Dark Light

59. Silver, Iron, and Siphons

Author's Note

The only preface this is gonna get is this: I hate writing rn, but I love this story, so I'm always gonna give it my all, and this is really, truly what my "all" looked like for this chapter.

Apart from hating Azriel's POV, I think this is some of my best writing. I hope you enjoy.

Also, please pick a font that can be bolded and italicized (this sentence should be both).

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Azriel heard the sound of war before he even finished winnowing. It was a haunting harmony of battle cries and chaos, rebels' yells and order, an infinite exchange of life and death so discordant but simultaneously euphonious that it made war and all its pain and suffering impossible to forget.

But right then, Azriel didn't care about himself. He didn't care that this battle would scar him as all the others had and all the others would. Because right then, he was more worried about (Y/n) and if she'd be all right after all . . . this.

Now, Azriel wasn't stupid. He knew (Y/n) had fought and killed before, but war was different. So he'd do everything to minimize the damage, to keep her as innocent as possible.

The corners of Azriel's mouth twitched up because he could almost hear (Y/n) now. She'd say something like, "I'm not innocent." And if looks could kill, hers would've, all graceful and stylish attitude, coiled to strike. But compared to him, she was innocent.

Azriel fell from the black sky with thousands of Illyrians and other winged faeries. They spread their wings to slow their descents, but he did the opposite to get ahead.

Prythian's hastily unified army advanced through the olive tree fields on fire, broke through Cretea's declining defense to get to the front lines, and attacked Vallahan's infantry. It was a raging, wild impact of magic, beasts, and bodies.

And then the sky, as if storming, thundered — but there was nothing natural about the noise. It gave Azriel goosebumps.

Go, Rhysand suddenly said in his mind. If we can't get Nesta to the Cauldron in time . . . you should be with her . . . And again, I'm sorry, brother.

Azriel's nose stung with tears, but he wouldn't let himself cry. He only thought back, Thank you, brother.

And then Azriel's shadows said what Rhysand wouldn't, couldn't.

You should be with her . . . when the world ends.

If. Azriel spread his wings and turned to the capital, to (Y/n). Not when, if.

When he was about a furlong away from her, he unsheathed Truth-Teller, and to Azriel's surprise, it shook as if in protest. He held his knife up and gave it a look. Relax. It wasn't like he wanted to use it on (Y/n), nor did he need it for himself anymore, not really — but right then, when everything was falling apart, his knife's weight and whispers were a soothing balm on his soul.

"All right." Azriel took a deep breath and adjusted his grip on Truth-Teller. "Let's do this." But before he even finished speaking, he cringed — his shadows too. He didn't know what "this" was, but . . . I'll think of something.

Uh, yeah. That'd be nice.

Maybe try communing with The Burning One again?

Sure. Like that went well last time.

Azriel shushed his shadows. They were helpful, yes, but sometimes, like right then, they made thinking impossible.