Light of the Dawn

9. Azriel

Azriel hated surprises. They were never welcome in his life, a reminder of the chaos that had surrounded him as a child. As a bastard-born male, his life had been full of them. His half-brothers had always found cruel amusement in tormenting him—taunting, beating, and reminding him daily that he was less than them, nothing but a mistake. The scars on his body, particularly the burns on his hands, were a constant reminder of those days. He had begged them to stop, tried to warn them that their cruel games might go too far. He was right. The flames had licked at his skin until his screams echoed through the walls, his hands numb from the agony. When the guards finally arrived, it was too late. The damage was already done.

Sitting in his dark room, his hands still throbbing with the aftershocks of the pain, Azriel had cried—his first and only real breakdown. The shock of it had rendered him speechless, the stone beneath him cold against his skin as he tried to gather his thoughts, but the pain was overwhelming. That was the kind of life he'd led, one surprise after another, each one a reminder that he didn't belong.

Even after he'd been taken in by Rhysand, even after he had become part of the Night Court, surprises didn't stop. Falling in love with a friend. Finding out he had a mate. These things, they were never expected. Never planned. But nothing compared to the shock of that moment in the throne room when he locked eyes with her.

He had felt it instantly—the bond snapping into place. The sharp tug of connection that shot through him like a lightning bolt. His heart skipped a beat, his breath faltered, and everything in the world went still. She was everything in that moment. The only thing that mattered.

Isarella's green eyes had locked onto his, and for a brief instant, he couldn't breathe. Her gaze was piercing, yet full of a beauty that eclipsed the sun. She was radiant—so much so that he wondered if the sun itself could ever compare to her. He had never felt anything like it.

But even then, despite the overwhelming pull, Azriel had known that something was off. There was something different about this connection. Something that gnawed at him in the most unsettling way. She didn't feel it. Not in the same way he did. She didn't meet his gaze the way he had expected. The bond felt like a thick rope between them, but it was strained on her end, distant. She didn't look at him the way she should have. And that hurt more than he could admit.

Azriel had quickly snapped out of his trance, gathering himself enough to sit down, forcing his focus back onto the meeting. But his thoughts kept drifting back to her, even as the High Lords bickered and debated. He couldn't help but glance at her, every chance he got, studying her face, her posture, the way her body moved. She was attentive, intelligent—more than just a pretty face. She belonged here, just as much as any of them. And when she spoke, her words were full of power, each one laced with a quiet strength that made Azriel admire her more than he already did.

But it wasn't just her words that captivated him—it was the way she reacted to certain topics, particularly Under the Mountain. He could see it every time the subject came up: her expression would change, her walls would rise, and something darker would pass through her eyes. Something hurt. Something ancient.

Azriel knew that look. He had seen it in the faces of others who had been broken—by torment, by fear, by loss. His instincts screamed at him to understand, to dig deeper, to figure out what had happened to her under Amarantha's reign. But she never spoke of it. Not to him. Not to anyone.

He couldn't stand it.

The night after the meeting, Azriel found himself on the rooftop of a tavern, staring out over the glowing city of Dawn. Cassian was beside him, though the sound of his brother's laugh, along with the increasingly slurred words, barely reached Azriel's mind. His thoughts were consumed by one thing: her.

She didn't feel it, he kept telling himself. She didn't feel the bond the way I do.

It was a wound that bled with every passing thought, a gnawing ache in his chest that wouldn't go away. It was a surprise he hadn't been prepared for, and Azriel wasn't sure how to handle it.

Cassian had noticed his silence, of course. He always did. "Are you alright?" he asked, a half-smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back on the metal post. "You've already had eight bottles, and you look like you're in the middle of some tragic love story. If you give me a minute, I'll catch up."

Azriel just shook his head, trying to focus on anything but the thoughts that were overwhelming him. "I can't believe we didn't tear each other apart in that room," he muttered, his voice low, full of the tension still buzzing through him. "I thought a war was about to break out between Night and Autumn. And I was ready to see it."

Cassian chuckled, clinking his bottle against Azriel's. "Says the one who nearly choked Eris to death," he teased, a grin spreading on his face. "You nearly got us into a war with Autumn. If Feyre hadn't stopped you, we'd probably be preparing troops in the Night Court by now."

Azriel exhaled through his nose. "I would've gladly torn Eris's throat out," he admitted, the memory of his hands around the Autumn heir's neck still fresh. "He deserved it."

"You almost did," Cassian said with a wink, before taking another drink. "But, hey, you've got other things to worry about now, don't you?"

Azriel didn't respond. He couldn't. His mind was still stuck on the same thing—her.

"What do you know about the Princess of Dawn?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Cassian shrugged, sipping his ale. "Rhysand told me a few things about her. She was with him Under the Mountain. She was one of Amarantha's... playthings, as Rhys was. Rhys said she was tortured in front of everyone—whipped until her back bled. It was brutal."

Azriel's grip tightened on his bottle, his fingers almost crushing the glass. "And what else?"

"She might have a developing hatred toward Rhys and Feyre," Cassian added casually. "She doesn't look at Rhys with fear, like everyone else. She looks at him with something of pain from the past. That can cause problems."

Azriel wanted to yell, to lash out at the unfairness of it all. But instead, he swallowed the burning rage and simply nodded. "She won't harm Feyre. She's a part of this Court now, whether she likes it or not. And Thesan would never let his daughter start a war."

But inside, Azriel knew it wasn't just about Thesan, or even Feyre. It was about Isarella. Her pain, her grief, the way she refused to acknowledge the bond between them. He had to understand why, had to know what had happened to her, but he was too afraid to ask. What if it shattered whatever fragile connection they had left?

And then, as he stared into the distant lights of Dawn Court, he wondered if she was thinking about him at that moment. What was she doing? Was she crying? Was she as torn as he was?

It shouldn't hurt like this, he thought. But it did.

Cassian's awful singing cut through the quiet, drawing Azriel's attention back to the present. He let out a small laugh despite himself. "You sound like a broken dog," he teased, the words falling flat.

Cassian grinned, completely unbothered. "Well, you weren't talking, so I had to entertain myself somehow."

Azriel snorted, shaking his head. But his thoughts returned to Isarella's shimmering green eyes, the ones that had never once met his in the way he longed for. And that—that—was a surprise he wasn't ready to face.