Touched by the Flame || Azriel Shadowsinger

Chapter 8

Two days had passed since Soraya had seen anyone aside from the faeries wandering the street outside her window. The last person to make an appearance had been Azriel in all his cold, dark, menacing glory. She was there to heal, he had said. It didn't feel like anything but the bruise on her face and the claw marks in her arm were healing.

Almost a full week she had been in Prythian, and not once had she gotten a full night of sleep. Not once had she closed her eyes, of her own free will, and gone hours without opening them. It was weighing on her. She could hardly move through the endless, suffocating exhaustion that had her rooted in place.

Soraya blinked up at the ceiling from where she lay on the floor. An hour ago, the room began to spin, and her head felt light enough to float off her shoulders. Soraya had collapsed to the floor in a heap. She couldn't even remember if she lost consciousness. Whether from exhaustion or not eating, she wasn't sure. But on the floor, she had decided to stay. 

A series of careful knocks sounded at the front door before it began creaking open. Soraya mustered all her strength. She hauled her aching body to her feet and steadied herself against the dining table, glaring at the frosted pastry on the porcelain plate before her.

Why would they put so much effort into the illusion of security? Why try so hard to make her feel safe only to turn on her? Many a time, Soraya had nearly caved and eaten the prepared meal laid out for her. Only by reminding herself that she was still locked away did she resist. In a brief surge of red-hot anger, Soraya swept her fatigue-trembling hand in an arc across the table. The plate crashed to the wooden panels at her feet, scattering beautiful garnish and pieces of porcelain across the floor.

A startled rasp of a breath cut through the abrupt silence that followed. Soraya sucked in a sharp breath of her own to ready herself for whoever had decided to pay a visit.

"Are you alright?" A deep, smooth voice asked. Azriel.

Good. She had been left with plenty of time to think up more questions for him.

"Your ears are different," she began before he could further question the outburst.

Soraya pressed her palms to the table as a brace for her teetering weight. White spots danced in her slowly darkening vision. With a huff, she blew away the hair curtaining her face in order to look up at the shadowsinger.

He was frowning. A mixture of confusion and what could have passed as concern.

"Pardon?" He spoke softly, apparently afraid he might startle her should he speak to her like a normal person. Azriel's eyes, more gold than hazel, flicked between Soraya and the broken plate on the floor.

"Faeries have pointed ears, right?" She tried her hardest not to sound as breathless as she felt. "Rhysand, Feyre, Lucien..."

"High Fae have pointed ears, yes." Azriel's brows twitched toward one another. "I am Illyrian. A type of lesser fae." By the way he said it, he must not have been too fond of the term "lesser fae." Or perhaps it was that he didn't like branding himself an "Illyrian."

"How does Rhysand have wings like yours if he is High Fae?"

Azriel hesitated, presumably wondering why she had so many questions. "He was born of an Illyrian mother and a High Fae father. He can summon his wings whenever he wishes."

Soraya went silent as she studied Azriel's mighty Illyrian wings. The sunlight from the windows illuminated every vein and made them look more of a deep red than black. She hated them. Hated what they reminded her of.

The attor's similarly webbed wings flashed before her eyes and Soraya flinched back at the memory of its talons tearing across her face. She resisted the urged to touch the scar.