Dark Light

14. Blade of Twilight

No one wasted any time.

Rhysand used magic to alter some Illyrian leathers and armor for you, much to Azriel's dismay, and then everyone regrouped in the foyer a few minutes later.

"Devlon's dispatching soldiers who can winnow," Cassian said, checking his weapons. "Winter and Spring are basically already there. Summer's coming from the West, so it'll take a bit longer. The rest are winnowing in soldiers. It should be enough."

"It better be," Rhysand said. His mouth bracketed with worry. "We can't let Vallahan think we're weak, not now."

You glanced around, trying to figure out your gloves. There wasn't time to clean and dress the blisters on your palms again, so leather gloves would have to do for the time being.

Azriel must've noticed you struggling because he walked right over and then took the straps from you. He wrapped them around your palm, in between your ring and middle finger, and then around your wrist — to finally buckle it in place. He did the same with your other hand.

"Thank you," you said, glancing up at him.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" he asked, voice low. "Have you ever even been to war?"

You knew he was only asking to gauge your experience, not make fun of you, so you answered, "No, but I promised I'd help, so I will . . . And I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at what I can do with a little sunlight and free-range."

The right side of Azriel's mouth twitched up, but his eyes were devoid of emotion. "Have you ever even killed someone?"

Your optimism, weak to begin with, faltered. "Once."

When you locked eyes, Azriel seemed to understand that the one time you'd killed someone must've had something to do with the one time you'd created light — which was actually the essence of Twilight.

Because of course it was.

"Oh, and thanks for saving me," you said, scratching your cheek. "Would've been a bummer if I died . . . Ha-ha."

A sliver of emotion returned to Azriel's eyes, but before you could figure out what it was, Rhysand interrupted your conversation.

"Here, Azriel," he said, thrusting a greatsword at his spymaster. "Don't use it unless absolutely necessary. Unless you're in a lot of trouble."

You had a feeling he was talking about you, not Azriel.

Azriel only stared at Rhysand in response, expression somehow both hollow and severe, so you broke the tension by joking, "Hey, guys, it's not like it's a Trove."

Nesta snorted, turning her face into Cassian's shoulder.

Your eyes widened as you glanced between Rhysand and the greatsword. "Is that . . ? Do you guys have other Trove items? Is that why you agreed to the—?"

"We'll discuss this later," Rhysand said, gathering Feyre to his side. "There was minimal planning, so do your best . . . Mor and Helion will be joining us shortly. Is everyone ready?"

Everyone murmured that they were.

Azriel, who was still by your side, raised his hand by his hip, palm up like he didn't want to scare you away.

It was an offer, a vulnerable one.

You'd planned on winnowing with anyone else, but . . .

You found yourself covering his gloved hand with your own.

As Azriel squeezed your hand, Rhysand said, "Alright. Let's do this."

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