🔪Shaza🔪

Azriel Shadowsinger, is known for his quiet, brooding nature, his loyalty, and his tortured past. His role as the spymaster, his unrequited love, and the shadows he commands add layers to his complexity. Here are four songs that would suit his character:

"Arsonist's Lullabye" by Hozier

This song fits Azriel's internal struggle and dark past. The lyrics talk about how darkness and violence are a part of someone's identity, which resonates with Azriel's experience as a Shadowsinger and his control over shadows.

"Control" by Halsey

This song reflects the battle between the darkness within and the need for control, which fits Azriel's personality. The song's haunting tone also captures the quiet strength and internal turmoil that define him.

"Way Down We Go" by Kaleo

This song's powerful, somber vibe aligns with Azriel's past and the burden of carrying secrets. Its haunting melody reflects his brooding nature, while the lyrics resonate with his journey through darkness.

"Take Me to Church" by Hozier

This song encapsulates Azriel’s deep emotional struggle and his complicated sense of morality. Its intensity reflects his inner turmoil, particularly his struggle with loyalty, unrequited love, and duty.

The night sky above Velaris was as black as onyx, broken only by a scattering of stars. Azriel soared through the air, his shadows trailing behind him like whispers of the night itself. The wind tugged at his wings, cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the Sidra River below. Up here, with nothing but the vast sky around him, he felt a peace he seldom found elsewhere.

The spymaster was not one for music. At least, not publicly. But here, high above the City of Starlight, Azriel let the wind pull something from him, something deeper than shadows or secrets. He began to hum. At first, it was a low, hesitant sound, barely audible beneath the wind’s howl. But as he banked left, the song grew, blossoming into a haunting melody that echoed through the night.

His voice, soft but rich, blended with the sound of his wings slicing through the air. The song was ancient, one he had learned long ago, from a time when music had been his only friend. He had sung it in the shadows of his childhood, a quiet solace amidst the noise of cruelty and loneliness. Now, it was as though the wind itself carried the song, twisting it, weaving it into something ethereal, timeless.

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, trusting his wings to keep him aloft. He let the song rise and fall with the wind’s currents, the notes floating effortlessly into the stars above him. He could feel his shadows curling closer, not out of duty, but drawn by the magic in his voice. They too seemed to hum along, a dark harmony to his lonely tune.

The song was one of yearning. Of love and loss, of longing for something that seemed forever out of reach. It wasn’t just a melody—it was a conversation with the night itself, a way of speaking to the parts of the world that understood silence as much as sound. And Azriel, for all his silence, knew that this was how he communicated best—with the wind, with his shadows, with the darkness that had long been his companion.

He dipped low, wings tilting as he skimmed over the river, his reflection flashing briefly on the water’s surface. The city of Velaris twinkled below, but it was the sky he focused on. The stars seemed to listen to his song, growing brighter as he sang, as if they, too, were part of the night’s chorus.

It was a private moment, something no one else would ever witness. And Azriel was fine with that. The song wasn’t meant for anyone but him. Up here, there were no judgments, no expectations. Only the wind and the stars, and the quiet rhythm of his wings beating in time with his heart.

The song came to an end as he climbed higher, the last few notes lingering in the night air before the wind swept them away. Azriel’s chest ached, not with pain, but with the weight of the music he had let go. It was as though he had given something of himself to the sky, leaving it there to float among the stars.

For a moment, he hovered, his wings flapping steadily to keep him aloft. He stared at the endless expanse of sky, wondering if perhaps the night itself had sung back to him in its own way, carrying his voice farther than he could ever imagine.

But then, the spymaster of the Night Court tucked his wings and plummeted back toward the city below. The wind roared in his ears, but there was no more music. Not tonight. He had given enough to the sky.

As he approached the balcony of the House of Wind, the shadows curled tightly around him once more, cloaking him in their familiar darkness. His feet touched down softly, and just like that, Azriel was the spymaster again—silent, watchful, with no trace of the song he had left behind in the stars.

But even as he stepped back into the quiet of the night, he could still feel the wind’s song in his bones, a melody that was never truly gone. For Azriel, it was always there—just waiting for the next time he would fly.

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🖤End🖤

An Azriel x Reader Fanfic for Azriel week day 5

@azrielappreciationweek

The shadows always whispered when he was near, curling around your ankles like tendrils of smoke. You didn’t mind; it was just their nature, as much a part of Azriel as the scars on his hands or the silent way he moved through the world. Tonight, they lingered in the corner of the room, as if even they knew something weighed heavy on his mind.

You sat by the hearth, the fire casting long shadows on the walls of the House of Wind, warming your skin but doing nothing to touch the chill in the room. Azriel stood near the window, gazing out over the night-blanketed city of Velaris, his wings slightly flared, the tension in his posture unmistakable.

“Az,” you called softly, but he didn’t turn.

A sigh escaped your lips as you set your cup of tea on the table. “You’ve been brooding for hours. I’m starting to feel neglected.”

That caught his attention. He turned, golden-hazel eyes flicking toward you, but there was a storm behind them. Shadows danced around his shoulders, restless and uneasy, and he stepped away from the window as if trying to escape whatever thoughts had been circling his mind.

“Neglected?” he murmured, his deep voice low but not cold. His lips quirked, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You know I could never neglect you.”

You smiled, rising to your feet and crossing the room to meet him halfway. He stood still as you reached him, your fingers brushing his as you took his hand in yours. The silence stretched, heavy and weighted with something unspoken.

“Then tell me what’s bothering you,” you said softly, your gaze steady on his. Azriel’s face was a mask, as always, but you had learned to read the cracks in it over time. And tonight, something had broken through.

He sighed, the sound almost lost in the crackle of the fire. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, but you knew better.

You squeezed his hand. “Azriel, it’s me. You don’t need to hide.”

He was silent for a moment, the tension in his body vibrating beneath your fingers, before he finally spoke again. “It’s… complicated.”

“I can handle complicated.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, but it faded just as quickly. He looked away, his gaze flicking toward the fire, as if it held answers he couldn’t find.

“It’s just… us,” he said quietly, the words slipping out as if he hadn’t meant to say them. “I’m not… good with words. You deserve someone who can give you that. The poetry. The romantic gestures.”

For a moment, you blinked, taken aback by the vulnerability in his voice. Azriel, the shadowsinger, feared he wasn’t enough. It seemed absurd — but you understood where it came from. You knew the weight of his past, the scars that ran deeper than the ones on his skin.

“Az,” you whispered, stepping closer, your free hand reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin was cool beneath your fingers, and his shadows, usually so controlled, fluttered around him, as if they, too, were unsure. “I don’t need poetry.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes. “You don’t?”

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I don’t need poetry. I don’t need grand speeches or flowers or sonnets.” You leaned closer, brushing your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone. “I need you. Just you.”

He stared at you, as if trying to figure out how to respond to that. Azriel had always been the quiet one, the one who lurked in the shadows, who spoke when it mattered but never for the sake of filling the silence. He wasn’t like Rhysand, with his charming words, or Cassian, with his wild, carefree affection. He loved in ways that weren’t loud — but they were steady, like the beat of a drum you could feel but not always hear.

You pressed your forehead against his, closing your eyes. “You show me how much you care every day, Az. You don’t need words for that. I don’t need grand gestures. I just need you.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his breath mingling with yours as his shadows curled around your feet, softer now, quieter. Then, slowly, his hand came up to rest against your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His wings flared slightly behind him, but they wrapped around you both, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

“I don’t know how to be more,” he murmured against your hair, his voice almost a rasp. “But I want to be. For you.”

You smiled, the warmth of his body sinking into you. “You already are.”

And just like that, the tension bled from him. His shoulders relaxed, the storm in his eyes calming as he held you close. There were no more words between you, but there didn’t need to be. His hand, rough and scarred, traced a slow path down your spine, the gentle pressure of his touch saying more than any poem ever could.

Azriel had always been a man of actions, not words. He showed his love in the way he stood guard at your side, the way he brought you tea without asking, the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was in the little things — the way his shadows curled protectively around you when you slept, the way he always made sure you were safe, even when he was the one bleeding.

And as you stood there, wrapped in his arms, his wings shielding you from the world, you knew there was nothing else you needed.

Azriel didn’t need to speak to tell you he loved you. He didn’t need poetry.

He was enough.

And he always would be.

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An Azriel day 4 fanfic @azrielappreciationweek

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Azriel stood in Rhysand’s office, arms crossed, his shadows swirling lazily around him like they, too, were bored of this conversation. His High Lord reclined behind his desk, fingers steepled, a small smile tugging at his lips as he stared at his spymaster.

"You've accumulated years of paid time off, Azriel," Rhys said, tone both amused and stern. "You have to take a break."

Azriel’s wings shifted behind him, a flicker of irritation flashing in his hazel eyes. "I'm fine. There’s work to be done. The Spring Court is still rebuilding, there are whispers of unrest in the north, and—"

"And you haven’t taken a break in two hundred years," Rhys cut in smoothly. "Even Cassian takes time off. Hell, even Amren does."

Azriel opened his mouth to argue, but Rhys held up a hand, silencing him. "Feyre’s orders, too, I’m afraid. You’re not leaving this room until you’ve picked a place to spend at least a week."

Azriel’s jaw clenched. Rhys and Feyre meant well, he knew that. But the idea of doing nothing for seven days? The shadowsinger couldn’t quite imagine it. The silence, the lack of tasks, the emptiness that would surely come creeping in.

Rhys tilted his head, studying his friend. "Or," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "I could pick for you."

Azriel arched a brow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Rhys grinned wider, the smile of a male who had already won. "Oh, I would. And I’d send Cassian along with you."

Azriel sighed, his shoulders finally relaxing in defeat. "Fine," he muttered. "But I choose where I go."

Rhys clapped his hands together, overly pleased. "Good choice. And you can thank me later."

Azriel ignored that last comment, already formulating a plan in his mind. If he was going to take this forced leave, he’d do it on his terms. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere his shadows could stretch and breathe without the weight of court politics and spying missions pressing on them.

Two days later, Azriel stood at the edge of a secluded forest, a small cabin nestled within the trees. The place was deep in the Illyrian mountains, far from the usual chaos of Velaris, and even farther from the constant hum of the Night Court’s politics. His shadows seemed to settle as soon as they stepped into the dense woods, the cool mountain air refreshing after years of bustling cities and dark alleys.

The cabin was small, just enough for one, with a fireplace, a modest kitchen, and a large window overlooking a crystalline lake. It was perfect. No distractions, no missions—just quiet.

Azriel unpacked slowly, his shadows weaving between his hands as he moved through the cabin. A part of him still felt restless, unused to the idea of not doing anything. He’d brought a few reports to read, a habit he hadn’t been able to shake, but now, looking out at the serene landscape, they felt unnecessary.

He stepped outside, the soft crunch of pine needles beneath his boots, and made his way down to the lake. The water was still, reflecting the tall evergreens and the distant snow-capped peaks. He inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. His shadows flickered, stretching out across the surface of the lake before retreating back to him, as if testing the space.

Sitting on the dock, Azriel let himself relax for the first time in a long while. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue across the water. For once, his mind wasn’t consumed with strategy or worry. There was only the sound of the wind in the trees and the gentle lap of water against the shore.

Days passed, and Azriel found himself falling into an unfamiliar but peaceful rhythm. He spent the mornings flying over the mountains, his wings cutting through the brisk air, and the afternoons sitting by the lake, sometimes reading, sometimes simply watching the world go by.

He had never been one for idleness, but here, in the solitude of the mountains, it didn’t feel like idleness. It felt like… peace.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains and the sky turned to a deep violet, he felt a tug in his chest. His shadows whispered, a familiar hum in the back of his mind.

"You’re not used to it, are you?" a soft voice asked.

Azriel didn’t startle, but his shadows shifted restlessly as Gwyn emerged from the trees. Her coppery hair glinted in the dying light, and she smiled as she approached, her steps light and sure.

"I heard you were forced into a vacation," she said, stopping at the edge of the dock. "I couldn’t resist coming to see if it was true."

Azriel smirked, though he felt a warmth spread through him at the sight of her. "Rhysand didn’t exactly give me a choice."

Gwyn chuckled, sitting down beside him, her feet dangling over the water. "You look… relaxed," she observed, glancing sideways at him.

Azriel raised a brow. "That’s surprising?"

"Just unexpected," she teased. "But I’m glad. You deserve this."

Azriel looked out at the lake, his shadows calmer than they had been in months. "I didn’t think I’d know what to do with all the free time," he admitted, his voice low. "But… maybe I needed this more than I realized."

Gwyn leaned back on her hands, tilting her head up to the sky as stars began to emerge. "Everyone needs a break now and then. Even spymasters."

Azriel glanced at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What about you? Taking a break from the library?"

She grinned. "I took my paid time off to see how you were doing. I’d say it was worth it."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching as the stars reflected off the still surface of the lake. Azriel felt something shift within him, a quiet contentment settling in a way he hadn’t expected.

Perhaps paid time off wasn’t so terrible after all.

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☆A Gwynriel fanfic for Azriel week Day 3☆

@azrielappreciationweek

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Azriel stood at the edge of the House of Wind, the night breeze threading through his dark hair. His wings, usually tucked in tight to his body, hung loosely behind him. The stars above Velaris were bright tonight, a canopy of light that made the city beneath them glow like a well-kept secret. It should have been peaceful, but inside, a storm raged.

Belonging. He had never truly known what it felt like. He’d been brought into the Night Court as a broken child, barely more than a weapon-in-the-making. His hands, scarred from years of torture in the Hewn City, still ached sometimes as if the shadows he commanded whispered memories of his past.

To the outside world, Azriel was a Spymaster, a shadow-cloaked figure of fear and control. But beneath that title was something far more fragile: a man who had never felt at home in his own skin.

The shadows that swirled around him now were a comfort, his ever-present companions. They murmured of secrets, of dangers lurking beyond the city, but they also offered something else. Solace. The knowledge that he wasn’t truly alone, even if it felt that way sometimes.

“Azriel.”

He didn’t need to turn to know it was Gwyn. Her presence was like a breath of fresh air, quiet yet unwavering. She had a knack for sneaking up on him, something that might have irritated anyone else. But for Azriel, it was a welcome distraction.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, coming to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on the city below.

He shook his head. “I don’t sleep much.”

Gwyn chuckled softly, a sound that made his chest tighten. “I’ve noticed.”

There was a long silence between them, the kind Azriel found strangely comfortable. Gwyn didn’t force conversation, didn’t pry into the depths of his thoughts unless he wanted to share. It was one of the many reasons he found himself drawn to her.

“I can feel it,” she said, her voice soft, as if she were afraid to shatter the stillness. “That restlessness inside you.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately. He wasn’t sure how to. How could he explain a lifetime of feeling like he didn’t fit anywhere? That even with his brothers—Cassian and Rhys, the only family he’d ever known—there was a part of him that was always separate, always watching from the outside.

“I don’t… belong,” he admitted quietly, the words barely a whisper. It wasn’t something he’d ever said aloud before, not even to himself.

Gwyn’s brow furrowed as she turned to face him. “What makes you say that?”

Azriel’s shadows stirred, wrapping tighter around him as if to shield him from the vulnerability he’d just exposed. “I’m not like them. Cassian, Rhys—they were always meant to be part of something bigger. I was just a tool, something to be used and discarded.”

“Azriel,” Gwyn said, her voice firm now, but not unkind. “You’re not just a weapon. You’re more than that.”

He looked at her then, his hazel eyes meeting her steady gaze. She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away like so many others did. She held his gaze, her expression unwavering.

“You think you don’t belong because of what you’ve done, because of what you are,” she continued. “But none of that changes the fact that you do belong. Maybe not in the way you think, but you’re part of this court. You’re part of Rhys and Cassian’s family. And… you’re part of mine, too.”

Azriel’s heart gave a strange lurch at her words. Family. It was a concept he’d always struggled with, even though Rhys and Cassian had never treated him as anything less than a brother. And yet, hearing Gwyn say it, hearing the quiet certainty in her voice—it struck something deep inside him.

“How do you know?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. “How can you be sure?”

Gwyn smiled, and it was like a sunrise breaking through the clouds. “Because I know what it’s like to feel lost. To feel like you don’t have a place in the world. But I also know that you don’t have to belong to some grand destiny to matter. Sometimes, belonging is just… being with the people who make you feel like you’re enough.”

Azriel looked away, his jaw clenched as he struggled to swallow the knot of emotion in his throat. The words she spoke were so simple, yet they cut through him with the force of truth.

He had always been searching for a place to belong, a purpose that went beyond being a weapon in someone else’s war. But maybe Gwyn was right. Maybe belonging wasn’t about destiny or titles or being something more. Maybe it was about the quiet moments like this, standing on the edge of the world with someone who saw him for who he truly was—and didn’t turn away.

The shadows around him calmed, as if they too had found a measure of peace in her words. And for the first time in a long while, Azriel felt a flicker of something that had always been elusive to him.

Home.

He glanced at Gwyn, who was still gazing at the stars, her face lit by their soft glow. Without thinking, he reached out, his scarred hand brushing hers. She looked at him, surprised, but then her expression softened, and she laced her fingers with his.

“You belong here, Azriel,” she whispered. “With me.”

Azriel tightened his grip, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe it.

In the shadows, he had found his place. But with Gwyn, he had found where he truly belonged.

Azriel week day 2 @azrielappreciationweek

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The sky over the Illyrian mountains was painted in hues of twilight—lavender, gold, and a soft, deepening blue.It was peaceful, the kind of piece that Azriel had never quite allowed himself to embrace.

Until tonight.

Gwyn was sitting on a large rock near the edge of the mountain’s overlook, her coppery hair catching the final rays of the sun. Her laughter from earlier had faded into a quiet peace, but her eyes still sparkled with an inner light that always seemed to soothe Azriel’s shadows. He stood a few feet away, watching her, fighting the turmoil that had been brewing inside him since they began spending more time together. She had a way of drawing him out, of making him feel... seen, and it unnerved him.

He clenched his hands into fists, feeling the familiar pull of darkness inside him, a reminder of everything he had been through—of the scars he carried, inside and out. His instincts screamed at him to keep the walls up, to protect himself. But Gwyn was different. She had her own shadows, her own scars. And maybe that was why he felt drawn to her, why he wanted to let her in, even when every part of him resisted.

As if sensing his struggle, Gwyn turned to look at him, her gaze soft and understanding. “Azriel?” she called softly, her voice like a soothing melody, drawing him closer.

He exhaled and walked toward her, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. He settled beside her on the rock, staring out at the view. The silence between them was comfortable, but there was something in the air tonight—something unspoken.

“You seem distant,” she said after a moment, her voice gentle but probing. “Is something on your mind?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. He turned his hands over, staring at the calloused palms, the faint silver lines that crossed his skin. His mind was far away, in a place darker than this mountain, darker than the skies above Velaris. The scars ran deeper than the surface.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “Something I’ve kept hidden for so long that sometimes... I forget how much it weighs on me.”

Gwyn’s eyes flicked to his face, concern flashing in her gaze. She didn’t speak, waiting for him to continue.

Azriel clenched his jaw, then with a deep breath, began to unbutton his tunic. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it—why he was about to expose a part of himself he had never willingly shown anyone, not like this. But Gwyn deserved to know. Maybe he needed her to know.

When his tunic fell open, Gwyn’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected this—not the raw, brutal reality of what lay beneath. His torso was a canvas of scars, old and faded, but unmistakable. They crisscrossed his chest and abdomen, each one telling a story of pain and survival. But the worst scars were on his back, where he had been whipped, tortured beyond reason. Marks of cruelty from a past he could never escape.

Gwyn’s eyes were wide, her hand instinctively reaching out, but she hesitated before touching him. “Azriel…” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion, with understanding. “Who did this to you?”

Azriel stared straight ahead, the wind ruffling his dark hair. “My brothers,” he said, his voice hard and cold. “When I was a boy. They locked me in a cell for years... tortured me for their amusement. These scars are a reminder of what I was, of what I’ll never be able to forget.”

He had never spoken of it in such detail, never allowed the words to pass his lips. But with Gwyn, it was different. He wanted her to know. He needed her to see the broken parts of him.

Gwyn’s hand finally touched his arm, the warmth of her skin grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of that dark abyss. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “I didn’t know… I didn’t realize…”

“It’s not your fault,” Azriel said quickly, his shadows curling around his feet, restless. “I don’t tell people because it doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on.”

But Gwyn shook her head. “It does matter, Azriel. It matters because it’s part of you. It’s shaped who you are, and that’s not something you should hide. Not from me.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and in her teal eyes, he saw no pity. Only understanding, only empathy. It was rare for him to feel like someone truly saw him, beyond the Spymaster, beyond the shadows and the facade he wore. But Gwyn… she saw him.

“You’ve been through so much,” she continued, her voice quiet but firm. “And yet, you’re still here. You’re still fighting. That’s what matters.”

Azriel’s throat tightened, the weight of her words settling over him like a balm. “It’s not just the scars,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s the darkness that comes with them. The things I’ve done… the blood on my hands. I’ve spent so long trying to make up for it, trying to be something better, but...”

Gwyn’s hand slid from his arm to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. “You are better,” she said softly. “You’re more than your past, more than your scars. You’re kind, Azriel. You care about people—about me. That’s what makes you different. You don’t have to hide who you are from me.”

Her words pierced something deep inside him, a part of him he had kept locked away for so long. He closed his eyes, the cool mountain air brushing against his skin, mingling with the warmth of Gwyn’s touch. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as broken as he thought.

When he opened his eyes, Gwyn was still looking at him, her expression gentle, her hand still resting on his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion he hadn’t realized he was holding back.

Gwyn smiled softly. “You don’t have to thank me. Just… let me in. Let me be here for you.”

Azriel nodded, his hand reaching up to cover hers, his thumb brushing against her skin. He wasn’t sure how to let someone in after so many years of keeping everyone at arm’s length, but with Gwyn… it felt possible. For the first time, it felt like something he could do.

As the last of the sun disappeared below the horizon, casting the sky into twilight, Azriel felt a small sense of peace settle over him. His scars would never fade, and the darkness would always be a part of him, but with Gwyn beside him, he didn’t feel so lost in it.

And for tonight, that was enough.

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The Night Court was cloaked in stillness. Shadows danced along the darkened corridors of the House of Wind, moving with an eerie elegance that only the still of night could conjure. Azriel stood at the edge of a high balcony, the cool breeze brushing over his face, tangling through his dark hair. His wings stretched, catching the wind in the gaps between feathers. It was a sensation of freedom he craved, though his heart was ever tethered to the weight of shadows.

Below, Velaris shimmered, a sea of stars on land, silent and beautiful. But Azriel’s thoughts were miles away, far from the serene landscape before him.His mind drifted to the memories that followed him, even in the quietest of moments.

Despite the silence, the darkness was never empty. His shadows whispered softly, swirling around him as if offering comfort, though they knew better than anyone that Azriel seldom sought solace. They were his constant companions, born from the very shadows he mastered. He had made peace with their presence long ago.

It was in the still moments—like now—that Azriel’s mind wandered to the things he buried. He often wondered if quiet was truly peaceful or if it merely gave space for the things one couldn’t escape.

He let out a breath, his gaze tracing the outlines of distant mountains. His hands rested on the cold stone of the railing, his scars hidden beneath his gloves. A reminder of the life he had lived, the choices he had made. A reminder that he had always belonged to the shadows.

A faint rustle interrupted the quiet. Azriel didn’t turn, didn’t need to. He knew the presence behind him—he had sensed it before the soft sounds reached his ears. It was Rhysand. His brother.

“I thought I might find you here,” Rhysand’s voice was low, respectful of the quiet Azriel sought. He stepped onto the balcony, standing beside Azriel without expectation, without breaking the calm.

Azriel merely nodded, still gazing out at the night.

“Do you ever rest?” Rhysand asked, his tone one of gentle concern, though they both knew the answer.

Azriel’s lips curved, though it was not quite a smile. “I find peace in the quiet.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes flickered, understanding in his gaze. They stood like that for a long while, two beings made of night and starlight, silent as the world turned around them.

“You can let it go, you know,” Rhysand said eventually, his voice almost a whisper against the wind. “The weight you carry. The past.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, the words swirling in his mind like the wind through his wings. Let it go. It sounded simple, but for someone like him, whose very existence had been carved by pain, it was an impossible thing. He had seen too much, done too much. He had walked through fire, and though he had emerged, the flames had left their mark.

“I’ve learned to live with it,” Azriel finally murmured, his voice as quiet as the night surrounding them.

Rhysand nodded, though his eyes reflected an ache only brothers shared—the knowing that some battles could never be fought for another. “Just know that you don’t always have to carry it alone.”

Azriel glanced at him then, the shadows shifting slightly around him as if sensing his thoughts. He knew Rhysand meant well, and deep down, Azriel was grateful for the loyalty of the family he had found in the Night Court. But the shadows were his own. His silence, his burden, his power. There was comfort in it, in the cold, in the quiet.

“I know,” Azriel said softly, his eyes returning to the horizon.

Rhysand didn’t push further. He never did. The two stood together for a while longer, the night stretching out before them, endless and silent.

When Rhysand eventually left, Azriel remained on the balcony, his thoughts drifting with the wind. His shadows whispered once more, but he did not mind their presence. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that he was made of darkness. He embraced it, wielded it. It was his strength, but it was also his solitude.

In the cool quiet of the night, he found a sense of peace. Not the kind that came with forgetting, but the kind that came with acceptance.

The stars overhead blinked softly, and Azriel closed his eyes, letting the quiet settle deep in his bones.

The dazzling lights of Vanserra Couture were a stark contrast to Elara's world. Born into a life of struggle, she had spent her days mending clothes in a cramped workshop, her  fingers weaving patches onto old, worn-out garments. But today, she stood in the heart of wealth and luxury, a place where beauty and fashion reigned supreme: Lucien Vanserra’s empire.

Vanserra Couture wasn’t just a fashion show—it was the show, the epitome of luxury and prestige in the fashion world. Models, designers, and elite fashionistas from across the realms gathered here to compete, not just for the grand prize of 500,000 gold marks, but for Lucien’s favor and a future in glamour. Rumor had it that Lucien, the enigmatic, copper-haired designer who built the empire, had a penchant for perfection, and his sharp, golden eye missed nothing.

Elara had never intended to enter this world. She wasn’t one of the tall, sleek beauties who naturally drifted to the front lines of fashion. But when her sister fell ill, the hospital bills mounted, and desperation clawed at her like never before. The prize money from Vanserra Couture could change everything. It could save her sister.

With her simple background, entering the competition had felt like a fantasy. She had nothing but raw talent and a drive to survive. Elara's hands, skilled in patching and mending, now had to transform fabric into something spectacular. But this was her one shot.

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Lucien stood at the balcony above the runway, his intense gaze surveying the models below. He had built Vanserra Couture from the ground up, pouring his soul into the empire. The models parading through his halls were mere instruments to craft his vision. And yet, as his eyes drifted over the latest group of competitors, one in particular caught his attention: Elara.

She was different, and Lucien could always sense when someone didn’t belong. With her unassuming brown hair pinned into a neat bun and wearing a dress that looked homemade, she didn’t fit the image of the polished models who glided through his doors. Yet there was something in her eyes—a fire, an unyielding determination—that made him pause.

Lucien gestured to his assistant, a tall woman in dark glasses who stood by his side. “Who is she?”

The assistant skimmed through her tablet. “Elara Talveran. No formal training. Self-taught. Comes from the lower districts.”

“Interesting,” Lucien mused. “We’ll see how long she lasts.”

Backstage, Elara’s heart pounded. She had made it through the first round by sheer luck, or so it seemed. Now, she had to face Lucien’s infamous Designers' Challenge. Each model was given a random set of materials—some beautiful, some absurd—and tasked with crafting an outfit to showcase on the runway. The catch? They had only twenty-four hours.

When the fabric was handed to her, Elara felt the weight of her task. Frayed linen, bits of old velvet, and scraps of lace—hardly the glamorous silk or satin the other models were working with. They want me to fail, she thought bitterly, but failure wasn’t an option. Not with her sister’s life hanging in the balance.

The hours blurred as she worked feverishly, her hands moving faster than her mind. With every stitch, she channeled her love for her sister. Every patch of fabric represented another hospital bill, another chance at freedom. By the time she finished, the sun had begun to rise, casting pale light across her creation. It wasn’t elegant, but it was hers—a patchwork gown that felt like a story stitched together from broken pieces.

The show began later that evening, and Lucien watched from the shadows as each model took the runway. As Elara stepped out, the audience murmured. Her dress was unlike anything they’d seen—a bold mix of textures, old lace intertwined with faded velvet. What should have been a disaster became a striking visual. Elara’s expression held no fear, only a fierce defiance.

As the models lined up, awaiting Lucien's judgment, he descended the staircase, the echo of his footsteps silencing the crowd. He stopped in front of Elara, his golden eye scanning her creation. The tension in the room thickened. Lucien’s approval could make or break her.

“And what do we have here?” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it. “A patchwork dress. Brave.”

Elara’s throat was dry, but she met his gaze. “I work with what I have.”

“And what you have,” Lucien drawled, inspecting the seams, “is almost nothing.” A long pause followed. “Yet you’ve made it into something. Impressive.”

She blinked, unsure if she had heard him right. Lucien Vanserra didn’t give out compliments easily.

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost into a smile. “There’s raw talent here. Unrefined, yes, but undeniable.” He stepped back, glancing at the other models. “Elara will move to the next round.”

Relief washed over her, but it was quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of responsibility. She had to win. Not just for herself, but for her sister.

The competition became fiercer with each passing day. Lucien, always watching from his secluded balcony, tested their limits. Elara faced everything from fabric shortages to design sabotage from the more seasoned competitors. Yet each challenge pushed her further, sharpening her skills and steeling her resolve.

She found herself in the final round, standing alongside three other contestants, all glamorous, all polished. The grand prize loomed closer than ever. But there was something more at stake now. Lucien had taken a personal interest in her journey, offering advice only in cryptic remarks. His attention was both a blessing and a curse. It made her the target of jealous eyes, but it also forced her to rise to levels she never thought possible.

In the final showcase, the models were asked to create their ultimate vision of beauty, using whatever fabrics and materials they wished. Elara, however, returned to her roots. She worked with the simplest of fabrics—wool, cotton, and linen—transforming them into a gown that was a tribute to her past, her family, and her sister’s struggle.

The day of the final runway came, and the tension in the air was palpable. As Elara walked, she carried with her every ounce of love she had for her sister, every moment of hardship she had faced. Her gown told a story, not of wealth or grandeur, but of survival, of hope stitched together from broken pieces.

When Lucien stepped onto the stage to announce the winner, the crowd held their breath. His gaze swept over the contestants, but when his eyes landed on Elara, they softened, just for a moment.

“Elara Talveran,” Lucien said, his voice echoing through the grand hall, “you have proven that beauty does not need luxury. It can rise from the ashes of hardship, from humble beginnings. You are the winner of Vanserra Couture.”

Tears filled her eyes as the weight of his words sank in. She had done it. She had won. Not just the competition, but the chance to save her sister, to change their lives forever.

As the crowd erupted into applause, Lucien met her gaze once more, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You remind me of someone I once knew—someone who turned nothing into something extraordinary.”

And with that, Lucien Vanserra turned away, his empire at his back, while Elara stood victorious at the pinnacle of a new beginning.

Lucien week day 6 @lucienweekofficial

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Lucien strode through the streets of Velaris, his steps measured.The City of Starlight was aglow with twilight, its sky shimmering with colors of dusk. But tonight, none of it reached Lucien’s eyes. His mind was focused, braced for what was to come.

There was a time when Lucien had been welcome here—trusted, even. The emissary of the Night Court had earned a precarious respect. But now, after the wars, after the betrayals, he walked these streets with an invisible weight pressing down on his shoulders.

He felt their stares. He heard the whispers.

Lucien Vanserra. Traitor. Spy. Outsider.

It was a reputation he could not escape.

"He's no better than his father," someone had once spat behind his back. The words had cut deeper than a sword. The name Vanserra carried a legacy of cruelty, one Lucien had spent his entire life trying to distance himself from. And yet, here he was, in Velaris—no longer trusted, no longer the man they had once believed him to be. Tamlin's lackey, Beron’s son, unfit to be at Feyre’s court.

Despite everything he had done for this city, for his friends, his loyalty still hung in the balance.

Lucien halted at the edge of the Sidra, the river’s waters glittering like liquid starlight. For a long moment, he stared out at the view, letting the cool night air settle around him. He knew he had only one place left to go. The House of Wind stood tall and imposing above him, a reminder of where he belonged. If Feyre and Rhys still had a shred of belief in him, they were his last chance.

His thoughts scattered as a voice interrupted him. "I didn’t think you’d actually show up."

Lucien didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice. Cassian. His tone was neutral, but there was something simmering beneath it. It was as if Cassian, too, was weighing Lucien's worth in his mind.

"I gave my word," Lucien replied, keeping his eyes on the river. "And when I give my word, I keep it."

Cassian stepped closer, folding his arms as he stood beside him. “That’s what they say. But not everyone here believes that anymore.”

Lucien clenched his jaw. “Because of what happened with Tamlin?”

“Because of a lot of things.” Cassian’s hazel eyes flickered over him, sharp and assessing. “There’s a lot of history between you and this court. Some of it good. Some of it... less so.”

Lucien turned to meet his gaze, his copper eye gleaming in the fading light. “Do you think I betrayed them?”

Cassian’s stare was unreadable for a moment, but then he sighed. “It’s not about what I think. You know how this works, Lucien. Trust isn’t something that comes back easily once it’s broken.”

“And yet I never broke it.” Lucien’s voice was low, hard. “I did everything Feyre and Rhysand asked of me. I went back to the Spring Court, I dealt with Tamlin. I bled for this city—”

“And still, people question your loyalty,” Cassian cut him off, his tone quiet but firm. “Because they don’t know where you stand. You’ve got a foot in too many places. The Spring Court, the Autumn Court, now this... People don’t trust what they can’t define.”

Lucien’s shoulders tensed, the weight of his name—his reputation—pressing down like a vise. He had tried so hard to prove himself. But it seemed like no matter where he went, he was always the outsider.

“I don’t belong anywhere, do I?” Lucien said, his voice almost a whisper.

Cassian tilted his head, his eyes softening slightly. “That’s not true. You just haven’t decided where you belong yet.”

The words sank deep, but they didn’t soothe the ache in Lucien’s chest. He had been drifting for so long—between courts, between loyalties—that he wasn’t even sure who he was anymore.

“I don’t want to be my father’s son,” Lucien muttered. “And I don’t want to be Tamlin’s shadow.”

Cassian nodded, leaning against the railing as he looked out over the Sidra. “Then stop letting them define you. Make your own name, Lucien. Build a reputation that’s yours.”

Lucien felt something stir within him at Cassian’s words. The truth of it. For too long, he had allowed others to write his story—to cast him in roles that didn’t fit. But he wasn’t Beron’s cruel heir, nor was he the lost emissary of the Spring Court. He was more than that.

And it was time the world saw it.

“What if it’s too late?” Lucien asked, though he already knew the answer.

Cassian smiled slightly, the first hint of warmth in his expression. “It’s never too late. But you’ve got to earn it. Reputation isn’t built in a day, and it’s not restored with just words. It’s action.”

Lucien’s hand curled into a fist at his side. He had done enough watching, enough playing the part others expected of him. Now, it was time to act.

He turned to Cassian, his golden-red eye gleaming with new resolve. “Then I suppose I have work to do.”

Cassian clapped him on the shoulder, a grin breaking through the tension. “Good. Because I have a feeling we’ll need all the help we can get soon.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Is that a recruitment pitch, General?”

“Maybe,” Cassian said, his grin widening. “Velaris could use someone with your... talents.”

Lucien let out a dry chuckle. "We'll see. But don’t think I’m just going to be a soldier at your beck and call.”

Cassian laughed, stepping away as he started back toward the House of Wind. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just try not to burn down anything before you’ve built your new reputation.”

Lucien watched him go, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Perhaps his reputation wasn’t set in stone. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could be more than what the world saw.

As the last light of day faded from the sky, Lucien took a deep breath and followed Cassian up the path. His past may have shaped him, but it didn’t have to define him.

From this moment on, he would decide what Lucien Vanserra stood for. And he would make sure the world knew it.

Lucien week day 5 @lucienweekofficial

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The sun had just begun to slowly rise, casting a golden hue over the Autumn Court. Lucien stood on the edge of the balcony, staring out at the forest that stretched endlessly beyond.It was beautiful,but it wasn’t home.

Not anymore.

Lucien had spent his whole life wandering, whether across lands or courts, always searching for a place where he could truly belong. He had hoped to find it with Tamlin, in the Spring Court. At first, it had felt like home—a sanctuary of golden fields and blooming gardens where he could escape the weight of his past. But that feeling had long since crumbled, buried beneath the ashes of betrayal and power.

He thought of Velaris, of the Night Court, where Feyre and Rhysand had built something precious. It had a warmth, a peace that called to him. But he could not shake the sense that he was an outsider there, even among those who treated him with kindness. He knew Feyre cared for him in her own way, but she had her own life, her own family. His place in it was… peripheral. He was not like Cassian or Azriel, with their unspoken brotherhood. He was not Rhysand’s inner circle, not really. He was a guest, a friend. A visitor.

“Is everything all right?”

The voice startled him from his thoughts, though he knew it well. Elain stood at the threshold of the balcony looking at him.She had a way of entering his presence silently, as though she were a part of the world itself—soft and unassuming, yet impossible to ignore.

Lucien straightened, his heart doing the now-familiar stutter it always did when she was near. He hadn’t expected to see her tonight. Elain had spent much of her time in Velaris, her life entwined with her sisters and their court. He hadn’t dared to ask her to stay. How could he?

“Elain,” he murmured, turning to face her. “I didn’t know you were back.”

She smiled, a small, tentative thing that seemed to light up the dimming world around them. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but Feyre mentioned you’d returned here for a few days. I… I thought I’d join you.”

Lucien’s chest tightened. He had come back to the Autumn Court, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. There was unfinished business here—family ties that still gnawed at him, even after all this time. He had hoped to leave quietly, unnoticed, as always.

But here she was, her presence both a comfort and a confusion. Elain had a home. She had her family in Velaris. What was she doing here, in a court that had never been kind to either of them?

“You didn’t have to come,” Lucien said quietly, stepping toward her. “This place isn’t… it’s not for you.”

Elain met his gaze, her eyes soft but steady. “Maybe not. But I thought it might be for you.”

For him?

Lucien wanted to scoff, to laugh bitterly at the notion that the Autumn Court, of all places, could ever be home to him again. But the look in Elain’s eyes stopped him. She wasn’t here out of pity or obligation. She was here because she chose to be. And for a moment, Lucien dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, she saw something in him.

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I don’t know if I belong anywhere, Elain. Not here. Not… anywhere.”

She stepped closer, until she was standing right beside him, her gaze drifting out to the sprawling forest.Elain was quiet for a long moment, as though considering his words, or perhaps searching for the right ones to offer in return.

Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but firm. “Home isn’t always a place, Lucien. Sometimes it’s… it’s a person. Or the people who make you feel like you belong, even when you don’t see it yourself.”

Lucien felt the weight of her words settle over him, gentle and warm like the fading sunlight. He wanted to believe her, to let that warmth into the cold, lonely parts of his soul that had long ago turned to ice. But he wasn’t sure if he could. He had spent so long wandering, so long searching for something he didn’t think he deserved to find.

But then Elain looked up at him, her eyes filled with quiet determination, and he wondered if maybe he’d been searching in the wrong places all along.

“Maybe I don’t belong anywhere,” he murmured. “But when I’m with you… it feels like something. Like I’m not so lost.”

Elain’s hand brushed his, a gentle touch that sent a shock of warmth through him. “Then let’s not be lost together.”

Lucien stared at her, his heart in his throat, unsure of what to say. But maybe words weren’t what was needed here. Maybe, for once, it was enough to simply be. To stand here, with Elain beside him, and let the idea of home take root in a place he never expected to find it.

Maybe home wasn’t something he had to find. Maybe it was something he could choose.

 Lucien found himself hoping that home might be wherever she was.

The late afternoon sun cast over the Spring Court’s gardens, where the air was fragrant with the scent of blooming orange blossoms. Lucien Vanserra relaxed against the smooth bark of the ancient orange tree, his one scarred eye half-closed in the warmth of the day. Beside him, Elain Archeron sat on the soft blanket,arranging a small bouquet of wildflowers she'd picked from the fields surrounding them.

Lucien watched her with love and admiration, as she finished the bouquet.

Elain met his gaze, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I love it here,” she said.

“I thought you might,” Lucien replied, his voice low, rough like the growl of a distant storm, but softened with affection. “It suits you—the garden, the quiet.” His gaze lingered on the soft flush of her cheeks, the light in her eyes. He reached for her hand, gently, hesitating for a moment before his fingers intertwined with hers. "It suits us."

Elain’s breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t pull away. Her hand, so small and soft in his, squeezed back. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the chirp of distant birds. The world, at that moment, belonged only to them.

She shifted slightly, leaning her shoulder against him, and his heart stuttered, as it always did when she was this close. "I wasn’t sure about this at first,” she admitted, her eyes flicking toward the orange trees around them. “Coming here with you, spending time like this. But... it feels right now."

Lucien turned his head slightly. “I’m glad. You deserve to feel comfortable wherever you are. Especially with me.” There was a hint of vulnerability in his words, but Lucien had long since learned not to guard his heart so closely when it came to her.

She tilted her face up to him, the light playing in her brown eyes, glinting with something unreadable, but warm. “It’s been... hard, figuring out what I want. Who I am now. But when I’m with you, it’s as if everything falls into place.”

“Elain…” He didn’t know how to respond, not fully. For months, years even, he'd held his breath, waiting for her to come to him, to accept the bond between them. But hearing her say this... it was more than he had dared hope for.

“I know it hasn’t been easy,” she continued, her eyes dropping to where their hands were still intertwined. “For either of us. But I’m learning that love doesn’t have to be simple, or easy, for it to be real.”

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The word love hung between them, heavy and fragile all at once. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you,” Lucien said, his voice soft but firm. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, his hand shaking ever so slightly. “But I never wanted to force anything. I wanted you to choose, to be sure.”

Elain looked at him then, fully, with that piercing, clear gaze that always made him feel like she could see right through him. “I know. That’s why it’s been so hard. You’ve always given me space, and that made me realize something.”

“What’s that?” he asked, his heart pounding.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against his, the closeness sending a shiver down his spine. Her breath was warm against his lips as she whispered, “That I choose you, Lucien. I love you.”

His heart stuttered at her words, and before he could think, before he could stop himself, his lips found hers. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but the weight of their emotions pulled them closer. Her hands moved to his chest, resting there as if she could feel the frantic beat of his heart. His fingers slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head as he deepened the kiss, pouring all the love into it.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Lucien rested his forehead against hers once more, eyes closed as he tried to steady the emotions swirling inside him. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered, voice shaking with the depth of his feeling.

Under the orange tree, they found each other at last, and for the first time, Lucien knew that this was the beginning of something beautiful—something neither of them had to fear anymore.

The first light of dawn pierced through the cracks in the heavy drapes of Lucien’s study. It was rare for him to be awake at this hour, the daylight usually a time for quiet recovery from the shadows he thrived in. But this morning was different. The light touched his pale skin, brushing over his sharp features, and though he did not flinch from its presence, there was a lingering tension in the air.

Lucien had always been a creature of the night—one who found solace in the darkness where the veil between the worlds was 

thinnest, where secrets whispered louder and magic flowed in every shadow. But the daylight? It exposed too much. It left no place for darkness to hide. Yet, here he stood, transfixed by the dawn.

A soft knock on the door stirred him from his reverie.

"Enter," he called, his voice low and steady.

Elain stepped into the room. Her presence was quiet but not unnoticed. She had a gift for sneaking up on even the most observant souls, and for Lucien, she was as much a mystery as she was a comfort. She, too, was different from her usual self this morning, her light brown eyes reflecting the soft glow of the morning sun, her lips curving into a small smile as their gazes met.

"I thought I might find you here," Elain said softly, her voice like the gentle rustling of leaves in the early light.

Lucien nodded, turning his gaze back to the window. "I couldn't sleep."

The room fell into a brief silence, save for the quiet hum of the waking world outside. Birds sang faintly in the distance, and the cool breeze of dawn stirred the curtains. Lucien felt Elain’s gaze on him, curious and warm, yet she said nothing more. She didn’t have to. In her presence, silence had always been enough.

Elain walked toward him, her footsteps barely audible, and stood beside him at the window. She, too, looked out at the horizon as the golden light slowly spilled across the landscape.

"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" she whispered, her voice softer than the daylight.

Lucien glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was bathed in sunlight, her chestnut hair catching the rays, turning to gold in the morning light. There was a quiet grace about her, something ethereal, as if she belonged more to the light than the shadows where Lucien resided.

"It is," he admitted, though his voice was reluctant.

Elain turned her head to look at him, her eyes bright and searching. "You don’t have to be afraid of it, you know."

Lucien blinked, surprised by her words. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out in a quiet sigh. Afraid of daylight? Perhaps. He had spent so long avoiding it, retreating into the comfort of night where his past, his pain, could remain hidden.

"I’m not afraid of it," Lucien replied, but his voice lacked conviction.

Elain gave him a small, knowing smile. "Maybe not afraid, but..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "You’ve been running from it for a long time."

Lucien’s jaw tightened. He turned his gaze back to the window, watching as the sun slowly lifted higher into the sky. "The daylight is harsh," he muttered. "It reveals too much. There are some things better left in the dark."

Elain took a step closer to him, her shoulder brushing his. "I don’t think so," she said quietly. "I think the light heals. It may reveal things we don’t want to see, but it also shows us what we need to see."

Lucien remained silent, the weight of her words settling over him. His life had been a series of battles—against himself, against the world, against his fate. The night had always been his ally, cloaking him in shadows, hiding his scars. But in the daylight, there was no hiding.

Elain’s hand brushed his, her touch feather-light, yet it grounded him in a way nothing else could. She had a way of making the darkness seem less oppressive, of making the light feel... inviting.

"I used to fear the daylight too," Elain confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "After everything that happened, the idea of waking up to another day seemed unbearable. But then I realized... each day is a chance. To heal, to move forward. To find something good again."

Lucien’s heart ached at her words. He glanced at her, really looking at her this time. She had been through so much—torn apart by war, grief, and loss—and yet, she stood here, a quiet force of hope. Her strength was not the kind that roared; it was the kind that endured.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Lucien allowed himself to truly feel the warmth of the sunlight on his skin. It didn’t burn, as he had feared. It didn’t expose him in the way he had expected. Instead, it was gentle, like a promise that the darkness didn’t have to last forever.

"I’m tired of running," Lucien admitted softly, the confession slipping out before he could stop it.

Elain smiled at him, and it was as though the sun itself had blessed her with its light. "Then don’t run," she said. "You don’t have to. Not anymore."

In that moment, standing beside Elain in the soft glow of dawn, Lucien realized that perhaps the daylight wasn’t something to fear. It was a reminder that even after the longest, darkest night, the sun would always rise again.

And maybe, just maybe, he was ready to rise with it.

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Lucien had no idea… no idea just how much power resided in him all this time.

Standing on the edge of the woods, he gazed at the flames of the setting sun licking the horizon, the sky casting a crimson glow that echoed deep within him. The Autumn Court’s lands were quiet, too quiet, though he knew better than to trust that silence. As a High Fae, Lucien had always been nearly unstoppable — a deadly combination of fire and daylight. He’d fought wars, wielded both sword and spell with lethal precision. But now, now he was something far more dangerous.

He flexed his hand, watching as sharp claws extended from his fingertips. The transformation was still new, a foreign sensation that made his skin hum with anticipation, with power. The fox inside him stirred, prowling beneath the surface, eager to be unleashed. His senses had sharpened, his reflexes honed to a point where nothing escaped him. The distant rustle of leaves, the faintest whiff of a scent carried on the breeze — he heard and smelled it all. But it was more than that. There was a new fire in his veins, one that had nothing to do with his High Fae gifts.

It was ancient, primal. A beast’s flame.

The fox spirit had come to him in the depths of his despair, on a night when he thought he might lose everything. There had been no warning, no preparation. One moment, he was Lucien Vanserra, emissary of the Night Court, forever trapped between loyalties. The next, he was something more, something other — a beast, his skin rippling with fur, his body transforming into a lean, predatory fox with eyes that burned like embers.

That first shift had been chaos. The wild power coursing through him had nearly consumed him. He hadn’t known how to control it, how to balance the animal instincts with his Fae mind. But over time, the fox had become a part of him, a shadow that followed his every move, waiting, watching. Ready to strike.

Tonight, he would let it.

Lucien crouched low, feeling the rough bark of the tree behind him. He inhaled deeply, the scent of his prey sharp and clear. The intruders were near — rogues from the Autumn Court who sought to claim territory that didn’t belong to them. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, a low growl vibrating in his throat.

They had no idea what they were walking into.

He could smell them now — two males, arrogant in their scent, their magic tainted with greed and malice. They thought they could best him. After all, he was just one male, alone, cut off from any courtly protection. His fire was impressive, yes, but they believed they could handle it.

They were wrong.

Lucien closed his eyes, feeling the surge of power, the flame that crackled beneath his skin. But this time, he didn’t reach for the daylight. He didn’t need it.

A ripple of energy spread through his body, and the shift began.

The world around him grew sharper, clearer. His senses expanded, his muscles tensed, and his bones elongated. In the span of a heartbeat, he was no longer standing on two legs. His body was low to the ground, sleek and powerful. His fur gleamed in the fading light, a rich blend of russet and gold, with black streaks running along his spine.

A fox — but not just any fox. He was larger, more fearsome than any mortal or fae creature could imagine. His eyes blazed like molten gold, a deadly fire lurking within them. His claws, sharper than any blade, dug into the earth as he prowled forward, silent as a shadow.

The rogues never saw him coming.

The first male was standing guard, his attention focused elsewhere when Lucien leaped, his claws sinking deep into flesh. The male let out a startled cry, but it was cut short as Lucien’s teeth found his throat. A quick, brutal snap, and it was over.

The second rogue spun around, eyes wide with shock and fear. He raised a hand, summoning his magic, but Lucien was faster. The fox pounced, knocking the male to the ground. He didn’t hesitate. His claws slashed through the male’s chest, his magic-infused strike tearing through the protective wards. There was a scream, a desperate, gurgling sound, and then silence.

Lucien stood over the body, his breath coming in quick, shallow pants, his fur stained with blood. The beast within him stirred, satisfied, but Lucien was not done.

The fox receded, and he returned to his Fae form, the change fluid and seamless now. His hand, still smeared with blood, flexed again, the claws retracting.

He had never felt so powerful.

For so long, Lucien had relied on his abilities as High Fae, as the son of Helion, the emissary of the Night Court. He had been dangerous then, yes. But now — now he was something else entirely. The fox within him had awakened a new kind of power, one that transcended magic, one that was raw, untamed, and primal.

He had become the predator, and in this form, there were no limits to what he could do.

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of more intruders, more prey. Lucien’s lips curved into a wicked smile. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar itch beneath his skin, the fox ready to hunt once more.

They had no idea what kind of beast they were facing.

With a low growl, Lucien disappeared into the shadows, his claws glinting in the dying light. Tonight, the fox would feast.

The night was soft and cool as Elain Archeron stood on the balcony of the manor, the silvery moonlight casting a gentle glow across the garden below. The Night Court’s vast expanse of stars glittered overhead, but it was the breeze that carried a hint of spring—a scent that reminded her of home. Of the past. Of peace.

She leaned against the stone railing, taking in the scent of the blooming roses. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the quiet footsteps behind her until a deep, familiar voice spoke, his tone as gentle as the breeze.

“Elain.”

She turned slowly, already knowing who it was. Lucien stood in the doorway, his russet hair catching the moonlight, his golden eye gleaming softly. Yet it was the expression on his face—careful, tender—that caught her breath. There was something about Lucien Vanserra that always radiated warmth. It wasn’t just the color of his hair, or the subtle scent of pine and cedar that clung to him; it was his very presence, as though he belonged in the wild places of the world where things grew and bloomed without constraint.

“Elain,” he said again, his voice a gentle murmur now, “you shouldn’t be out here alone. It’s getting colder.”

His concern made her heart ache, but she shook her head softly, offering a small smile. “I needed some air.”

Lucien nodded, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance. He had always been this way with her—careful, considerate, a gentleman in every sense of the word. He never pressed her, never demanded more than she was ready to give. His gentleness had surprised her at first. She had expected fire, given his ties to the Autumn Court. But instead, she found him to be more like Spring: patient, warm, and full of quiet hope.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “I’ll keep you company.”

She looked at him then, truly looked at him. There was something comforting about Lucien. Perhaps it was the way he always seemed to know when to speak and when to simply be there. He never forced himself into her space, but rather, he let her choose the terms of their interactions.

“Of course,” she replied softly, moving aside so he could stand next to her.

Lucien joined her at the railing, his hands resting loosely on the stone, his posture relaxed yet alert. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the garden sway in the night breeze, the quiet sounds of the world around them filling the space between them.

After a few minutes, Lucien spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You remind me of the spring.”

Elain blinked, turning her head to him. “Spring?”

He smiled faintly, his gaze still fixed on the garden below. “Yes. Not just the flowers you tend to, though they certainly remind me of you. But you... you are like spring itself. Gentle, but strong. Full of life and promise.”

Her heart stuttered at his words, at the sincerity in his tone. Lucien was always like this—thoughtful, kind. He saw her, truly saw her, in a way that sometimes left her feeling exposed, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was as if he understood her without her having to say a word.

“I’m not sure I’m as strong as you think,” she said softly, turning her gaze back to the garden.

Lucien shifted slightly beside her, his warmth closer now, though he still didn’t touch her. “Strength doesn’t always have to be loud or forceful, Elain. Sometimes, the strongest things are the quietest. Like the way you care for others. Or the way you’ve chosen to heal, in your own time.”

She swallowed, his words sinking deep into her chest. It wasn’t often that someone spoke to her like this—without expectation, without judgment. Just... understanding. She had grown used to feeling like the fragile one, the one who needed protection. But Lucien didn’t see her that way. He never had.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied, his golden eye meeting hers now, filled with warmth and something else she couldn’t quite name. “I just wanted you to know how I see you. How I’ve always seen you.”

Her breath caught, and she felt a sudden rush of emotion. This male—her mate—had been so patient with her, so kind. He had never once pushed her to acknowledge the bond between them, never demanded more than she was ready to give. He had waited, quietly, gently, letting her come to terms with it all at her own pace.

Lucien shifted slightly, moving to stand directly in front of her. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he was giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wished. But she didn’t. Instead, she found herself looking up into his mismatched eyes, her heart racing.

“Lucien...” she began, unsure of what she wanted to say.

But he shook his head, a soft smile curving his lips. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Elain. I’m not here to rush you, or to ask for more than you’re ready to give.”

He lifted his hand, hesitating for a moment before gently tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. His touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down her spine.

“I’m just here,” he said softly. “For as long as you want me to be.”

The weight of his words settled over her, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel overwhelmed by the bond between them. She didn’t feel pressured or frightened. She simply felt... safe.

“I do want you here,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Lucien’s expression softened, and he gave her the smallest nod, as though acknowledging the weight of her words without making it feel too heavy. Then, slowly, as if giving her every opportunity to stop him, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

It wasn’t demanding or passionate. It was gentle, reverent—just like him.

When he pulled back, his hand still lightly brushing her hair, Elain felt her heart swell with something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope.

She smiled up at him, her voice steady now. “Thank you, Lucien.”

His smile was small, but it was real, and it lit up his whole face. “Anytime, Elain. Anytime.”

And with that, they turned back to the garden, standing side by side, the warmth of his presence a quiet comfort in the cool night air.

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Day 7 @officialfeysandweek

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Feyre Archeron had never thought her art would become the focus of such dangerous attention. But as she sat in her sprawling, modern studio—light streaming in from the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the bustling city of Velaris—her hands trembled over the canvas, her focus fractured by the latest death threat sitting crumpled on the table nearby.

The threats had started out vaguely disconcerting—anonymous messages about her controversial work, some hate-filled rants on social media—but over the past few weeks, they’d become much more personal, more violent. Her name was on every gallery-goer's lips, the art world mesmerized by her paintings, each one steeped in raw emotion, but this was not the kind of attention she had expected. Her pieces had always been provocative, challenging norms, but now... it seemed they had provoked something far darker.

It wasn’t until her agent, Mor, had demanded she get protection that she realized the situation had spiraled beyond her control.

“Feyre, I’m serious,” Mor had insisted over the phone that morning. “This isn’t just about your art anymore. You’re in real danger.”

Which was why Rhysand was there now—leaning against the doorframe of her studio with an air of cool confidence, as if he owned the space. His dark eyes, almost indigo in the shifting light, watched her carefully, assessing her like she was one of his assignments—because she was.

"You’re nervous," Rhysand said, his voice smooth but edged with concern.

“I’m fine,” Feyre lied, dipping her brush into a vibrant shade of crimson, dragging it across the canvas in sharp, agitated strokes.

He stepped closer, his presence magnetic, though Feyre pretended not to notice. Rhysand was unlike any bodyguard she had expected—he was far too good-looking, his broad shoulders clad in a sleek black suit that did nothing to hide his athletic build. She’d imagined someone more inconspicuous, not a man who could easily stop traffic.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he remarked, his tone playful but his gaze serious. “I’ve seen your hands shake three times since I walked in.”

Feyre sighed, setting the brush down with more force than necessary. “It’s just… everything. I’m not used to being caged in my own home. I can’t even go to a gallery opening without looking over my shoulder now.” She paused, catching his eyes. “I don’t know how to feel safe anymore.”

Rhysand's expression softened, though there was still a hint of steel beneath his calm demeanor. “That’s why I’m here. You don’t have to worry about your safety. I’ll handle that. You just focus on your art.”

The words were meant to be reassuring, but Feyre could hear the weight of responsibility in his voice. This was his job, and he took it seriously, but something about the way he looked at her—like she was more than just another assignment—made her pulse quicken.

“I’m not used to someone hovering over me while I paint,” she muttered, crossing her arms as she turned back to her half-finished work. Her latest piece was chaotic, a swirl of colors that screamed her frustration with her situation.

“I don’t hover,” Rhysand corrected with a smirk. “I observe.”

“Is that what you call it?” she shot back, though she found herself smiling despite the tension curling in her chest.

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “I’ll try to be less conspicuous then. But I’m not going far.” His eyes flicked toward the windows, where the city stretched out below them, unaware of the storm brewing in the artist’s world. “Whoever’s sending those threats isn’t going to stop just because we pretend nothing’s wrong.”

Feyre swallowed hard. “Do you think they’ll really... try something?”

“I don’t know,” Rhysand admitted, moving to stand beside her, his gaze trailing over the painting. “But I’ve seen enough to know we can’t underestimate them.” His eyes slid back to hers, sharp but kind. “That’s why I need you to trust me.”

Feyre studied him for a long moment. He was far too collected for someone who might have to throw himself into the path of danger at a moment’s notice. It should have made her uneasy, but instead, she found herself relaxing slightly in his presence. There was something in those eyes—something that made her feel like maybe she could breathe a little easier with him around.

“I’m not good at trusting people,” Feyre admitted, her voice quieter now.

“I’ve noticed,” Rhysand replied, his lips curving in that infuriatingly knowing smile. But then his expression grew more serious. “But if it makes a difference, Feyre, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you don’t have to fear anyone.”

Her heart stuttered at the sincerity in his voice. The room felt smaller, the air between them charged with something unspoken, something that had been simmering since the moment he’d walked into her life.

Forcing herself to look away, Feyre picked up her brush again, trying to focus on the painting in front of her. But she could feel his gaze lingering, could feel the strange heat building between them, even as she tried to pretend it was just nerves.

“I’ll do my part,” she said quietly, as if the promise was more to herself than to him. “But... thank you. For being here. Even if I don’t act like I appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Rhysand murmured, his voice low and soft as he turned to leave the room. “Just keep painting. And leave the rest to me.”

As he left, Feyre found herself exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The weight of the threats, the fear that had clung to her for weeks, was still there—but it felt a little less suffocating now.

She dipped her brush into the paint again, her strokes more measured, more deliberate this time. And as she worked, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, her protector would end up saving more than just her life.

Feyre stood at the edge of the Night Court’s mountain, the wind tangling her hair as it whispered across the stars. Velaris shimmered beneath her, a city of light and art that she had grown to love fiercely. But tonight, her thoughts were elsewhere—on what was yet to come.

The bond hummed, an ever-present thrum that told her he was near. She didn’t need to turn to know Rhysand stood behind her, his powerful presence wrapping around her like the night itself. A warmth spread in her chest as his arms circled her waist, pulling her back against him.

"You're too quiet, Feyre darling," he murmured against her ear, his voice a soft purr. "That usually means you're scheming something."

Feyre tilted her head slightly, resting it against his shoulder. "Just... thinking."

Rhys pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, his breath warm and steady. "Should I be worried?"

She chuckled, though it held a note of uncertainty. "What do you think will happen next, Rhys?" she asked quietly, her gaze still fixed on the distant horizon. "With us. With our court. With everything we've fought for."

He was silent for a moment, his chin resting on her head. When he spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. "We’ve broken the cycle, Feyre. You and I... We’re the first of our kind—High Lord and High Lady, equals. And not just in title. Truly equals. We’re the future, and with that comes... uncertainty."

She turned in his arms to face him, looking up into those star-kissed violet eyes. "But do you ever wonder... if it's enough? We’ve rebuilt Velaris, restored peace after Hybern. But there’s so much more out there. So many forces we can’t see, can’t control."

Rhysand’s hands cradled her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Of course, I wonder. But we didn’t come this far to let fear of the unknown stop us. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together. And if anyone stands in our way, we’ll show them why the Night Court endures."

Her heart swelled at his words, the truth in them. Together, they had faced impossible odds, and together they had risen. Feyre smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "First of their kind," she echoed. "It feels like there's more to that title than we realize."

Rhysand’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, Feyre darling, I’m sure there is. But I have no doubt that we’ll be the ones to define what that means."

The air between them crackled with something electric, something new. They had always been a force of nature together, bound not only by love but by power. Yet now, there was something more—an understanding that their bond went beyond the courts, beyond even the world they knew.

They were a bridge between the old and the new, between the past and what was yet to be. No one else could claim the title of High Lord and High Lady, a balance of strength and compassion, of darkness and light. And perhaps that was what made them more than just rulers—perhaps that was what would make them legends.

Feyre touched her hand to her stomach, a flicker of realization crossing her mind. She wasn’t alone anymore. A new life, a new power, stirred within her. Something that would change everything once more.

"Rhys," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the secret she had just discovered. "I think... we’re going to be more than just the first of our kind."

He stilled, his eyes narrowing with sudden intensity. "Feyre, what—"

But he didn’t need her to finish. His gaze dropped to her hand, resting protectively over her abdomen, and the dawning realization in his eyes mirrored her own. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, as if the stars themselves held their breath.

Rhysand’s smile was slow, a soft exhale of pure joy and awe. "Feyre," he breathed, pulling her close, his hand joining hers. "A child... our child."

She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek, not of sadness but of overwhelming love. "We’re going to be parents."

His forehead pressed against hers, his voice a reverent whisper. "The first of their kind."

In that moment, under the vast stretch of the night sky, Feyre and Rhysand stood together, bound by love, by destiny, by the promise of a future they could scarcely comprehend. Their child would be something new, something powerful—an extension of their love, their strength.

Together, they had reshaped the world. Now, they would raise the next to inherit it.

As they stood beneath the stars, Feyre felt it—the quiet promise of tomorrow. The world had no idea what was coming, but she knew one thing for certain:

Whatever the future held, they would face it as they always had—together, as the first of their kind.

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Day 5 @officialfeysandweek

The night was heavy with magic, a thrum that vibrated through the trees and the very earth beneath their feet. Velaris had never been more alive than it was this night, the stars themselves twinkling as if they knew the importance of the occasion. Feyre stood at the center of it all, her heart a wild drumbeat against her ribs. The air was cool but gentle, kissed by the ocean breeze that whispered through the Sidra River and up the stone streets, carrying the scent of jasmine and sea salt.

This was the night of their bonding ceremony.

The sky was a deep indigo, untouched by clouds, and above her, stars blinked in constellations Feyre had never noticed before. They glittered like precious gems, each one holding stories of love, loss, and fate. She had never felt the weight of destiny as keenly as she did now, standing beneath those stars, waiting for the moment that would bind her to Rhysand—truly, and irrevocably.

“You look like you’re about to fly away, Feyre darling.”

The familiar voice slid over her like velvet, and Feyre turned, a slow smile curling her lips at the sight of him. Rhysand. Her mate. Her High Lord.

He stood tall and proud, the wind ruffling his midnight-black hair, his violet eyes gleaming with humor and love. Rhys’s gaze traced over her, as if committing every detail to memory—the flowing silver gown she wore, the small diamonds glittering along her neckline, the way her hair was braided with moonlight itself. There was nothing but adoration in his eyes, even though they’d been through hell and back to reach this moment.

“I was wondering if you’d show up,” Feyre teased, though her voice trembled with emotion. “Thought you might have found some last-minute business to take care of.”

Rhys chuckled softly, stepping closer until their breaths mingled. “I would burn this entire court to the ground before missing this, Feyre. You know that.”

Feyre looked up at him, her throat tight, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Rhysand reached out, brushing a thumb over her cheek, catching one tear that dared to slip free. His touch was so gentle, so reverent, it nearly broke her.

“How are you so calm?” Feyre whispered. “I feel like I’m going to shatter into a million pieces.”

Rhys’s gaze softened, his wings rustling slightly behind him. “Because I’ve known, from the moment I met you, that this was fated. Every step we took, every battle, every victory, every scar—it led us here. To this.”

Feyre closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. His words echoed in her bones, a deep truth she had always felt but could never fully articulate. Their journey had been filled with so much pain, so much sacrifice, and yet… it had all brought them together. It had all brought them here.

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Rhysand took her hands in his, raising them to his lips. The crowd that had gathered in the distance fell silent as if sensing the shift in the air. Amren, Mor, Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta watched from the edges of the ceremony circle, their faces lit by the faint glow of faelight. All of them, her family, witnessing this sacred moment.

“The stars themselves conspired to bring us together, Feyre darling,” Rhys whispered, his lips brushing the backs of her hands. “And now, before all of them, I will bind my soul to yours.”

Feyre’s breath caught in her throat as Rhysand knelt before her, his wings folding gracefully behind him. His hands tightened around hers, and his voice, when he spoke again, was low and filled with ancient magic.

“I, Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, vow to be your shield when the world turns dark, your sword when the shadows encroach, and your heart when you forget the light. We are bound, in this life and all the ones to come.”

A pulse of power shot through the clearing, vibrating through the air like a distant thunderclap. Feyre felt it settle deep within her chest, a warmth that radiated from where their hands were clasped. Tears slipped from her eyes, but she was smiling—so broadly, so brightly that her heart felt full to bursting.

She knelt before him, placing her hands on his face, feeling the warmth of his skin, the truth of his words thrumming beneath her fingertips.

“And I, Feyre Archeron, High Lady of the Night Court, vow to be your strength when you falter, your light when darkness presses in, and your love when all else fades. We are fated, Rhys. In this life, and every one after.”

A breeze swept through the clearing, stirring their hair, their wings. The scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air, mingling with the salt of the sea. And in that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Feyre felt the magic of their vows sink into her bones, felt the bond between them shimmer and solidify, stronger than it had ever been before. The mating bond had been there from the start, a thread of destiny binding them together, but now… now it was forged into something eternal. A bond that could never be broken.

Rhysand stood, pulling her with him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, both of them overwhelmed by the weight of what had just transpired. The stars overhead twinkled brighter, as if offering their blessing.

“Fated,” Rhys whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Fated,” Feyre echoed, her lips curving into a smile.

He kissed her then, and the crowd erupted into cheers, but Feyre barely heard them. All she could feel was him—all she could think about was the eternity stretching out before them. Together. Always.

When they finally broke apart, Rhys’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “So, Feyre darling, what’s the first thing we do as an eternally bonded pair?”

Feyre laughed, a sound so pure and free it felt like music. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”

Rhysand grinned, his hand slipping around her waist, pulling her close. “Good. I look forward to hearing all of them.”

And as they stood there, surrounded by their family, their court, and the stars that had always been watching, Feyre knew that this—this was what fate had always intended.