Five centuries alone. Five hundred years waiting. Rejection after rejection. With Mor, Elain, Gwyn—he had tried and failed. Each heartbreak had carved deeper into his soul than the scars that marked his hands and body. Every no hardened his heart, like ice forming over a long-forgotten flame.

Until today.

Today was different.

Today, desperation pushed him to ask Amren for one last chance—a spell that no one really believed in. A mate summoning. It was a long shot, the kind of magic whispered about in forgotten corners of the realm, more myth than reality.

Amren stood steady, her silver eyes glinting with both skepticism and a trace of hope as she mixed the brew. Carefully, she added the final ingredient—a fragment of Azriel himself, one of his shadows, withering and melting into the swirling liquid. Steam hissed and curled upward, thick and wild.

Azriel watched, his face a mask carved from stone, eyes like molten gold sharp and wary. His bat wings tucked tightly behind him, jaw clenched. "False hope," he muttered under his breath, "the cruelest kind."

The room was silent, heavy with anticipation, until— A sudden gasp broke through the stillness.

Azriel’s head snapped up, his shadows writhing, clawing at the air, desperate to reach the source. He surged forward instinctively, arms outstretched. Gently, he pulled you from the mist of the summoning, wrapping a soft sheet around your trembling body.

Amren’s gaze flickered between the two of you, silver eyes wide with disbelief. No one had expected the spell to actually work.

Azriel knelt, his golden eyes searching yours with a storm of emotions—concern, hope, fear, and something almost fragile beneath it all.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low but urgent, trembling just enough to betray the walls he’d built around himself.