A Delicate Darkness | AZRIEL (ACOTAR)

xviii. all the wind blows in

ALL THE WIND BLOWS IN

They manifested some feet in the sky and Auroria would have free-fallen through the air had Azriel not captured her hands, keeping her there. Dangling. The ornate dress she had worn for Samhain joined the canopy of glittering stars; her hair flowed in the night sky, aglow in a way twin to the glimmering moon.

With wide eyes, she looked up at him, and said, her stomach in her throat, "Please don't drop me."

He said nothing, though the heat of his gaze was burning. With an indicative, soft incline of his head, Auroria barely registered Feyre swooping down at her before the High Lady swiftly caught her, one hand beneath her knees, the other around her shoulders. Azriel let go, and Auroria watched as his wings flexed, flapping through the air and sending a gust of wind twirling their way.

Auroria desperately clung to Feyre. She was sure she looked ridiculous, cradled like a babe, but she didn't care. Beneath them was a sprawling, sparkling city, caught in the valley of mountains, and its buildings were no larger than ants. She could hear the faint melody of music swim through the air all the way up to them; it seemed to curl around her, along with the night breeze which billowed her skirts and entangled her hair

Feyre was smiling down at her almost fondly. "This is Velaris," she told her. The wind was loud as it rushed past their ears, but Auroria heard it all the same. "My home."

"Might I enjoy the view standing on my own two feet and not hundreds of feet in the air?"

Laughing, the High Lady of the Night Court spread her wings as if to remind her she was safe and not, in fact, falling to her death. "Hold tight."

Auroria was sure she squealed all the way, as Feyre tipped her forward and they barrelled through the skies. She kept her eyes clenched shut or focussed on the glittering black dress Feyre wore, and not on the estate embedded into the mountain they were fast approaching.

When Feyre descended on a marble balcony and Auroria felt her feet gently land on the floor, she rushed to the railing and tipped her head forward, allowing the fresh air to pass through her. To squash the bout of nausea that was swift approaching.

"Still alive over there?" Feyre asked behind her, amused.

Groaning, Auroria said, "I think I left my stomach somewhere up in the air..."

Foxes aren't made for flight.

She sensed another join them — one with that same oppressive, dominating presence as Father and Feyre.

"Just don't spew all over the rugs and we'll continue on as friends," Rhysand said. "They're imported."

"Friends?" she muttered, and it was with her head tipped over the railing that she pursed her lips.

"It pays to have friends in all the right places, Lady Auroria. And this certainly is the best place for you right now. So, yes, friends. Unless you have some other design for me and my family," he crooned.

She turned around to be faced with Night's rulers. A perfect set of dark whorls inked on skin, silver crowns, and mighty powers radiating off them like auras that demanded they be felt. Heard. Respected.

Auroria felt that demand now as she regarded Rhysand. She looked at him and thought of Under the Mountain. But it wasn't Tomos or Amarantha or the Attor that came rushing back; but, indeed, a friendly face. One who had spared her, comforted her, and implored her to kill her abuser in a hellish time when acts of kindness came in short supply.

So she swallowed down all the distaste that burned her tongue — their past insults, their hostility — and inclined her head in deference, taking one long look at the grand mansion, carved into the face of the mountain.