A Court of Innocents

26: Epoch

I was staring into the faces of two cruel, wicked things locked inside the bodies of teenage boys. Their dark, beautiful hair and hazel eyes—those were Azriel's. But that was where the similarities stopped. Their crooked noses were too large for their faces, and their smooth, tanned skin screamed of wealth. High class Illyrians, if their small wings told me anything.

They strode into a dark cell, the only light provided by a torch in the taller boy's hands. They sneered at a pile of clothes in the corner. A second glance told me that it wasn't a mere pile of clothes, but a boy. So starved that he was little more than skin and bone. Underfed, small, and completely defenseless. He was shaking from the ice that filled this cell, and when he turned towards the light, I gasped.

"Azriel," I breathed, but none of them looked over at me, because I wasn't really here.

This was a dream. A memory.

Azriel was barely seven or eight, but I recognized him all the same. I'd know those hazel eyes anywhere, even if they were sunken behind a face so bony it was nearly terrifying. He didn't have nearly half the number of scars as he presently did, and his hands—the burn marks were gone.

Trepidation flashed through his eyes when he realized it was his half-brothers. Yet he rose to weak legs anyways. Already so brave, even from such a young age.

"Can I come out now?" His small voice was timid but hopeful.

"It hasn't been a full day since the last time you had your piss break," the oldest boy laughed.

"Don't get greedy on us, shadow creep. Father says that's bad manners, and you know what happens to people who have bad manners."

"They get punished," said his brother, and they both looked much too eager for Azriel to show even a hint of bad manners, solely so they could be the ones to inflict punishment on him.

Azriel's hope turned into resignation, and he returned to where he'd been sitting in the corner.

It came back to me then. Years ago, Rhysand had hinted at Azriel's childhood to me. Told me enough that I would understand why he has certain limits about things, or why he can't wander into certain Illyrian cities without losing himself for a few days. He'd said that Azriel's father had locked him in the cell beneath the family keep. No windows, no lights—a fate worse than death for any Illyrian who longed to fly.

"Wake up, Azriel. Please, wake up." I don't think I could stomach watching this memory of a dream.

Rhysand warned me that Azriel had been plagued by nightmares as of late, but he'd said they were about me and Tamlin. Not this horror.

"Why are you here?" Young Azriel finally asked.

His brothers just snickered as they stepped further into the cell. The younger one locked the door behind them. Azriel's eyes darted around them, and I recognized that look of panic. I'd felt it too many times with my own family. I knew what it was like to be cornered and outnumbered, knowing the only thing you could do was endure their torment and hope that they bored of you soon enough.

"The tutor taught us about the healing gifts that are bred into all Illyrians," said the oldest one, waving around that flaming torch a little too casually. "We want to test it out. I wonder how well it works on bastards like you."

Oh, gods.

The younger of the two pulled a flask out from where he'd tucked it in the back of his pants. He uncapped it with a swift flick of his finger. The smell of oil filled the small, dark space as he handed the flask over to the oldest boy, and then he moved towards Azriel.

It didn't take long to hold him down. Azriel had the heart of a fighter, but he didn't have the body of one. The older boys had fifty pounds on him at least, and his half-brother used that to his advantage as he dug his elbow into Azriel's windpipe.