Light of the Dawn | Azriel |

32. Let's get you Home

Amren stepped out of the room, her usually impenetrable demeanor cracked, her sharp silver eyes glimmering with something unspoken. The family stood in the dimly lit hallway, their expressions a mixture of desperation and exhaustion. Every breath felt heavy, the weight of their grief pressing down on them like an unrelenting storm.

"She's still breathing," Amren said quietly, her voice steady but laced with the smallest trace of hope.

Azriel sat on the floor against the opposite wall, his head bowed, shoulders trembling as he tried to contain the storm raging inside him. He nodded at Amren's words, but the movement was faint, lifeless, as though even that small gesture took all the strength he had left.

Feyre sniffled softly, her tear-streaked face turned toward her brother. "What now?" she whispered, her voice breaking as she brushed at her cheeks, trying and failing to stem the flow of tears.

Rhysand, his own face pale and tight with grief, placed his hands on Feyre's shoulders, his touch both grounding and fragile. "We wait," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "We pray to everything and anything that might listen. And we wait."

The silence that followed his words was suffocating, broken only by Feyre's soft cries and Nesta's muffled sobs as she pressed a hand to her mouth. Even Cassian, the eternal pillar of strength, stood with his head bowed, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed he might shatter from the strain.

Azriel nodded again, barely lifting his head, before slowly rising to his feet. His movements were stiff, mechanical, as though his body was on autopilot. Without a word, he pushed past the others and re-entered the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that felt like a thunderclap in the silence.

Inside, the room was heavy with the sound of Isarella's uneven breathing. The sight of her fragile form, pale and still against the bed's crisp linens, was a knife twisting in his chest. Azriel swallowed hard, forcing down the sob threatening to break free, and dragged the chair closer to her bedside.

He sank into the seat, his shadows coiling around him in a frantic, restless dance. They reached out toward Isarella, clinging to her as if they could tether her to this world, wrapping around her like a protective cocoon. Azriel took her hand in both of his, his thumbs brushing delicate circles over her cold, unresponsive skin.

"You're still here," he whispered, his voice cracking as he pressed a trembling kiss to her fingers. "You're still here, and I'm not letting you go. I'm not."

He held her hand tighter, his shadows trembling around them as though they too were afraid she might slip away. Another kiss, then another, each one an unspoken plea. "Please, Isa," he choked, the dam inside him breaking.

His shoulders shook as he buried his face against her hand, his tears soaking into her skin. And then the wails came—raw, anguished, ripping through him like a storm. He cried until his throat burned, until his chest felt hollow, but the pain never lessened.

"Don't leave me," he begged, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll do anything. Just come back to me. Please."

Outside the room, the family stood frozen, listening to Azriel's sobs through the closed door. They exchanged helpless glances, each of them battling their own despair. None of them knew how to ease his pain, how to save Isarella, how to fix the broken pieces of their family.

And so, they did the only thing they could. They waited. They prayed. And they hoped with everything they had that Isarella would find her way back to them.

It had been a week—a week of agonizing stillness, of desperate hope that seemed to dwindle with every passing hour. The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of Isarella's labored breathing and the occasional sob from one of her family members. Madja stood near the bed, her face grim as she addressed the gathered family.