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The House of Wind had settled into that peculiar hush that only came in the deepest hours of night, when even the wind beyond the mountain seemed to soften its song against the stones and the lanterns in the halls had burned low enough to cast the world in gold and shadow.
Azriel had always preferred these hours.
There was less pretending in the dark. Less expectation. Less noise.
He sat alone in one of the smaller sitting rooms tucked along the western hall, a place lined with towering shelves and old armchairs softened by age, where the windows stretched from floor to ceiling and looked out over Velaris, sleeping and silver beneath the moon. The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to a bed of glowing embers that pulsed with slow, breathing light, and in his hand, a crystal tumbler of whisky caught and fractured that amber glow each time he turned it.
He had been turning it for the better part of an hour, watching the liquid climb the glass and slide back down again in slow amber waves.
Round and round.
Pointless and restless, like every thought in his head.
He tipped the whisky back and let the burn spread down his throat, welcomed it, even. It was easier to focus on the sharp heat than the ache in his chest that had become so familiar these past months.
Months since Rhys had stood in the shadows of his office in the River House and reminded him, in that quiet, cold voice only a High Lord could wield, exactly what was expected of him.
Months since Azriel had been forced to look at the thing festering in his heart and call it what it was.
Want.
Need.
Loneliness.
He exhaled through his nose and shut his eyes.
Three brothers. Three sisters.
He had been a fool to let the thought root itself in him. To let hope, that vile and fragile thing, whisper in his ear.
Elain was beautiful. Gentle. Soft where the world was sharp. She had a way of looking at him that made him feel, for a moment, less jagged. Perhaps he had mistaken that feeling for peace. Perhaps he had mistaken the silences and the almosts for something more than they were.
Or perhaps there had been something.
He did not know anymore.
He only knew Rhys’s words had cleaved through every illusion.
You believe you deserve to be her mate?
Azriel’s jaw tightened.
He had not answered then because there had been no answer.
No, he did not think he deserved her.
Did not think he deserved much of anything.
But had he wanted?
Cauldron boil him, yes.
And yet… Lucien.
The male’s name slithered through his thoughts like smoke.
Lucien, who watched Elain with yearning he did not bother to hide.
Lucien, who had been bound to her by fate itself.
Lucien, who waited.
Azriel rolled the glass between his scarred fingers and stared into the amber depths.
He had told himself for months that the bond was wrong. That Elain’s silence around Lucien was proof enough. That the way she shrank from him, the way she did not seek him out, the way her eyes sought elsewhere…
Proof.
The Cauldron had erred. Had made a cruel choice.
But tonight, with the mountain silent and the whisky no longer enough to dull the thoughts gnawing through him, Azriel found himself circling the question he had refused to face.
Was it the Cauldron that was wrong?
Or him?
Because beneath the resentment, beneath the jealousy and the quiet bitterness, there had always been another truth. One he had never spoken aloud.
He envied Lucien.
Not because Lucien had Elain.
Because Lucien had a mate.
A thread. A certainty. A soul made to answer his.
Azriel laughed once, softly and without humour.
Pathetic.
Five hundred years and still he craved like some untried youngling.
He craved the thing his brothers had found. The impossible peace he had seen settle over Rhys when Feyre smiled at him. The fierce, brutal devotion in Cassian’s eyes whenever Nesta entered a room.
To be chosen.
To be known.
To be seen fully and still wanted.
The thought lodged in his throat.
His shadows stirred at his shoulders, whispering along the walls, restless.
He ignored them and poured another measure of whisky.
The knock at the door was so soft he nearly missed it.
Azriel stilled.
He had not heard footsteps. He had not been alerted to a presence.
He turned his head.
And there she was.
Gwyneth Berdara stood framed in the doorway, moonlight pouring in around her like a halo. Her pale, freckled skin glowed beneath the silver light, her teal eyes bright and curious and far too perceptive for this hour. Her hair had been braided loosely over one shoulder, though half the braid had come undone, strands curling wild around her face. She wore a robe the colour of morning mist, belted carelessly at the waist, and in her hands she held a steaming mug.
Tea, of course.
A small smile curved her mouth.
“You’re brooding loudly enough to wake the dead.”
Azriel huffed a laugh before he could stop it.
Gwyn stepped inside, nudging the door wider with her hip.
“I thought I heard tragic sighing all the way from the library.”
“I do not sigh tragically.”
She hummed, unconvinced, and the sound brushed over his skin.
Azriel reached for the decanter.
“Can’t sleep?”
Gwyn crossed to the chair opposite him and tucked herself into it gracefully, cradling her mug in both hands.
“I could ask you the same.”
He poured another finger of whisky.
She watched the toffee coloured stream fill his glass.
“Cassian says that when people brood in dark rooms with alcohol, it is usually because of romance.”
Azriel nearly choked.
“Cassian says many idiotic things.”
Gwyn laughed softly, and the room softened with the sound.
“He has been reading over Nesta’s shoulder it would appear.”
Silence settled after it, comfortable and light.
For a moment.
Then Gwyn’s gaze sharpened.
“What are you thinking about?”
Azriel stared into his glass.
He could lie.
Should lie.
But there was something about Gwyn, about those clear eyes and that open face, that made falsehood feel impossible.
“Mating bonds.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around her mug.
Only slightly.
Azriel noticed.
He noticed everything about her these days.
Her face remained calm.
“Ah.”
He frowned.
“That’s all you have to say?”
Gwyn sipped her tea.
“Depends. Are we discussing mating bonds in general, or a particular mating bond?”
Azriel let out a slow breath.
“Elain and Lucien.”
Gwyn’s expression stilled.
Not cold. Not guarded.
Simply attentive.
“And?”
Azriel exhaled slowly.
“I’ve spent months telling myself the bond was wrong.”
Her eyes softened.
“Because she doesn’t want it.”
He nodded.
“Because she doesn’t seem happy.” He stared into the fire. “Because if the Mother or the Cauldron or whatever force creates these bonds saw clearly, then why choose a path that causes pain?”
Gwyn was quiet for a long moment.
The fire crackled.
The wind whispered beyond the glass.
Then she asked softly, “Do you think the Mother makes mistakes?”
Azriel let out a humourless laugh.
“I think the world does.”
Gwyn smiled faintly.
“That wasn’t my question.”
He looked at her then. Really looked.
At the steady certainty in her gaze.
At the wisdom there. Older than her years and yet achingly young.
Azriel sighed.
“No,” he admitted. “I don’t know.”
Gwyn nodded slowly and tucked one leg beneath her.
“The Mother creates the bonds,” she said quietly, “but she does not force us to honour them.”
Azriel frowned.
She traced the rim of her mug with one finger.
“Perhaps that’s the point.”
He lifted a brow.
She looked toward the fire.
“Perhaps the bond is not a command. Perhaps it is an offering.”
His breath caught.
Gwyn continued, her voice soft and thoughtful and achingly earnest.
“Some offerings are easy. Some are difficult. Some come at the wrong time. Some ask us to heal before we can accept them.” She smiled sadly. “And some are simply… missed.”
The last word lingered in the room.
Azriel’s chest tightened.
“What if they hurt more than they heal?”
Gwyn’s eyes flicked back to his.
“Then perhaps they teach.”
Azriel stared at her.
At this priestess-warrior-female who had clawed herself back from darkness and still believed in the goodness of the world.
He envied that too.
Gwyn tilted her head.
“What if the Mother chose someone for you?”
Azriel blinked.
“For me?”
She nodded, moonlight dancing in her hair.
“What if somewhere in this world there is a soul made to answer yours?”
The words struck too deep.
He looked away and his throat tightened.
Gwyn’s voice gentled.
“Would you think it a mistake?”
He swallowed hard.
Would he? Gods, no.
He would treasure it.
He would worship it.
He would fall to his knees and thank the Mother for finally seeing him.
But would it feel wrong because he had wanted Elain? Would it feel like betrayal? Would he be able to let go of the idea he had clung to?
Azriel rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“I don’t know.”
Gwyn’s gaze did not waver.
“Would you reject it?”
He laughed softly, brokenly.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly. Too honestly.
Gwyn smiled, it was a small, secret thing.
Azriel frowned.
“And you?”
She blinked.
“What if the Mother chose someone for you?”
Her smile softened and turned wistful as she thought about what she wanted to say.
“I would trust her.”
The certainty in her voice was immediate. Unshaken.
Azriel studied her.
“You wouldn’t question it?”
She laughed softly.
“Oh, I’d question everything. I’m very good at overthinking.”
He smiled.
She smiled back.
Then looked down into her tea.
“But I would trust her.”
The room seemed to still around the words.
Azriel found himself asking, quieter now, “And if he didn’t want it?”
Gwyn froze.
Only for a breath.
Her lashes lowered.
A shadow passed over her face.
When she spoke, her voice was gentle enough to break him.
“If he were happy elsewhere,” she said carefully, “if his heart already belonged to another… then I would let him go.”
Azriel’s stomach dropped.
Gwyn kept her eyes on the mug in her hands.
“I would not take his happiness for my own.”
Her voice remained light.
Too light.
His chest tightened painfully.
“And if you knew before the bond snapped for him?”
She laughed softly, a broken little sound.
“I would not tell him.”
Azriel stared.
Gwyn shrugged one shoulder.
“I would rather love him quietly than burden him.”
The words struck somewhere deep and tender, in a place he had long since forgotten could ache.
Like anyone could ever think her a burden.
Something in his chest sparked, a sharp, bright tug that stole the breath from his lungs.
He shifted in his seat.
Gwyn looked up quickly, masking whatever had flashed across her face.
But her eyes…
Those impossible teal eyes were bright with something vulnerable, hopeful, and achingly sad.
She looked toward the fire again.
“But I think…” Her voice softened into something hopeful. “I think I would like one.”
Azriel’s chest clenched.
“A mate?”
She nodded.
Her cheeks pinkened.
“Yes.”
Her smile grew shy.
“I think I would like someone who sees all of me and stays.”
Gods.
Azriel could hardly breathe.
She laughed under her breath.
“Someone to laugh with. To train with. To argue with.” Her smile turned radiant and sad all at once. “Someone to come home to.”
The words hollowed him out.
Because he could see it.
Could see her laughing in sunlight.
Could see her filling empty rooms with song.
Could see her building a life with someone.
A male would be lucky beyond reason.
Azriel heard himself say, “The Mother would choose carefully.”
Gwyn looked at him.
He could not stop now.
“She would choose someone worthy of you.”
Her lips parted.
“Someone kind.”
Her breath caught.
“Someone strong enough to deserve your strength.”
Her eyes shimmered.
“Someone who sees how brave you are.”
A tear slipped free.
Azriel’s heart cracked.
“And beautiful,” he whispered.
Gwyn stared at him and then she smiled.
A knowing smile, so soft, so sad, so hopeful.
“He would just have to see it in himself too.”
The words hit him like a blow.
A spark lit deep in his chest, sharp and bright and alive.
Azriel sucked in a breath and his hand flew to his chest.
Gwyn’s eyes dropped there.
To the place beneath his palm.
Her breath caught.
The room went silent.
The spark pulsed once, then twice, like a thread tugging taut between them.
Impossible.
Azriel looked up.
Gwyn was already standing.
Her mug trembled in her hands.
Her face was unbearably tender.
“Goodnight, Azriel.”
His name in her voice made the spark flare hotter.
She reached the door, paused, and looked back.
“I hope when the Mother offers you happiness… you are brave enough to take it.”
Then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Azriel stood alone in the quiet.
His scarred hand pressed to his chest as though he could soothe the strange, bright ache there, but the spark only burned steadier, warmer, as if it had been waiting, and had finally been seen.
His shadows curled close around him, whispering and singing and restless as the wind.
And staring into the empty doorway where Gwyn had vanished, with her words wrapped around his soul and the phantom of her smile haunting him, Azriel wondered what in the Mother’s name he had almost missed.