Starfall.

The most beautiful night of the year, or so they said.

Azriel wasn’t convinced.

Yes, the sky was stunning. Spirits of the dead, luminous and bright, swept down like silvered rain. Music played from somewhere distant, laughter echoing between the open balconies of the House of Wind. The scent of lilac and honeywine floated on the air.

He should’ve loved it. He’d loved it once, long ago.

But tonight he could only stand at the edge of it all, arms crossed over his chest, nursing a drink he’d long forgotten the taste of. Not watching the sky. Not listening to the music.

Watching her.

She was at the far end of the terrace, standing with a few other females, her head tilted back, laughter slipping from her lips like sunlight breaking through a storm. Her dress shimmered as she moved — deep violet silk, molded to her curves in a way that made something primal and terrible rise inside him. Her shoulders were bare. Her neck glowed in the lantern light. Her hair was half-pinned, and the rest spilled down her back like a waterfall he wanted to drown in.

Azriel swallowed hard.

He’d seen her a thousand times. In armor, in training leathers, in a wrathful rage, soaked in blood. He’d seen her broken, triumphant, furious, grieving.

But tonight?

Tonight he was just a male, standing at a distance, wondering how it had come to this. Wondering if centuries of restraint and silence were noble — or cowardice.

Probably both.

The worst part was, she didn’t even know. Or maybe she did, and she was a wicked, cruel creature who reveled in his suffering. Either way, she didn’t act like someone aware that Azriel had been slowly, quietly losing his mind over her for what felt like an eternity.

Gods, he was so tired of wanting her.

She moved like a flame, drawn toward the music, the dancing. Males noticed her. Of course they did. She was devastating — not just beautiful, but alive in a way most people only dreamed of being.

And yet, the males who circled her had no idea what they were dealing with. He could see it in their postures. The way they leaned too close. The way they touched her elbow or her lower back like they’d earned the right.

They hadn’t.

He knew her better than anyone. Had memorized her moods, her patterns. The way she avoided figs and loved cinnamon, the way she always cut her hair right after a mission that went sideways.

He’d earned all of that. Quietly. Patiently. With decades of being the one person she could lean on.

And these males? These swaggering peacocks with their smug smirks and half-formed compliments?

They hadn’t earned a damn thing.

One male — taller than him, somehow — reached out, brushing her arm as he spoke to her.

Azriel’s shadows coiled around his legs. 'Just give us the word' they whispered. 'We can throw him in the Sidra'

Jealousy, he reminded himself, was beneath him. Petty. Unproductive.

And yet, he felt it — low and sharp and burning. A sick, stupid ache.

And he was moving before he even realized it.

His wings tucked tight, shadows curling at his heels like smoke. People stepped aside — they always did. No one got in Azriel’s way when he looked like that.

When he looked like a male ready to tear the world apart.

She turned — graceful, radiant — and those eyes of hers met his.

Her smile bloomed instantly, as if it had been meant for him all along.

Gods, it was a dagger to the heart. Because he knew that smile. Knew what it meant when she looked at him like that. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t love. It was familiarity. Friendship.

Safety.

He was her safe place.

And that, somehow, was worse. It should’ve soothed him. It did the opposite.

He looked at her, and for just a moment, he let all the wanting show. The ache. The centuries of quiet longing that she never seemed to notice.

His voice was rougher than he intended. Jealousy was still curled tight in his gut, acidic and stubborn.

“Mind if I steal you away?”