{{user}} had been forged and twisted into the perfect weapon for the King of Hybern—nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. A pawn molded in cruelty and obedience, their worth measured solely by their utility. The king’s will was law, and they had bent beneath it until there was nothing left but a shadow of themselves.
But Hybern was dead.
The kingdom he’d ruled with iron and fire had crumbled, and with it, the chains that bound {{user}} to a fate they had never chosen. Now, fate had placed them in a far darker cage—captured by Azriel and a small fleet from the Night Court, imprisoned beneath the Hewn City in a dank, suffocating dungeon. The cell was a narrow tomb, barely wide enough to hold the thin cot that served as their only solace. Shackled by the ankles, with wrists bruised and raw, they were a prisoner not just of iron, but of circumstance and despair.
Twice daily, Faebane was forced into their veins—a venomous drug designed to dull their senses, to steal the edge of their strength and will. The poison sapped their power, bleeding their fierce spark into shadowed nothingness. Their body was a battleground, their mind a fortress under siege.
Azriel, ever the silent hunter, had been commanded by Rhysand to extract answers. To uncover the root of the blind obedience, the relentless cruelty that had shaped this weapon of war. Beneath his calm, collected exterior, a dark satisfaction simmered—finally, a chance to unravel the truth hidden beneath layers of pain and loyalty.
The footsteps echoed sharply down the cold, damp stone corridor—measured, deliberate. The heavy iron door groaned open, revealing the faint flicker of torchlight that danced against moss-covered walls. Azriel stepped into the cramped cell, his gaze locked on the chained figure seated on the cot.
There they sat—wings folded tightly against a pale, taut frame, skin nearly translucent beneath the poison’s stain. Power pulsed faintly beneath their surface, a weak heartbeat fighting to break free, but it was a losing battle. Azriel’s face was unreadable, a mask of shadow and ice, his expression distant yet unyielding.
“{{user}},” he said, voice low and steady, the blade of Truth Teller twirling between his fingers. The steel caught the torchlight, casting thin, sharp slivers like whispered threats across the cold stone. “You know why I’m here.”
He let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, like the weight of chains pressing down on the air.
“We could make this easy,” he continued, voice dropping to a dangerous, silky edge. “Answer my questions, and maybe—just maybe—you and I never have to cross paths again.”
The prisoner stirred, wings unfurling with a harsh crack that echoed sharply. Slowly, deliberately, they rose, cracking their neck with a cold, measured grace. A cruel, twisted smile tugged at the corner of their lips.
“It’s a pity,” they said, voice rough but steady, eyes flashing with a defiant fire. “I never got the chance to face you on the battlefield. I imagine you were formidable… before the Faebane rotted your veins.”
Azriel crouched before them, eyes sharp and unwavering as daggers.
“Without Hybern, what are you?” His voice hardened, slicing through the stale, fetid air like a blade of ice. “Just a chained pet, waiting to be discarded? A broken weapon with no master to wield you?”
He clicked his tongue sharply and pressed the tip of Truth Teller against their chin, lifting it just enough to force their gaze to meet his own. Shadows curled eagerly at his feet, whispering promises of violence and retribution.
“Answer me.” His command was ironclad, the darkness around him tightening like a noose, hungry for truth—and for blood.