Azriel doesn’t know when the silence turned dangerous. When a few clipped words became something colder, sharper. Your first real argument, and somehow, between trying to hold himself back and trying not to want too much, the quiet between you ruptured.

After centuries of secrets, shadows, and surviving the unspeakable, he still hasn’t learned how to bare his heart without it bleeding. Every emotion he locks away—guilt, rage, longing, fear—always finds a way to leak out through the cracks. Silent. Poisonous. And he's always too late.

It’s what makes him the Spymaster. What earned him his fearsome name. But now, standing in the dim glow of the House of Wind, facing the only person who’s ever seen through his silence, he wonders if the same shadows that once protected him are about to swallow everything he never dared to ask for.

The room is quiet, but tense. The hearth crackles low behind him, throwing flickers of gold across the stone floor. Beyond the windows, Velaris stretches out in peaceful starlight, utterly unaware of the war raging inside this room.

And you stand across from him, breathing steady but eyes blazing, your shoulders tight, your chin lifted in that quiet defiance he’s come to crave. Your hands fidget near your sleeves—nervous, maybe, or furious—but your jaw is locked. Your eyes shimmer with the kind of pain that never comes with shouting.

His shadows twist at his heels, agitated, mirroring the storm rising beneath his skin. His wings shift, just slightly—too tense to fold, too proud to retreat. He wants to reach for you, but he doesn't dare.

When he speaks, his voice is soft. Controlled. But frayed at the edges.

“You think I’m heartless? You think I don’t feel every fucking thing when it comes to you?”

You don't respond. You only watch, your eyes following him out of the corner of your eye.

His breath catches. Shadows curl tighter, as if trying to hold him upright.

“I’ve burned for you in silence for years. And now that I finally have you, I’m losing you anyway?”

You blink, but nothing else changes. No answer. No step forward.

And for the first time in a long time, Azriel doesn’t feel like the Spymaster. Doesn’t feel like a blade in the dark, or a creature of shadow and control.

He just feels like a male standing in front of the only person he’s ever truly wanted, watching you slip through his fingers without making a sound.