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52. Rediscovery

A deathly silence blanketed the dining room.

Something inside you, something other and obsolete, called for — no, demanded — immediate justice.

But a quick look around the room told you everything you needed to know: that that justice would have to wait.

Unfortunately, it didn't matter how bad Azriel's father had been or still was; in addition to coming from royalty, he commanded respect with a single look, so you surmised he was a powerful, accomplished warlord. Without his support, you knew you could lose Illyria, and after Devlon had just won it back, too.

So the sensible part of you gave you pause for thought, and for some reason, Eris's ornament came to mind, that swirling piece of gold above your bed.

You'd visited that cart of ornaments as a human — and then, later, as a recently Made Illyrian High Lord.

You took a deep breath, mentally holding onto that ornament, to that object, to that constant that'd witnessed your humanity. Because if you didn't, you feared you'd tear Azriel's father apart, limb from limb.

And enjoy it.

To your right, Rhysand cleared his throat.

You blinked, slowly coming back to yourself, and flexed your fingers around the arms of your chair.

"Hello," you said evenly. You gave Azriel's father a quick once-over; he wore black leathers and four red siphons, one on each wrist and shoulder. "Azriel's told me about you."

You'd kept your tone and expression neutral, but based on everyone's nervous glances, the meaning behind your words had been loud and clear.

Azriel's father raised a brow and smirked. "My name is Renaud, but you may call me Ren."

You mirrored his expression. "And you may call me High Lord."

Azriel's whetted amusement made itself known through the bond, and even though you were wearing long sleeve black leathers, your skin broke out in gooseflesh. The middle of your back tingled under his gaze, too.

It felt like such a long time ago now, but just this morning, your mate's attention had been on you, all over you, your breasts, and his thigh between your own . . .

You shifted in your seat, hoping no one had . . . smelled your train of thought.

Azriel's crisp surprise almost made you smile. Almost.

You collected yourself when Renaud asked, "I can't call you my daughter?"

"No."

"No?" Renaud's voice was tinged with indignation. "(Y/n), darling . . . I went through the trouble of reclaiming Illyria for you. The least you can do is let me call you my daughter."

Behind you to your left, Devlon snarled. "The least she can do? She is your High Lord, Renaud. She doesn't owe you anything."

"I wasn't speaking to you." Renaud cut Devlon a sharp, bright glare, and it immediately reminded you of Azriel. Renaud was scarred and slightly wrinkled, and his hair was long and dark brown, but otherwise, Azriel had his face. He looked just like his father. "(Y/n) can speak for herself."

At Renaud's mock defensiveness, you glanced up, your patience wearing thin.

"Enough," you said, holding up your right hand. Everyone stared at your and Devlon's silver bargain mark. "In exchange for Devlon's unconditional honesty and loyalty, I gave him the greatsword Cesarea, a Trove forged by our very own Nesta Archeron. Devlon is the Blade of Twilight, Renaud. You will treat him with respect."