Shadowsinger

Chapter 2

Gwyn hadn't seen Azriel for days, not since she'd found him on the roof, he'd been called away for some sort of emergency, and she hadn't even been able to explain that she wasn't following him, she should never have joined in, he'd clearly wanted to be alone, perhaps that was why she'd run away. She groaned, and tried to focus on the pages in front of her, tried to disappear into her book like usual, but something kept her mind on the Shadowsinger, she found herself reading the same sentence three times while thoughts of him swirled in her mind. It wasn't that the book was bad, it was actually one of the best ones she'd read that month, but she couldn't help but see herself in those pages, herself and Azriel.

She almost threw the book across the room in disgust at the beautiful declaration of love, book Gwyn had no trouble talking to book Azriel about her feelings. She rolled over in her bed and pulled the blankets tighter around herself. She was such an idiot. Each time he'd been at training, she'd made sure to ask him for help, just to be closer to him, but maybe he thought she was pathetic now, that she couldn't do anything. Not that she was perfect, but she probably didn't need one-on-one training for swordplay and hand to hand combat, archery yes, but that had been the first time she'd ever shot a bow. Although if he was away much longer, Mor would have had time to teach her all she needed to stop personal tuition.

Was she so wrong for wanting to spend time with him? He'd seen her at her worst, her absolute worst, and he hadn't flinched, he'd just protected her when she couldn't protect herself. She still remembered the undiluted rage in his eyes when he'd killed the males pinning her down, still remembered the gentleness of his touch when he'd given her his cloak. Perhaps he still thought of her as that scared girl, perhaps all her asking for help was annoying, but how could she find another way to spend any sort of time with him?

*****

Azriel hated Windhaven. He hated Devlon. But mostly, he hated his own cowardice. Gwyn had found him that night because she was meant to, but he had been too slow, he had allowed her to think he didn't want her there. And then he had run away, faking an emergency. He struck the target again, and it splintered under the force of the blow, the sword cleaving straight through the wood, earning alarmed glances from the males around him. It was true that the camps needed inspection, but that could easily wait until Cassian got home, it wasn't urgent enough that he should have made Mor take over training the priestesses. He rotated his wrist, striking the second target with a backhanded blow that almost cleaved it in two.

For hours he worked through his thoughts, leaving far too many training targets in splinters, much to Devlon's dismay, who glared at him when he walked off the pitch. Azriel ignored him, heading straight for Rhysand's mother's old house. He fell into his old routines, dumping his weapons in the rack by the door, checking the house for any unwelcome visitors before a bath. He even left out a bowl of stew on the side for the female who had taken him in when no one else had, muttering the familiar prayer to keep her soul, and her daughter's soul safe in the afterworld. He should get back to Velaris, but even once he had tidied up the kitchen, even once he had cleaned the entire house, by hand, twice, he couldn't force himself to go outside.

He didn't get out of bed the next morning, only emerging at noon when someone pounded on the door. He dressed, and glared daggers at Devlon, standing on the doorstep like he owned the house.

"What?" he snarled,

"I assume you're here for a reason,"

"What's it to you?"

"This is my camp. I don't appreciate spies. The other bastard 'inspecting' is bad enough without you sniffing around as well. Tell Rhysand-"

"High Lord."