Chapter Text
This is stupid,” Azriel mutters, boots planted at the very edge of the House of Wind’s landing balcony. The updraft tugs at his shadows; they coil tighter, as if equally offended.
Cassian claps a heavy hand onto his back. “You’ll be fine. It’s the agreement. We support Eris in his bid for High Lord.”
“Why does it have to be me?” Azriel snaps, turning enough to glare at him.
“Because you’re the only one of us who won’t kill him in the first five minutes,” Nesta says dryly, arms crossed as the wind whips at her meticulously braided hair. Her eyes narrow. “And that’s being generous.”
Azriel grimaces.
Apparently, he doesn't have a choice.
After everything with Koschei and Briallyn, and after Eris had (against all odds) proven himself a reliable ally, this was the cost. A political pact that included weekly meetings. A slow, grinding campaign to prepare Eris for a bid at the Autumn Court throne. Rhys had floated the idea of appealing to Beron for familial support, but that had been dismissed immediately. Beron’s approval would only come posthumously. And even then, no one was eager to rely on it.
Which left the other problem: the noble families of Autumn. Enough of them needed to be convinced to back Eris over his siblings. And unfortunately, Eris Vanserra was still (despite recent heroics) remarkably and unavoidably unlikable.
And now Azriel had to spend an entire afternoon alone with him.
Cauldron save him.
Cassian gives Azriel a little shove toward the waiting winnow-platform. “He’s already here, by the way.”
Azriel stiffens. “What?”
Nesta smirks. “He insisted on being punctual. Said it would set a good precedent.” Her eyes flick upward, toward a flash of red in the clouds. “He’s been circling for five minutes.”
Of course he has.
A moment later, Eris drops onto the balcony with the effortless grace of someone who wants you to know he’s graceful. Firelight shimmers across his armor, every piece polished within an inch of its life. His smile is a blade thin.
“Shadowsinger,” Eris says smoothly, as if they’re old friends meeting for lunch. “How lovely of you to host.”
Azriel doesn’t bother hiding the sigh that leaks out of him. “Let’s make this quick.”
Cassian clears his throat, voice overly cheerful. “Have fun, kids.” Then he grabs Nesta’s hand and winnows out before Azriel can throttle him.
Silence settles thick between them.
Eris surveys the balcony, then the mountains beyond it. “You know,” he muses, “I’ve always admired the House of Wind. Such an impressive… architectural overcompensation.”
Azriel’s eye twitches. “Are you here to insult the Night Court or prepare for your bid?”
“Why not both?” Eris steps closer, expression unreadable. “Our arrangement requires rapport, does it not?”
“It requires cooperation,” Azriel corrects. “Not whatever… this is.”
“My presence?” Eris asks innocently. “My personality? My devastatingly good hair?”
Azriel’s shadows hiss. “The nobles of Autumn will not be seduced by your commentary.”
“Of course not.” Eris’s smile fades into something sharper. “Which is why we have work to do.”
ris claps his hands. “So! Lesson one. Apparently, I need to practice ‘speaking to people without sounding like a fox who’s eaten their favorite hen.’ Direct quote.”
Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mother above.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Eris says, beginning to stroll toward the interior of the House. “You’ve handled far worse.”
“You haven’t even started yet,” Azriel mutters.
Eris pauses in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder with a glint of amusement. “On the contrary. I already did. I got here early.”
Azriel frowns. “To do what?”
“To watch you panic,” Eris says simply.
Azriel swears under his breath.
This was going to be an excruciatingly long alliance.
Azriel shadowswings them both to Autumn.
The shift in the wind is immediate. It gets dryer and sharped, and even somehow smells faintly of smoke even with no fire in sight. The forest below is a sea of red and gold, sunlight catching on the lacquered leaves until the entire realm glows like embers.
Eris inhales deeply, the picture of satisfaction. “Home sweet dysfunctional home.”
Azriel ignores him. The forest stretches wide beneath them until Eris points ahead.
“There,” he says. “The Hut.”
Azriel follows his line of sight and spots it. It's a small hunting cabin perched where three ridges meet. Tucked beneath towering blood-oaks, its roof is dark and steep and its is chimney smoking faintly.
As they descend, Azriel notes the wards carved directly into the threshold.They're not elaborate, but older than anything Beron would have bothered with.
Eris chose this place carefully.
They land softly on a patch of frost-crusted leaves.
Azriel straightens. “You didn’t tell me this would be private.”
“It’s Autumn,” Eris replies lazily, striding toward the door. “Everything is private. And everything is overheard. So this is the only safe location for these… lessons.”
Azriel’s shadows curl tighter around him in warning. “This is a hunting cabin.”
“A hunting cabin I control,” Eris corrects, flicking a hand. The wardline glows, then fades. “My brothers avoid this part of the forest. They think it’s cursed.”
“Is it cursed?” Azriel asks.
“Yes,” Eris replies. “But only for them.”
The door swings open.
Inside, the Hut is… surprisingly warm. A fire crackles in the raised stone hearth. Thick pelts line the benches. A long, scarred table is in the center, littered with scrolls. The space is small but tidy. It's surprisingly devoid of the decadent arrogance of Autumn Court nobility.
Eris shrugs off his cloak and hangs it neatly on a peg. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“I’ll stand,” Azriel says.
“I assumed you would.” Eris moves to the table, sifting through parchments. “Now. Our first objective is preparing me to speak with the noble families without… provoking them into open rebellion.”
Azriel glances around the cabin again. Something about it feels personal.
“You use this place often.”
Eris’s hands pause over the scrolls. A flicker of something. Pain? Memory? But it's gone in an instant . Azriel's spies haven't reported anything unusual, but still...
“This is where I learned to hunt,” he says lightly. “And where I learned to hide.”
Azriel studies him, but Eris is already turning with a bright, sharp smile.
“Now, Shadowsinger. Tell me: what do the nobles truly want?”
Azriel raises a brow. “In your court? Blood, fear, and leverage?”
“Correct,” Eris says. “Which means one of us will need to pretend to have diplomatic instincts.”
Azriel crosses his arms. “You mean me?”
“Of course not,” Eris scoffs. “I mean me. Under your supervision.”
He sits, gesturing to the papers. “Let’s begin.”