The Flames in the Horizon

14

Eris sits at his desk surrounded by a sea of parchment. The flickering candlelight casts intricate shadows across the room, adding to the sunlight streaming in through the open far window.

A stack of documents, each representing some form of a request from outlying cities, villages, and foreign courts alike, lays before him. All are eager to garner his attention and establish sufficient replies. The papers are meticulously organized, their edges crisp and their contents written with the utmost care. Fancy lettering beholds dreams and aspirations—most of which Eris cannot grant promise to—belonging to the writer.

He gives his fifth sigh for the hour and thinks that being appointed King should not be this bothersome. He'd rather have steady-minded Nash deal with all these missives, if only to be free of telling a poor village that no, Eris cannot send them the commodities they so desperately need because a council of his Father's men stands in his way.

One scroll details a proposition from a far-off high noble in Night, seeking to exchange the resources of his estate and land for the exquisite craftsmanship of Eris's people—a proposal deranged in of itself. Another speaks of a neighboring court yearning for access to Autumn's bustling ports and promising a reciprocal flow of goods that would "enrich the lives of his citizens".

The letters all have a common theme; patronization. The words were arranged in a way that read as condescending. Eris may have been crowned King little more than two months ago, but he knows what is or isn't good for his people without other High Lords mansplaining his hypothetical gains. And of course, there is the frequent Night request—demand, more like—for Azriel's immediate return to his homeland.

As Eris peruses the various requests, his mind wanders into increasingly familiar territory for the past few weeks. Thoughts of Azriel invade his consciousness like a gentle breeze. The easy companionship they have fallen into in the past three months has blossomed into something deeper since Spring, something that can't quite be put into words. There's an understanding between them, one known of desire more than emotion.

The memory of shared intimate moments lingers in the forefront of a puzzled mind. Eris wonders how such minuscule experiences can leave him feeling so wealthily content. He can almost feel Azriel's presence as if the very room itself cradles their confounding bond.

Foolishly, he allows his gaze to roam to the closed window beside his desk. The curtains are pulled tight to the sides with a thick piece of fabric and Eris can freely watch the way Azriel moves through the trees below. He blinks and suddenly finds himself standing directly in front of the window. His mate is picking wildflowers. Eris smiles.

Aelia has been slowly but surely becoming more confident now without the burden of faebane suffocating her every waking moment. Their mother has been by Aelia's side at every opportunity, with the occasional visit from her brothers or Azriel and his vastly growing collection of bouquets.

The sound of Azriel shouting draws Eris sharply from his thoughts and causes his magic to respond in kind. His blood heats with the force of the fire brewing inside him, ready to release upon any fool threatening the Night male. But, as it is, Iris is the one attacking—Azriel's left boot to be precise. Eris breathes deeply, trying to reign in his power. Iris is still fairly young, one of the youngest of the pack of shadow hounds, and has yet to adopt his companions' mannerisms. This is why the other hounds, who were previously lazing about in the Autumn sun under tall maple trees, are now all watching on curiously as Azriel is pulled to the ground and wrestled for ownership of the boot.