𝒜 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝑅𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒮𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓈 | ᴀᴢʀɪᴇʟ

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

One hundred and ninety-six.

One hundred years, then ninety-six more after that. Nearly two hundred years living. It seemed so strange that Rhysand had been High Lord for only ten years. It had felt so much more than that. Perhaps since Arwen seldom spent time with her father if she could avoid it. Her father was a hard male—not unkind in heart, but harsh. Her brother was the dominant male figure in her life both because she made him so and he chose to be.

Arwen leant forward, the points of her elbows driven into the wood of her vanity as she stared at herself in the mirror. Just awoken, a dark green set of a silk singlet and pants-clad her body, and her hair was unruly.

She hadn't slept well, but the reason for it was unknown even to her. Blinking heavily to wipe away the remaining blur of sleep, Arwen lethargically reached for her brush and began running it through her hair. It was her birthday after all, and she should look decent for it.

It was still early, with dawn just cracking the horizon. She should already have gone leaping on her brother's bed, as tradition called her to do but she couldn't bring herself to go bounding out of her room. Sometimes he beat her to it, but there wasn't any sound to signal his awakening.

Azriel hadn't returned. It had been a month since he left, and to the Mother knows where. Rhysand kept minimal contact as far as he told her, making sure he was still alive but according to him, the court was capable of functioning without a spymaster for some time. Arwen remembered that Azriel had told her he would be there for her birthday this year. It didn't seem that he would keep to his word, hearing no sign of him.

Arwen sat up straighter on the wooden stool, righting every inch of her posture until she resembled nothing less than grace in the mirror. She pulled her lips wider, setting them into a soft, manageable smile.

Good.

Looking back to the glass panes where the curtains had been drawn wide, the sun crept even further into the sky. Deeming that she let Rhysand have enough of a sleep in, Arwen left her bedchamber and manoeuvred across the hall. Nuala and Cerridwen smiled and bowed their heads in a quiet greeting, knowing to keep their voices down so early in the morning before the rest of the house awoke. Which would be soon if Arwen had her way. Which she always did.

Rhysand laid sprawled on his side, wings free from the void he hid them in. She stood just inside of the bedchamber, still not gathering the energy to leap onto his bed, but it wouldn't be her birthday without a ceremonial wake up.

Plucking one of the soft pillows from a plush seat, she pinched it tightly in one of the corners and strode closer to the bed. Rather unceremoniously, she rounded it down through the air and thwacked it against his head.

His entire body jolted. Despite being asleep seconds ago, Rhysand became conscious enough to snatch the pillow before she could even pull it back up. Arwen lurched forward at the hard tug to it as they silently wrestled for control of the weapon. Older, bigger, and stronger—he won.

Lazily eyes fluttered open along with a crooked and tired smile as she fell onto the mattress. "G'morning," he grunted. "Feeling old yet?"

"Not until I'm your age." His knee jerked up from under the black sheet, hitting her thigh that lay on top. Arwen gave a small laugh of a single breath. "What's the plan for the day?"

With a waking sigh, he turned onto his back, wings disappearing. "We can do whatever you want until tonight."

"Tonight, huh?"

"Yes, and you're not finding out before then." Always the way. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

Arwen smiled again, though it was more of a quick uplift of her lips than something sincere. Sliding from his bed, she headed downstairs and into the kitchen. Nuala quickly moved in, offering an entire menu of options to choose from for breakfast, but Arwen kindly brushed her aside and said she intended to make it herself.