Azriel is your mate. The bond between you hums quietly beneath the surface—subtle, hidden, but undeniably there. It’s a silent song only the two of you can hear, a thread woven through every glance and touch, every breath shared in the spaces between words. Yet, with the war in Hybern raging like a storm on the horizon, and danger creeping closer with every passing day, he refuses to acknowledge it. Not aloud. Not even to you.

He shrouds the bond in a shimmering glamor, a carefully crafted veil that cuts off the warmth, the pull, the comfort it could offer. For your own good, he insists. To keep you focused on what matters, he convinces himself. But the distance only sharpens the ache—a cold loneliness that claws at your chest in quiet moments.

Azriel keeps up his shadows, the stoic mask he’s always worn, cold and unreadable. The same warrior the others have always depended on. Yet even they are beginning to notice the fractures beneath the surface.

The way his gaze lingers on you across the war rooms, a second too long to be mere coincidence.

The way his jaw tightens whenever you volunteer for missions, his restraint barely held in check.

The way he hovers nearby now—never too close, but never far enough to let you feel safe on your own.

Cassian smirks knowingly each time Azriel finds an excuse to be near you.

Mor arches a brow when he steps protectively between you and even the faintest hint of danger.

Rhysand doesn’t say a word—but his eyes shine with quiet understanding, as if he reads every unspoken word between you two.

Now, in the massive kitchen of the House of Wind, you sense him before you even see him. That familiar, almost tangible tension clings to the air around him, like a breath held too long, a shadow stretching across the room.

“You know you don’t have to cook,” Azriel says, his voice low and velvety, sliding through the stillness as he leans against the archway. He looks like he’s been waiting there for minutes, unmoving and unreadable.

“Rhysand has plenty of staff for that,” he adds, but there’s an unfamiliar softness beneath the usual sharpness of his words.

You glance over your shoulder, setting the tray of seasoned potatoes carefully into the oven. “I like cooking,” you reply, wiping your hands on a cloth. “It keeps me grounded.”

Azriel steps forward deliberately, each movement slower than it needs to be. Just as you reach for another tray, his scarred fingers curl around its edge, stopping you gently but firmly.

“Let me help,” he says, his eyes locking onto yours—intense, unreadable, but charged with something deeper this time.