Chapter Text
Azriel stood on the edge of the clearing, assessing the barn that had long since been left to rot. Despite the harsh winds cutting through his leathers, biting at his skin, he barely felt it.
Things had been too quiet in the Night Court as of late; quieter than Azriel was used to. For so long, the war had consumed every waking moment. If it wasn't missions for Rhys, it was sorting out skirmishes in Illyria, it was plotting out their next move, it was battle and war and pain and then the tireless rebuilding that came after it all.
Years had passed. Now, with the dust settled and the world beginning to mend, that stillness crept in. And with it, an... itch—one that Azriel couldn't get rid of.
The truth was he didn’t know what to do with himself. There had always been something, some threat to his family for Azriel to deal with, to ensure the continued rest and peace of their court. Without it—he’d never admit it aloud but the calm left him feeling... almost bored. Useless. After asking for a task, just anything he could do, Rhysand had obliged, although Azriel suspected his brother was merely humouring him.
That’s how he found himself checking something that seemed nothing more than a passing rumour. Murmurings from a small village on the outskirts of Illyria about an abandoned barn had arisen, reaching word all the way to the High Lord. Supposedly, something had taken residence there, something strange and unnatural that kept the village's inhabitants well away. Azriel had his doubts. He knew how stories like that twisted and grew, especially in the colder months when the winds howled through cracked shutters at night. It was likely some scared child’s ghost story, taken too far.
But still. It was something to do. And so, he had stepped seamlessly through his shadows, disappearing from Velaris to the edge of Illyria, his wings beating against the vicious winter winds.
The barn in question was exactly what he'd expected—nothing but a shabby old structure crumbling at the edges, moss eating away at the wood. He stood outside for a moment, scanning the area. There was nothing unusual in the trees or the long grass, no sign of life at all. Just... stillness.
After a minute, Azriel moved towards the door, letting a scarred hand push against the rotting wood. It almost splintered under his touch when he pushed it open, its hinges so close to failing entirely as it swung inward. The air inside was thick and stagnant, dust swirling in the fading light. He scanned the room, noting an old table and, in the far corner, a pile of ragged blankets. As his gaze settled on the heap, something shifted beneath it.
He froze.
Creeping closer, Azriel listened for signs of more movement, waiting for what was most likely some sort of wild animal to jump out. Either way, he didn't take any chances, allowing a hand to stray to his utility belt where he kept his prized dagger Truth-Teller sheathed.
He felt as though he’d been doused in a cold bucket of ice water when a small figure emerged.
A child.
She was huddled in the corner, her knees drawn to her chest as she clutched something tightly. He could barely see her from where he stood, but he could tell she was small—perhaps even an infant. As she moved away from the shadowy corners of the room and closer to the light of the shattered window, he noticed how ruddy her cheeks were from the cold, her skin tanned and her hair—a deep, raven black—that fell in tangled knots to her shoulders. But her eyes... her eyes were a brilliant, ice blue. Fae eyes. And the pointed tips of her ears only confirmed it.
What in the Mother’s name was a young fae child doing in Illyria—alone?
Azriel took a slow, measured breath, reminding himself to stay calm. He wasn't great with young children, his only real experience being Nyx, but he did know they could be easily frightened. Especially by him. He kept his hands visible, palms up as he crouched a few paces from the girl, careful to remain unthreatening so as not to spook her. "Hello," he said quietly, voice as gentle as he could manage. His eyes flickered to her hands. “What have you got there?”
Her gaze darted downward, and she clutched the object tighter to her chest. She looked so scared, reminding Azriel of a cornered animal. His mind flickered back to another time—another child, young and alone, hiding amongst the shadows of a war camp. A boy who’d spent his days huddled in dark corners, shivering and afraid of being found by his older brothers. He shoved the memory down deep, before it could sink its claws into him.
His shadows twitched in response, as though reminded themselves. Azriel willed them to still, to remain out of sight until he could get the girl to safety, but they were temperamental, sentient beings. They snaked forward anyway, disobeying their master and drifting towards the child.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t cower like most others would. Grown men had trembled at the sight of them, at the knowledge of the violence they could inflict. Had inflicted. Instead, the girl merely tilted her head, watching the shadows with something Azriel dared call curiosity. She shuffled closer, just a fraction, causing Azriel’s breaths to stutter. Suddenly, the object she was holding tumbled from her grip, hitting the floor with a soft clatter.
It was a doll, or at least that was what Azriel assumed it was meant to resemble, crudely made from a cluster of twigs wrapped in fabric.
The girl scrambled to retrieve it, but Azriel’s shadows, drawn to her for some inexplicable reason, curled toward her instead. He stopped breathing.
She picked up the doll, cradling it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. A pang shot through Azriel, a sharp twist of something he couldn’t quite name. Her lips parted, her voice barely a broken whisper as she murmured one small word: “friend.”
Azriel swallowed. "She’s your friend?" The girl nodded, still clutching the doll to her chest. He saw her knees peek through the tattered fabric of her clothing—barely more than rags. They were a bloodied, scraped mess and Azriel's chest tightened in feeling.
His shadows curved around his fingers, reaching out again. Before he could even try to pull them back, the girl lifted out a small hand towards them, letting the tendrils brush against her palm.
And then... she giggled.
Despite the circumstances, despite the miserable, rotting barn this girl had clearly been staying in for an indeterminable amount of time, Azriel felt a warmth grow in his chest at it. It was a purely innocent sound. Child-like and carefree in a way that suggested her childhood hadn't yet been entirely ripped from her. And there was something about her... something Azriel found almost... familiar.
It hit him—the shadows, the way they moved contentedly toward her and the way she’d responded in kind. He stilled, staring at her, taking the time to notice what he’d failed to before. It was faint but real, the swirling, dark shapes moving just beyond her tiny frame, peeking over her shoulders like watchful sentinels.
A Shadowsinger.
A shocked breath escaped Azriel's lips as he blinked, struggling to process what that meant. How rare... how exceedingly rare he was to find another of his kind. A child with such power, here, alone. How had no one noticed? How long had she been here, hiding, all by herself?
He shifted slightly, lowering himself even more, so he was at her level. “Can I help with those?” he asked softly, gesturing to the painful-looking scrapes on her knees. He would get to it all later, think about everything when he had a glass of whisky in hand. He first had an injured child to attend to. The girl hesitated, her eyes flicking to his hands and Azriel instinctively tucked them behind his back, a flash of insecurity crashing through him.
Even after all these years, he'd never be used to the stares. He never liked the marks that served a constant reminder of the brutality he’d endured in his youth, the time in his life where he was weak, defenceless and without anyone by his side. He also worried, subconsciously, that his appearance would frighten her.
The girl didn’t speak, just appraised him with those wide blue eyes. After a moment, her arms lifted in an unspoken invitation.
Azriel didn’t take any time in scooping her into his hold, the warmth of her small body pressing against his chest. Their shadows danced around them in a strange rhythm, as though in greeting to an old friend. Like calling to like. He curled a protective wing around her, shielding her from the cold draft that blew through the cracks of the walls.
She shivered slightly and nestled closer, and Azriel realised then that he was in deep, deep shit.
This girl—this child—wasn't just some abandoned fae. She was a Shadowsinger, one of the rarest beings in Prythian and if anyone found out about her, she'd be a target for the rest of her life. And not just to people who would want her dead: to power-hungry fae who would see her ability, her youth and naivety, and wish to use her to further their own selfish agenda.
Azriel’s resolve tightened. As her eyes fluttered shut in exhaustion, her tiny hands still clutching that twig doll, he knew there was no turning back now.