand terrace. He slipped through the open, colourful glass doors, passing the barrier that kept in the warmth and was greeted with the freezing onslaught of cold winter. With his hands resting on the railing, he breathed in a lungful of crisp night air. The only guests that dared to be out in the open were standing far away, buried underneath their thick fur coats. Azriel relished in the numbness that cascaded up his bare arms, making the hairs stand on end as he reached into his pocket for a lighter.

A cigarette already in his mouth, he clicked the lighter repeatedly without result. With an angry grunt he almost threw the thing off the cliff. But then sudden warmth sprung to life beside him. A small ball of fire sizzled playfully between slender fingers, its light catching and glimmering on the many golden rings that adorned the hand casting it. Azriel was taken completely off guard. How did he not hear the man approach? Why didn’t his shadows alert him? The man raised the flame slowly until it reached Azriel’s cigarette, igniting its end with a satisfying hiss. Through the faint smoke Azriel could see the sharp features coated in yellow-orange glow, the pale, high cheekbones, the arched, slim brows, and the full lips stretching into a cocky smirk. There was something undeniably captivating in the man, in his perfectly crafted features and almost-glowing vivid red hair, carrying that effortless, otherworldly beauty only High Fae possessed. But those eyes, — Azriel shivered just looking into them, suddenly being made aware of the cold of the night surrounding the two of them. Those irises swirling like bright magma made the man an equal amount dangerous. Azriel let out a puff of smoke and even though the soft grey cloud hid the man from his vision for a moment, he could still clearly see the sharp light shining from those yellow pits.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Azriel stayed silent as this poem rushed to the forefront of his mind. Why that one, and why now? The redhead lowered his hand, the flame snuffing out just as quickly as he conjured it. 

“No thanks?” he asked with a disapproving click of his tongue.

Azriel chuckled. “Fuck off,” he said, turning away to face the depths of the abyss below the railings. From the periphery of his vision he could see that insufferable smile of his unwanted companion grew even more daring and sly.

The man raised the glass in his hand and knocked it lightly against Azriel’s, which was placed beside him on top of the stone railing. With the mocking attempt at a toast, the redhead said “Cheers,” before he downed his wine. Without a word Azriel flicked his index finger, tossing the glass over the edge and sending it diving into the mountainside beneath.

The smirk on the stranger’s face blossomed into a full grin.

“What an absolute pleasure your company is.” It was the most saccharine, dishonest tone Azriel had heard in a long time. However, despite his words, the man did not leave Azriel be.

“A lot of brooding can be done in a quiet, remote spot like this, you know,” the stranger said, moving closer. “If one had the chance to enjoy their solitude uninterrupted.”

Azriel sighed, his puff of breath leaving a smoky cloud that circled up in the air in front of him. He could feel the warmth radiating from the man beside him, making the hairs on his arm stand on end.

He finished his cigarette, pressing it out on the railing before turning to face his companion. Those magma-like, shining irises were gazing at him expectantly as the redhead cocked his head slightly to the side, assessing Azriel with confidence and dashing arrogance. Without even a shift in his stoic face, Azriel dropped the cigarette butt in the other’s wine glass, turned on his heel and left, wordless. 

***

“Just spit it out already, Eris. What do you want?” Third time’s a charm, as they say.

“See? We’re on a first-name basis. Was it really that hard?” Eris asked with a smirk playing on his lips. After a beat, he continued. “What do I want? To get to know you, of course.”

“Why?” Azriel already dreaded the answer.

“Do try to keep up, Azriel — I did say it already.”

Azriel shut his eyes for a second, cringing. The words echoed in his mind, you have my interest. It was a leap of logic, and a very brave one at that. Yet Azriel guessed, nothing could make this situation more uncomfortable for himself in the next eleven hours.

“You just want to fuck me. No need to sugarcoat it.”

“That is entirely true, and I won’t deny my intentions. Thank you for picking up on the subtle clues I’ve been giving you.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, scoffing. Subtle, my arse. Somehow it was all too strange, hearing Eris admit it so casually, so easily. Without second thoughts or shame-fuelled doubts. Even as an Illyrian Azriel would’ve been far below Eris by birthright, not to mention him being a bastard not even Illyrians accepted fully and willingly. Was the sexual offer just a cover for something? Was Eris truly desperate enough to stoop to this? Azriel studied his companion but he could read nothing from those perfectly controlled features. He needed to engage the man if he wished to know more. As he glanced out of the plane’s small, oval-shaped window, Azriel became sure of one thing: this might be the stupidest, most reckless idea he’d had in his life. And Mother knows, he had his fair share of stupid and risky in the seventy-five years he spent on this planet so far.

“It’s not like mind-reading, the way they talk,” he explained, as he slowly put his earbuds back in their case. “I actually hear them. You have to speak their language and understand their intent. They tend to speak in… metaphors, so to say. It’s called shadowsinging, but I don’t actually sing to them. Talking is enough.”

[2]

Azriel Shadowsinger had no right to be this attractive, and to be so bloody oblivious to it. Eris remembered the thought vividly as it formed in his mind, while he stood beside the stone railing, leisurely tossing his empty glass with a single cigarette butt inside, into the abyss below the cliffside terrace. Just moments ago, when he’d lit that cigarette, he’d seen surprise flash across the stranger’s stoic face. Slightly widened eyes, pupils dilated, focusing solely on the sparks of flame igniting at Eris’ fingertips. And just as quickly as the fire vanished, the emotions on the man's face disappeared, replaced by that ever-neutral, uncaring calm. Oh, to get a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface — Eris Vanserra was in love. In love with the daring challenge, with the impossible task of peeling away that cold, indifferent mask.

“So no singing required?” Eris asked.

“Not at all.”

“Why is it called shadowsinging then?”

Azriel shrugged. “They talk in short, rhyming sentences. In the old days, poems were meant to be sung, not recited. So they called it ‘singing’ — that’s how the shadows communicated.”

“And the title remained because 'shadowtalker' just sounds unbearably dull.”

Eris could see a half-smile tugging at the corner of Azriel’s mouth, before the man scolded his expression. They were on a good track, Eris concluded. Ten and a half hours left, more than enough time to wear Azriel’s defenses down. Oh this was the best idea he had in the recent decade. 

“What were you reading?” He leaned in, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the book clutched in Azriel’s hands. Azriel let out a tired sigh. He put the book up, pushing its black and gold cover directly into Eris’ face. The autumn heir caught his wrist with a light, yet unyielding grip, keeping Azriel’s hand suspended midair as Eris cocked his head to the side, peeking from behind the thin volume.

“Who would've guessed,” the redhead chuckled softly. Azriel twisted his hand free, Eris’ nails scratching his skin in the process, goosebumps visibly rising in their wake.

“Make another move.” Azriel whispered, his voice low, shadows trembling behind him in anticipation.

“Fascinating.” Eris replied as he dragged his fingertips over his bottom lip. “You manage to say so little, and yet somehow make it sound like a proper threat.”

“You know what I do for a living.”

“Being Rhysand’s lapdog? Yes, unfortunately, I’m acutely aware.”

The blackness swirled around them, rolling in thicker and thicker waves, and Eris flicked them away with the same dismissive disdain one would reserve for an annoying fly. “Pesky little things, hush, go back. You’re frightening the crew.”

The shadows shuddered in the air at his words. Eris impatiently clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Disobey again, and I’ll conjure fire. I guarantee that will frighten the crew.”

He could see the surprise flashing in Azriel’s eyes for a moment, as he noted his shadows retreating once again.

“Cowards,” the Illyrian murmured, before turning his attention back to Eris. “How are you even allowed on a plane? Aren’t you… a liability?”

“Oh, my dear, I am.” Eris grinned at him wickedly. “Good thing I own the whole damn thing.”

“Right” Azriel grumbled.

“If you’re dreading to be in my company, why did you choose VerraJet to travel with?” Eris asked with an amused smile.

“Could you imagine, all other options were fully booked,” Azriel replied in a dry tone.

Eris smirked. “How unfortunate.”

Azriel glanced around at the completely empty part of the plane, besides the two of them. He shook his head in disbelief. All that influence and power.

“You bought out the first class,” he stated cooly. 

Eris gave him a sly half-smile. “Not bought. Own. There’s a difference.”

“You rigged the seating chart.”

“My dear, we don’t rig — we curate.”

Azriel tapped on the cover of his book. “The land produces the goods. The sky delivers the power.”

Eris groaned. “Don’t quote my father at me like that. The bastard’s over three hundred and still refuses to kick the bucket.”

At Eris’s loud declaration, Azriel glanced around, brows drawn together in suspicion.

The redhead scoffed. “Do you really think I’d be foolish enough not to staff my own crew today? No one reports back to Beron what happened today.”

Azriel shot him a truly murderous look.

“I’m not going to fuck you in the restroom.”

Eris let out a delighted laugh.

“Oh, so it’s just the location that’s the problem?”

He could practically see the calculations spinning behind Azriel’s eyes as they darted from window-to-window, how much damage it would take to abort this plane at thirty-nine thousand feet, going nine hundred kilometers an hour, and would that be worth the risk.

“If you left now, you’d freeze to death before you even had the chance to die from the impact to the ground,” Eris supplied gleefully. Azriel closed his eyes with a groan, head falling back into the seat. The redhead chuckled softly as he slipped the book from Azriel’s limp grasp.

“Oh, poets of the solar courts, who would’ve thought.” He tapped on the panel built in the armrest with his free hand without glancing up from the book, and Carla slid through the sliding panel shyly.

“Bring out one of the reds I had loaded. Tell Raphaël to surprise me. Ah — and a second glass, there’s a dear.”

He glanced at Azriel, who regarded him warily through squinted eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to spike your drink, Shadowsinger. What a waste that would be. I’m also not going to fuck you or the crew on my plane. It’s not Calanmai, and I have standards.”

Azriel’s tone was dry as bone. “Yeah. It rather feels like 365 days.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only eleven hours and ten minutes in total.” 

Azriel genuinely seemed taken aback by his reply.

“Nevermind,” he sighed.

A tall, elegantly dressed young man appeared beside them, wearing an expensive looking white shirt with a chestnut waistcoat, form-fitting black trousers and a cute black bowtie. Unlike his associate Carla, he strolled forward in calm and measured steps, pushing a small cart in front of him. Eris glanced at the equipment, the thick white cloths, and the array of bottles nestled in metal baskets surrounded by cubes of ice, all in precise order as always. Raphaël was truly a wonderful sommelier, however the boy had one small fault as a thorn in Eris’ eyes.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Vanserra. Souhaitez-vous que je vous recommande quelque chose de spécial ce soir?” Good evening, Monsieur Vanserra. Would you like me to recommend something special for you this evening? Raphaël smiled brightly, flashing his pearly set of teeth. His long dark hair was tied to a bun at the back of his head as usual, and tonight he was wearing his gold eyeliner and highlighter, which complimented his bronze skin tone so well.  

“Je vous en prie, Raphaël.” Please do, Eris replied. “Mais choisissez avec plus de courage que la dernière fois — j’ai besoin d’un vin, pas d’une eau parfumée.” But choose with more courage than last time. I need wine, not scented water.

The boy glanced up at him from lowered lashes, and for a moment, Eris Vanserra felt decades older than he looked.

“Je ferai de mon mieux, Monsieur. Peut-être quelque chose avec un peu plus de... caractère, cette fois.” I’ll do my best, Monsieur. Perhaps something with a bit more… character this time. “Puis-je vous servir à votre convenance, ou préférez-vous attendre Monsieur le…?” Shall I serve you at your convenience, or would you prefer to wait for Monsieur the…? — the end of the sentence hung between them in the air.

Azriel cleared his throat beside him. “Appelez-moi Azriel.” Call me Azriel, he said in a soft, calm voice.

“Bien sûr, M—Azriel.” Raphaël stammered. Eris settled his elbow against the armrest and hid a smile behind his palm.

“Quelle autre surprise me caches-tu, Shadowsinger?” What else are you hiding from me, Shadowsinger? he asked with his head cocked to the side.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy,” Azriel answered dryly.

The young sommelier almost never got flustered, and that was precisely why Eris had hired him. He appreciated the bold confidence, the playful tease hidden in the youth’s words, meanwhile he always remained aware and respectful towards the social distance between them. If only he hadn’t called Raphaël mon cher so easily. All that endearing teasing, and what had it amounted to? Eris watched his employee pour the wine while he explained its origins and methods of preparation. All the while his gaze remained on Eris, containing that hopeful kind of longing only seen in someone his age. Eris swirled the wine in his glass and let the faint smells guide him through the orchards he trod through as a child. The first inhale carried the weight of dried black cherries and crushed walnut shells, followed by the smokiness of aged oak and the faintest trace of burnt sugar. Beneath it, darker tones stirred, hints of black truffle, wet forest soil, and a whisper of old leather. On the tail end, it left a curl of tobacco and something sharp, like the memory of fire once lit and long extinguished. When the liquid touched his lips, it tasted like a secret that aged well and refused to fade. 

“Formidable,” Eris sighed, a quiet, pleased sound. He turned to his companion with an expectant look.

“Not bad,” Azriel shrugged.

Eris looked genuinely offended. “I might have… overestimated the prize I was wagering tonight.” A flicker of anger crossed Azriel’s face at the words. Eris raised his glass with a shit-eating grin. “Should’ve known better than to bet on a horse that doesn't run.”

“I swear I’ll jump out of this plane mid-flight, and drag you with me.”

“Is that finally a date?”

Azriel’s mouth flattened. He sipped his wine, staring after Raphaël’s retreating cart.

“There’s a Hungarian legend from 1456. A valiant soldier who, in a final act of defiance, seized the Ottoman janissary by the waist and hurled both of them into the abyss below the castle walls, just before the man could raise the crescent and wolf flag. He died for it. I never understood the sentiment... until today.”

Eris smirked. “That was the most I’ve ever heard you speak.”

“It was at your expense.”

“Oh, I can work with that,” Eris winked. He tasted the wine again, releasing a contented sigh. “Shame to waste this Autumn ’72 on you. A good year for grapes, a terrible one for my father’s conscience.”

Azriel let out a dry huff that might’ve been a laugh. Eris arched a brow at him, the unspoken question plain on his face.

“You never said anything about not fucking your crew… elsewhere.”

Eris’s face shifted, confusion giving way to realization, and then, unmistakably, to disgust.

“Don’t be crude. He’s far too young for me.”

“Would that stop you?” Azriel asked, his tone rather curious than judgemental.

“Of course. Contrary to popular belief, not every old, wealthy man lusts after someone a quarter his age.”

“You only refuse him due to his age. But you have no problem with him being your employee.”

“Everyone I fucked was beneath me in one way or another,” Eris said evenly.

Faster than Azriel anticipated, Eris’s hand shot out and seized his wrist. “Please,” he bit out. “You may try throwing wine in my face — just not this one.”

“I wasn’t,” Azriel said, a trace of genuine amusement in his voice. “Thought about it… but I wasn’t. How did you even —”

“I grew up with six younger brothers,” Eris said, releasing Azriel’s hand with a dismissive flick. “I know exactly when someone wants to throw something in my face.”

“And that never stopped you from saying things that deserved it.”

Eris flashed his canines in a sharp smile. “Never.”

A tentative silence hung between them for a few seconds, until the Vanserra heir broke it.

“I’ll have to fire him one day,” Eris sighed, weary, taking another sip of his wine. “But he’s such a great sommelier…”

“It’s… good.”

“Seriously, what is wrong with you?” Eris groaned in frustration. “Were your taste buds burnt with your hands, as well?”

That sentence earned him another lethal look. Azriel’s features took a full five seconds to relax. And yet, the minutes dragged, stretched taut between them. The Illyrian was splashing the red liquid in its glass, gazing at it in the light of the lamp turned on above their heads. “What are you even tasting in it?”

Eris smacked his lips. “It’s bold at first, black cherry, a hint of oak. Then it gets darker. Earthier. Truffle, tobacco, old wood. And just when you think it’s done, there’s a trace of smoke. Not the cheap kind though. But the kind you find clinging to silk after a fire. Most people would describe it as rich.”

Azriel hummed, lowering his glass and intently staring into its red contents. “It’s definitely grapes, not cherry. Yes, earthy, but not in a dirt kind of way. And the wood, maybe, with something sweet, for sure.”

Eris blinked, thrown. “You’re not getting any more of this.”

“My tastebuds are completely fine,” Azriel groaned.

“Then you simply lack the words to describe it. Crude.”

Azriel breathed a wary sigh. “I know the words, you pompous ass. I just can’t taste what you’re talking about.”

“Isn’t your sense of taste heightened?” Eris asked then, honestly surprised by this conclusion.

“It is… but not on this level?” Azriel shrugged. “It was never tested. I never went to wine tastings without getting drunk in the end.”

Eris visibly bristled. “Don’t tempt me to re-enact your Hungarian legend. I can definitely share the sentiment.”

The insult brushed off of him, as Azriel seemed to be deep in thought for a moment. Eris cocked his head to the side, assessing the man beside him.

“You never had the chance to figure this out with your dearest Rhysand in the last, what… sixty, seventy years?”

“Sixty-four,” Azriel replied impassively. “It never occurred.”

Eris hummed then. “Don’t envy me though.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of the wine, letting it spread over his tongue before swallowing it. “This gift is also a burden. Imagine tasting with this accuracy every cock that has been inside my mouth.”

To his greatest amusement, a soft chuckle left Azriel.

***

Three months ago

It was rather strange that over half a century had passed in Eris Vanserra’s life, yet he’d never once been introduced to Azriel. The half-Illyrian bastard was Rhysand’s precious right-hand man, master spy and prized special agent. In the old days, they would’ve called him a torture master… but that does little for a Court’s PR these days. It was at the Winter Court’s ball, the one held every five years, once Vivianne wore Kalias down enough to open their grand halls to irritating heirs and overambitious politicians, that Eris finally got close enough to set eyes on the infamous Shadowsinger. Strange indeed, when he really thought about it. It seemed too deliberate, too planned, as if the man avoided him on purpose during all these decades. How could it be that in fifty-six years of Rhysand’s reign, he’d never once crossed paths with the spymaster, not even at the endless events Rhys had dragged him to? Eris had seen plenty of the other brute, Cassian, not that he’d wished for it, truly. If Azriel had truly been keeping his distance deliberately, well, that wouldn’t do. Not for Eris Vanserra. Oh no, this was about to change, the Vanserra heir thought, a flicker of newfound enthusiasm simmering beneath the surface. And in hindsight... oh, did it change. Spectacularly.

“My, my, little Lucien,” Eris purred as he stood next to his youngest sibling. His brother glanced up, his good eye wary and already exhausted. Eris watched his mood sour at the mere sight of him, and that pleased him like nothing else this evening so far.

“Eris,” Lucien pressed out, somewhere between a hiss and a groan.

“Don’t be so unwelcoming, brother,” Eris chided. “We’ve been seeing rather a lot of each other lately, haven’t we?”

“Makes me long for the years when it wasn’t so.”

“Well, living with a barbaric recluse who enjoys being a beast, in both manner and appearance, surely has its… perks. No need to attend gatherings like this, for example.”

Lucien scratched the pointed tip of his ear.

“Just tell me what you want — and kindly fuck off.”

“Is that really the tone you’re using with me? My, my, you’ve truly lost what little diplomatic charm you had.”

Lucien gave him a half-smile.

“Looks like all the charm in our bloodline is carried on our father’s half.”

The grin froze on Eris’ face. “Sly little fox.”

“Funny how I get to be called a fox, meanwhile… you just remain a snake.”

Eris sipped his wine, tone airy. “Reptiles get an undeserved bad reputation.”

“Strange, you didn’t sound so forgiving when it was the twins you called snakes.”

Lucien drowned his glass in one go.

“Say what you came to say. I don’t wish to remain in your presence more than necessary, Eris.”

“Such undeserved hostility.”

Lucien’s tone sharpened. “You chased me and Feyre through the forest with your bloody hounds.”

“My hounds are well-behaved.” Eris replied, genuinely unbothered. “It was your fault for walking through lands you’ve been banned from for seventeen years.”

Lucien seethed quietly. “Fifteen. Back then.”

Eris swirled his wine, shrugging.

“Who counts.”

A beat of silence passed between them before Eris leaned in slightly, voice velvety.

“You don’t seem to be here for Rhysand’s exceptional catering. Or Kalias’s thrilling small talk.” His eyes darted around the grand hall, settling on a young woman’s small frame, wrapped in a layered, pale lilac dress.

Lucien’s jaw clenched.

“Don’t start.”

“I haven’t even said her name.”

“No need.”

Eris tilted his head, enjoying every crack in his brother’s composure.

“Such a heroic pursuit you’ve chosen for yourself. I think she’s the only one in the room who hasn't realised your intentions. Well, knowing women, maybe that is entirely on purpose, little brother.”

Lucien’s lips thinned to a sharp line.

“Funny new world we live in, where I get to be lectured on women by you.”

“I’m on perfectly good terms with the fairer gender.”

Lucien scoffed. “I’m sure Feyre would like to hear that statement.”

“It was two years ago.” Eris flicked his hand dismissively. “Holding grudges is bad for the skin, Lucien, haven’t you heard? Anyways, it’s not like I meant you real harm.”

“You tried to burn us!”

“Which clearly didn’t work on either of you. Fire-wielders.”

Lucien was baffled. “You couldn’t possibly know she was able to wield fire!”

“I suspected.” Eris smiled wolfishly. “Still, I needed to be sure. It’s not like any of her lovers were cooperative enough to share this bit of information with us. Fae transformed by the Cauldron in this day and age… truly spectacular.”

“So this is why you’re here?”

“To harass the Archeron sisters? Please. I’ll leave that honour to you and the Illyrian bastards.”

Eris could see the last straw in Lucien’s patience was close to snapping.

“And what are you here for, hm? Don’t tell me you came for the conversation.”

“Diplomacy, naturally. To congratulate Feyre on being the first High Lady in Prythian’s history. I’m the heir of Autumn. I attend when it matters.”

Lucien raised a brow. “And the other reason?”

Eris met his gaze without blinking.

“I’ll let you know later.”

Lucien’s face tightened, his metallic eye twitching in irritation.

“You’re impossible.”

Eris raised his glass in mock salute.

“And yet, somehow, always invited.”

“You know,” Lucien shifted to face him fully then, pointing at his left eye, “I don’t need this to see through your schemes, Eris.” He turned on his heel without another word, stalking off into the crowd.

Eris watched his brother’s retreating back, and murmured under his breath. “Seventeen.”

The year when the twins died, Lucien had only been seventeen.

His gaze swept through the crowd indifferently, yet anticipation was brimming beneath his neatly curated exterior. The object of Eris’s pursuit still hadn’t made an appearance. He spotted the other brute easily. Cassian towered above the eldest Archeron sister, yet somehow, Nesta still managed to look down on him, as they exchanged some heated back and forth. Eris’ lips curled at the sight, he definitely wanted to chat a bit today with Nesta. If one Illyrian brute was here, then Rhysand’s cherished hound couldn’t be far. But where? As if guided by some subconscious instinct, Eris closed his eyes and tried to quiet the ever-loud voices inside his head. He calmed his breathing, paying attention to the sounds under the loud talking, harsh laughs, clinking glasses and high heels. He was searching for something… subtle yet present. A soft murmur of sorts, a whisper which can be heard but cannot be understood. He allowed himself to be led, drawn by an invisible cord towards a side room. 

It was pitch black inside, and at a first glance completely empty. Yet he was able to hear that faint murmuring sound, like waves washing over a rocky shore. He stepped closer to the wall where the sound was the strongest, raised his right hand slowly. Fire sizzled to life between his fingertips, and in the light cast by the crackling orange flames a figure appeared next to the wall, just two feet away from Eris. It seemed impossible that Eris couldn’t hear or smell him even now, but there he was, obscured by the darkness that poured and pulsated around him. The man was utterly still as a statue, undeniable shock shining in his dilated pupils, so in contrast with his otherwise impassive face.

“Gotcha” Eris breathed, breaking the still.

The heir watched as the black mass gathered rapidly and swallowed the man wholly. The place where he stood was empty in a blink. He turned, fire burning brighter in his palm, shedding light into every corner and crevice, yet there was no sight of Azriel. 

“Please don’t burn my home down,” a soft voice said behind him. Eris turned sharply. Occupied by the search he didn’t notice as someone approached the door he came through. The woman leaned over the door frame with her arms folded over her chest. He smiled thinly and let the flames die, faint smoke lingering around him as he stepped closer to her.

“High Lady of the Night Court,” he greeted her, with a short nod of his head. Definitely not a proper bow, and Feyre noted that as her gaze narrowed on him.

“Eris Vanserra,” she spat the name, like an accusation.

“Yours truly. In the flesh.”

“What were you doing?”

“Oh, nothing really... just trying to smoke out a pest. You’ll be welcome later.” Eris flashed his canines in a smile as he passed by her through the threshold. He strolled through the corridors, back to the grand hall. Quite an interesting discovery. He now knew how to find the brooding little bastard — and he had just the right idea how to do it without fire.

[3]

Azriel thought he was losing his mind. He laughed, out loud, and on a joke Eris fucking Vanserra had said. That was surely the end of it all. Curiosity killed the cat, Azriel reminded himself warily. Yet there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide, not even behind his shadows, since the staff had made it clear they frightened them. Gods, he loved flying, and fucking hated airline policies. He knew he was playing into Eris’s games by engaging, but trapped as he was for the next ten-or-so hours, what choice did he really have? There was, of course, the option of physically overpowering Eris, not that it had worked well for him last time. His palms itched at the thought of pressing against the heir’s larynx again. He shifted, a blistering thrill battling with stomach-churning discomfort inside him. It was rare for someone raised under Illyrian traditions to wish to avoid physical violence, but Azriel wanted nothing more than to keep as much distance between himself and Eris as the seat would allow. 

He took another sip of the vintage wine, still not finding those cherry notes Eris was talking about. How would old wood and smoke even taste like?

“You said ‘72 was a bad year for your father’s conscience. Why?” he asked off-handledly.

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, Master Spy of the Night Court.”

Azriel stayed silent for a moment before speaking again. “You must mean the only century you’ve lived where the year ’72 applies — so, 1972. That’s the year Autumn made the trade deal with Day Court. It was rushed, yes, but legal. Autumn’s influence grew significantly. A strategic win for Beron. I don’t see why that would trouble his conscience.”

There was that smile again, slow, deliberate, and far too self-assured. His radiant eyes sparked with something Azriel hadn’t learned to name yet, but it made his skin prickle.

“While everyone toasted the new trade deal, I saw him staring at his ledger in silence. Very few knew there had been another offer, from Dawn. It would’ve brought in double the revenue, maybe more. But my father had to face something about himself when he signed those papers with Helion. He wasn’t a brilliant tactician, not really. Just a petty, vindictive man. He didn’t choose what was best, he chose what would hurt the most. It wasn’t strategy, oh no, it was retribution. He wanted to take something that belonged to Helion only because Helion dared to take something that was his.”

“That part wasn’t in the files.”

“Nothing tragic. Just one of those filthy, uncomfortable truths you’d rather keep hidden in the wine cellar.”

There was something in Eris’ voice as he said the last two words, a casualness that rang hollow, forced. Azriel took another sip, thoughtful, filing it away before swallowing.

“You know what? It does taste better knowing this.”

“Maybe you’re not hopeless after all.”

Azriel’s stare narrowed on his companion. “I still might pour it in your face, though.”

“Then let me bring you a Pinot Noir. Easier to wash out of silk.”

Azriel’s eyes roamed over Eris, taking in his clothing for the first time since he sat down. All that gold, the rings that kept clinking as they brushed against the wine glass, the earrings that moved like a wind chime when he cocked his head to the side, it all distracted him. 

A wine-red silk shirt lay smooth against his frame, over it a brocade waistcoat glimmering faintly with gold thread, topped by a blazer cut sharp enough to rule out accident. The ensemble fastened high at the waist, trousers tailored razor-slim, polished oxfords gleaming under the cabin lights. It should’ve been too much, three immaculate layers on a long-haul flight. And yet, on Eris, it felt just right. He wore every item so naturally, it was screaming wealth without being gaudy. Maybe that was his true High Fae gift: not conjuring fire, but making decadence look effortless.

“No questions? No Autumn secrets to pry out of me?” Eris smirked at him after a minute of silence.

Azriel let out a soft sigh. “I’m off duty, leave me be.”

“Oh, is that really the case? Rhysand’s heart softened after marriage, and now even his most valuable bloodhound gets time off?”

Azriel stared into the distance for a beat. “Bring me that Pinot Noir.”

“As you wish.” Without looking, Eris reached for the panel beside him and summoned the sommelier. They started talking in French again, and Azriel noted the way Eris subtly brushed the boy off just with nothing but perfectly chosen verbs and polished detachment. It would’ve made perfect sense in their confidential relationship, yet the youngling was never once called mon cher by Eris. Maybe he was true to his words. Azriel found some comfort in the thought that VerraJet wasn’t the Autumn Court’s version of the Epstein Line. Who would’ve guessed even Eris Vanserra had morals? Some, at least.

Azriel insisted on finishing his glass before even touching the wines Eris deemed acceptable for him to try. Wines, plural. Raphael packed the small table between them with a selection of reds and a meticulously arranged board of soft and hard cheeses, candied walnuts, honey-glazed figs, slivers of rye bread, and a small pyramid of black grapes dusted in gold. Of course, even the fucking grapes were dusted in gold, Azriel rolled his eyes internally.

“If you have a ‘summon the sommelier’ option,” Azriel asked, gesturing toward the panel beside Eris, “why call the attendant earlier?”

The redhead smirked. “I enjoy watching her squirm. I made a bet with Sevrin on when she’d finally quit. I suspect this flight will be her last in my company.”

“Because I’m here?” Azriel asked, irritation seeping into his tone. Shadows pooled under the table, creeping forward between their legs.

“That was also a contributing factor.” Eris shrugged, kicking his feet at the darkness and chuckling softly as it coiled around his exposed ankle. He tilted his head. “They’re ticklish,” he added, then looked back at Azriel. “Though I’d be sad to see her go. She always held her nerve around me — rare these days. Hard to find staff who fear me more than my father.”

“You’re an irritating menace,” Azriel said, biting into a soft square of cheese, “not the frightening kind.”

Eris grinned.

“What a compliment, that I appear kinder than Beron.”

“It was a close contest.”

“You sound like my brother.”

“Which one? You still have four alive.”

“The one that talks the most to me.” He popped a walnut in his mouth. “Willingly.”

“Two escaped even to the grave.”

Eris snorted. “You’re not getting under my skin with that. I hold no grudge against Tamlin for that incident anymore. They should have known better.” He waved the grape stem for emphasis. “If they bested him, they’d still be alive.”

“You think you could take Tamlin?”

“Yes, but only in a fight.” Eris winked. “I wouldn’t be foolish enough to try if I wasn’t sure of myself. And my situation.”

“But that was the problem, wasn’t it?” Azriel asked, nibbling on a piece of crisp flatbread. Okay, the catering was truly excellent. If he had to suffer through this flight in Eris’s presence, he might as well enjoy the food.

The heir of Autumn sighed, tired and unimpressed. 

“It’s not easy to take down a High Lord on his own territory. In both combat and fire-wielding skills, those two were mediocre at best. It was an ignorant, witless idea to even think of challenging Tamlin.” He leaned back slightly, biting into a fig. “They deserved what they got. I was with them, you know. I just didn’t cross the border that day. And look at me — alive and well.”

“You never felt guilty for it?”

“For not saving them? They wouldn’t have done the same for me. So no.”

“You really hold no grudge against Tamlin?” Azriel asked, suspicion lacing his voice.

“The only grudge I hold against Tamlin,” Eris said, rolling a grape between his fingers, “is for not inviting me to that ridiculous wedding. I’d have loved to watch Feyre run off and leave the twat at the altar.”

“I never took you for the forgiving type.”

“Forgiving and forgetting aren’t the same thing.”

“Somehow I get the feeling you’re using them interchangeably.”

“I may not look a day over thirty-five,” Eris said, pointing a piece of flatbread at Azriel’s chest, “but I haven’t lived a hundred and five years for nothing. Revenge is a double-edged sword. A grudge can consume you — the more you cling to it, the more power you give the one you loathe. Power, in the form of control. The more it seeps in, the more they own your mind. And only the weak let themselves be controlled.”

Azriel stared into the middle distance, letting the patronizing little lecture wash over him.

“It’d be easier to accept the truth in your words if you didn’t sound like such a condescending ass.”

“That’s just the packaging, dear.”

Azriel shot him a flat look. “Your kind is all about packaging.”

A sharp laugh escaped Eris. “Touché.” He reached for his next glass of red, murmuring a quiet praise after the first sip.

“Look,” he turned slightly in his seat, chin resting in his palm as he propped one elbow on the armrest. “I’ll give you the ultimate testament to what I just said.”

Azriel went still, the kind of rigidness that came right before a fight. His spine straightened, cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

“Even Morrigan realised this. She let the past go.”

Azriel’s eyes widened slightly.

Eris smiled languidly. “You didn’t know.” His posture remained relaxed, all effortless elegance, but the molten-gold of his irises crackled with amber sparks.

Azriel’s nails curled into his knees on instinct.

***

Three months ago

Azriel watched as those bright yellow eyes flicked around the shadowed room, only to unmistakably settle on him. He held his breath as the fireling began to close the distance, each movement cautious yet deliberate. And when Eris lifted his hand, light bloomed to life at his fingertips, searing and binding.

Azriel shadow-walked through the halls in a restless, agitated rhythm. His shirt clung damply to his back as he leapt from alcove to corridor, checking if Eris was following… or simply testing how far he could drive him. His lungs strained, breath short and ragged as he hissed to his shadows for answers. How did he find me?!

He didn’t want to admit it. But the shadows had warned him already. Embers stir where stillness sleeps. And fire walks on silent feet. Minutes bled together as he lingered in hidden corners, the pressure inside his skull building to a throb. His throat was dry, glimmering spots danced before his eyes. No one had ever found him like this before. Not even Rhys. A pulse of heat spread across his knuckles, and with a growl of frustration he tore off his gloves, flinging them into a corner. His shadows pressed tighter to him, their whispers rising into overlapping chants:

“The flame recalls what flesh lets fade —

stirs the ash where pain once laid.”

Phantom fire crawled across his fingers. His scars tightened and burned with vicious ache. He was seconds away from vanishing altogether, slipping out of the palace without even a half-hearted excuse, when a familiar heat licked across his senses. That gaze again. That blistering, golden blaze. Tyger Tyger, burning bright. 

Something sharp tore through him — like a moth impaled on a pin, fixed in place beneath amber eyes. Helpless, Azriel watched as Eris sauntered through the ballroom with infuriating grace... and stopped just a foot away from Morrigan.

Azriel lurked closer, concealed between heavy velvet curtains, every muscle drawn tight with restraint. He watched the scene unfold, tension coiled in every fibre of him, poised just a breath away from attack. The heat built over his hands, his skin straining, scars scalding, as he waited for the smallest sign. The slightest misstep. Any reason.

“Morrigan,” Eris rolled the r’s, like a purr.

Her spine snapped straight. She turned slowly, casting a scornful look over her shoulder. “Eris,” she hissed, her voice tired.

“Lovely to see you here,” he smiled, all vulturous intent, his gaze skimming her frame. She wore one of her signature dresses, a shade brighter than the wine in her hand. It reached her ankles, but the plunging neckline and high slit left very little to the imagination. Thin gold chains looped around her left thigh, waist, and chest in intricate patterns, as dazzling as they were deliberate. She was, as always, stunning. Sensual. Irresistibly poised. And yet, Eris gave her body the briefest glance, then fixed a flat, unimpressed stare on her face.

“Shouldn’t I receive at least some semblance of civility? As Rhys’s second in command, aren’t you supposed to entertain your esteemed guests tonight?”

Her lips formed a thin, crimson line. 

“No need for that. You still like to hear yourself talk, Eris.”

“Some things don’t change,” he shrugged. “You still dress like a slut.”

He leapt.

Shadows gathered like a storm, a thick cloud, and from them Azriel shot forward, soundless. A mass of darkness, a breath of cold night sky, he appeared between them, slamming into Eris, and tackling him to the ground in one swift movement. The heir’s eyes flared wide as he let himself be hurled to the marble floor, the two of them sliding a few meters on its polished, sleek surface. Eris’ skull knocked sharply against the ground, teeth clattering as his jaw snapped shut on impact. Blood trailed from the corner of his mouth. Azriel’s hands pressed at the other’s throat, his whole weight pushing Eris down, one knee planted on the floor, the other crushing against Eris’ gut. Red hair spread like a crown against the tiles, the Autumn heir raised his arms, as if purely on instinct, and tapped with his slender fingers on the hands that clamped around him. Unrelenting, Azriel’s fingers bit into the tender, pale skin of his neck, cutting off the airway completely.

The tapping became slapping, desperate and frantic, until it settled on an embrace, a light touch carrying searing, merciless heat. Azriel stared unblinkingly into those large, shock-filled eyes as their colour shifted from yellow to orange-red. Tears leaked from the corners, sparks burst and flew, and Azriel couldn’t tear his own gaze away as he added more and more pressure, until there was no sound, only the shadows shrieking in his ears.  His fingertips were numb, the back of his hands filled with the impossible throb of burning, the haunting, charred ache, he was a second away from screaming in agony. He pressed until his knuckles split from within. Until there was no motion beneath him. Until his arms were soaked in blood, trails of red pooling beneath their bodies.

The unbearable pain reached its crescendo. Only then did Azriel let Eris go.

He, the heir, lay still on the floor, lifeless.

The passing second hung between them, as a dread unknown to him, settled in Azriel.

Then with a raspy, rattling breath, coughing erupted. The mass of shadows unraveled, the room crashed back into focus; gasps, movement, and Rhys’ furious voice booming in his head, “Azriel what the actual fuck.” Feyre knelt beside the redhead, hands hovering above the figure curling on himself, gulping for air. His red-rimmed, wet eyes darted around aimlessly, before they fell on Azriel.

Azriel blinked, glancing down at his still-aching hands. Shock settled in his bones as he lifted them, and mouthed a sentence to Eris, no one could hear.

His hands, — he found them unharmed.

No burns, and bloodless. 

[4]

“This sheds new light on our last interaction, doesn’t it?” Eris purred as he calmly reached for his phone. With a lazy flick, he brushed away the lingering shadows, then leaned over the table between them and held the screen up in front of Azriel’s face.

It was an email. From Morrigan. Sent to Eris six months ago, containing a single line:

“Fuck you Eris.

I moved on.”

Below it, a video was attached. Eris clicked on it dutifully. The footage showed Morrigan standing on the banks of the Sidra, visibly tipsy, brandishing an intricate gold ring with a leaf insignia, between her index finger and thumb. She faced the camera, shouted “Eat shit,” then spun with a sharp swing of her arm, and hurled the ring far into the waters. The video ended with her glancing back and raising her middle finger while the person filming zoomed in on the still surface of the river, where the heavy jewellery vanished without resistance. A high-pitched laugh followed, giddy and joyous. “I’m free, you hear me? I’m free, bitch!” Feyre’s laughter echoed beside her.

Eris withdrew the phone momentarily, tapping through his gallery with practiced ease until he found the image he wanted.

“I framed it,” he said, triumphant. He turned the phone again to reveal a picture of the printed email, mounted in a black frame beside a mahogany desk. “I need the reminder. If she can be the bigger person, I certainly can’t afford to lag behind.”

Azriel stared at him, unblinking.

“That ring…” he started.

“Yes,” Eris cut in, his voice smooth, unfazed. “Mine.” He put his phone aside, leaning back in the chair with crossed legs. “Gave it to her when I asked for her hand. It’s a family heirloom, magical, of course, and it used to belong to my mother. I was always… oddly sentimental about it.” He shrugged, brushing off the weight of the admission. “And Morrigan knew that. She kept it for sixty-two years as a bargaining chip. A failsafe. Something to wield when it suited her. But now?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “She has nothing to hold against me in an argument. She had the upper hand — and rather tossed it into the fucking river. So,” he cleared his throat, “I can’t be bothered by people not knowing the full truth. Not anymore.”

Azriel’s face gave nothing away. His eyes remained fixed on the wine glass in his hand, expression unreadable. But Eris knew that look conveyed more than stoic calmness. He rubbed his neck deliberately, the sound of him clearing his throat snapping the Illyrian out of his reverie. His voice dropped to a murmur, low and insistent.

“Ask what you want to, Azriel.”

The other swallowed, visibly. “Why…” 

A breath. “Why didn't you fight me?”

You didn’t fight me. It was like an accusation, mouthed three months ago while Azriel knelt on the marble floor. Eris understood, to someone raised on battlefields, to someone whose every breath was taught to defend, it was an impossible thing. What urge could outrank the will to live? What summons could silence the oldest instinct we carry? Eris discovered something strange that day. He didn’t want to burn this person, even if he was given the chance.

He tilted his head, a sly, tired half-smile curling his lips.

“I wanted to see how far you’d go.”

Azriel’s fingers twitched where they rested on his knee.

“You could’ve burned me.”

“I could’ve,” Eris agreed, slowly, swirling the wine in his glass. “But I didn’t want to. Not at that moment.” His gaze lifted, sharp and unwavering. Why indeed, he thought.

***

Something shifted in the air after that. As if Azriel had finally let go of a long-held breath, he eased, and started eating from the trays of appetizers like he meant it.

Eris made a comment likening him to a starved street urchin and tied it back to his barbaric upbringing. The reaction was minimal at best. A temporary setback, Eris told himself. He had a tactic now: every time he ventured too far, got too sharp, or hit a nerve, he’d retreat and offer more food. That, paired with generous wine, seemed to coax Azriel into conversation. Eris almost laughed, was it really that simple? The way to a man's heart, through his stomach…

He wasn’t even hungry anymore. He was full and quite content, in fact, just watching Azriel polish off a second plate of roasted duck, scraping up the last of the spiced pear glaze, parsnip purée, and charred chestnuts. Those hazel eyes flicked to him between bites, and Eris wondered what passed through them when they landed on him. He wondered, what did Azriel see in his gaze? There was no longing, youthful hope left, he knew that much. At over a century old, Eris had become deliberate in his pursuits. His heart had grown calloused, like the trunk of an old oak tree.

They had entered the third hour of their flight, and the fourth vintage from Eris’ private cellar, not that he minded. He’d pour the whole collection if it kept Azriel this… unguarded. The spymaster leaned back, his head resting against the cushioned seat. He was all trained, coiled strength, from the width of his shoulders, through the imposing curve of his thighs, to the size of his palms. He was imposing, compared to Eris. Especially so, since despite the muscle mass he carried, his movements were sleek and agile. But it was that face that did it for Eris. The angular jaw, framed by the high cheekbones that hollowed slightly when he frowned. Inky strands of hair curled over his forehead, covering those furrow-prone eyebrows, some of them slipping across the two deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes. The faint-purple circles underneath them, and the thick lashes gave him the look of someone perpetually tired to the bone. Eris imagined biting into that full lower lip hard enough to draw blood — when a rare thing happened. Azriel smiled. The slight, asymmetrical type that tugs more on one side, giving the aura of smirking restraint.

“Oh don’t look at me like that.” Eris sighed. “You’re the one who chose to speak, dear.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“I was born near Lincoln. It’s the conjunction of polite detachment, dressed up as an endearment.”

“It’s weird.”

“Your Rhysand calls everyone darling.”

“He doesn’t call me that,” Azriel bristled. 

Eris paused. Then a feline grin spread across his face.

“Aren’t your kind supposed to have wings? Big, bat-like things?”

Azriel’s gaze narrowed. “Yeah…”

“Then I shall call you little bat.”

A tired sigh escaped Azriel as he swirled the wine in his glass.

“I just don’t get what’s in it for you… why put,” he gestured vaguely between them, “all this effort?”

“Forgive me, I’m a bit old-fashioned in my courting tactics.”

Azriel let out a dry huff of laughter.

Eris crossed one leg over the other, his glass tilting lazily as the wine caught the light. “I’m here today as a private man, dealing with private matters.”

Azriel shot him a look, doubtful and sharp.

“I can see you don’t believe me.”

“Because nothing is ever that easy with the sons of Autumn.”

Eris inclined his head, weighing his reply as if tasting the wine on his tongue. “I won’t argue with that. We both know it’d be pointless. You’ll have to take my word for it this once, Shadowsinger of the Night — I am here for selfish reasons only. Nothing to do with the politics of my Court.”

Azriel raised a brow. “And what selfish reason would that be?”

“My hobby, if you will.” Eris’s grin curled wickedly above the rim of his glass. “Inconveniencing pretty, sad-eyed men.”

Azriel’s stare hardened.

“What do you want, Eris?”

He toyed with the stem of his glass. “Your attention.”

“You have it now.”

“You misunderstand me, little bat.” He leaned in, close enough that Azriel could smell the spice of the wine. “I want to be the focal point, the only thing your mind allows in. What I want is unwavering, utterly devoted attention.”

“You’re insane.” Azriel’s tone was gravelly. “And a conceited ass besides.”

“I’d like to say I simply have a healthy dose of self-awareness.”

“I know a great test by Raskin and Hall you should take.”

Eris groaned, tipping his head back. “Are you, by any chance, talking to my brother behind my back?”

“I counted myself lucky in every year I didn’t have to speak to a Vanserra. Before Lucien showed up…”

“And why don’t you like him?” There was an edge of accusation in Eris’ voice.

“Why do you care?”

Eris’ mouth thinned to a line. They locked eyes for long seconds before Eris downed the rest of his wine in one swallow.

“This trip wasn’t supposed to be about me opening up.”

“You thought you could just trap me here and what — walk out holding hands? By the way, I still don’t buy the excuse that this is your idea of a date.”

“I admit,” Eris said with a smirk tugging at his mouth, “I thought I could charm you with my vast knowledge of important matters and skip the part where I bare the dark secrets of my sorry heart.”

“You’re insane.” Azriel laughed under his breath. “Let me get this straight.”

“Not with me, hun.” Eris cut in, but Azriel silenced him with a raised finger.

“You thought you could trap me here for eleven hours and we’d talk about… what exactly? The geopolitical implications of Tarquin’s latest acquisition? The newest Dolce & Gabbana fashion show in the Vatican? And then I’d be swayed by your witty retorts and High Fae beauty,” his voice sharpened, “and agree to fuck you? That was the plan?”

Lowering his gaze, Eris pretended to clean dirt from beneath his nails.

“It was a solid plan.”

Azriel buried his face in his palm. “I need a synonym for insane.”

“Bats.” Eris chuckled. Azriel peeked at him through his fingers. “You could say I’m totally bats.”

Leaning forward, resting his head over his knees, Azriel barked a bitter, stricken laugh. Eris smiled with quiet satisfaction as he refilled his glass, the ruby liquid catching the cabin lights. He knew, this was the moment he had worn down at least one layer of Azriel.

“Seven more hours to go,” Eris chuckled, his rings chiming softly against the glass. “Plenty of time to get to know each other. Inside and out.”

Azriel turned towards him.

“Why do you care what I think about Lucien?”

Eris’ expression soured at once, and he caught the faint, almost playful curve of Azriel’s lips at that. Oh well, in for a penny, he thought darkly.

“I have four living brothers. Out of all of them, Lucien was always something of an outsider, long before his banishment.”

“He’s Helion’s son,” Azriel said flatly.

“Did the shadows tell you that, or do you simply have a functioning pair of eyes?” Eris sneered.

“Both.”

Eris tilted his head, studying him with interest. “Good. Then I know it’s not just your looks I find myself drawn to.”

For a heartbeat, Azriel faltered. His gaze slid back into the distance as though groping for words. Eris waited. The picture of patience, though heat coiled restlessly beneath his skin. He was beginning to realise that sometimes giving Azriel space meant actually earning an answer.

“How can you be so…” Azriel began, worrying his lip between his teeth before swallowing the rest. An unconscious gesture.

“Brazen in my pursuits?” Eris supplied smoothly.

Azriel gave a curt nod.

“Admitting attraction is not the same as confessing affection.”

“Couldn’t you choose another target?”

“An easier one, you mean?” Eris mused, tapping his chin in mock contemplation before a vulturous grin split his face. “Where would be the fun in that?”

Azriel gave the smallest shake of his head, a tic, Eris suspected, for discarding words he refused to confront.

“Lucien,” Azriel said at last, dragging them back to the earlier thread, to Eris’ dismay. The heir exhaled, sinking deeper into his seat, resigned to the turn. He measured his words with care, offering glimpses behind the carved-wood doors of the Forest House, yet never lowering the barrier fully.

“Lucien was always clever. The only one who could keep a hold on me… and the only one I never had to fear would surpass me and seize the throne. I raised him, I taught him,” he sighed softly, “and now, he cannot bear the sight of me. Draw your own conclusions from that.” Eris gave a careless shrug, though the movement rang hollow.

Silence stretched a long minute before Azriel finally asked, “If you want to be on good terms with him, why go out of your way to antagonize him?”

The smile froze on Eris’ face. Azriel’s stare pinned him as if to say: you wanted my attention, now have it. The weight of that gaze was unbearable. Eris’ lashes fluttered as he shut his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh.

“Are we really doing this? Why can’t we fuck the living daylight out of each other without the heart-to-heart first?”

“Because touching you is the last thing I want.”

Eris’ eyes snapped open. “That’s a lie, little bat.”

Azriel’s voice was low, edged with danger; his mouth set.

“Itching to strangle you doesn’t count.”

“Oh, but it does,” Eris purred, leaning forward. “If I’m to be cornered into sincerity, then I demand honesty in return.”

Shadows trembled, restless and skittering, as Eris bowed further into Azriel’s space. Yet Azriel’s gaze never wavered, never dipped lower for even a heartbeat. The sheer difficulty of it thrilled Eris, the challenge, the game he had trapped Azriel into playing. Why choose an easier target? he laughed inwardly. Where was the excitement in that?

His tongue traced the curve of his bottom lip. His body thrummed hot, strung taut like a bow before release, so very alive and alight.

“This is how we learned to communicate,” Eris murmured. “Lucien should know how to read between the lines.”

“So it’s his fault,” Azriel countered, “that he can’t decipher your half-assed clues?”

“Every clue I give is precise. Deliberate.”

Azriel chewed on the thought before answering. “I think he understands all of it. He just won’t care unless you say it outright. He won’t accept it unless you’re direct with him.”

Eris tilted his head, intrigued. “And what makes you so certain of that?”

“Lucien is very direct… when it’s personal.”

The smile that curved Eris’ mouth was cruel and cutting. “Like when he told you to fuck off because he’d called dibs on the middle Archeron sister. Soulmates, wasn’t it?” Eris knew Azriel could hear the air quotes around the word.

The shadows swarmed, agitated, before settling again. A nerve struck. Delightful.

“So you’ve been gathering intel,” Azriel said, accusation in every syllable.

Eris sneered. “Oh, please. I gather intel on petty Court drama involving my brother. You being in the midst of it was… incidental. Although, given your track record, I must confess, I was pleasantly surprised by the mutual attraction we share.”

“Track record?” Azriel asked, irritation flaring, ignoring the rest of the remark.

Good, Eris thought. At least he doesn’t try to lie his way out of it.

“Morrigan. Elain. Nothing more that I’ve heard, though perhaps there is. You’re a recluse, as we both know.” He caught the slight easing of Azriel’s shoulders. Interesting. Something worth digging into later. Eris went on as if he hadn’t noticed. “Tell me, Singer. Were you truly discouraged by my brother’s claims?”

Azriel scoffed, looking away. “No.”

“Yet you stopped chasing the Archeron sister.”

“That had nothing to do with Lucien,” Azriel muttered, spitting the name through his teeth.

“Ah. So you were turned down?” Eris asked, voice dripping with false sympathy. “What a waste of your efforts.”

“Why do you care?” Azriel bit out.

“For one, I like to know if there’s competition. I find it entertaining when there is.” Eris bared his canines in a wicked smile. “And, I was curious whether you’re as much a besotted fool as my little brother — who still clings to folk tales.”

That made Azriel study him with something halfway between confusion and interest.

“The whole concept of bonded soulmates,” Eris continued, “is utter rubbish.”

Azriel arched a brow. “Why?”

“It’s an easy excuse. A way to let destiny shoulder the work, to blame it for your failures. But the notion itself never appealed to me. To surrender self-determination, to hand your will to some indifferent unknown, to be toyed with at its whim? I would never allow myself to be bound by that. By fate, of all things.” Eris scoffed.

Azriel’s next question was calm, unguarded. “Then what do you believe in?”

Eris blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“If not fate. Not destiny. What do you believe in?”

“Anything tangible. Palpable. Ideas are smoke, they can be twisted, reshaped, reworded.”

Azriel laughed under his breath.

“Yes,” Eris smiled faintly, “I know my way around words. That’s why I don’t trust them when they come from others.”

“So you believe in nothing?”

“I don’t believe. I know. Belief is for the poor in spirit.”

Azriel chuckled. “I thought Autumn was traditionalist. Still clinging to the Mother’s Words after centuries.”

“I abide by my Court’s traditions because I must. I am the heir, I know the weight they hold in the hearts of common folk.” Eris poured himself another glass with a sigh. “But I will not be a follower of religion.”

“It would be difficult,” Azriel mused, lightly tapping the slim book on his armrest, “without faith. Religion is the poetry of the mind.”

“And poetry,” Eris finished smoothly, “is the religion of the heart.”

It lasted only a heartbeat, a flicker of hazel eyes in the dim light, the faintest crack in Azriel’s composure. And as once he had lit flames in a dark room to find him among shadows, Eris now lunged at the spark, seizing it with clawed fingers.

“Let me guess… of all poets, you favor Byron most.”

The only confirmation was a dry laugh.

Eris leaned back, savoring it, and pressed on with deliberate ease. “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore. I love not man the less, but Nature more. That is your excuse for running, isn’t it? A man forged in cold winds and bad blood… the rest is only poetry. She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies…”

Azriel merely watched him, drinking in silence.

“You are remarkably consistent, Shadowsinger,” Eris went on, a languid smile tugging at his lips. “But we both know Byron was more than his oh-so-dire, brooding poems.”

“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” Azriel returned, smirk quick and dry.

“Quoting Lady Caroline Lamb, aren’t we?”

“Inspirational figure for you?”

Eris scoffed, setting his glass down with a sharp click. “Oh please. She’s the epitome of ‘he wasn’t fucking worth it, luv.’”

Azriel plucked a grape, rolling it between his fingers before looking up. “Of course. Dressing as a page boy and sneaking into a lover’s bedroom at night is beneath you.”

“After a breakup? Certainly.”

“Not sure I’ll take your word for that.”

Eris flashed teeth in a grin. “I’d never send letters smeared in blood with my pubic hair enveloped in them, if that’s your concern.”

Azriel took the last wedge of cheese from the platter, biting down with an absent hum. “Contemporary accounts say she was unstable even before Byron. Her family called her little beast.”

“I have one of those at home,” Eris chuckled, fingers tapping elegantly on the panel to summon fresh plates.

“Do you enjoy imagining yourself as Byron?” Azriel asked, his tone dipping with acid. “Rich, eccentric?”

Eris leaned forward, voice silken with unshakable poise. “I am rich. And charming. I have no need to resemble anyone, least of all a lovesick fool, undone by a drizzle. What a waste, to die of a chill in the rain.”

Azriel tilted his head, brisk. “So you never felt compelled to twist rules? Keeping a bear in your college rooms because only hounds were forbidden?”

Eris’s smile turned foxlike. “You got me there, Singer. Sadly, I had to share my floor with Tamlin of all people. Why smuggle a bear, when a beast already prowls your halls?”

The cart with the new trays rolled in, fruits gleaming under glaze, neat rows of sweet and savoury pastry, and an ostentatious parade of scotches, gins, and cocktails, their pairings rattled off so long that Azriel felt exhausted merely listening, Eris could tell.

“You will not win me over with food,” he said dryly, snapping off a twisted cheese stick and biting into its sharp crumble.

“Forgive a man for trying.” Eris selected a pear tart, savouring the buttery shortcrust, the caramelised edges giving way from sweet to spiced, ending with a faint bitterness.

Azriel’s fingers tapped lightly on the cover of his book. “Shelley.”

“Testing me now?” Eris arched a brow.

“Not sure it’s worth it.”

“Don’t fret, little bat. I would never contradict my judgement merely to please you. Why should I prove myself so?”

Azriel washed down the pastry with a sip of spiced wine, offering no reply.

Eris sighed, lazy but sharp. “In my unsolicited opinion, the boy thought one could sand the rough edges off mankind. As if men don’t grow sharper the more you file them. Shelley, the poor sod, pouring his soul onto paper about the evils of capitalism, while Byron only sighs, yearning: ‘ah, the wonder of breasts.’”

“Sometimes the greatest rebellion is silence?” Azriel countered.

Eris snorted into his wine. “Quit it with your Wordsworth-ness. A man who finds rapture in a daffodil clearly never wrestled power from a nest of scheming vipers. Blissfully dull.” He leaned forward, hands gesturing in elegant arcs as he launched into his tangent. “The rustic purity of the ploughman’s soul? Please. I’ve been alive during the wars, I’ve seen commoners tear each other apart for a loaf of bread. His peasants are fantasies, not people.”

“Do you always antagonise naivety?”

“When it struts about on a moral high ground? Absolutely. Detachment never got anyone anywhere.”

Azriel hummed, considering, but before he could speak Eris was already pressing on. “Night, Dawn, and then Day. Shall we parade through all the poets of the Solar Courts?”

“Who do you have in mind?” Azriel asked, eyes narrowing.

Eris grinned like a vulture. “Robert Herrick.”

Azriel snorted, short and sharp. “Here lives the joy of May, the hope of every morn.”

“Oh yes, very original of Tamlin to carve that on the gates of Spring manor. You cannot imagine how many times he tried playing ‘Gather ye rosebuds’ on his wretched fiddle.”

“Lord Tennyson.”

“Tennyson is what happens when a man strains himself to sound profound while describing the sea. I would rather get wet, if you know what I mean.” Eris threw back his head, declaiming theatrically: “Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O Sea!” He dropped his voice to a mocking hush. “We understand, Alfred. You were sad. On the beach.”

There was a glint in Azriel’s eyes, wry and fleeting. “Blake.”

“Oh, you sneaky little bastard,” Eris groaned, palming his brow. “You enjoy watching me sweat, don’t you?”

Azriel ignored the double edge of the phrase. He reached for a sugared almond, rolling it between his fingers.

Eris exhaled in mock defeat. “You put me in a tight spot. As the prime poet of Autumn, I ought to praise him. Visionary, mystical, fierce. I admire the fire in Songs of Experience. He saw flame for what it is — destructive, divine. Yet…” His tone dropped, eyes blazing wide. “What is now proved was once only imagined. I despise that surrender to faith, the mysticism of a blind fool. Faith means not wanting to know what is true. Faith is the surrender of the mind, the abdication of reason.”

“Jumping from Nietzsche to Hitchens in two breaths.”

“They grew from different stems, but the parallels are evident.” Sparks lit in Eris’ gaze as he said it. Azriel looked away, busying himself by gathering more delicacies onto his plate.

“I can imagine you keeping the quote above your desk — ‘Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.’”

Eris purred, leaning forward. “Have you been to my quarters, then? Next time I expect advance notice, so I may give you a proper tour of the bedroom.”

“I’d never set foot in the Forest House.”

A sly smile tugged Eris’ lips. “Ah, but you must know that is not where I spend most of my time. I am inviting you to North Yorkshire, of course.” Azriel’s stare hardened, Eris laughed airily. “Don’t fret, little bat. It is perfectly within our roles to extend invitations for… alliances.”

Azriel bristled at the sultry lilt of that last word.

“So you want to be invited to Velaris?”

“If that is where you reside, then yes, obviously.”

“You know you can just… fly over there. It’s not like Rhys can sense you at the border and send you home.”

“I am perfectly aware. But I prefer submitting my notice before I turn up at your door.” A softer smile. “Wherever that may be. No sneak-in required.”

Azriel sighed, tired. “I might not understand your games, but you forget I could crack you in half if I wished.”

Eris’ eyes roamed over him unabashedly. “Oh, I keep that particular fact in the forefront of my mind. Always.”

Azriel raked a hand through raven curls, dislodging them over his forehead. “You’re indirect by being obscenely direct.”

“It is an art. I had a century to practice.”

“A hundred and four.”

Eris leaned back, elbow propped, head resting on his palm. “My, my. Someone has done his homework.”

Azriel scoffed. “You have an official Wiki page. Maintained by yourself.”

Eris rolled his eyes heavenward. “Naturally. My brothers were filling it with nonsense. I had to set the record straight.”

Azriel’s lids closed briefly before he levelled that lethal stare again, reciting in an even tone: “Regarded as the most discerning and intellectually gifted of the Vanserra heirs, Eris Vanserra has long been recognised for his unmatched strategic acumen and eloquence, setting him apart from his brothers.” 

Then a snort. “Unmatched strategic acumen? Who writes this crap for you?!”

Eris covered his mouth, parodying the blush of a maiden. “Mother help me, he memorised the entire page. What is this, if not mutual fascination?”

“I have too good a memory for my own good,” Azriel replied briskly.

Eris’ smile curled, sly as ever. “How fortunate for me. Then perhaps you can settle something I’ve been wondering.” He leaned back, idly twirling the stem of his glass. “I heard rumors of you seeing the Book of Breathings, before Amren snatched it for herself.”

Azriel’s gaze sharpened instantly, the easy banter stripped from his features. “Rumors travel fast.”

“And yet,” Eris purred, “I prefer confirmation from the source. Your memory, after all, is impeccable.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed, shadows curling faintly at his feet.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Eris scoffed, flicking his wrist in airy dismissal. “Feyre made quite a spectacle stealing half of it from Summer. I know you have both parts, everyone knows. But the thing bound in leather is practically useless these days, isn’t it? Just a relic of a bygone era.”

“It has a will of its own,” Azriel said evenly. “It breathes and whispers whether you want it to or not. If you’re connected to the Book, you’ll hear it even from another room. I told Rhys to lock it away. It’s not safe to use.”

“So essentially, an overly intelligent Alexa with cursed magic powers.” Eris’ tone turned bone-dry. “And your lot thought it wise to put it back together. Brilliant.”

Azriel’s gaze was steady, his tone flat.

“No one should fear it. It’s not a spellbook. Not anymore. Not like the volume Amarantha wielded for her curse.”

Eris blinked at the name, surprised at the ease with which it left his lips. Not a whisper, not a circumlocution, just Amarantha, spoken plain. Three years since her fall. And in the twenty-first century, three years could feel like a lifetime, at least for mortals. Governments toppled faster. Markets rose and collapsed. Dictators were replaced with new tyrants in the span of a news cycle. And yet here sat the Shadowsinger, unfazed by the ghost everyone else tiptoed around.

“I would still like to see it someday,” Eris said lightly, swirling the wine in his glass as if he had asked nothing of consequence.

Azriel’s eyes hardened, his shadows stretching long across the floor.

“So this is what it’s about? You wanting a free pass into the Night Court’s library?”

Eris lifted one elegant shoulder in a careless shrug. “I’m merely interested in relics.”

He let the matter linger for only a heartbeat before his tone turned almost offhand, as if it bore no weight at all.

“My private collection is worth seeing. Some supposedly contain verses inscribed under the Old Gods, when the High Lords knew no death.”

Azriel went still, the faintest tightening in his jaw betraying him. Eris continued smoothly, tapping his glass idly, a flicker of mirth in his eyes. “I could show you mine if you showed me yours.”

Azriel’s mouth flattened as he studied him.

“Isn’t that a great deal?,” Eris asked, voice silken.

Great, my arse, Eris heard Azriel grumble under his breath.

The Illyrian added nothing aloud.

[5]

“Then there was Jesus, washing the feet of his disciples —” Eris rambled on, hands carving dramatic shapes in the air. Azriel blinked slowly at him, then shifted his gaze. The cabin was dim, curtains drawn, but when he peered past them the sun still poured through the rounded windows. Endless daylight. It felt as if they were suspended not just in air but in time, even as the plane kept moving, chasing the blazing afternoon. The dissonance rubbed at him, seeing on his phone barely a minute ago that it should’ve been 20:15. Somewhere during the sixth hour of the flight faerie wine had materialised, and Azriel couldn’t quite recall how the fourth glass ended up in his hand. Only that it sat warm against his fingers. Eris had tossed off a line about it being imported straight from the Continent. “Tastes like crushed berries and unreasonable decisions.” Azriel wasn’t sure about the berries, but the unreasonable decisions part was catching up to him fast.

Eris’ mouth was still moving, still shaping words, when Azriel caught himself staring just for a second, at the curve of those lips. He reeled himself back with a sharp shake of the head.

“What, you don’t agree?” Eris prodded, tone lilting into a whine. Oh, he was sloshed too.

“Repeat that.”

“I said there is a certain power in submission. One only submits when firm in pride and self-worth. Knowing you are the son of God, still washing your disciples’ feet. I understand the sentiment, but I’d rather experience it through bottoming. I take greater pleasure in that.”

Azriel blinked at him owlishly.

“You just paralleled the New Testament to… being a bottom.”

Eris only shrugged. “You make it sound more far-fetched than it is. Jesus was a masochist. A sub with a degradation kink, coping with an overbearing father.”

Azriel groaned, fingers massaging his temple.

“And now you’re making this about yourself.”

“Who said anything about me?” Eris grinned, lounging back, ankles crossed, fingers draped idly around the stem of his glass. “I certainly never washed anyone’s feet.”

Azriel eyed the dark contents of his glass, then knocked it back in one go.

“I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Eris chuckled, delighted.  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said with an expression that all but guaranteed the wrong way was coming, “but for a man trained in silence and discipline, you make a surprisingly decent conversationalist. Once properly marinated.” 

Azriel didn’t lift his gaze from the dark swirl of wine as it filled.

“Maybe it’s not as hard to impress you as you think.”

“Oh, my dear,” Eris purred, “we both know all I have is standards.”

During moments like this, they sat in silence. One might have called it comfortable silence. Azriel wasn’t sure that adjective applied. Surprising, to say the least, whenever Eris retreated into the fortress of his own mind to conjure the next round of nonsense. Yet it was never truly nonsense, was it? The man chose his anecdotes carefully, that much Azriel had concluded. Nothing was ever accidental with Eris Vanserra. Their being here today, forced into this confined space, proved as much. Eris had gone out of his way to ensure Azriel had no other option for this trip but this flight, today, with him. There was an end goal beneath the surface of all Eris’ remarks about wanting to bed him. An intent Azriel hadn’t uncovered — yet. Only a matter of time, he thought, with faint irritation. He wasn’t Spymaster of the Night Court for nothing, after all.

Eventually, Azriel spoke. “What did you mean earlier… about people not knowing the full truth? About Mor?”

Eris’ face shifted. Just a fraction. Whatever came next, Azriel knew the words would be chosen with care.

“I meant,” Eris said lightly, though the measure in his tone was undeniable, “that your beloved circle is so used to villains, they don’t notice when someone quietly decides to stop being one.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked. “You think that’s what you are? A reformed villain?”

“I think,” Eris said slowly, “that most people prefer their scapegoats predictable.” He swirled his wine lazily. “And nothing ruins a good grudge like nuance.”

Azriel tilted his head, studying the man across the narrow table. “And what do you want from me? A clean slate?”

“Oh, Shadowsinger,” Eris whispered, voice lower, silkier, “I think you already know what I want.”

Azriel’s stare cut sharp beneath the haze of wine. “No, I actually don’t.”

“Do you truly believe,” Eris asked, head tilting curiously, “that Rhysand and I are so different? Be honest — what words would you use to describe me? Come now, flatter me. At least four attributes.”

Azriel thought for a long moment. “Cunning. Cruel. Controlling.”

“One more, dear.”

Azriel’s glance was razor-edged. “Cunt.”

“I saw that one coming,” Eris chuckled. He shifted in his seat, fire blazing in his eyes, yet the stare beneath was… cold. Empty in a way Azriel could only call resignation. The kind that came with age. Sometimes he forgot that though Eris looked ethereal, he had been born in the roaring twenties. His mind and heart were anything but youthful.

“I fail to see how you can’t use the same words for your precious High Lord,” Eris mused, his tone turning clipped, icy. “He is controlling, such is the duty of a High Lord, to rule and lead. Look at what happens when one refuses to play his part, the Spring economy in shambles, its people fleeing like rats from a flooded cellar. He is cruel, he has ordered executions without hesitation. He keeps monsters in his dungeons and trusts you to guard them. And cunning? He did not get the nickname Amarantha’s bitch for nothing. I saw him behead a fae before staking the head in the Spring Court fountain. Put him in a tight corner, and he will do whatever it takes to secure his court’s survival. Dress it up as self-sacrifice, call it nobility or kindness, when in the end, it’s nothing but manipulation under a veneer of humanity. At least I’m honest. I don’t parade around pretending to stand on some moral high ground.”

Azriel scoffed. “You’re mistaking ruthless pragmatism for honesty.”

“My morals may not align with the common world view,” Eris said smoothly, “but my actions are justified to me. They are not always good — but they are right.”

“So you divide the world into two categories: the good and the right.”

“They overlap at times, but more often they don’t. Look at yourself. You pry into secrets, you gather intelligence, you build an empire from whispers, from stolen data. Objectively speaking, that is not good. But in your eyes, it is right. We all justify what we must in our roles.” His mouth curled into a wry smile. “Go on. Try to convince me you torture people out of altruism.”

Azriel stayed silent.

“What if the day comes when everyone deems your actions wrong?”

“Others disagreeing with me won’t make me less right. No matter how many they are, it changes nothing.”

“You put far too much faith in yourself.”

“I have a healthy amount. It’s the others who lack it.”

Azriel hummed darkly. “Your entire worldview rests on one premise, that you always know best. What is justified.”

“Because I do,” Eris said, unwavering. “I have to.”

There was no tremor in his tone. It was unimaginable to Azriel, such certainty.

“And you never once faltered? Not even for a moment?”

Eris’ eyes flickered, barely, but enough. His voice took on a faraway lilt. “Every time I did, I gritted my teeth… and pushed through it.”

They sipped their drinks in silence while Azriel turned over what he’d just heard. Minutes passed before Eris cleared his throat and spoke again.

“You know, I understand this. Our being civil right now doesn’t mean you trust me in the slightest. You laughing, even tipsy, doesn’t mean you won’t punch me in the face tomorrow. Or a moment from now.”

Azriel arched a brow.

“You seem to… enjoy this.”

Eris winked, voice light with playfulness. “I trust just as easily as you do.”

A dry chuckle was Azriel’s only reply.

***

21:37, the screen told Azriel. Another hour gone. The end was close, yet still not in sight. And he was certain now: he was absolutely, properly drunk. A headache began to threaten at the edges of his mind.

He dragged his fingers through his hair, scratching at the roots. “Won’t you sleep?”

“I only need to rest once every thirty hours or so.” Eris shrugged, clearly intoxicated, yet nowhere near tired. At some point between glasses, the blazer vanished.  Wine-red silk left bare under the cabin lights, the gold-threaded waistcoat snug across his frame, sleeves rolled just enough to show pale forearms. “What’s your excuse?”

“Why bother trying? You’d keep me awake anyway.”

“Oh, you bet I would.” Eris’ smile was smug, taunting.

“I’ll make you regret this,” Azriel said, tone casual as if promising nothing more than a chore.

Azriel leaned forward, brows drawn together, and reached for the small remote tucked beside the seat. The wide screen embedded into the cabin wall flickered awake, blooming with the glossy menu of films. Dozens of thumbnails scrolled past as he flicked the touchpad: new releases, blockbusters, documentaries, half-forgotten classics stuffed into the archives.

Eris shifted, lips parting as if he had something clever to say, but instead he went quiet, watching with faint amusement. Azriel’s focus didn’t waver, his thumb sliding with brisk efficiency through row after row until his eyes caught on a particular title. A quick tap, and the screen filled with blood-red letters.

Eris blinked. “Do you want me to order popcorn for this?”

Azriel only shrugged, still sunk deep in his seat. “Why not.”

The cabin lights dimmed another notch as the title card splashed across the screen: House of a Thousand Corpses.

Eris’ nose wrinkled. “What in the bloody hell is this?”

Azriel’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, his tone as flat as ever. “Absolute cinema. Now shut up and enjoy.”