A Court of Golden Shadow || Elain x Azriel

Chapter 39 - Cinnamon Rolls

Azriel watched the local fae amble up and down the street, carrying on with their business, holding parcels and baskets, greeting one another in passing before ducking into nearby doorways. Rolling his shoulders back, he crossed his arms tighter, his eyes scanning the street. It always seemed like Velaris had a magical ability to simply... carry on. No matter what horrific trials Azriel endured, he knew that somewhere, Velaris would always be bustling and thriving, oblivious to the darkness unleashed upon less fortunate fae in less appealing parts in Prythian.

He winced, adjusting his posture again as he rubbed his bruised neck, the skin still taut and angry from the duel. Rustling his wings, he leaned against the window frame, lowering himself onto the window seat, his leg stretched out before him as his other foot rested on the ground. He was in the townhouse in the front bedroom overlooking the street, Elain napping peacefully on the feather-down bed behind him. The room was darkening from the sun beginning to fall below the rooflines, and Azriel wondered if she would sleep through until morning again. She had been sleeping almost nonstop since they returned from Winter, the exhaustion of the past few weeks catching up to her.

Elain was perfectly healthy, according to Madja, though she might have a thin white scar beneath her chin. Azriel's mind conjured the image of Tamlin's dagger at her throat, and he felt his fists clench and twist again, a wave of tense violence rippling across his wings as his shadows began to stir in an eager hissing, begging their master to be released— to seek revenge.

Closing his eyes, he stilled his thoughts, his ears focusing instead on Elain's thumping heartbeat. He listened to her breathing, his scarred hands relaxing as he leaned back his head to the wall, allowing his wings to fall as well, resting against the window seat.

It was all so surreal.

The duel. Elain. Everything since Patras colliding and swirling in his mind— the emotions from Koschei's Lake to the bliss of Rosehall... it was as if he had been whipped back and forth between pain and pure happiness. From fighting Elain in the rain to fighting Tamlin in Kallias' throne room— Azriel felt as though this had been the most dramatic two weeks of his five centuries.

The memories of the duel—of his opponent and the near-death experience, suffocating in agony on that wretched cold floor, only to be saved by Lucien's interference in the duel... Azriel wondered how his opponent was fairing, or in fact, IF he was fairing at all. Perhaps Tamlin was rotting in the ground somewhere...

The thought sent a wave of sick pleasure through his gut.

The truth was that he had felt quite... ambivalent... toward Tamlin before Winter. He was a fucking cad and a worthless High Lord, and he deserved to suffer for what he did to Feyre, but he had also helped Azriel free Elain from the Hybern camp, risking his own position within their ranks. It had sort of settled the score in a way, placing the High Lord of Spring in some sort of distasteful category in Azriel's mind, but not necessarily an enemy.

But now?

He glanced back again, watching Elain's small chest rising and falling beneath the silk sheets, her curls splayed in a halo around her sweet head, oblivious to the seething Shadowsinger keeping watch across the room.

Now Tamlin had just created an enemy for himself.

A most unfortunate enemy.

Because Azriel was going to hunt him down.

He was going to hunt him, and he was going to kill him. But not before he tortured him.

His mind began coiling up, striking and salivating over the kinds of torture he could inflict upon the High Lord. The drawn-out satisfaction of maiming him slowly, deliciously over time, but only after a nice long hunt. Azriel smirked, gazing back down the street toward the passing fae, his eyes locking on one high fae in particular. A male with violet eyes.