Severed and Forged

P A R T O N E

Angst with Happy EndingTW: Suicidal thoughts, mentions of SA, graphic depictions of violenceAs always, I promise the following topics are not included for shock value. They all have a point.

~oOo~

Koschei circled the shadowsinger, who knelt before him. Stripped of his armor and struggling to breathe beneath the weight of the iron chains that anchored him to the floor, Azriel was no threat. Not any longer.

But he remained the spymaster. He remained detached. His ocher eyes focused on the flickering torch mounted to the wall in front of him – the only source of light in the torture chamber of Koschei's keep. The flame licking the stone wall reminded him that he had other fears beyond this room. Beyond the duration of his imprisonment here in the Death God's castle.

He should've been better prepared during his recon mission with Gwyn. He should've known he was the target all along.

"I spend so many months preparing for you and you don't even wish to speak with me?"

Azriel was still ashamed of how it had surprised him. How he did not anticipate that the keeper of the Night Court's secrets, the master of the shadows, the High Lord's Angel of Death, was who Koschei had wanted. Not Feyre who held a kernel of every High Lord's power. Not her Made sisters. Not Rhysand, the most powerful High Fae male to exist. Him.

Well, him, but mostly his shadows.

Which Azriel had ensured were useless to Koschei, not relaying even a fraction of their power to the god. In turn the shadows had remained silent as the grave, shrinking back and shying away whenever he was near. Not imparting anything to him lest Koschei somehow detect their magic. As of now, the Death Lord only knew they were a part of him. Nothing more.

"Did you know," Koschei began, still circling Azriel, "that if you cut out a man's eyes, his hearing is said to increase ten-fold?"

Azriel did not respond, gaze still fixed on the torch in the wall.

There was the sound of singing metal, then a long, loud scraping noise. Azriel didn't need his shadow's whispers to tell him that Koschei had unsheathed his broadsword and was dragging it along the stone floor. The time had come for him to play with his food.

A master of torture himself, Azriel knew he did not have long. Koschei was making threats. Winding him up. It was the calm before the storm.

Azriel braced himself beneath the chains that kept his arms crossed over his chest, his wings that drooped against the floor twitched as Koschei continued to stalk around him.

"If you remove a man's tongue, his sense of smell becomes stronger," continued Koschei conversationally. He came to stand in front of Azriel, blocking the shadowsinger's view of that torch that had been keeping him tethered to reality. The Death God planted the tip of his sword in the floor, bracing his hands atop the hilt as he stared down at his prey. "So what do I need to remove to make your shadows useful, hm?"

Azriel felt a muscle in his jaw feather, but he kept his face a cool mask. Unwilling to let the enemy see the cracks in his defenses. To see that he knew what came next. That he knew it was a matter of time before he broke.

"I could remove your arms," Koschei said, angling his head. When Azriel didn't answer, he lifted the sword and tapped the flat side of the blade against Azriel's knee. "Perhaps your legs." He twisted the sword a fraction and the edge cut through the worn fabric on the spymaster's thigh.

The shadowsinger did not flinch. He did not falter.

Koschei's black eyes flickered, the edge of his lip kicking up in a cruel smile. "No, we'll leave your legs. Not to worry." He withdrew his sword and resumed his circling, again dragging the blade behind him.