A Court of Blood & Mercy || Elriel Dual POV

Chapter 6 - To What Do I Owe The Pleasure?

Azriel scowled, stretching his leathery wings wider as he soared through the fog and wet mist, his scarred hands nearly brushing the tops of the evergreens as he flew low, his mind reeling and fists balling against his will. It was probably faster to winnow, but if he was being forced onto this mission, he was going to take his sweet time doing it.

He had woken up that morning with a royally fucked-up hangover, his veins still throbbing from an unsuccessful injection attempt the night before, thumping in harmony with another pounding migraine welcoming the Shadowsinger into yet another cursed day on earth. Before his feet had even grazed the icy granite floors beneath his bed, his shadows had hissed their warnings of an ominous presence waiting for him beneath the Stone Tree on the balcony.

Rolling over, he had considered burrowing back under the bed sheets or maybe winnowing out of the palace before the confrontation could even begin. He had already known the conversation was going to be... unpleasant... to put it mildly.

Tugging on a pair of leathers, the Shadowsinger lumbered down the winding marble staircase toward the entry hall of the Moonstone Palace.

"Visit Osenya lately?"

Rhysand's question bit through the stale air in the palace, bouncing off the walls and into the caverns of Azriel's throbbing skull. He felt his shoulders contract with tension as his jaw began to grind. It was too damn early for this.

"Actually, have you been anywhere south of Winter in the past five years Az?" Rhysand was standing on the stone balcony, his enormous wings displayed for show, outlined in starry glittering night, swirling and pooling around his form.

The High Lord had arrived in full-fighting form apparently.

But Azriel had also arrived ready to fight.

So he did not deign to offer a reply, simply crossing his arms over his muscled chest and leaning against a marble column with a neutrally cold expression cresting his cheekbones. Let the berating begin.

Rhysand angled his face toward his less-powerful brother, though he did not turn around, still gripping the rail of the balcony, his knuckles turning ivory as he clenched his jaw, his glittering wings flaring and contracting in hardly-contained vitriol.

Azriel stifled a scoff, forcing his face to remain neutral as he felt himself wondering if the High Lord's mate ever saw this side of his brother.

"I know this has been... difficult... for you." Rhysand finally turned around then, his brows drawn and tense as he spat the words out one by one. "You held onto Mor for, what? Four hundred years?"

Pushing off the balcony rail, the High Lord approached Azriel, shoving his hands into his pockets, feigning casual indifference where none existed.

"So what's it going to be this time then? Can I expect to have a functioning Spymaster in... I don't know... three hundred years this time? Or did this time really fuck you up to the point that we're going to go forever without useful intel from Autumn?"

Rhysand growled the words as Azriel realized he had begun to release a low hiss, his nails digging into his palms beneath his balled fists.

But the High Lord did not back down, stepping closer to his taller brother, his violet eyes spitting fire as the fog and mist billowed beyond the opening to the cavernous room, the wind all but shaking the granite structure as the magical brothers faced each other.

"You know I can't leave Velaris. You know this, and yet you damn us with your irresponsibility." Rhys spat the words as Azriel felt his arms shoot out from his chest, his biceps flexed as he shook his head in incredulous shock.