The Flames in the Horizon

2

Early in the morning, before the first rays of sun paint the sky, Eris finds solace behind the desk in his newly decorated study. He settles back in the leather chair, a glass of amber liquor in his hand. He swirls the glass, watching how the liquid circles and reflects the golden hues from the lamp on the edge of the desk.

The hour was far too early for such a potent drink, but Eris found that he needed something to take the edge off, least his traitorous mind circle back to the brute down the hall. With a weary sigh, he turns his gaze from the window to the pile of unanswered letters stacked on his desk. Each letter bares the mark of Night, the contents of each paper carrying a familiar tone of threats. Among them, Eris can discern the pleas for Azriel's safe return, most likely penned by Feyre. Over half the stack are from Cassian, all demanding his brother back. Eris only discerned the owner of the letters through the brutish handwriting. It most certainly couldn't belong to Rhysand, his handwriting is as pretentious as he is.

A new missive materializes before him, descending gently onto the desk. Eris raises a brow wondering why the High Lord of Night is up so early. Or perhaps he never slept, forced to stay awake least his mind convince him of the torture his spymaster must be going through. Eris rolls his eyes and reaches forward to grab the paper, the edges torn. Three words written in arrogant scrawl are scratched onto the torn slip of paper.

Is he alive

Leaning back in his chair, Eris ponders those three words. A simple sentence but the words are weighted more than the brevity of the question suggests. He could respond with snide remarks, questioning whether Rhysand truly believes his spymaster hasn't died centuries ago. He could write back telling Rhysand that Azriel had long since died, reduced to a mere shell of his former self, forced to carry out the burdensome duties bestowed upon him by none other than Rhysand. Eris felt the truth of it deep within his soul, the fading of Azriel's essences through the bond that ties them together, each passing day chipping away at a bit more of his mate. Mate. The word reverberates in Eris's mind as it did centuries away when he first realized he had found the other half of his soul.

It had been at a meeting of High Lords, much like the one attended yesterday. The meeting had been held at Day, Helion's indulgences in wine and pleasure setting the tone for the festivities. The courts greeted Tarquín, welcoming him as he was the new High Lord. Eris had been grateful then for his father's arrogance, dismissing the whole thing and sending his oldest son in his wake. Eris had been reduced to nothing. A pile of flesh and bone. Upon first sight, Azriel was beautiful. He stood amongst the attendants of Night, draped in their signature obsidian attire. His wings, taut against his back, rose majestically over his shoulders, the talons of the membranes reaching up to curl toward his inky hair. Shadows wove themselves around the male, caressing his arms and thighs and Eris had been struck with envy, wanting nothing more than to touch the male as the shadows did. Upon further inspection, he was devastating. His beauty could rival the seas, drive kings and queens alike fall to their knees and start wars for the male. Priests and priestesses would be struck by him, the male kissed by the Mother. They would worship him and Eris would be his most devoted follower.

He had intended to speak to the spymaster of Night, share his knowledge of the bond and pray to the Mother for faith in acceptance. It was later that night, the sun long gone but the party still going, that Eris had slipped from the festivities and followed the tether inside him to the shadowsinger. Upon standing in front of a door, the guest room belonging to the spymaster, Eris froze. The Illyrian was not alone. Grunts and moans spilled out into the hall and the sudden scent of sex assaulted Eris who had to put a hand over his mouth and nose. He did not speak to the spymaster that day, nor did he attempt to again.

Eris extends his arm across his desk, retrieving the bottle of ink sat in the corner. He opens the top left drawer and pulls out a slip of parchment. Taking a quill and dipping it into the ink, tapping it gently against the lip of the glass container to rid it of excess ink, he writes back a simple yes. The paper goes up in flames, arriving somewhere in Rhysand's home. The parchment does not come back, nor are there any more letters throughout the morning. Eris stays in the study until breakfast. Despite being up for hours, he's late to the dining hall. When he crosses the room, his brothers and mother are already seated and the first course is being served. Eris ignores the seat placed at the head of the table and sits beside his mother.