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The final note rings out to the ending procession of the service, Gwyn’s voice clear and beautiful. A naturally gifted mezzo-soprano, Azriel notes as he slips out into the corridor. He has made a habit of attending services at the Cesere Temple recently. Not only because it had been too long, and his mother would no doubt scold him for slacking in his beliefs and gratitude for his health and strength from The Mother, but because he wanted to. He nearly looked forward to the next one for reasons he couldn’t quite admit.
Because we adore the bubbly redhead priestess, that’s why, one of his shadows murmurs in his ear.
Adore? It’s more than adoration, another teases.
Azriel grumbles a noncommittal response, but his heart leaps in his chest. They always seem to know him better than he knows himself. He quickly moves to the exit, partially concealed in shadow form until he is free and clear, his feet moving down the stairs of the side entrance.
.
.
.
Gwyn bows her head with the other priestesses, heart still thrumming from the way the music carried her. Singing has always felt like freedom, but today, and on many other recent days, something feels different.
Because she’d felt eyes on her. Not in a way that unsettled her, but in a way that warmed her.
When the last hymn fades, she catches movement at the back of the temple. A broad set of shoulders framed by sharp wingtips, slipping through the exit, his shadows curling close like he didn’t want anyone to see him.
Her breath hitches. Azriel.
Her feet move before her mind decides. She slips out into the crisp morning air, trailing him down the temple steps. “You come here,” she says softly, not a question.
Azriel halts as he hears her voice, not bothering yet to turn around and face her. His shadows stir restlessly, betraying his discomfort, but he doesn’t deny it. “Sometimes.”
“Every time,” she counters, folding her arms. She tries to sound stern, but her lips curve despite her. She tries again, softening her voice.
He exhales, eyes fixed on the cobblestones before finally turning, trying not to stop breathing at the sight of her in full robes—how reverent and breathtaking she looks. Gods forbid he have sacrilegious thoughts right now. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“Why?” she presses, tilting her head, copper hair catching the dawn light. “You told me once that you sing too…Shadowsinger,” she smirks.
His throat bobs, remembering that night with such mixed emotions. At his most dejected and pained, she had brought a smile to his face easily. Too easily. His shadows wrap tighter around him, as if they can comfort and encourage him within her steady gaze. “Not like you.”
“Good,” she says, stepping closer. “We don’t need two of me. We need one of you.”
He finally lifts his hazel eyes to hers, guarded, searching. Gwyn nearly gapes at the beauty of them. The hazel is more golden in dawn’s light, as if gleaming honey swirls within.
“Perhaps…” Gwyn lets her voice lilt, playful and coaxing, “...we could sing together for a service sometime. I’m sure Clotho wouldn’t mind. You could stand near me, and I’ll stand between you and the others. It’s probably been an age since a male voice graced the altar.”
Color touches his cheeks, and he shakes his head quickly. “I couldn’t.”
Her hand brushes his—gentle, patient. “What if we practiced first? If we prepared it and knew the songs backwards and forwards? And if you’re really scared of the people’s eyes on you, you can hold my hand. Focus on me.”
Azriel swallows hard, caught between the safety of retreat and the pull of her cool light, a stark difference from Elain—more like the moon than the sun. His shadows whisper around her wrist instead of his own, as if they’ve already chosen. He shoves down the instinct to snap at them.
But with her eyes looking at him so eagerly and so kindly, as if he deserves it, for the first time, he lets himself imagine standing beside her and singing. Not for the temple, not even for the Mother, but for her. To see those oceanic eyes light up and that smile grace her face in the way that makes her freckles dance with joy upon her skin.
Azriel doesn’t move for a long moment, as though rooted to the temple steps. Gwyn doesn’t push, doesn’t demand. She only waits, patient as the drifting clouds above.
Finally, he says hoarsely, “I’ve spent centuries hiding my voice. The only ones who’ve ever heard me sing are shadows and stones.”
“Stones don’t count,” she teases gently. “And the shadows…” Her eyes dart to the wisps curling around her wrist. “I think they’d prefer if you let someone else hear, too.”
The shadows coil lazily between them, brushing against her knuckles in quiet encouragement. She did it again. Spoke to them as if he knew they were real—that they truly are their own beings. No one has ever done that. Not even the Inner Circle.
“You don’t understand,” Azriel murmurs, shaking his head. “When you sing, it’s…” He falters, searching. “It’s pure. Untouchable. I—” He cuts himself off, as if the rest would be too dangerous.
Gwyn steps closer, tilting her face up to him. “Azriel. No one’s asking you to be perfect. Least of all me.” Her voice lowers, a whisper meant only for him. “I just want to share something I love with you. Something you also seem to enjoy.”
His chest aches. He shouldn’t let her close, shouldn’t risk the way she looks at him like he’s more than violence and scars. But she’s already slipped into the cracks of his armor.
“I’d ruin it,” he says, but the words lack conviction.
“You’d make it better.”
He huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh, and her smile grows at the sound. “You’re stubborn.”
“Only as stubborn as a shadowsinger.” Gwyn extends her hand—open, steady. “Come back next week. We’ll practice in one of the side chambers after service once it’s cleared out. Just you and me. No audience. No priestesses. No one to hear but us.”
He stares at her hand like it’s a weapon. Or maybe a lifeline.
“And if it terrifies you,” she adds, her voice soft as silk, “you can hold my hand the whole time. Focus on me. Pretend that fear can’t exist in the bubble of courage you create.”
Azriel’s heart stutters. Because the truth is, when she sings, no one else exists. Just Gwyn. Just her voice weaving light into the darkness he’s carried too long.
Temptation claws at him. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But his fingers twitch, and before he can stop himself, his scarred hand brushes hers just for a breath.
Gwyn doesn’t gasp, doesn’t pull back in horror or disgust at them. She only smiles and laces her fingers through his, gentle and sure.
“See?” she whispers, as though it’s already decided. “Not so frightening after all.”
Azriel looks down at her, at the copper-haired priestess who sings like hope itself. “I’ll be there.”
.
.
.
The following week, Gwyn waits in the side chamber. She’s chosen the quietest room in the temple—bare stone walls, an arched window spilling dawn light onto the floor.
Her heart stirs when the shadows slip in first, greeting her with gentle brushes of her wrist. Then Azriel steps through the door, wings tucked tight, as though making himself smaller could make him invisible.
“You came,” she says, warmth spilling through the words.
His mouth twitches. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not. You’re nothing if not true to your word.” Her smile softens. “Did you enjoy the service?”
Azriel doesn’t move closer at first. He lingers near the wall, as if the stone itself might shield him. His shadows swirl around him at their master's nervousness. Gwyn lets the silence sit, giving him time. Only when his eyes finally lift to hers does she speak again. “I did. As always.”
“Good.” They lock eyes and hold.
“No audience,” she reminds him. “Just us.”
He nods once. The sound of his swallow is loud in the still chamber.
“Here.” She extends her hand, palm up, patient as before. He hesitates, but then hesitantly and reverently, his scarred fingers slip into hers. The touch steadies him, somehow.
“There.” Her voice is quiet, coaxing as she squeezes his hand. “Now...sing with me.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do,” she interrupts, a grin tugging at her lips. “You are a Shadowsinger. It isn’t a simple title, right? I’ve been waiting to hear why.”
His chest tightens. Gwyn motions to sheet music on a small podium. “Do you know this one? I tried to find one that’s fairly well known and short.”
His heart skips a beat in his chest at her consideration. “Yes, I do. Know that one,” he clears his throat, which suddenly feels dry.
Still, when she begins—soft and low, the first line of the simple hymn—he finds his voice answering almost without thought.
It’s rough at first, husky. But it’s there.
And gods, it’s beautiful.
Not pure and shining like Gwyn’s, but deep and resonant, with a weight that fills the stone chamber like the low hum of the earth itself. Their voices twine, her brightness and his shadow, weaving something whole. It’s like the light breaking across the horizon at dawn, weaving with the remnants of the looming night behind it.
When the song fades out, Gwyn is still holding his hand. She’s smiling, not with triumph, but with something softer, prouder.
“I knew it,” she whispers. “I knew your voice would sound like that.”
Azriel shakes his head, eyes darting away. “It was nothing—”
“It was everything,” she says firmly. Then, more gently, “You don’t have to hide from me anymore.”
The words steal his breath. His shadows curl tighter around their joined hands, as if echoing her vow.
And for a moment, in this quiet room, he allows himself to believe that maybe he doesn’t have to remain in the shadows, so to speak. At least not with her.
“I’ll do my best not to. Old habits die hard, Gwyn.”
She strokes her thumb over his roughened scars. “I have patience.”
“Like a goddess,” he mumbles.
Her cheeks pinken, and he can’t help but think for a moment that she’s the most beautiful female his eyes have ever been graced to lay their sight upon.
.
.
.
The next week, he comes again.
Azriel tells himself he shouldn’t; that this is dangerous, indulgent. But the moment he hears her voice rising from the temple chamber, all reason falls away.
Gwyn greets him with a grin that makes something in his chest loosen. No judgment, no expectation. Like usual, just warmth. She reaches for his hand the way she always does now, and the part of him that once flinched from touch…leans into hers.
They start with a simple melody. Gwyn’s voice is strong and clear, his joining rougher but steadier than last time. Shadows curl lazily around them, no longer restless, as though even they are listening.
Halfway through, her hand squeezes his, and she tips her head, smiling mid-song. He nearly forgets the next line.
When her last note fades, he realizes he’s been holding his breath since his last one.
“You’re getting better,” she says brightly. “Stronger this time. Less afraid.”
If only she knew. He shakes his head. “You make it easy.”
Gwyn tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to read what lies beneath all his armor. Then she takes a small, daring step closer. Her free hand brushes against his chest, right over the leather that he wore, as if his armor could protect him from failure or embarrassment.
Azriel goes very still.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” she whispers. It’s the same words as before, but now—now she’s close enough that he feels her breath. Close enough that if he leaned down, just slightly—
His throat works. “Gwyn...”
She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t give him the chance to retreat. Instead, she rises onto her toes, her lips brushing his in the faintest, softest kiss.
It’s not urgent, not claiming, just an offering. A question.
Azriel shudders, shadows whispering frantically, but he doesn’t pull away. He allows the softness to entice him for a second, knowing he isn’t deserving of more. Not with her. Not knowing what she endured. She has seen and experienced monsters, and he won’t allow her to get tangled with one. He leans back after a moment so she doesn’t feel as if it’s a rejection.
When they part, her eyes shine, a little dazed but certain. “See?” she teases, breathless. “Not so frightening after all.”
Azriel exhales a quiet laugh, one hand still clutching hers, the other itching to draw her closer but afraid to break the fragile spell.
And for the first time in centuries, his mind changes gears and smothers its own negativity. Because maybe, he thinks, the darkness he carries isn’t so dangerous. Not if she’s willing to meet it with her light.
.
.
.
The House of Wind is quieter than usual when Azriel returns from patrol. Cassian’s gone to check on the camps, he assumes Nesta is with him, and Rhys and Feyre are busy in Velaris. He expects solitude; he has been too distracted the last five days, thinking of the way Gwyn looked at him with longing. How she touched him without fear.
He sighs and stops short as he hears it. Laughter drifts from the sitting room.
He stands in the archway, shadows curling with restless curiosity. Gwyn is there, curled on the couch with Nesta, their heads bent over a book. Her copper hair glints in the firelight, her smile as bright as the moon through glass.
It hits him low in the chest. He shouldn’t linger. He should leave them to it. But Gwyn looks up, as though she feels his gaze, and her smile softens.
“Azriel,” she greets, warm as ever.
Nesta arches a brow but excuses herself with a knowing smirk, vanishing down the hall.
Dammit. He should know by now the habits of females. Mor told him once that there’s no such thing as secrets between friends unless it’s life or death.
Gwyn shuts the book in her lap, rising with an ease that unsettles him. She’s not in her temple robes, not standing in a chamber made for song. She’s just her. Comfortable, copper-haired, radiant. Wearing leggings and a deep blue sweater...his favorite color.
“You weren’t at the temple this morning,” she says, tilting her head.
“I had patrol,” he answers, voice low. His shadows stir, betraying him.
“You’ve never missed before.” There’s no accusation, just quiet knowing.
Azriel shifts, suddenly restless. “You noticed.”
“Of course I noticed.” She steps closer, sea-glass eyes unflinching. “You’re not exactly subtle, Shadowsinger. You come each week and then miss the week after I nearly...” she trails off, her cheeks reddening.
Heat crawls up his neck. “I didn’t mean for you to know.”
Her hand finds his, deliberate and certain. “Know what? You told me once that my voice makes your shadows quiet. Did I step over the boundary? Did I read the signals wrong? I am new to this...gods, I probably read them wrong. I-I didn’t mean to cross any lines. I just—”
His breath stutters. The truth lies heavy between them.
“Gwyn.” His firm voice pulls her from her rambling.
“Yes? Sorry.” She squeezes his scarred hand, eyes bright with something that feels dangerously like hope.
“You didn’t cross any lines, and...you didn’t misread me.”
“Oh.” Her voice comes out as a shy whisper. “Then let me give you that quiet, that break from your stress and restlessness. Even when we’re not at the temple. If...if you want.”
The world narrows—her hand in his, her lashes fluttering with each blink, the way she stands so close he can breathe her in. The tension between them nearly hums with energy.
Before he can talk himself out of it, Azriel bends. Just enough. Just far enough that his lips brush hers. It’s tentative, a whisper of a kiss, as though he’s afraid she’ll vanish. But Gwyn rises into it, answering with a surety that steals his breath.
For a moment, the noise in his head stops and lulls into silence, where his only thought is her. A need to feel her and taste her. So he does. He leads the kiss, cradling her head with his large hand, fingers slipping into the fiery strands as they reflect the flames in the fireplace. Gwyn follows him into that passion.
When they part, her smile blooms, even as she regains her breath. “See?” she whispers. “Not so frightening after all,” she says to herself as well as him.
Azriel lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh, shadows curling lazily around them both like they’ve been waiting for this. Gwyn laughs softly, cheeks tinged with red again.
“That was...the best first kiss I ever could have had. The only one I’ve ever dreamed of.”
He blinks. “You’ve...dreamed of me?”
She straightens and crosses her arms. “Just because I am a priestess does not mean I am wholly holy,” she grins.
He can’t help but pull her close. “Well, that’s good. If you were, I’d have tainted you.”
Gwyn looks into his eyes. “And I’d want you to.”
His breath hitches, and he clears his throat, willing his body to stop responding to her blatant flirting. It’s getting into dangerous territory. Instead, he kisses her temple. “Would you like...er...”
Gods, he has never done this before either, never deemed anyone worth the effort, nor did he want them enough for it. He supposes they both have certain firsts.
She looks at him curiously, intertwining their fingers. “Yes, Az?”
He draws in a breath and takes courage from her gaze once more. “Would you perhaps like me to court you? Perhaps...officially.”
Her eyes light up, and she nearly bounces on her toes. “Really!? Oh my gods, yes. Yes, of course! I’d love that.”
His breath comes out in a whoosh, and she hugs him tightly. He can’t help but twine his arms around her. “I won’t be the perfect—”
She pulls back and puts a finger to his lips. “I don’t need perfect. I don’t want perfect. I want you. I have for a while.”
Hazel eyes soften, and his heart feels like it’s going to explode, an odd tugging in his chest. He can’t seem to form a sentence, so he settles for, “...okay.”
Her answering grin and tightening grip beheld her patient understanding and care.
In that quiet sitting room, with no temple walls or hymns to hide behind, he knows there’s no going back. Ever. Whether he ever has a mate bond or not, Gwyn is his home. Forever.