A Court of Light and Shadow

Chapter 8

THE HEIRESS

Days had passed. Sunrise was both the best and worst part of my day.

Yes, I was looking forward to getting these damn wings to work but I was nervous nonetheless.

I mean, alone.. with Azriel. All morning.

He was strangely quiet yet somehow talkative all the same. He spoke short sentences. Always made sure to get his word across and that was all.

Even as we stood here, far away from the House of Wind, I noticed his silence.

There was a lake, because Azriel claimed that crashing into a body of water was far better than crashing into cobblestone.

He wasn't wrong.

The lake itself was surrounded by giant boulders, and trees. One of which had a dent in it.

"Feyre." Azriel had said while I stood next to it. This is where she had learned to fly. And where she had crashed into a tree.

The thing was, Feyre wasn't a pure blooded Illyrian. She had shape-shifted herself to become one, a power granted to her by another High Lord.

The High Lord of Spring. Tamlin.

Azriel was dumping so much information on me (because I asked) that I could barely focus.

We stood stretching our wings, a warm up, he told me.

"How come he has the pointy ears then?" I asked him. I copied Azriel's posture, his stance. And I followed his movements. Or tried to. After my first unexpected exercise with him the other day, they were sore.

"Rhysand is half-Illyrian," He explained, his eyes fixated on my wings. "And half-High Fae." His eyes met mine.

"Explains the power situation." I mumbled.

Azriel's lips curved up into a faint smile, nearly nonexistent. But it was there nonetheless.

"Anymore questions?" He asked me.

My eyes raked over his body. His torso specifically. What I saw last night was imprinted on my mind. Those tattoos. They hadn't been the main thing I focused on then, but I had still noticed them. The intricate swirls, ending near his elbows. Over his pecs, fading by his abdomen.

"The tattoos." I spoke.

Azriel's eyes narrowed slightly. For an Illyrian I knew quite little about their ways. Their culture. What they could and couldn't do. Why me, Azriel and Cassian had rounded ears and why the others had pointed ears. What the tattoos meant, and why they hated their women so much.

He started walking, moving to stand behind me as I worked my wings.

The great bat like wings, still so weak and fragile after two centuries. Still so useless after nearly a week of working them.

"Do you know of the Blood Rite?" He asked me.

I had heard whispers over time. My dad mentioned the name to clients. But I never quite knew what it was. So I shook my head.

It was quiet for a moment. I could not see him, because he stood behind me. It felt weird, to have a warrior like him stand in my blind spot.

"Once Illyrian warriors are to be initiated as true warriors, they'll participate in the Blood Rite." He spoke at last. His voice was smooth, yet rough on the edges all the same. I liked it.

"To keep it short. Novice-warriors are stripped of all weapons, magic and syphons, and they get tossed into the Illyrian Mountains." He explained. I listened. He came back around to look at me.