Chapter Text
It’s been over a century since the war. Things broke very badly in the throne room, resulting in Lucien snatching Elain but leaving a hole for the rest of the Night Court to escape in the process when he accidentally shredded the King’s wards.
News came to them only days later when a frantic Lucien Vanserra turned up broken and battered on the steps of the Court of Nightmares. He’d been caught winnowing over the borders and brought to face trial against the High Lord and Lady for his crimes.
But he came bearing morbid news as he informed them of the way Ianthe had turned on them immediately after their arrival. She’d spirited Elain away in the night, claiming to have disposed of her so that Lucien could focus on their mission—and the High Priestess herself.
Lucien himself had felt the bond between them wither into dust, and he had launched himself at the priestess … only to find that Tamlin took her side. Lucien has been out of his mind in the throne room—he had completely forgotten their mission. Something needed to be done to ensure that they focused on what was important—returning Feyre to Tamlin.
He winnowed as far as he could as fast as he could, running himself ragged until he turned up on their doorstep. And bargained with every damning secret he knew about Tamlin and Hybern for his life.
The war was devastating to Prythian. Everyone lost somebody dear to them, the Inner Circle being no exception. Feyre refuses to talk about what happened that day, but judging by the shockwave which shook the battlefield and the earth which remains scorched to this day in the clearing where Nesta and Cassian battled the king, one thing is clear—they went out together in a blaze of glory which wiped out the king and half of both armies.
The courts are still rebuilding, even after all this time. Populations decreased so dramatically, and the babes who survived back home are just now growing to maturity.
While the Night Court retained most of the Inner Circle, other courts weren’t so lucky. Helion and Kallias were caught in the blast, and Beron was overthrown by his own offspring not long after.
While Feyre’s powers from the other High Lords could bring her mate back, she had no power to raise those who had been obliterated into ash by her sister’s wave of death.
Now they are still rebuilding, with Rhys and Feyre at the helm of Prythian as the other courts build themselves back from the ground up. Lucien, Vivienne, and Eris are still struggling to maintain peace on their own with limited resources.
And now, after a century of silence, Tamlin is showing signs of raising a small army. It’s no surprise that he might wish to invade some of the tumultuous adjoining lands to spite those who have long spited him.
Azriel has been personally sent to keep an eye on the situation, and that’s when he finally notices it.
The preternatural way his shadows tense around him as he steps through the clearing. The tang of magic on his tongue. The crack in the glamour as he sees its shadow and discovers a cabin long hidden from prying eyes.
The phantom of a maiden within who is unresponsive to his attempts to awaken her. Until he loses all sense of reason and brushes his lips to her own.
“I knew you’d come for me.” Her voice is a hoarse whisper, strained from disuse.
“Who are you?” The emaciated female strikes a chord within him, yet he can’t place it. He’s met so many in his centuries of existence though, it’s not surprising that she looks familiar.
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
And that’s all he gets before she collapses in exhaustion before him once more.
Silence was Azriel’s constant companion, and yet he had never felt its unnatural chill until now. He couldn’t very well leave this female here, and yet all there was to do within these four walls was build a fire and wait for her to stir again.
He toyed with the idea of bringing her back to Madja, but he still couldn’t get a read on her. And there was no way that he could bring more chaos into the lives of his family. At least without being certain she meant them no harm.
I knew you’d come for me. I was hoping you could tell me.
The words grated him down to the very core as he contemplated why she seemed so certain that he would know her.
While the female may have been attractive before, she was a hollowed out husk now, as if whatever spell had been keeping her suspended did not care how she lived—just that her body technically survived somehow.
It was wicked magic, resulting in nearly translucent skin pasted onto far too visible bones, thin hair which was graying and brittle to the touch, and cloudy hazelnut eyes which were the only spark of recognition which flared within him.
But even those were practically nothing to go on.
The shadowsinger found his leg fidgeting—an impatience which he found profoundly irritating. He could not afford to be spending this time here, and yet … He felt like he owed it to this mysterious female to be there when she awoke to at least attempt to put the pieces together.
She clearly would not be able to fend for herself unless some very powerful magic took hold of her now that whatever curse she was under seemed to be lifted.
He sent a cursory shadow through the cabin, confirming what he had already known. This place was not meant to sustain life. There was nothing to eat and nothing even to heat it over, save the fire itself.
And so the Shadow of Night went hunting in Spring.