𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 - the raven does not ask why, it only cares who is left to feast upon.
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𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒. Not in the way of mourning, nor in the way of peace. It was the kind of quiet that came before a storm, when even the wind seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Azriel's shadows whispered at his ear, the murmurs of the city winding through his mind, threads of conversations he could pick apart if he wished.
He did not.
Instead he stood on the rooftop of a House of the Wind, the cool night air brushing against his face, and let the city speak to him. Laughter still drifted from the Sidra's banks, from the open-air cafes and the streets. Shops remained open, music still played. Velaris had endured a battle, had known the weight of darkness, and yet it thrived.
Everything looked the same. But he could feel the difference.
The city was waiting, holding its breath. Waiting for its High Lady to return. Waiting for news of the war that loomed ever closer. Waiting for something—anything—to fill the void she had left behind. Feyre had gone to the Spring Court. And Nesta and Elain had been thrown into the Cauldron, ripped from their mortality and remade into something new.
And Rhys—Rhys was distant, colder, the sharp edge of his grief honed into something quiet and lethal. Azriel had seen it before, after Amarantha. Had watched as his High Lord shattered and rebuilt himself, the fractures in his soul filled with nothing but duty. But this—this was different. This time, Rhys was choosing to let Feyre go, choosing to let her play the role she needed to in the Spring Court.
It did not make it any easier to watch.
He remained on the rooftop, eyes fixed on the city below, but his mind was elsewhere. The night before, he had come close—so close—to catching one of Keir's spies. The same one who had been slipping through the cracks for weeks now, moving unseen between Velaris and the Night Court's darker corners. A mistake on the spy's part had given Azriel the advantage, had let him track the male through the winding streets of the city. He had pursued him through the narrow alleys near the western quarter, the chase silent and brutal, his shadows pressing in around him, swallowing every trace of his presence.
But the bastard had been quick. Trained. Desperate. He had slipped through Azriel's grasp at the last moment, vanishing into the underground tunnels that ran beneath the city—tunnels only a select few knew about.
It was no accident. The spy had come prepared, had known the city well enough to disappear when cornered. And that knowledge, more than anything, had Azriel on edge.
Someone had given the spy information. Someone with enough knowledge of Velaris' hidden pathways to guide him out before Azriel could drag him into the light. And if Keir had spies planted this deeply within the city, if Hewn City was already watching and waiting, then Rhys had every reason to be suspicious.
