Decade | | Azriel

12

Azriel had gone away—far away.

He needed distance from Kyla's fear of him. He went all the way to the Spring Court. He hadn't let his protective rage spur him into action, but he had gone to Spring and found Hal. He found him and he watched him, imagining a million different ways to kill him for what he did to Kyla. He wouldn't attack him yet though. Not until he had permission from Kyla to do it.

Azriel was hiding in his shadows stalking his would-be prey when a scream tore through his brain, nearly shattering his mind with the intensity of it. And then there was an image seen through Kyla's eyes. Shadows and blood—her blood. This was different than the images he had seen of himself as some crazed tyrant ruling over her life. This one image wasn't imagined as that one was. The image and the fiery bolts of pain searing through her were real.

Azriel was airborne within seconds, mind blinded by the pain and fear Kyla was suffering. He was too far away. To fucking far away. He couldn't even reach Rhys from here.

He traveled faster than he ever had in his lifetime, but it still took over an hour for him to get close enough that there was a sliver of a chance Rhys might pick up on the thoughts he was flinging at him.

Rhysand. Rhysand. RHYSAND.

Azriel kept moving, kept trying to close distance as he continued desperately reaching towards Rhys all while feeling every bit of fear and agony coursing through Kyla. He could feel it when his messages finally made their mark, when Rhys caught wind of them.

Are you in trouble?

Rhys's question fluttered through his mind, hardly more than a whisper next to Kyla's unceasing screams.

My mate. Someone is attacking my mate. Help her please. I won't get there in time.

It was difficult to form that coherent thought, to admit that he couldn't save her.

Where is she.

Rhys's question sounded more like an order than anything.

Azriel sent that answer, the address and the image of the club from the outside and the side entrance he used and the number on the door to her room.

Cassian and I are going to her. We're leaving from Illyria now.

They were in Illyria? That was so far. Too far. He felt like he might be sick. It would take time even with Rhys winnowing them, and all that winnowing could drain Rhys and there were so many risks. Too many.

Be fast. Please.

Azriel meant for it to sound like a demand, but it was more a plea than anything.

We will save her, brother.

Rhys's words were a vow, an oath that meant more than any bargain marked by a tattoo. This promise stained both of their souls instead of their skin.

The line between them was kept open until Rhys arrived at the club. Azriel didn't know for certain what happened, but Rhys shut him out and stopped responding. And the bond...he felt nothing from Kyla. After hours and hours of agony and screaming, he felt nothing. Nothing but cold emptiness.

She wasn't dead, he knew she wasn't. He would have shattered on the spot if she had died, but the pain had ended. It ended right before Rhys and Cassian got there, like whoever was enacting such violence on her knew their time had run out.

He screamed at Rhys for an explanation, for anything. He went unanswered.

Rhys wasn't ignoring him intentionally. He was too focused on Kyla to answer. She was nearly unrecognizable compared to her usual self, but this was the version of her Rhys had know, albeit significantly worse. Still, the last time he had seen her was when she was covered in cuts and bruises just as she was now. And still so similar to how he had seen her all those years ago, there was a dagger plunged into her—this time in her stomach instead of her chest.