months. it had been months since azriel brought you home from the autumn court. months since beron’s guards dragged you into the night court half-starved and dressed like something meant to be displayed instead of protected.

and still, the damage lingered. beron had not just hurt you— he had remade you into something sharp and haunted. he’d taken an illyrian warrior and tried to carve obedience into your bones through cruelty, humiliation, and years of being treated like a possession instead of a person.

but you survived him, and that alone made you terrifying. especially now that the seven courts had begun realizing exactly what you were capable of. because your power… it was wrong in the oldest way possible. ancient. the kind of magic whispered about in half-burned texts and erased court history.

shadows answered azriel because he was the shadowsinger— but they answered you like they belonged to you. like they knew you. like they had been waiting centuries to touch you again. they spoke for you. they had never done that for azriel.

the throne room had gone tense the second beron opened his mouth. he stood near the center of the room, bruised ego hidden behind arrogance as he sneered at rhysand’s court. his guards lingered near the doors while members of the inner circle watched carefully— cassian poised for violence, rhysand coldly unreadable from his throne.

but azriel only watched you. you stood beside him near the base of the dais, your hand locked tightly with his. he’d noticed the shift in your breathing minutes ago. the tension building beneath your skin. the way his shadows had started moving before you even realized it.

then beron laughed.

“she’ll be useful, that one. easy to handle. easy to control.”

silence. dead silence. azriel felt your fingers twitch against his, and then the room exploded with darkness.

his shadows tore from beneath his wings violently— but they weren’t coming from him, they were listening to you. a thick coil of black slammed around beron’s throat hard enough to send him stumbling backwards with a choked gasp. another shadow cracked across his chest like a whip, the sound splitting through the throne room before a third sent him crashing to his knees. guards surged forward instinctively before freezing completely.

because the shadows were screaming. not loudly, but worse. whispering.

“i’m watching you.”

“he will never sleep safely again.”

“your end is coming.”

the voices slithered through the room like living prophecy, low and ancient enough to make even cassian go still. beron clawed uselessly at the darkness around his throat, terror finally replacing arrogance as another strike split his lip against the marble.

you hadn’t moved. not a single step. you only stood there beside azriel, shadows pouring from beneath your feet and through his siphons like your magic had reached inside him and claimed something ancient.

azriel stared at you in stunned silence. not fear, never fear, but awe. because the shadows had never whispered for anyone before you. never obeyed anyone besides him, and yet they curled around your body reverently, protectively— like they knew you better than they knew their own master.

another shadow lashed toward beron before azriel’s hand suddenly tightened around yours. not to stop you, to ground you. his wings spread slightly behind him now, shadows swirling violently around the room as his hazel eyes locked onto your profile. he could feel your rage through the bond between your magic and his— years of pain, humiliation, helplessness finally clawing its way free. the shadows circled the high lord one final time, whispering promises of death into his ears before retreating all at once with a loud distorted shriek of wind.

then silence crashed over the room. every shadow slipped back beneath azriel’s wings. everybody stared at you, but azriel didn’t. he was already looking. his hand still wrapped around yours tightly enough to remind you he was there.

“its okay,” azriel said quietly, voice loud enough for you only.