Dance of Fate

Chapter Fifty Six

-The Hewn City-

Azriel kept his face as blank as ever as he stood before the Court of Nightmares. Anger flared in his blood as he saw Keir and his wife, sneering at them. 

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Azriel knew Feyre had sat upon the onyx throne. A thrill went through him at the thought. 

"Bow." Rhysand's voice echoed through the room, filled with menace and power. The citizens of the Night Court obeyed, though not a single one of them did not look enraged or shocked or both. 

"I will interpret the lack of two thrones to be due to the fact that this visit came upon you quickly," Rhys said with lethal calm. "And I will let you all escape without having your skin flayed from your bones as my mating gift to you. Our loyal subjects," he added, smiling faintly.

A moment of silence spread through the room, and Azriel kept perfectly still as he kneeled. 

"Surely, my love, they would like to stand now." Feyre drawled.

Rhys smiled down at her, then at the crowd. "Rise." He ordered. Azriel did, a half second before the rest of the court. 

Azriel tried and failed not to let his attention drift away from his High Lady and Lord. He couldn't stop himself from thinking of the last time he had been here.

Even if he had been poisoned, had almost died, he desperately wished he could go back to that night. She had saved him, had almost gotten herself killed in order to do so. And when she had kissed him in that cabin...

Azriel's traitorous eyes slipped to Rhysand. The closest thing he could get from seeing her, aside from in his dreams. Those identical violet eyes met his. Rhysand's eyes grew pained, as if he knew what Azriel was thinking. He blinked, and that look was gone. Azriel looked away.

He caught a glimpse of Nest and Amren disappearing into the crowd. As if sensing his gaze, the latter turned her head to his. Her eyes were filled with pain, too. Regret. Guilt. Azriel hadn't the slightest idea why. 

"The council room. Ten minutes." Rhysand ordered Keir. Out of the corner of his eye, Azriel saw Rhys offer his mate a hand. She took it, gracefully rising to her feet. Azriel hated that it pained him to see them together. To see them happy. Hated the envy that coiled in his gut.

He clenched his jaw as he trailed behind them.

...

Azriel sat beside Mor at the long table, across from Keir. He gave the male a look of pure, icy rage. Keir quickly looked elsewhere. 

Rhysand sat at one head of the table, Feyre at the other. They both looked terrifying, he had to admit it. Asteria would have been proud. 

"I know why you're here," Keir said without any sort of preamble.

"Oh?" Rhys's eyebrow arched in question. Keir surveyed them all, distaste lingering on his face. 

"Hybern is swarming. Your legions"—

A sneer at Azriel, at the Illyrians he represented, that had him clenching his fists—"are gathering." Keir interlaced his long fingers and set them upon the dark glass. "You mean to ask for my Darkbringers to join your army."

Rhys sipped from his wine. "Well, at least you've spared me the effort of dancing around the subject."

Keir held his gaze without blinking. "I will confess that I find myself ... sympathetic to Hybern's cause."