Azriel had always known how to silence his heart. It was a skill he’d honed young, born not out of discipline but survival. The bastards of the world did not get to hope. And yet, somehow, he had hoped. Even after centuries of loneliness, he had clung to it in secret—quiet, threadbare hope that perhaps the Mother would grant him a bond. That one day, someone would choose him not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

He had hoped it would be Mor once. He'd tasted every note of agony that came with that particular heartbreak, swallowing his feelings year after year until they curdled in his chest. And Elain... A dream, an illusion he dared to chase. But she was never his to begin with, not truly. Lucien’s claim had been declared that Solstice years ago, and Rhys’s voice still echoed in his mind—stern and final. “Elain is not yours to claim.” Azriel had bowed his head and stepped aside, again. He told himself he did it out of honor, but the truth was it shattered something in him.

So here he was again. Alone.

He stood in the shadows of the House of Wind’s hallway, the scent of roast meats and mulled wine still clinging to his leathers from the feast he’d quietly abandoned. The others had been laughing, so full of warmth and joy and the magnetic pull of their bonds. Rhys had Feyre. Cassian had Nesta. Even Elain, had begun to stand a little closer to Lucien, her soft laughter wrapping around him like a ribbon. They deserved it. All of them. Azriel knew that.

But as he walked through the cool halls, he couldn’t help the way grief sank its claws into him again. A grief that wasn’t fresh, but constant—a dull, persistent ache. When would it be his turn? Would it ever come? Or had the Mother long since decided he was too broken to be loved?

He didn’t even bother lighting the candles in his room. Darkness greeted him like an old friend, his shadows curling around him as he stepped onto the balcony, the stars above offering little comfort. The wind beckoned. Maybe flying—cutting through the clouds, soaring alone—would numb it for a while.

But then… he heard it.

A piano.

He paused. Music, drifting through the still night, sorrowful and slow, each note a whisper of longing. It clutched at him—this ache in song form—and without fully understanding why, he followed it. His wings spread with silent precision, the wind rustling against him as he flew lower, the sound growing louder. It wasn’t just music. It was mourning. It was the sound of someone who had given too much, waited too long, and lost something vital.

The balcony outside the music room was open. He landed there, soundless, letting his shadows pull around him as he stepped toward the light spilling from within.

And there she was.

The one who had always seemed like a puzzle he never had the energy to solve. She was sunshine when they were storm clouds, loud laughter and wild ideas, a streak of kindness that felt too bright for the world they lived in. He had dismissed her as too carefree, too immature. And yet… here she was. Alone at the piano, bathed in moonlight, and the song she played was breaking her open with every press of her fingers.

Her head was bowed, hair falling in soft waves over her face, and her lips moved in the shape of silent lyrics—words she wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. She wasn’t smiling now. There was no brightness in her. Only silence, and sorrow, and the shaking breath she took when her fingers paused on the keys.

Azriel’s heart twisted.

This wasn’t the girl he thought he knew. This wasn’t the cheerful mask she wore for others. This was someone hurting. Someone hiding it just as well as he did.

Something shifted in him then, an unfamiliar heat curling in his chest. Not desire—not yet. But recognition. A soul as tired as his, cloaked in laughter and light so no one would look too closely. He stepped forward, just slightly, and let the music hold him there.

For the first time in centuries, Azriel didn’t want to be alone.

He wanted to sit beside her on that bench, to let his silence answer hers.

He wanted… her.