Dance of Fate

Chapter Fifty Seven

-Velaris-

Days later, Azriel sat atop a boulder, watching Feyre pluck pines out of her hair. "That pine tree wasn't there moments ago." Azriel smiled slightly, a gesture he rarely made anymore. He liked training with Feyre. He admired her, her will to learn to fly. And she reminded him of Asteria, at times.

"Judging by its size, I'd say it's been there for ... two hundred years at least." He said. Feyre scowled at him.

Feyre braced her hands on her hips, examining the drop, the trees, the lake beyond. "What did I do wrong?"

Azriel, who had been sharpening Truth-Teller in his lap, flicked his eyes up to her. "Aside from the tree?" He joked.

Feyre rolled her eyes, a smile on her lips. Azriel sheathed his dagger. "You're trying to steer with your arms. The muscles are in the wings themselves—and in your back. Your arms are unnecessary—they're more for balancing than anything. And even that's mostly a mental comfort." He explained. 

Feyre gaped at him, and he lifted his brows in question. She shut her mouth, shaking her head slightly. "Again?" She asked begrudgingly. 

 "We can find a lower ledge to jump from, if you want." The shadowsinger offered. 

Feyre cringed. "You said this was low."

"You are immortal," he said quietly. "You are very hard to break." A pause. "That's what I told myself."

"Hard to break," Feyre said glumly, "but it still hurts."

"Tell that to the tree." 

Feyre huffed a laugh. "I know the drop isn't far, and I know it won't kill me. Can't you just ... push me?"

Azriel blinked. "No." He said flatly.

Fryer's face hardened, and Azriel could tell she was trying to push away her fears. She snapped out her Illyrian wings, and dropped. 

He watched her fall, then swerve to the right to dodge the tree she had previously crashed into- only to crash into another. He pursed his lips. A crack sounded as she collided with the tree, wings first. Azriel cursed. 

He winnowed to where she had landed, kneeling before her. "Shit," she breathed. 

"You're all right. Just stunned." He explained softly. "You banked well," he offered.

"Into another tree."

"Being aware of your surroundings is half of flying."

"You said that already," she snapped. He had. A dozen times just this morning.

Azriel only offered her a hand up. It wasn't easy, watching her try and fail to fly over and over. To be reminded what it was like to learn.

He hauled Feyre to her feet, leading her to the edge of the lake. "There's no chance that I'll be able to fly in the legions, is there?" She asked, kneeling beside him as he tended to her skinned palms. The sun was brutal against his scars, hiding not one twisted, rippling splotch.

"Likely not," he said. "But it doesn't hurt to practice until the last possible moment. You never know when any measure of training may be useful."

"It was very hard for me to learn how to fly," he said. "Most Illyrians learn as toddlers. But ... I assume Rhysand told you the particulars of my early childhood."

Feyre nodded. He finished the one hand and started on the other. "Because I was so old, I had a fear of flying—and did not trust my instincts. It was an ... embarrassment to be taught so late. Not just to me, but to all in the war-camp once I arrived. But I learned, often going off by myself. Cassian, of course, found me first. Mocked me, beat me to hell, then offered to train me. Rhys was there the next day. They taught me to fly." His heart warmed at the memory.