The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 13

Azriel flipped the dark blade in his hand, once again wrapped in scraps of white cloth. He hadn't necessarily planned on doing any work with his hands, at least nothing that would require protection for his knuckles. But it had become a habit, over five centuries, to wrap them before stepping into any training environment. For nearly as long as he could remember he had covered his hands, thus allowing no opportunity for pitying glances and horrified stares.

Fluidly he sliced through the night air, the blade singing in his grasp. His body was so attuned to the choreography of his practice that his mind would wander freely. In the training ring it was generally safe to allow it to do so. And so his shadows swirled lazily around him, dancing in his distraction.

Suddenly the shadowsinger froze, eyes widening, shadows tremoring over his tattooed shoulders.

He couldn't recall the last time he'd hidden his vile, violent hands from Gwyn.

Had he ever?

There hadn't been time or necessity when he'd stepped through the writhing darkness into Sangravah. He hadn't felt one iota of concern if those animals felt horror or fear in his presence. All the better. And when he'd hastily wrapped his cloak around the copper-haired girl's shuddering shoulders his only thoughts had been to comfort and protect her.

They had been wrapped the first time she saw him in the training ring. The spymaster hadn't known she was the priestess that had become Nesta's friend, but he had been pleasantly surprised. If she could go toe-to-toe with Nesta without being intimidated there had to be a fiery spirit in there.

If she could grant him even the barest hint of a smile on that first day, recognizing him as well, then there was a strength inside her that he needed to know.

Azriel hadn't worried about the scars when he was correcting her form on that frigid night nearly a year ago. When he first noticed how his shadows seemed curious to know her – much like himself, even though he hadn't been quite prepared to admit it. He had directed her gaze to his wrist, without even a thought of the melted, mottled skin that her lovely nymph eyes would find there.

When she'd reached up to him, eyes blazing in feral satisfaction as she completed the Blood Rite Qualifier, demanding her prize and receiving his hand. When he'd crushed her to his chest in desperate relief after she'd returned from Ramiel. When all he'd wanted to do was reach for her when she had told him that she missed him, even as he was convincing himself that staying away from her was best for both of them.

And every moment they'd had together since. He hadn't stopped to worry about his fingers laced with hers, to fear that she might flinch away from the whorls of ruined flesh as he raised his knuckles to brush her cheek. He hadn't felt that wretched, overwhelming anxiety a single moment in her presence.

And wasn't that an earth-shattering, life-altering realization.

His chest was so tight he couldn't take a full breath. What did it mean, that he'd never felt the need to hide his hands from her?

"If you're going to be out here not training, the least you could do is not wear a shirt while you're at it."

Had he been less practiced, the teasing voice that pierced the deafening silence might have made him jump. Especially since his rebellious shadows seemed determined to allow a certain freckle-faced, teal-eyed priestess into his space with no whisper of warning. But the spymaster couldn't find it in himself to be too greatly frustrated – Gwyn sneaking up on him always seemed to bring a lopsided grin to his face. A pleasant, unexpected comfort.