A Court of Golden Shadow || Elain x Azriel

Chapter 8 - Dancing & Defiance

Azriel wondered why in Mother's name he had decided to torture himself like this.

Concealed in the shadows and hibiscus plants on the edge of the raucus party, he had slipped away just moments before Elain and her sisters approached his brothers and Helion. Azriel had not been able to look away from Elain from the moment she exited those curtains, and when she turned toward the dance floor, sauntering next to the fox, her skin-tight gown displaying her body in a way that he had never seen before...

Mother save him.

Cauldron boil him.

He was in hells.

For, to have her so near looking so ravishing, but unable to run his hands down her waist, twirl a finger in those golden curls, or even simply stand near and catch her scent... it was torture.

Azriel mused that the treatment he routinely inflicted upon his... targets... was nothing compared to the agony he was currently experiencing, watching the fox take Elain into his arms, gracefully guiding her into a waltz on the shining golden dance floor. Another wave of envy and pain coursed through his chest as he caught sight of just how good the mates looked together, Lucien and Elain dancing in perfect unison, their eyes averted from one another, his hand lightly holding her upper back, and mercifully for Azriel, barely grazing her skin.

He could at least find minor relief in the fact that he saw a warm smile slowly light up Elain's face as she swayed with the fox to the beat of the music. Her pleasure had always brought him pleasure, despite the fact that it had not come from him.

She is not yours. She is his. She has never been yours and will never be yours. She is finding her happiness. Azriel allowed the string of sentences to cycle through his mind, washing away the jealousy and reminding him of his place. Because Elain was different than Mor. She was mated. He could not sit around pining for her for centuries: he had to let her go.

The music shifted to a faster beat, the wind instruments joining with the drums, and Azriel watched as the sisters began a traditional Prythian group dance, swapping between Lucien, Rhys, and Cassian, tossing silly faces as they laughed, twirling and sparkling around one another.

The sounds of their joy carried and bounced off the surrounding guests, floating toward him like a chilling mist.

Three Powerful Made-Fae with three powerful high- status faerie males. The most powerful High Lord in history, the commander of the Illyrian armies, and a High Lord's son. Three sets of mates, and they were to be a family. The thoughts settled heavily on Azriel, sobering his mind and drawing an even heavier sense of loneliness deep within his gut. He felt himself sink further into the shadows, his despair shrouded only by the mask of indifference had had donned for centuries.

Who was he in comparison to the most powerful High Lord in history? How did he compare to a war hero... an army commander? Azriel didn't even stack up against the fireling; Lucien was Prythian royalty, even if he was a seventh son. Azriel was just a spymaster. Relegated to skulking around other courts and kingdoms, but never the one to lead one. He was a background player– a servant. Hells, for a time, Azriel had been a prisoner and a slave.

Sure, as a Shadowsinger, Azriel was magical in his own rite, but he was truly nothing compared to the mates the Cauldron had chosen for the sisters. The highest power in the known universe did not view him as worthy of Elain. And looking over from his place on the outside, watching her curls bounce to the beat of the music, her smile radiating toward her friends and family, Azriel felt himself agreeing with The Cauldron.

He wasn't good enough.

Turning away, he faded into the shadows and shot up toward the sky, now flaming orange and lilac from the setting sun. He needed to fly.