Azriel had been spying in the Autumn Court for years now. Nothing had ever gone wrong until, he had made one small error. Beron had caught him. Azriel was chained to a chair with irons crafted of Faebane. Beron was questioning Azriel. Azriel would not talk, and Beron threatened to take more drastic measures. “Are you going to torture it out of me?” “No not you Shadowsinger, her.” Beron snapped his fingers and revealed you, Azriel’s mate, chained to the wall, my arms above my head, shackled