A Court of Horizon and Shadows

44.

AZRIEL

The Spymaster of Night jolted awake, staring up at his ceiling in his old room of the House of Wind.

He laid in his bed, shirtless, covered in bandages that wrapped around his arms and chest. They were already stained with blood, but he didn't pay them any attention.

Instead, he stared at Perseus, whose head was propped on top of his leg. The wolf stared at him, his glimmering eyes shining from the light of the fireplace.

Auriella. A shadow whispered to him.

Immediately, Azriel looked around the room, looking for any sign of his mate, but she wasn't there. He remembered seeing her at Under the Mountain with Rhysand and Cassian, fighting Ismene, and hearing her voice through the bond as she knelt before him.

He remembered saying her name before everything went dark.

"Where is Auriella, Perseus?" Azriel asked the wolf.

He lifted his head, whining at the mention of his owner's name. At that, Azriel moved his legs off the bed, ignoring the soreness that raced through his body. But as he lifted his upper body, he gritted his teeth to hold in the unbearable pain.

Room. Another shadow whispered.

Azriel hadn't been back in his room since he left to live out in the forest of Velaris. He mainly used the room as his personal storage place, having boxes sitting in the corner of the room. They contained stuff that he didn't find necessary to have, but still valuable enough to keep.

And they were still where he left them.

The Spymaster stood from his bed, walking over to the three boxes that were stacked on top of one another. He opened the first one, digging through old clothes and armor he used to wear. They smelled awful, but he moved them aside, trying to get his hand to the bottom.

Eventually, he felt the fabric of his old tunic that his mother had given him after she bathed and healed his hands in that rainy hour. Its dark blue color matched him perfectly, remembering how soft it felt on his skin. His mother had made it for him, using her embroidery skills and delicate hands to piece together the fabric.

He remembered that it smelled like her when he first put it on - berries and nature. It was as if she was embracing him without touching him. He could feel her love for him seeping through, motivating him and keeping him alive in every torturous day he had to endure.

And every time he would visit his mother, she would wash the tunic, taking out the dirt and grime that covered it, restoring it back into its natural state.

Now that he held it in front of him, he could see how small and frail he was in those days. It could fit a child that was no older than four years of age if they were healthy enough. It fit him when he was eight up to when he was put into Windhaven at the age of eleven.

At the camp, he had to hide it in a place no one would think to look. He didn't want the Lords of the camp to find it and take it away from him. They would have ripped it right in front of him or set it on fire. They didn't want their warriors to be weak.

At the time, his mother was his greatest weakness. If something had ever happened to her, Azriel was sure that he wouldn't be able to bear the pain.

Mother. A shadow whispered.

Azriel wondered about her every day. He knew that she was up in the mountains, living in a more sizable cottage that he had bought for her. He wasn't there to show it to her, mainly because fear overtook his mind, but instead, it was Cassian who showed her.