Wonderstruck

Read On AO3

From the moment Azriel and Elain first meet in the human lands, their connection is undeniable—a quiet spark neither can fully understand nor ignore. A series of stolen moments and fleeting encounters, tender gestures, unspoken longings, and the growing pull that draws them closer despite the worlds that should keep them apart. Buckle up, friends: It's a sloooooow burn.

Watch Wisteria Grow

Read On AO3

I want auroras and sad prose I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet 'Cause I haven't moved in years And I want you right here A red rose grew up out of ice-frozen ground With no one around to tweet it While I bathe in cliffside pools With my calamitous love and insurmountable grief

A Court of Wings and Ruin is told through the intertwined perspectives of Elain and Azriel. A story of grief and growth, of love that blooms slowly, like wisteria winding its way toward the light.

Ivy

Read On AO3

Set in the aftermath of ACOWAR and through ACOFAS, Ivy follows Elain as she navigates healing, identity, and a love that feels as inevitable as it is forbidden. Once promised to another, now trapped in a world she never chose, Elain finds herself drawn to Azriel, a male who is not her mate but who sees her in a way no one else does. Their growing friendship feels like something fragile, something forbidden. Like ivy creeping over stone, their bond forms quietly, persistently, in the spaces between grief and longing, between duty and desire. And once it takes root, there is no stopping it.

I'd live and die for moments that we stole On begged and borrowed time So tell me to run Or dare to sit and watch what we'll become

Comment & tell me what you think! This is my first time ever writing fiction, let alone fan fiction. I was admittedly very nervous to get these things out in the world. So, your comments mean the world to me!

By the time everyone had gathered in the dining room, Elain felt herself slipping back behind her carefully crafted mask. She smiled as Cassian kissed her cheek, as Amren nodded in greeting, as Mor embraced her in a flurry of perfume and golden hair. And then—

Azriel entered last. Not in his usual fighting leathers, but in a simple black jacket and pants. The candlelight caught in the sharp planes of his face, the strong cut of his jaw, the dark waves of his hair tousled slightly as if he had run his hands through it too many times.

Something in her stilled. She barely remembered the fight with Nesta, the way her own body had betrayed her, the panic that had swallowed her whole. He stepped closer, and she struggled for words. She wanted to thank him—for finding her, for holding her, for whatever it was he had done to bring her back. But not here. Not in front of everyone.

So she simply whispered, "Hello."

His hazel eyes softened, the barest hint of a smile ghosting his lips. He reached for the plate of potatoes in her hands, his voice quiet, steady. "Sit. I’ll take care of it."

I’ll take care of you.

The words weren’t spoken, but they hummed between them, tangible and real. She hesitated, hands still midair as he took the plate.

"I—I’ll be right back," she murmured, turning quickly down the hall.

In the bathroom, she pressed her palms to the cool marble sink, forcing air into her lungs. She shouldn’t be feeling like this. Shouldn’t be so affected by him. But she was. She smoothed her hair into a braid, wiped the flour from her dress, and walked back out, just in time to hear—

"Wait," Azriel’s voice rang.

"For what? Gravy?" Cassian asked, confused.

"Wait until everyone is seated before eating," Azriel said, firm but quiet. Elain’s heart clenched.

"I never knew you were a stickler for manners, Az," Cassian teased.

Elain quickly took her seat. "Please, don’t wait on my account." Still, they did. Every one of them. Waiting for her. Azriel’s hazel eyes found hers as she picked up her fork, a shadow curling around her wrist.

Have i known you 20 seconds, or 20 years?

Dinner at the townhouse was lively, filled with the warmth of crackling firelight and the steady hum of conversation. Even Mor had joined tonight, her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight, her laughter loud and uninhibited as she leaned into Cassian’s side. The scent of spiced wine and roasted lamb wove through the space, mingling with the faint chill that still clung to the windows.

Elain was on her second glass of wine, something Azriel noticed immediately.

She stood at the bar cart, fingers delicately tracing the rim of her glass before she poured, the deep red liquid catching the flickering light. He approached her in silence, his usual fighting leathers replaced with fitted black trousers and a sweater, only two siphons gleaming on his wrists. The sapphire stones caught the glow of the firelight, glinting as he lifted his own glass of whiskey.

She felt his presence before he spoke. "The twins said you’re going to help Madja with her greenhouse?" His voice was low, even over the noise of the others.

"Yes," Elain said, turning slightly to face him. "I start tomorrow. Madja wants to meet at dawn. I’ll be going every Tuesday to help."

She hesitated, running her finger along the stem of her glass. "I suppose now that it’s getting cold, we can sometimes play chess. When you’re not busy, of course. It’s been quite some time since I’ve beaten you. But I understand if you don’t want to come by now that it’s winter..." Her cheeks burned the moment the words left her mouth. She hadn’t meant to admit it, that she had been thinking about those mornings. About how much she would miss them.

Azriel’s lips twitched slightly, but his expression remained unreadable. "Of course I’d still like to spend my mornings with you." He stepped closer, just enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. "You do brew the best tea, after all."

Elain let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking her head. "I know you’re busy. You always have so many letters to read and write—"

"I will always make time for you." His voice was quiet, but firm.

Warmth spread through her chest, but she swallowed it down, not wanting to examine it too closely. Instead, she searched for something else to say, something to fill the space between them.

"You know, Sophie said you were much kinder than she imagined you would be," Elain said, trying for a teasing smile. "And I have to admit—I agree. When we first met, I thought I would have been more terrified. I had only heard of these winged Illyrians in books. Books about the horrors of the Night Court. But there stood two of the kindest males I’ve ever met."

Azriel scoffed softly, looking away for a brief moment. "Unfortunately, I think most people who meet me wouldn’t agree with that assessment." His voice had hardened slightly, the warmth in his eyes cooling.

Elain studied him, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled around his glass just a little too tightly. She knew what he was thinking. What he did. What he had to be, for this court. For Rhysand.

"I know your job isn’t to be kind," she said gently. "You don’t have to hide that side of you from me."

His throat bobbed, his gaze flickering to hers. "Trust me, it’s much better for both of us if you never see that side."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Fine, continue to shelter me like everyone else does."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. "Elain..."

She paused, glancing back at him. Azriel ran a hand through his black wavy hair, a rare show of frustration. She was learning his tells—the little ways his carefully composed mask slipped when he was unsure, when he was exhausted, when he didn’t know what to say.

"I’m sorry," he murmured. "I know you don’t like to be sheltered. I just..." He exhaled sharply, staring at the firelight for a moment before looking back at her. "There are sides of my life I never want others to see. Especially you."

Elain held his gaze, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. "I meant what I said in the garden when I told you I wanted to see you. All of you. That hasn’t changed."

The silence between them was thick, charged with something neither of them dared name. Azriel looked as though he might say something—his lips parted, his expression unreadable—

Then Mor’s voice cut through the moment. "Az, can you hand me the bottle of red?"

The tension shattered. Elain turned swiftly, retreating back to the couch, settling beside Feyre as Cassian launched into one of his many stories, his laughter ringing through the room. But Elain barely heard him.

Because across the room, Mor was speaking to Azriel, her expression sharp, unreadable. Azriel’s wings tensed, his shoulders stiff. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn’t lighthearted. Then he turned, breaking away from her abruptly, his shadows trailing after him as he settled into an armchair. His face was carefully blank, but Elain saw the tension in his jaw.

Mor, however, strode toward the couch, graceful and unbothered. She slipped onto the cushions beside Cassian, her long legs crossing beneath the slit in her dress, brushing against his as she poured herself another drink.

Elain swallowed, looking away. Elain had never quite understood the dynamic between the three of them—Cassian, Azriel, and Mor. Feyre had told her once, long ago, that Azriel loved Mor, but… Elain had never quite seen what everyone else did.

Although now, in this firelit room, with Mor glowing in gold, Cassian’s easy touch on her knee, and Azriel watching them from across the space, Elain thought she might finally understand.

Mor was everything she wasn’t. Strong, flirtatious, confident. A warrior. A fighter.

She had walked through hell and emerged laughing, powerful, unshaken. She could drink Cassian under the table, could put anyone in their place with a single sharp smile, could command a room without even trying. Elain had seen the way others looked at her, the way males and females alike vied for her attention, drawn to her like moths to a flame.

And Azriel… Azriel loved her.

Elain tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. That it had nothing to do with her. But something in her chest twisted, low and deep and unfamiliar. Because what did she have, in comparison?

She was soft where Mor was steel. She was quiet where Mor was loud. She had spent most of her life in the background, watching rather than acting, tending rather than fighting.

And Azriel, surely someone like him would want a female like Mor. Surely someone like him would need a female who could stand at his side in battle, who could match his fire, who wouldn’t flinch at the blood staining his hands. Not a gardener. Not a seer who still feared her own power.

Elain swallowed, looking away, trying to shake the strange weight pressing down on her chest. Mor laughed at something Cassian said, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder.

Azriel wasn’t laughing. His face was unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes weren’t on Mor. They were on Elain. And something about that made her heartbeat quicken, made her fingers tighten around the stem of her wine glass. So she drained the last of her wine and forced herself to stand. "I should get to bed. I have an early morning," she murmured to Feyre.

"Are you sure? It’s not even ten!" Feyre said, half-draped across Rhys, her mate’s arm securely wrapped around her.

"Yes, I’m a bit tired. Goodnight, everyone."

She slipped away, before Cassian would start complaining and telling her to stay, climbing the stairs, her heart unsettled for reasons she couldn’t quite name. And as she reached the landing, she swore she felt a shadow brush against her wrist.

Read The Rest on AO3

The next few weeks passed in a flurry of early mornings, either in a community garden or at a fellow volunteer's home going over plans for the Spring or with Lyra in the Healers Hall. "You are the strongest person I know." The words imprinted in Elain's memory. Over and over again she heard his words. Strong. That wasn't a word ever used to describe Elain. Soft spoken. A baker. A gardener. But never strong. She wasn't even sure how to reply to Azriel, the rest of their walk had been in a soft silence, Elain thinking over and over again about those words.

So she worked. Poured herself into the gardens, into the greenhouse, into the ink and dirt and aching fingers of long afternoons bent over seedlings. Lyra’s expectations were high, but Elain rose to meet them. She didn’t flinch at the cold, or the early hours, or the aching back. And day by day, the restlessness faded. Her hands stilled at night. Her sleep deepened. The fear of her visions began to loosen, no longer clawing at her with such ferocity in the dark.

The Witchblossom thrived under her care. Sprigs of the pale, star-shaped flower burst into bloom along the eastern wall of the greenhouse—tiny, delicate things, but with roots that clung to the soil like they refused to die. Elain liked them. Understood them.

When Lyra made her comment about the blossoms, Elain had flushed with quiet pride, brushing a damp strand of hair from her brow with dirt-streaked fingers.

“We haven’t had this much Witchblossom in years,” Lyra said, squinting down at the plants, her normally sharp voice almost reverent. “It often struggles in the colder winter air, even with as warm as the greenhouse is.”

Elain only smiled, her cheeks flushed, sweat dampening her collar despite the frost outside. “I’ve been trying a new blend of soil. And I started talking to them. Maybe that helped.”

Lyra didn’t laugh. Just gave a thoughtful nod and said, “Perhaps it did.”

She felt good, Elain realized as she wiped her hands on her apron and scribbled more notes into her worn little book. She felt whole. Like herself, but more than she’d ever been before.

The only thing missing, the only shadow in her bright days, was Azriel.

He had been gone nearly two weeks. Off on a mission, the twins had said casually. She hadn’t wanted to ask for more information, hadn’t wanted to seem like she was waiting for him. But she was. She noticed his absence in the smallest ways—how the sunlit mornings were quieter without his voice in the kitchen. How the world felt just a little less safe without his shadows curling near her boots. How the tea didn’t taste quite right without him handing her a cup first.

She hated that she missed him.

Hated the way her stomach still fluttered when she thought about the way he had looked at her that day in The Healers Hall. The way he’d touched her cheek so gently, as if she were something to be cherished. The way his voice had gone soft and dark and reverent when he told her she wasn’t broken.

She knew better than to hope. To wonder. Azriel was… Azriel. A warrior, a legend, the most dangerous male in the Night Court. And Elain—she had been raised to be someone’s wife. Someone’s prize. She wondered if he missed her, thought of her. A silly thought she reminded herself. He probably thought of Mor. Never of Elain.

She still dreamed, sometimes, of Graysen. Of the way her life was supposed to unfold. The wedding that never happened. The life she never got to build. The family that would never be hers. And yet.....those dreams were fading. Thinning at the edges like frost melting under sunlight.

Azriel had said she was strong.

And even if it made no sense—no sense at all—she wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that the softness in her hands didn’t make her weak. That she could be something more than a memory of the girl she was supposed to be.

Read The Rest on AO3

"So," he said, clearing his throat, grasping at the first thing that came to mind, "what did you want to be as a child?" He asked, hoping to distract himself from the fact that he wanted to pull her onto his lap right then and there, to tangle his fingers in her hair and kiss her until the sun dipped below the horizon. And then for hours after that. And the day after that.

Hell, if he was honest with himself—brutally honest—he wasn’t sure once he got his lips on her if he’d ever be able to stop. If he’d ever want to stop. It haunted him, the thought of it. How easy it would be to reach across the small space between them, to close the unbearable distance that had been taunting him for months. She was so close—so close he could see the faint flush painting her cheeks, the delicate rise and fall of her breathing, the way a stray curl slipped free from beneath her braid and kissed her jaw.

He imagined tracing that path with his lips, lingering there, tasting the warmth of her under the soft autumn sun. Holding her neck with his scarred hand, feeling the delicate flutter of her pulse beneath his touch. His lips would memorize every detail—down her neck, lower, as she sighed softly, her hand grasping his, urging him to keep going.

And when he finally kissed her—truly kissed her—he would pour every ounce of his soul into it. He would drink her in, breathe in that jasmine-and-honey scent that haunted him long after he left her side. She would open for him, part her lips, let him explore with his tongue, her body arching closer as if she, too, had been waiting for this.

The mere thought of it sent something sharp and aching through him, a need so deep it bordered on painful. And when she looked at him, with that quiet curiosity, that gentle understanding that she always somehow had, he nearly drowned in it. She didn’t know how often he found himself wanting—aching—for things he had no right to.

But Gods, he wanted. And it terrified him.

Read The Rest on AO3

Elriel Song of The Moment

Treat your body like a river and (Let it wash over me) See you coming at me like a wave and Touch me 12 ways stars on the lake look like a million diamonds

Left eye waterfall You see me from a Third eye point of view Oasis in my arms, my wonder wall You fit me fit me right

I don’t need a star Your face is like a full-blown universe I’m always gonna dive in where you are You fit me fit me right

The Healer’s Hall was not what Elain had expected. She had envisioned something quiet and orderly, filled with soft candlelight and hushed voices. A place of stillness, of carefully measured words and precise movements.

And while parts of it were, rows of pristine beds lined with fresh linens, vials of neatly labeled tonics, it was also alive. Bustling.

The scent of herbs and tinctures thickened the air, a mix of thyme and lavender mingling with something sharper, medicinal. Apprentices hurried past, carrying steaming bowls of broth, fresh bandages, and baskets brimming with dried roots and leaves. Conversations overlapped, quick and efficient, interspersed with the occasional pained murmur from a patient.

At the center of it all stood Madja. The ancient healer watched the world unfold around her with the steady calm of someone who had seen everything and survived it all. Her dark skin was lined with age, her spindrift-white hair woven back in thick braids, and her robes, deep black, loose and flowing, seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.

She turned before Elain could speak, her brown eyes gleaming with something like amusement. Like knowing. "You came," Madja said simply, beckoning her forward.

Elain followed as the healer led her through the halls, her steps slow but purposeful. Even as old as she was, nothing about Madja seemed fragile.

The first stop was the Herb Storage Rooms.

It was two weeks before Solstice when Elain found herself in a modest greenhouse just a few blocks from the townhouse. The glass panes fogged from the contrast of crisp winter air and the warmth within, the steady hum of life quietly pulsing beneath the surface. The scent of loamy earth mixed with the sharp greenness of thriving herbs—sage, marjoram, chamomile—and wrapped around her like a blanket. Outside, the wind was bitter, but in here, it was summer in miniature.

Elrith had sent her to the home of a kind older couple who had lost the greenhouse during the war. They had rebuilt it, but couldn’t seem to bring life back to the soil. The plants had grown listless, the soil stubborn and silent. But Elain had been eager for the challenge, and now her apron was dusted with soil, her gloves stiff from dried sap, her braid loose and curls frizzing in the warm damp air.

Her fingers trailed along the thick tangle of mirthvine climbing a wooden trellis. The leaves were glossy and rich with promise. A sign of returning health. She had recently read about mirthvine, which was said to bloom where laughter has been shared. A silly thing, she thought, but maybe it was true. Maybe plants could bloom where laughter formed. She was studying them carefully, whispering a note to herself, when she felt it.

That familiar, soft brush—like silk across her skin. A ripple of cool air that didn’t belong inside the hothouse.

A shadow.

Elain turned, and there he was.

Azriel stood at the door, his tall form haloed by the afternoon light filtering through the glass. He looked almost out of place, with his leathers and wings and unreadable eyes.  She wasn’t sure how he even fit in this small, narrow space. But he was there, casual, leaning against a post as if he belonged.

"I would ask how you knew I was here," she said lightly, twirling a curling shadow around her wrist. "But that would be silly, wouldn’t it?"

She had asked how it felt. Not what they said. But how it moved through him.

No one had ever asked that before. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not even Madja. Not in all his centuries of service, of silence, of slipping between shadows like a blade in the dark. Everyone accepted what he was, the shadow singer, the one who always knew more than he said. But they had never asked what it felt like.

But Elain had.

And not just in passing, not as some idle curiosity to flatter him. She had looked at him like she understood. Like she saw it too—that strange, intangible tether between them. The way something ancient lived in his shadows. The way something ancient might live in her, too.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her words. About the way she said soul, like it was a real, living thing. As if the earth whispered to her the way darkness hummed to him.

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he glanced sideways at her, still tucked against his arm. She was speaking now, softly, about the couple who owned the greenhouse and how they’d served fresh lemon cake and spiced tea. She smiled as she spoke, her cheeks still rosy from the heat inside. But he could feel her heartbeat. The fluttering rhythm of it where her hand rested on his arm. He could feel her there, just as he felt the shadows curled around his legs.

And maybe that was what unsettled him the most. He had spent five centuries perfecting the art of silence. His shadows obeyed no one but him. They didn’t flinch at pain, didn’t soften for beauty. Except her.

Around Elain, they quieted. Around her, they listened.

She said she could feel the story in the soil. Could sense it not in words, but in essence. He knew exactly what she meant. The shadows didn’t speak in the way others imagined—they moved through him. A shimmer of intent. A pang of warning. A whisper of need.

He’d never spoken of it. Never dared. Because to explain it would mean opening a door inside himself that had long since been locked and bolted. And Azriel had spent a lifetime guarding these rooms. But she had slipped through the cracks, hadn't she?

With her dirt-streaked apron and garden-covered notebooks and that soft, aching voice that held a strength no one ever noticed. She had asked the one question he didn’t know how to answer.

Azriel glanced at her again, and for a flicker of a moment, let himself imagine it. Not just the feel of her hand on his arm, but the quiet understanding in her gaze. Her presence, not like a balm, but a mirroring. A recognition.

It terrified him.

Because if she truly saw him—truly understood what lived inside him—what would she think then? People saw his silence and called it strength. Saw his precision and called it loyalty. But none of them looked closely enough to see the truth.

That he was still the boy in the cell. The boy with fire-scoured hands, skin blistered by his own blood. The boy who had been told, again and again, that he was nothing but a mistake. That even his gifts—his shadows, his silence—were wrong. Dangerous. Unnatural. The nights he woke up choking on the scent of burning flesh. The sound of Cassian and Rhys screaming his name across a battlefield. The quiet fear that if he ever allowed himself to truly need someone—he would destroy them, too.

What would Elain think if she saw that?

Elain… she wasn’t made for the darkness.

She was gardens and soft hands. Moonlight and blooming things. Her world was soil and growth and light.

He had never wanted to pull someone into his shadows. Had spent years keeping his distance for that very reason. But lately—he hadn’t been able to help it.

Because when she looked at him like that, when she spoke to him in that quiet, curious voice, as if he were more than just what he did… something inside him ached.

And it terrified him. The thought of her seeing the full depth of what he carried. The weight. The ruin. The still-bleeding grief that no number of years could wash away.

Elain just was. Present. Steady. Unafraid.

And maybe that was what made it so dangerous.

Because Azriel didn’t want to hide from her. Didn’t want to be unreadable and distant. He wanted to sit beside her in a greenhouse and talk about the way shadows felt when they brushed his skin. He wanted to let her touch his wings and not flinch. Wanted to be seen—not the mask, not the legend, not the weapon.

Just him.

Azriel.

Elain woke before the sun, the sky still cloaked in velvet gray. Her sheets were tangled at her ankles, her nightgown clinging to her skin. Sleep had not been kind to her, her dreams had been vivid, cloying, laced with laughter that didn’t belong to her.

Azriel’s voice. Morrigan’s laugh. The sound of a kiss, soft and lingering. And that ache in her chest, sharp and sudden, blooming with something dangerously close to jealousy. She had bolted upright, breathless, angry with herself. It was foolish. Silly. Jealousy was unbecoming. Her mother’s voice had said so a thousand times over. Ladies do not envy. Ladies smile and stay composed. And Azriel didn't want her. He wanted Morrigan. That is what everyone told her. She was being ridiculous to read into anything else. Elain pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to cool the heat.

It had only been a dream.

Still, it clung to her. The bitter taste of it.

She dressed quickly, slipping into her dark green cloak, her fingers trembling as she laced her boots. She wrote a note to the twins lettering them know she would be back later, and she left it on the kitchen table, unsure if anyone else would read it. Feyre wouldn’t notice she was gone. She never really did anymore. She had too much to focus on. The streets of Velaris were quiet as she walked. Pale morning light crept along the cobbled stones, turning the buildings gold at the edges. The stars still shimmered overhead, stubbornly refusing to fade. Her breath came in small puffs, clouding the air in front of her. She tugged her gloves tighter around her fingers, but they were still cold. The wind carried the scent of salt, crisp and clean, and Elain closed her eyes for a moment to breathe it in. Somewhere, gulls called softly, their cries echoing over the rooftops. A baker’s fire cracked to life behind shuttered windows, sending the scent of sugar and rising bread into the street.

As she rounded a corner, a shadow darted at the edge of her vision.

She froze. Her heart gave a startled jolt. But when she turned—nothing. The street was empty. Just the shifting of leaves on a breeze. Her mind was playing tricks again she told herself.

The Healer’s Hall loomed ahead, tall and stately in the pale light, its ancient stone façade draped in flowering vines that had long since withered for winter. The carved wooden door groaned softly as she pushed it open.

Inside, it smelled of rosemary and dried oranges, the air warm and still. The clove-sting of crushed herbs lingered beneath it all, grounding her. Familiar.

Lyra was already waiting. Her posture was impeccable, her blonde hair braided down her back, her sharp blue eyes catching Elain immediately. “Good,” Lyra said simply. “You’re on time. Follow me.”

Elain accepted the white apron with a nod and tied it over her dress as she trailed after the healer through long, sun-dappled corridors. They passed through a narrow hallway into the herb storage room, where warm, drowsy light filtered in from high, arched windows. Bundles of herbs hung from the beams in orderly rows—lavender, dried and sweet; rosemary, sharp and biting; feverfew, faintly bitter. Dust motes drifted lazily through shafts of light. Elain could hear the gentle grind of pestles, the hum of low conversation, the rustle of pages and parchment.

“Healing begins with what the earth offers,” Lyra began, lifting a bunch of silver-stemmed leaves. “Silverbloom. Old as any magic we know. Some plants bloom with the moon, others only under starlight. Lavender under the full moon. Bloodroot during the waning. They respond to her pull the same way the sea does. As healers, we are not just healing the body - but the Earth. And to do so, we have to listen to it. To hear what it tells us. To rise with the sun, to learn how to tend to the invisible strings that tie all creations together”

Elain followed her to another table where a young healer was gently crushing peppermint leaves with a marble pestle. The scent burst into the air, bright and cooling.

“Morning is for the waking herbs,” Lyra said. “Peppermint, marjoram, feverfew. Their potency is strongest just after the dew lifts. Dusk is for the dreamers—moon poppy, jasmine, duskleaf. Those stir when the light softens.”

“How do you know?” Elain asked, her voice hushed. “When they’re ready?”

Lyra glanced at her. “Experience. Listening. Plants speak in time. So do wounds. Much of healing is about patience. You watch. You learn. The body heals in its own ways. Each one different then the next. A potion or salve for one fae may not work as well for another. So you have to adjusting with each patient."

She gestured for Elain to follow as they moved deeper into the hall. "How did you learn to become a healer?" Elain asked. Lyra paused. “I was born in a village at the edge of Dawn and Day,” Lyra said, her voice distant with memory. “My family were farmers. I used to sit for hours in the dirt, talking to the roots, feeling the pull of the sun. When I was twelve, I cured a blight no one else could identify. That’s when I was sent to Kalahan.”

"Where is that?" Elain asked. Lyra laughed softly, "I forgot you were human once. It's the temple of learning in Dawn Court. Fae from across the courts go there to train. They take fae of any age, but most start young like me. I arrived at fifteen. Stayed until I was thirty. Now—I’m here. Seventy-two years.” Lyra looked no older than 25. And yet... she was 102. Elain’s heart skipped at the number. Her human years had felt so long. But here, time was measured differently. Stretched and coiled in ways she didn’t understand. "Does everyone have a specialty?" Elain asked. "Yes. While we all have general healing and plant growing skills, so we can be used in times of war anywhere, we all have our speciality's. I specialize in celestial herbology,” Lyra went on, guiding her to a room lined in shelves. “Sunlight and moonlight can change a plant’s essence entirely. And I work with bones and blood. Others, like Amara, handle traumatic injuries. Madjas are Illyrian wings. Ester—potions.” Ester nodded from a nearby table, surrounded by bottles in every hue. One glowed faintly gold, its surface swirling like starlight.

Lyra began to show her how they organized all of the dried herbs. The shelves stretched higher than Elain expected, floor to ceiling, with narrow ladders tucked between the rows like secrets waiting to be climbed. Each jar gleamed under the soft glow of faelight, labels meticulously inked in precise, looping script that marked the date of harvest, the phase of the moon, the temperature of the soil. “These shelves are sacred,” Lyra said, her voice quiet now, a kind of hush that didn’t come from habit but from honor. “Every bottle here has a story. A healer who gathered it. A hand that touched the root. A patient it saved. We keep them like we keep memories.” She walked Elain into another room, through their library of books. The books were even older than the jars. Their spines worn, stitched with thread, not magic, as if to remind them that some things needed the patience of mortal hands. The oldest ones were wrapped in silk cloths, weathered edges peeking out like brittle leaves in the fall. “This one,” Lyra said, pulling a thick volume from a lower shelf, “was written by the first archivist of Kalahan. Handwritten, every page. She bound it herself with her own hair and thread soaked in moon water.”

Elain’s breath caught as she opened it. The pages were fragile, but the ink still clear. Diagrams of roots, sigils for safe harvest, notes scrawled in the margins in a slanted, almost hurried script. It felt like reading someone's private journal. Someone who had loved the earth deeply and left behind a map for others to follow.

“I had no idea…” Elain whispered. “That healing could be… this.”

Lyra smiled softly, her gaze distant, as if she were standing not in a storage room but a temple. “This,” she said, brushing her hand along the row of books, “is what the world forgets. That healing isn’t just about broken bones or fevers. It’s memory. History. Earth and magic and time.”

Read The Rest on AO3

Elain arrived at Sophie’s home just before noon, a small basket of fresh-baked scones in her hands, the scent of lavender and lemon curling into the crisp autumn air. The townhouse was charming, nestled between ivy-covered buildings, its door painted a deep emerald green, the same shade as Sophie’s dress from the other day.

She barely had time to knock before the door swung open.

“Elain! Come in, please.” Sophie beamed, stepping aside to let her in. The warmth of a cozy fire greeted her, along with the rich scent of spiced cider and roasted vegetables.

Inside, the space was lively yet intimate. The main sitting room had been transformed into a welcoming gathering space, a long wooden table set with simple earthenware plates, bowls of steaming stew, fresh bread, and pitchers of mulled cider. The voices of half a dozen fae filled the space, laughter and quiet conversation weaving between them.

“Elain, these are some of the volunteers who help at the garden.” Sophie gestured to the table. “Everyone, this is Elain Archeron. She’ll be joining us.”

A mix of greetings met her ears, along with a few curious glances.

“Elain Archeron?” A middle-aged male with silver-streaked hair set down his cup. “Our High Lady's Sister?" He stood up to bow, as did the others. Elain felt a familiar tension creep up her spine. She hated the attention she got when people realized who she was.

But before she had to fumble for a response, a petite female with auburn hair clapped her hands together, with light grey eyes, so much like her sisters. “Titles aside, I hear you’ve got a good hand with plants. My mate told us about the tea garden, you got old Teryn to listen?” This must be Devora, Elain thought.

There was a murmur of approval, and Elain let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She smiled. “I think listen might be a strong word. But I’m hoping to learn from him.” That seemed to be the right answer. A few chuckles passed around the table, and Sophie ushered her to an open seat beside her.

Lunch was lively, full of conversation about the garden. What still needed repairs, which plants had survived, what vegetables they hoped to grow next spring. Elain found herself listening more than speaking, taking it all in, the ease with which they spoke to one another, the way they belonged to this community.

For so long, she had been surrounded by warriors, by rulers, by those whose strength was measured in battles fought and won. But here...here strength was measured in patience, in the hands that tilled the earth and coaxed life from the soil.

She wanted to be a part of this. Read The Rest on AO3

After a few hours in the greenhouse, the scent of crushed mint and sun-warmed soil still clinging to her skin, Elain finally made her way toward the front of the Healers’ Hall. Her limbs were pleasantly sore, her fingers stained green from sorting through bundles of herbs, and her satchel was heavy with borrowed books.

She wasn’t expecting to see him. But as she stepped into the entryway, Elain’s breath caught.

Azriel stood near the hearth, framed by the golden light of the fire, his shadows curling faintly around his boots. His presence filled the room effortlessly, the quiet tension of him pressing against the walls.

Madja looked over from her seat, her wrinkled eyes gleaming. “Azriel just arrived. How serendipitous of his timing.”

Azriel’s posture shifted. Subtle, but Elain noticed. He stood a touch straighter. His eyes flicked to hers and softened. “I was in town meeting with a contact,” he said, his voice as low and smooth as ever. “The twins mentioned you were here. Starting with Madja.”

There was something in his expression—something that made her heart thud against her ribs. A softness he rarely showed. A knowing.

“Yes,” Elain said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Madja has been... wonderful. I worried the cold months indoors would turn my thoughts restless. I’ve noticed my visions come more often when my hands are idle.”

His gaze dropped briefly to those hands, still stained with soil, then returned to her face.

“Having someone with her gifts will be immensely helpful,” Madja said, standing with effort. “Especially with the new treatments we’re learning from the Dawn Court. I take it your first day with Lyra went well?”

Elain smiled, cradling her bag to her chest. “It did. She’s brilliant. She lent me these books so I can learn the moon cycles and how they affect the different herbs.”

He stepped closer and reached for her bag. “I’ll walk you home.” The simple gesture made her heart stutter.

Madja, ever perceptive, gave a knowing smile. “Until next time. Elain. Spymaster.” And then she stood and was gone, the rustle of her robes fading down the corridor.

Azriel lingered by the doorway, his head tilted slightly. When he took another step toward her, Elain’s breath caught again. He lifted his hand slowly, brushing something from her cheek with the gentlest touch. “You had dirt on your face,” he murmured, voice rough with quiet amusement.

“Oh!” Her face flushed instantly. “Yes, well—we spent a lot of time in the soil today.” She gave a small laugh, awkward and breathless.

Azriel offered his arm, and without hesitation, Elain slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. They stepped out into the chill of the early afternoon, snow still tucked along the edges of rooftops, the air bright and crisp. Side by side, they began the short walk through Velaris, the steady rhythm of their footsteps the only sound for a while.

Elriel Song Of The Moment

She's a wave and she is breaking She's a problem to solve And in that circle she's making I will always revolve

And on her sight These eyes depend Invisible and Indivisible

That fire you ignited Good, bad and undecided Burns when I stand beside it Your light is ultraviolet

Visions so insane Travel unraveling through my brain Cold when I am denied it Your light is ultraviolet Ultraviolet

Now is a phase and it's changing It's rotating us all Thought we're safe but we're dangling And it's too far to survive the fall

And this I know It will not bend Invisible and indivisible

It had been a few weeks since his birthday, and fall had begun to settle over Velaris. The mornings carried a sharp, crisp chill, but Azriel still found himself in the garden whenever he was home. The routine was the same: tea, quiet conversations, the occasional peaceful silence. He split his nights between the House of Wind and the Townhouse, dictated by the demands of dinners or late-night strategy meetings with Rhy and Feyre.

He had always preferred the solitude of the House of Wind—its quiet halls, the isolation it offered. But recently, leaving the Townhouse had become... harder. Even knowing he would return in the morning, something about the warm hum of Elain’s presence kept him lingering. This morning was no different. The faint warmth of the sun hadn’t yet chased away the lingering cold, and Elain sat beside him in her cloak, her hands curled around a steaming cup of tea. Her cheeks were flushed from the brisk air, and a few stray wisps of hair framed her face, golden in the early light.

"Did you ever dream of this life... this job?" she asked suddenly, her voice thoughtful.

Azriel blinked, nearly choking on his tea. "Job?" he echoed, tilting his head as if the word were foreign. "Do you mean being the Spymaster of the Night Court?"

"Yes," she said, smiling softly, as if it was the most natural question in the world. "It is a job, isn’t it? Feyre pays me far too much to tend the gardens. I’d imagine Rhys compensates you much better." Her laugh was light, teasing.

Azriel chuckled, shaking his head. "Rhys overpays everyone in his court. But no, I wouldn’t say I dreamed of this. It wasn’t... something I ever considered."

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

A gust of wind cut through the rooftop, and before Elain could shiver, Azriel shifted ever so slightly, angling his wing to shield her from the worst of it. It was effortless, instinctive. As if he had done it a thousand times before. Warmth curled in her chest.

"If you could be anyone else for a day," she asked, tilting her head, "who would you be?"

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh, looking back toward the city. "No one important."

"No one important?" she echoed, frowning.

"Someone without a title. Without responsibility. Just...someone who belongs only to himself." His fingers tapped absently against the railing. "And you? Who would you be?"

Elain was silent for a long moment, watching the river glisten below. "A gardener."

Azriel’s head turned slightly toward her. "You already are."

She swallowed, her hands tightening in her pockets. "Not like that. I mean… I’d want it to be my only title. Not a Lady. Not an Archeron. Not a symbol for anything else." She hesitated. "Just a girl with dirt under her nails, who grows things because she loves to." The wind carried their words away, the world stretching quiet and endless around them.

"I would have a home by the water," she murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the railing. "Somewhere quiet, where the cliffs meet the sea. A house built of pale stone, with tall windows that catch the morning light, and ivy creeping along the walls. And a garden, of course—a sprawling one, filled with wildflowers and herbs, with roses climbing trellises and lavender swaying in the breeze. A place where I could dig my hands into the earth and feel it hum beneath my fingertips. But the sea…" she exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. "I would want to wake up to the waves crashing against the shore, the tide singing its endless song. To stand on the balcony with my tea, watching the mist roll over the water, feeling the salt on my skin." A faint smile ghosted her lips. "And in the mornings, before the sun fully rises, I would wake to laughter. The soft, sleepy giggles of my family, all tangled together in bed—like Feyre and Nesta and I used to do, before… before everything."

Her fingers tightened slightly on the railing. Before war. Before loss. Before she had been remade into something else entirely. What she didn’t tell him—what she couldn’t tell him—was the vision she had seen all those months ago. The one she had tried to forget.

It had come to her in the House of Wind, in the haze between wakefulness and dreaming, when reality and visions blurred into something indistinguishable. She had been lost in her mind then, drowning in a sea of things she did not understand, unable to tell which ones belonged to her and which were mere echoes of something never meant to be.

But this one—this one had felt real.

That same warm bed by the ocean. That same golden morning light streaming through sheer curtains, the scent of salt and jasmine drifting on the breeze. Laughter filling the space, soft and bright, like a melody she had known all her life. And when she turned, expecting to see Nesta or Feyre, expecting to see her past.... She saw her future instead.

Two small girls, twins, their dark curls a mess from sleep, their brown eyes shining with mischief. One curled against her side, the other climbing onto the pillows, giggling as they tumbled into the sheets.

And a hand, a scarred, familiar hand, reaching for hers beneath the blankets, warm and steady. 

The wind stirred around them, tangling a lock of hair across her cheek. She brushed it away absently, only then glancing at Azriel.

And the way he was looking at her—Mother above. Like he could see it, too. Like he wanted to give it to her.

He was quiet for a long moment, his hazel eyes fixed on the river below, as if the answer lay somewhere in its dark, rippling depths. "That sounds like a good life."

"And you?" Elain prompted gently, tilting her head to look up at him.

His fingers drummed once against the balcony railing, his wings shifting slightly before settling again. "I don’t know," he admitted. "Something quiet," he finally said. "A place where no one needs me to be anything but myself."

Elain’s expression softened. "That sounds lonely."

He exhaled a small, wry laugh. "Maybe. But I think I would like it." He hesitated, then said, "I’d have a house, too. Small, nothing extravagant. Something tucked away, with a view of the sky. Somewhere I could sleep without being woken by the sound of a city, or a mission, or the need to be anywhere but there."

"Would it have a garden?" she teased, offering him a small smile.

He glanced at her then, something flickering in his gaze. "Maybe."

Elain nudged his arm lightly with her own. "A garden is a necessity, Shadowsinger."

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. But then his voice softened. "I think I’d want to wake up to the same thing every morning. The same warmth beside me, the same peace. No rushing out the door, no blades or blood, just... existing. Just having something to hold onto."

Elain’s breath caught. Because for all his vagueness, for all the carefully chosen words, she could hear what he wasn’t saying.

Azriel didn’t want solitude. He wanted someone.