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But Cassian didn’t miss the sharpness in Eris’s eyes. And couldn’t resist as he goaded, relishing Eris’s misery, “Jealous?”
“I offered for her,” Eris said bluntly, sliding his hands into his pockets. The Made dagger at his side shifted—its ordinary hilt glinting in the sun.
Had the lordling drawn it yet? Learned the secrets of its powers—whatever Nesta had imbued in it? Did he even dare wear it in his father’s presence, for fear of the questions it would raise? They’d given it back to him months ago, after that whole business with Briallyn. But surely Eris wouldn’t be stupid enough to wear a Made dagger in front of Beron. Or anyone at the Autumn Court. Perhaps that was why he’d agreed to come today—simply to have the chance to wear the blade and gloat over it. Cassian wouldn’t have put it past the male.
Eris shrugged again. “When Nesta gets tired of you, mate or no, my offer still stands.”
White-hot rage boiled up through Cassian, setting his Siphons crackling with power. “That’s not going to happen.”
Eris smirked. “Then where is she? I haven’t seen her at one of our little chats in a while. I wonder why.”
Cassian didn’t bother answering. It didn’t matter what Eris said or did or became. They’d never be friends—not in any true sense. The lordling could go to hell.
Eris went on, squinting at the blue sky above the vibrant forest canopy, “A word of warning: if you provoke the continent into war, if you bring that conflict to Prythian’s doorstep . . .” His stare lowered to Cassian’s, full of fire and steel. “Then even your mate’s power won’t be enough to save you.”
With that, the bastard winnowed, leaving only swirling red and gold leaves behind.
Azriel
Intruder. Visitor. Stranger.
Azriel had been in the town house, reading the daily reports from Nuala and Cerridwen—nothing of note in Rask or Montesere so far—when his shadows had begun roiling around him, shouting.
Intruder. Visitor. Stranger.
He was out the front door and launching skyward before he could think it through.
The day was bright, the city humming and peaceful, not a tinge of discontent in the air—
Stranger. River. Fear.
A pivot of his wings had him angling down, the wind shrieking in his ears as he soared for the Sidra. The turquoise water was clear, undisturbed; the boats meandered along, the bridges full of pedestrians all unbothered. He swooped low enough to scan the water, so crystalline he could see the river bottom thirty feet below with perfect clarity.
Even after he’d finally learned to fly as a child, it had taken decades for it to become instinct. To read winds and clouds and light, to trust his own body to do what it had been created to do.
Fear. Shadows. Hiding—
An image formed in his mind, courtesy of his shadows. Something, someone concealed in the dimness beside one of the docked merchant vessels, crouched between the wall of the quay and the hull itself. Clinging to the stones with long, clawed fingers.
Az’s shadows locked in, showing him the distinctive carved prow with its rearing fish-tailed horse, and he searched the riverside for it—there. His Siphons glowed as he rallied his power, readying for attack.
Mor was in the city—somewhere. And Nesta was up at the House of Wind. Everyone else was gone, but between the three of them, if his shadows could notify them somehow, perhaps they could face whatever this creature was. Before it posed a threat to Nyx. And the people of this city.
Curious sailors and merchants peered up at him as he shot past. A brisk wind off the river had him tilting, wings straining to keep steady. The ship he sought rose before him, a wood-and-canvas behemoth, and his senses narrowed toward where the hull met the river, the shade inches beyond it—
There; there, his own shadows urged. Fear. Alive and not. Dead and not.
He reached a hand over a shoulder for his Illyrian blade. Drew it in a silent slide. He didn’t bother to reach for Truth-Teller. The blade could turn to rust in its sheath for all he cared.
He banked in a whisper-quiet flap, assessing the boat, the river, before veiling himself in shadows. Nothing better than a wisp of darkness, a stain on the light. He slipped into the gloom along the quay. A skill that had been beaten and brutalized into him by Devlon from almost the very first day he’d arrived at Windhaven.
And when he’d surpassed Devlon’s knowledge of how to train shadowsingers, the other tutors who had been brought in had made Az long for the days when the petty Illyrian lord had overseen his education.
Hidden, Az examined the gap between the stone wall and the hull.
A white face stared up at him.
It was all that training that now kept Az utterly still, preventing him from doing what every instinct screamed: recoil, run, get airborne. And in his stillness, he remained a mere shadow. Nothing at all.
