Wind Wielder

Chapter 41 - A White Dress

(***AN: Graphic description of violence and gore. Discretion is strongly advised***) 

When midnight struck, they appeared.

At least thirty different Illyrian males, all taller and more brutish than the last. It was already pitch black underneath the tree branches, but when Azriel placed a hand onto Zara's hip from behind and the world went hazy, Zara knew he had melted her into his shadows with him.

As more and more males appeared beneath them, Azriel grew more taught. Zara knew he recognized many of them from the rage rippling from him in waves. These were the males who spoke against his brother. And as Zara marked their faces and listened to their lies, she could understand why he was so furious.

They spoke of torture chambers hidden beneath the High Lords castle, where he took brave illyrian males and tortured them. Where he clipped their wings, like they did to females. They spoke of how Rhys had known where the Cauldron would strike in the final battle with Hybern, and how he had purposely positioned his strongest Illyrian warriors there, eliminating those he felt threatened by. They raged of how Rhys had tried to ban female wing clippings, of how they suspected Rhys was trying to take their females from them, of how he was encouraging an uprising within the females. And how they should treat their females worse, tighten the leash, to keep them from encouraging such blasphemous ideals.

By the time their pointless meeting had ended, Zara had memorized each and every face. They left in groups of twos and threes. Some flew right past the tree where they hid, and never suspected a thing.

Azriel wrapped his arms around Zara from behind, and she heard his voice down the ether a second later. "I'm going to winnow us back to Laghallow."

But Zara could feel the presence of another nearby, one who felt like crisp air and harvest. So she responded "Wait."

She could sense Azriels confusion, but he did as she bade. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, and they waited.

They sat in tense deafening silence for at least an hour, Zara's legs long since going numb. But soon she finally heard the soft silent steps, the slightest exhale of breath.

Zara blocked all sound from escaping around them, and slowly, carefully, unsheathed the unmarked throwing knife on Azriels thigh. Azriel made no move to stop her. He merely slowly wrapped his hands over his hips, steadying her firmly on the branch for assistance.

Zara waited, holding her breath, silent as the male enveloping them in shadow behind her.

She waited. Waited patiently for a little more, a little longer– and–

There.

The dagger was flying through the air like a bolt of lightning, too fast to see and impossible to dodge.

There was the distinct sound of slicing flesh, and a rough gurgle of surprise. A hand slapped to bare skin, and panicked silent breaths filled the dark forest. Zara flicked her wrist, and the dagger came flying back to them, propelled on winds faster than the speed of light. When the dagger returned to her hands, the blade was stained crimson.

Zara wasn't sure she was breathing properly, intently listening to the sound of struggle far below them– the rough, crackling breaths of the spy as he grasped desperately at his wound, shoving his finger into the wound to staunch the bleeding.

But soon there was nothing. And while Zara could hear the heartbeat, there was no sound of struggle. No sign of life. Nothing, other than the quiet heartbeat and the sound of strained, shallow breaths.