The Symphony of Shadow

2: 'The Likes of Shadows'

A Z R I E L

Some hours later, Azriel briskly sorted through his notoriously extensive supply of weapons, selecting those he would need for his much undesired trip to Illyria. He wasn't planning to be seen, but over five centuries of fighting had taught him never to go somewhere unprepared - and he would never leave the House of Wind without Truth Teller regardless.

Rhys had tasked him with finding information regarding the tunnels built in secret, by an unidentified group of Illyrian rebels. He would feedback at the River Estate tonight, allowing the Inner Circle to devise a plan, in order to prevent said rebellion.

That would be a difficult and intricate task: completely terminating the Illyrian's plan by confronting them and destroying the tunnels- would be easy, but would also enrage the Illyrians more. Thus, the little progress made with the pig-headed warriors, and their treatment of the females, would be obliterated.

On the other hand, doing nothing would unmistakably result in some form of rebellion, which the Night Court couldn't risk right now - not with the threat of Koschei looming over them.

This meant they would be proceeding to walk a very narrow line of action. And as spymaster, Azriel's duty was to ensure the Inner Circle were well informed,  so the best decision would be made for the Night Court.

Equipped with all seven, ice-blue siphons, Azriel sauntered out of his room.

He was clad in black leathers and boots, with a stoic expression set habitually on his face, letting no emotion show. He stood tall, allowing his towering, dark, muscular figure; and the wide expanse of his wings to heighten his image of the lethal, unremorseful spymaster.

Stepping out onto one of the House of Wind's many balconies, Azriel spread his wings wide, letting them bask in the sun for a moment, before begrudgingly beating them inwards, the force of it pushing him off the ground. He opened his wings once he was a few feet in the air, then beat them again to elevate himself to a higher altitude. He repeated these movements a few times, until he gained enough speed to glide smoothly through the light winds.

Once he breached the House of Wind's protective wards, Azriel focused on his destination, willing himself to sink into the darkness of his shadows, letting them engulf him whole, until he became one of them. It was a strange feeling to get used to, but never as sickening as the likes of Feyre, Rhys and Mor's winnowing abilities. He felt... light - like he was floating.

He heard that familiar rush as he fell backwards into the live, dark, depths of his shadows' void. Immediately after, he was quickly scooped into the current of another shadow, and just like that, he was in Illyria.

Except he was no longer in his tangible body: he could still see from where his eyes would be; he could still hear from where his ears would be; could still smell from where his nose would be...

But he was a shadow. He could feel everything they felt; could hear everything they heard... But his body was undetectable to others. Passers-by would only see the shadows they saw every day.

The shadows had... a sixth sense of sorts. Where the fae could scent or hear someone's presence, his shadows felt it within themselves. They could feel lies; they could feel the locations of his enemies; they could feel the locations of his family; they could feel some emotions; they could listen to the conversations of people who weren't in the same room as him. All Azriel had to do was make the order. He had truly no idea why the shadows were capable of such things, another of life's greatest mysteries...

He travelled swiftly through the shadows around the war camps, using his shadow's sixth sense to locate the tunnels. The spy, who had alerted him to the existence of the tunnels, had claimed they had been mined through the mountains, so he decidedly kept to the outskirts of the villages, keeping towards the dense, mountainous, conifer forests.