Azriel landed in Illyria under a steel-gray sky, the chill in the air biting against his skin. He took a deep breath, feeling the sharpness of the cold. It was sobering, grounding. The mountains stretched before him, austere and unyielding, much like the path he'd chosen to walk. It felt fitting, somehow, to return to these brutal, unforgiving lands to rebuild himself.
The camp was bustling with activity when he arrived, warriors sparring, training, and tending to the day's tasks. His arrival turned a few heads, but he paid no attention, making his way to the barracks with purpose. The familiar scent of iron and leather surrounded him, and he allowed himself to sink into it, letting the memories of his years in Illyria rush back. He felt the weight of his past settle over him like an old cloak—a reminder of the discipline, the relentless training, and the solace he'd once found in pushing himself beyond his limits.
The next morning, Azriel stood in the training ring before the sun had fully risen. He rolled his shoulders, loosened his muscles, and began his routine, falling into a familiar rhythm. With every swing of his sword, every parry and block, he felt himself come alive. His body ached from the relentless training, but it was a welcome pain, one that drowned out the ache in his chest.
Days turned into weeks, and as time passed, he found himself gaining a newfound clarity. He fought harder, pushed himself further, throwing himself into grueling exercises until he felt nothing but exhaustion. The physical strain was a comfort, a way to strip away the emotional chaos that had consumed him. Here, he could rebuild himself from the ground up, piece by piece.
The other warriors took notice. They watched his rigorous training sessions, his dedication, the way he seemed to thrive on the grueling regimen. A few even joined him, seeking his guidance, eager to learn from him. He found himself instructing them, his voice calm and steady, guiding their movements with the same precision he'd once used on the battlefield. With every session, he felt a sense of purpose slowly returning. It wasn't the same as before, but it was something.
One afternoon, after an intense training session, Azriel found himself sitting on a rocky ledge overlooking the valley, the expanse of Illyria stretching out beneath him. Rhys had once stood here with him, and they'd spoken of duty, of loyalty, of the cost of sacrifice. He felt the weight of that conversation now, more than ever.
He was here, in Illyria, because he'd chosen this path. He'd lost Skye, but he had to live with that decision, learn from it. Dwelling on what he'd lost wouldn't change anything. He needed to move forward.
His thoughts drifted to his friends, to the ones who had stood by him, even when he'd faltered. He realized that he'd let them down too, allowing his own inner turmoil to cloud his judgment. He hadn't been the friend, the brother, that they'd needed him to be. But now, he had the chance to reclaim that role, to rebuild those connections.
The next day, he found Cassian in the training yard, watching a group of young warriors spar. Azriel approached, and Cassian turned, raising an eyebrow as if surprised to see him there.
"Miss me already?" Cassian teased, though there was warmth in his voice, a silent understanding that passed between them.
Azriel smirked, the faintest hint of amusement lighting his features. "Not quite. Just figured I'd remind you what real training looks like."
They fell into an easy rhythm, exchanging banter as they worked with the warriors, guiding them, pushing them. Rhys joined them later, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Azriel felt a glimmer of contentment. It was a small thing, this camaraderie, but it was a start.
In the weeks that followed, Azriel continued to push himself, but he also found moments of quiet, moments to reflect. He would walk the mountain trails at dusk, the fading light casting shadows that danced along the cliffs. The silence was a balm, allowing him the space to think, to confront the mistakes he'd made, to find a way to forgive himself, even if only a little.
He realized that he couldn't go back, couldn't undo the choices he'd made. But he could learn from them. He could become better, stronger, not just for himself, but for the people he cared about.
One evening, as he watched the sun sink below the horizon, he felt a shift within him, a quiet resolve settling into his bones. He would let go of the past, the regrets, the self-doubt. He would embrace the lessons he'd learned, the scars he carried, and he would find a way to move forward, to rebuild his life on his own terms.
He knew that he might never fully heal, that there would always be a part of him that missed Skye, that mourned the love they'd shared. But he also knew that he couldn't live in the shadows of what might have been. He had a new path to forge, a new strength to claim.
As he rose from his perch on the ledge, the wind tugging at his hair, he felt a quiet determination settle within him. He would carry the memories, but he would not be defined by them. He would walk forward, step by step, reclaiming his life, rebuilding his strength. And one day, he would find peace—not in forgetting, but in accepting.
With one last glance at the horizon, Azriel turned and made his way back to the camp, ready to face whatever came next.
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Behind the Shadow - Part 2
FanfictionSEQUEL Skye may have made into the shadows but now she is behind Azriels shadows is the truth to hard for the both of the. They are tested to their limits. Will they make it out unscathed and together?
