A Court of Dusk and Shadows

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: UNSPOKEN

The world slowly swam into focus.

Waking wasn't an instant shift from oblivion to alertness, but a muddled climb through layers of heavy sleep. Each sense returned tentatively: the crackle of a nearby fire, the chill air teasing her bare arms, and the comforting weight of a thick blanket upon her. Then, there was the ache. Not of wounds but an exhaustion woven into the very fabric of her soul. As her eyes flitted open, dull light filtered through stained glass window.

A flash of panic—was it morning? Where was she? Then, a brush against her shoulder, familiar and grounding. Warmth seeped through the damp linen, an undeniable, welcome heat. Before she even turned, she knew. His scent, laced with cedar and mist, lingered in the air. A sigh escaped her before she could stop it, her body relaxing with the knowledge that here, amidst the remnants of her battle, she was safe.

Azriel.

She shifted, attempting a more upright posture despite the protesting twinges.

"Wha--" Ileana's voice barely emerged as a ragged croak, and she winced.

He was already by her side then, a cup of water in hand. Each movement carried a silent understanding of her discomfort, not pity, but a shared acknowledgment of the toll battle takes. As she sipped, eyes still narrowed against the dim light, Azriel settled back onto the chair pulled close to the bedside. She recognized the familiar furniture of her room. The softness of the mattress beneath her. They had made it back.

"What...happened?" the words fell thick against her rough throat. The chaos of the fight blurred at the edges. There was snow, claws, fangs... and a surge of terrifying power unlike anything she'd felt before.

There it was—a flash of concern in his usually unflappable gaze. Followed swiftly by a flicker of amusement and what could only be exasperation. "After shifting back from your...beast form," he began, emphasizing the unfamiliar phrase, "you promptly passed out."

She blinked at him, struggling to keep up. "My beast form?"

Azriel nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "It appears so. All High Lords have one. I guess there's no reason a High Lady would be any different."

For a moment, that panic flared within her again. Yet, a fragment of the battle resurfaced: the shift into something raw, powerful...not monstrous, but a wild reflection of her fury. "Well," she began tentatively, then with a flash of the familiar grin, she couldn't contain, she said, "No wonder Cerbie likes me more than you."

A flicker of genuine amusement touched Azriel's eyes as he took the cup of water and placed it back on the side table. "Cerberus likes you alive," corrected.

The lightheartedness faded now. He perched on the edge of the chair, a stark contrast to his usual shadowy stillness. For the first time, Ileana noticed how he unconsciously traced the bandage on his side, as if to reassure himself it truly stayed in place.

In an echo of their usual roles, he asked the question she was so accustomed to voicing, "Do you need...anything?"

Ileana blinked slowly against the afternoon light and swallowed down her discomfort. "A bath," she started with a tired smile, "but maybe after a week-long nap."

With a slight groan that revealed the full extent of her exhaustion, Ileana eased herself back into the pillows. There was strength in her admittance, a willingness to accept this battle had left a different kind of wound. Perhaps she too wasn't always the unbreakable warrior she often pretended to be.

Azriel met her gaze, no humor in his eyes this time. He wasn't sure what exactly he hoped to find, whether the lingering reflection of that monstrous form would make him recoil. However, there was just Ileana—raw, unyielding, still achingly beautiful.