Chapter Text
The mist caressed his wings and the earthy scent of the forest wrapped around Azriel in a comforting embrace as he flew over the steppes. He was alert and focussed on the task at hand, yet took a moment to enjoy the feeling of the sun on his wings and the wind among his shadows: The simple pleasure of flying freely had not yet dimmed, and in the years since he was trapped in Velaris during Amarantha's reign he thought it never would again.
His scouts had detected something in the area a few days ago: Something or someone that left no discernable tracks or scent, but the two High Fae corpses they had found left little doubt that something malevolent was lurking.
He knew the two fatalities: They were both relatively high-ranking members of the Court of Nightmares. Not that he would particularly mourn either loss - Damon was a licentious and vulgar scoundrel with a penchant for young females (the less willing, the more appealing he found them), and Azriel had long suspected Morian was selling information to Keir to help him gain support against the Court of Dreams. There was no shortage of fae who either of them dead (in fact, Rhysand had asked him to look into 'disposing' of both of them), but neither male had any reason to venture so far from the Hewn City.
Above all, what was particularly bothering him was that the bodies had been mutilated. Morian's mouth had been sewn shut - from the look of the wounds, while he was alive - and Damon... well, if he had survived, his days of molesting females would have been over. The mutilations were far from the worst he'd seen, but their nature suggested the killer knew of their transgressions, and that they wanted to send a message. What the message was, and to whom: That was the real mystery. His first priority was to ascertain if there was any threat to his court.
He had already visited where the first body had been found, and had confirmed what his scouts had said: No trace whatsoever. Even his shadows hadn't picked anything up - whoever this was, they were skilled. Professional. As he landed in the clearing where the second victim was found, he fanned his shadows out to sense anything unusual. It had taken decades to learn to filter the information they fed him. At first, it had been overwhelming, and as a child he had almost gone insane - alone in his cell and unable to find any reprieve from their incessant, incoherent whispers. Whilst they were still a constant presence, he could now control them well enough to shut out the irrelevant chatter - even silence them completely if he concentrated hard enough. Today, though, he welcomed their counsel: They had found something.
East
Trees
His head whipped around to look for whatever they had seen. The spot was downwind, which was why he hadn't caught any scent. He still couldn't see anything... There. A faint rustle in the branches. He was about to winnow over when a voice rang across the clearing:
"It's about time, I was getting bored. Honestly I expected better from the infamous Shadowsinger of the Night Court. At least you're easy on the eyes."
The voice was taunting, playful... and female. He still couldn't see the source. He remained silent.
"Don't worry, I know better than to expect a witty repartee. You're obviously the strong silent type."
She dropped from the trees then - across the clearing he couldn't see her clearly, but she was tall, red curls bouncing at her shoulders. She wore tight fitting black clothes, something like fighting leathers, but they looked more geared towards flexibility and comfort than protection; they clung to her curves in a way the male gaze couldn't fail to appreciate.
"Another girl might be hurt not to receive a 'thank you' for the gifts, but I guess I should be flattered that you wanted to show me your gratitude in person".
Gifts? Only a truly warped mind could see mangled corpses as gifts.
She slowly stalked towards him, looking more jungle cat than fae female. As she got closer, he could see she was attractive - disarmingly so. Her hair blazed like crackling embers, in stark contrast to feline emerald eyes that danced with amusement. She wasn't the kind of beauty you painted, or the kind you envied on another male's arm. She wasn't a beauty that inspired sonnets, or the kind you keep in your thoughts when far from home. No, she was the kind men went to war over. She was the kind men killed for.
"Should I have wrapped them? Or are you just pissed you didn't get to squeeze the life from them yourself."
That snapped him back to reality. She knew too much. How long had she been watching his court? What sources did she have? This was definitely now a 'capture and question' rather than a cleanup.
He kept his voice even. "I can do my own dirty work. Who are you?"
She laughed - a deep, throaty sound. "Don't worry, Shadowsinger, I don't want your job." The way she said it made it sound like there was something she did want, though.
He thumbed Truth-Teller's edge, lowering his eyes to the blade, but still watching the mystery female from the corner of his eye. "Who. Are. You?"
"These are the fearsome interrogation skills that strike fear into the hearts of lesser fae? I'm trembling." She drew twin short blades from holsters on her back. Fine quality steel but with plain, functional handles. She spun her blades twice and dropped effortlessly into a fighting crouch, cocking her head and giving him a smile that could only be described as predatory. "Come on, Shadowsinger. Show me how you impress a girl."
He kept his face neutral and echoed her stance: Illyrian blade in one hand, Truth-Teller in another, and siphons flaring briefly in - if he was honest - a slightly indulgent display of power. He didn't know why he reacted to her call to impress her, but apparently he wanted to. His shadows, to his surprise, roiled. Instead of obeying his call, it was as if there were something in them reacting to his opponent.
Friend
Friend? His shadows trusted no-one except for him - not even Rhys and Cassian. And the mouthy female brandishing sharp objects at him was the time they chose to be trusting?! Excellent timing. It was enough of a distraction that he almost failed to parry her first strike - a strong blow aimed at his jugular. So well placed was the attack, even given the lack of ash, he would have been lucky not to be mortally wounded. As it was, he deflected the blow enough that it only scratched his cheek. He parried another viper-fast strike - this one aimed for the artery in his thigh, another potential killing blow.
They were practically a blur as they fought - Azriel made few attacks of his own, mostly dodging and parrying. She was in too close for him to use his siphons defensively, and he didn't want to risk using them offensively and killing her before he found out what she knew. His shadows were also stubbornly still refusing to cooperate. It had been decades... Centuries since he had struggled like this in a fight. He sent a mental call for backup to Rhys, who always had a gentle tether to his thoughts when he went out alone. He sent basic information only:
Could use a hand. One opponent. Skilled. For capture, not kill.
A sheen of sweat beaded on his skin as he rolled away from a swipe of her leg that could've had him fall prone, but she was already behind him. He rounded and readied himself for another blow, pushing closer to her to reduce the force she could put behind her next strike... And faltered as she brought her lips to meet his.
The kiss was like the thunder to the lightning of their battle. Slow and deep and powerful. Another time, another place, he could have lost himself in that kiss, but he knew this was likely a distraction tactic. He forced himself to pull back, and she caught his bottom lip between her teeth as he did. His eyes met hers... and he felt a sudden, earth-shattering snap in his chest. His world was broken apart and remade in that instant as he gazed into those eyes of verdant flame. And he realised in an instant why his shadows had seen her as kin, why they had refused to aid him against this beautiful storm made flesh....
Mate.
The assassin was his mate.
No, it had to be magic - some kind of trickery. Maybe she was daemati? Before he could react, night swirled into the glade, heralding Rhys' arrival. He used the momentary disorientation to throw himself clear of his ma... his opponent. A dramatic crack sounded like the cleaving of worlds as Rhys stepped into the clearing, the darkness rippling in his wake (were he not still dumbfounded, Azriel might have rolled his eyes at the typical theatrics). Rhys cast a worried glance his way for a fraction of a second - Azriel had no doubt he looked a far cry from his usual composed, collected self - before his mask slid into place. He wore his polished court clothes rather than his Illyrian leathers, and his wings were nowhere to be seen. Going for intimidation, then. Rhys appraised the situation with apparent disdain and was no doubt about to say something snide when the assassin dropped her blades and crossed her wrists above her head
"I surrender."
Surrender? That was the last thing he had expected. She had fought like a force of nature, and even if she was terrified of Rhys (a probability given his reoutation), her skills indicated she had a fair chance at escape. The coy smile playing on her lips certainly didn't betray any fear - lips that were still swollen and pink from their kiss, but luckily Rhys wasn't as observant as him. Rhys looked over to him with an eyebrow raised in question, and when it became clear he wasn't going to get a response, he approached her, grabbed her arm and winnowed. He'd take her, his mate - no, not his mate - to the dungeons beneath the Hewn City. He touched a hand to the healing scratch on his cheek, then to his lips, where the ghost of her still dwelt. Azriel would be expected to interrogate her, torture her, but whatever magic she had worked on him... He couldn't risk it affecting the safety of his family.
He had to tell Rhys.