A Delicate Darkness | AZRIEL (ACOTAR)

xii. have faith, dear sister

HAVE FAITH, DEAR SISTER

THE HIGH LORD CUT A DARKENED FIGURE against one of the throne room's ceiling-to-floor windows, as he watched the grey skies, his back to his children. He did not say a single word as they filed in.

Auroria's brothers were already at the table. She had not seen them since the other day, when they had been extracted from Winter. Father had been so furious that they returned empty-handed and injured that his explosion of flames spared none, a room of burning flesh and bubbling blisters and fervent apologies. Since then, she'd been told to keep busy in her girlhood chambers, that she was not to leave until the High Lord spoke to her and until he'd gleaned the full truth.

Auroria's steps were silent as the night as she crossed the room, past the High Lord, and up the dais; when one's home was no more stable than a minefield, one quickly learned to be invisible. Quiet.

She slinked into her chair beside Malachi, who, of course, was in the finest health, since he was away with the banks and financiers in the Orchard whilst his siblings fought in Winter. He poured himself a drink, poured Auroria one too, regarded each and every one of his siblings wordlessly, and took a long sip. She felt his gaze on her, but she did not dare move a single muscle, her forearms pressed flushed against the arms of the chair, fingers clawing into the wood.

It was only when Father dismissed the guards, when she heard the resounding clinking of their armour and their fading heavy footfalls as they left the throne room, that Auroria let her eyes wander.

There was Eris, who was sent to the Royal Physician as soon as they reached the Forest House to make sure he did not bleed to death — and yet, he now sported cuts and bruises of sickening purples and yellows, pale and eyes distant, guarded, as he occupied the seat to Father's right.

Virgil's eye was a sickening bulbous lump, his lip split and jaw blossoming with burst blood vessels. He was without the lofty air he so often wore and, all the while, he directed daggers at Auroria. This is your fault, it said.

Nostrus, on the other hand, didn't so much as breathe in her direction. His temple bore a large gash and his nose bent at an odd angle.

These were no injuries from the Illyrians, Auroria knew. This was their father's way of ensuring he received the whole truth, to make sure his sons embellished no lies in their account of this failure.

And the only one left the High Lord had to hear from was her.

With the guards gone — with the witnesses gone — the throne room, grand and magnificent as it was, shrunk small. Cramped. Suffocating. Silence coiled around them like a python, as Father's slow, measured steps echoed in the vacant hall. Like dutiful soldiers, they all kept their spines impossibly straight, their visions forward, and their faces blank, for they all felt Father's fury, rippling off the High Lord's person in waves that threatened to swallow them whole. Waves with spitting sparks instead of froth, that sent prickles of sweat to the back of their necks, their clothes itchy, and their hearts hammering.

Auroria dared not look at him, not even as he slammed his goblet down at the head of the table, and in her peripheral Nostrus and Malachi flinched, fat scarlet droplets of sweetwine splattering on the wood.

"My children," the High Lord drawled mirthlessly. His attention was like a punch to Auroria's face. "The future of my court. The elders often tell me that I should pay utmost homage to the gods, for they have gifted my wife with a bountiful womb, for they have gifted Autumn many children to continue my line. And yet... Yet never have I been most embarrassed of the blundering fools I've sired."

Her heartbeat was thunderous in her ears as she tried to imagine bright skies and warm sun, as she glided through meadows upon a steed, the wind wrapping around her like an embrace. But the rising temperature of the room cleaved through that dreamscape — slaughtered any hopes of comfort. She sat on her trembling hands and, as she did so, noticed that the tattoo on her wrist had disappeared. A bargain completed. Lucien and Feyre Archeron made it safely to the Night Court.