A Court of Dusk and Shadows

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: ANSWERED PRAYERS

A/N: You might want to prepare some tissues, besties! 

There was no space for words as Ileana and Azriel reacted in perfect, silent synchronization.

A moment later, Ileana stood transformed. Gone was the softness of firelight and laughter, replaced by the hard glint of starlight reflected in gleaming leather and steel. Blackstar hung across her back, a dark promise against the coming terrors of the night. Daggers gleamed at her hips and chest, and as a final touch, the twin handguns from Midgard found their holsters—echoes of another world whispering a tale of strength forged far from their shores.

This was their rhythm, their unspoken pact born of battle and blood. There was no need to question, only to equip for the unknown. She knew he wouldn't waste time arguing if she chose to come—they were undeniably more together than they were apart.

Azriel's movements were swift, every gesture born of honed instinct. But beneath that familiar precision, she saw something strained in his eyes—a desperate worry held tightly on a leash. Yet, as he stepped closer and spoke, it was only that cold efficiency that remained. "Tell Rhysand... we're tracking her."

With a curt nod to Cassian, Azriel gripped her waist, and the world was bathed in swirling darkness. When the shadows parted, they stood in the familiar heart of Rosehall. Gone was the usual comforting scent of baked goods and flowers—only a lingering chill spoke of hasty departure. Ileana took it in, letting the space reveal its secrets. Every scuffed tile, every overturned book spoke of a struggle. Here, she was the detective, Azriel the coiled tension waiting to strike.

Despite the urgency, Ileana sensed a hesitation in him. An unseen battle echoed in the tightness around his eyes, hidden behind the Shadowsinger's icy calm. Understanding flared—he needed this moment, needed to process this violation of safety, to grieve this personal attack. Ileana held back, not offering empty comforts, only working to find a solution.

She began to move, fingertips trailing along the dusty shelves, seeking the faintest whispers of magic, eyes narrowed in careful assessment. Every discarded piece of fabric, every lingering scent, served as a potential clue. She would search until the very stars gave out, offering him time to reconcile the protector and the son. It was what they did, this silent dance of support and action, woven with trust tougher than any blade.

Ileana worked methodically, and within the chaos, order began to rise from her touch. It wasn't brute strength or flashy magic but painstaking analysis. A faint scent of lavender and something feral—wolf musk and unfamiliar power—clung to a fallen cloak. On the cracked wood of a table, tiny indentations spoke of claws digging in...retreating in a direction mirroring the chaos of the room's exit.

As she connected these strands, pieces began to fall into place like stars forming a constellation. There was a pattern to the disruption, a calculated precision amidst the struggle. She rose, eyes meeting Azriel's with grim realization. "Wolf," she said, the word cutting through the tension. "Probably a shapeshifter, and likely one skilled in combat."

It was as if that spark ignited the cold fury burning within Azriel. Suddenly, shadows pulsed around him, more than mere tools of navigation, reflecting the storm raging within. They rippled and writhed, barely restrained, tendrils lashing out to strike gouges into the stone walls. His breathing was harsh, echoing with old, childhood nightmares. His mother...taken by...something.

With startling speed, Ileana crossed the space, not flinching as the shadows brushed against her skin. With unerring instinct, she placed her hand over his own, her starlight a steady anchor amidst the tempest. The contact burned away fear, tethering him to reality. A tremor ran through Azriel, the Shadowsinger wrestling back tenuous control.