09 HUNGER PANGS

—THE human is in unbearable pain in the days following her first trial. The arm she cradles to her chest is engulfed in what she can only describe as icy fire. It burns all the way to her shoulder, creeping closer and closer to her heart. The burn is seeping into her core, an infectious poison.

Touching the wound only leads to screaming and crying and heaving, so ignoring the slow killer is her only option.

She slayed that monster in the pit, but it's killing her from beyond to grave.

She survived the battle, and now she's losing the war.

The girl can't eat the rotten assortment of food the guards leave twice each day. Her fragile stomach cannot hold it down. She cannot sleep with the stinging pain, and the unknown threats that might arrive in her vulnerability keep her alert at all hours.

There are moments where she wishes that female, the one with ebony hair and eyes of rich lavender, was with her. She—monster or not—had watched over her in this dungeon. Had told her when it was safe to sleep. Had told her what foods would be okay to consume.

Feyre Archeron wishes that female was here to tell her what to do to stay alive.

She stares at nothing but the stone wall, forcing herself to stay conscious because she does not think it is safe to sleep without the female's say-so.

Just as she contemplates risking a few minutes of rest despite the fear of death behind her closed eyelids, a gathering of darkness swarms her field of blurry, uneven vision. She cannot even lift her sore back off the wall to fend off this potential danger. Does she even want to?

But from this darkness emerges a figure with dark hair and violet eyes.

She's come for me, the girl almost weeps.

No, this body is too tall, too imposing. Their voice is too deep.

This is another monster entirely.

"What a sorry state for Tamlin's champion."

—KAZI is in that room of rotting flesh and mud and sick with only her savage mind to keep her company. By the third day of the decaying process, she longs for a pain other than stinging nostrils and itchy eyes. She pitifully envies Lucien Vanserra for receiving just twenty lashes to his back for speaking out during the trial—a punishment more merciful than this. On the sixth day, she begins to choke herself with the iron collar so that she will pass out. Anything to avoid the stench of corpse.

The only witnesses to her descent into fume-induced delirium are the twins born of shadows and the Attor. Every two days, just after the latter leaves, the shadow wraiths enter the room with buckets, soaps, and brushes. Each time, they tell her they will help her sneak out, but Kazi turns the offer away. She doesn't know what she would do if they were brought to Amarantha's attention. It is painful enough that they are even under this mountain in the first place, but to throw them at the Deceiver's feet for her own sake would be enough to send her into a guilt-ridden depression.

She hisses lowly as Nuala traces the bruising line on her neck. She has been knocking herself out enough lately that her enhanced healing cannot combat the speed with which the new welts are forming. She is actually glad for it; so long as the pain takes her mind off the reeking carcass below them.

"We brought a salve," Nuala's delicate voice says as she pulls back her gray fingers. She procures said tin of healing ointment. "Nazir and Tsavani had it made."

The guardian shakes her head, knowing she needs the pain if she is going to stay here till the next full moon—or perhaps longer if Amarantha believes she still needs to be tamed. Nuala seems to hesitate, as if she might object to the rejection. Kazi looks up at her with stony, resolved eyes. "Give it to Feyre the next time she needs it. No doubt, she will."

The twins nod their assent. Kazi thanks them silently, not just for listening to her but for attending to Feyre, as well. It had been under Rhysand's orders that they begin watching the girl, and now they give Kazi status reports on her every time they show up.

Starting a few nights ago, Feyre has been attending the revelry of the faerie parties each night, wearing thin shifts of cloth and dark swirls of paint at Rhysand's behest. She is placed in a drunken stupor every night, the faerie wine affecting her far more than any normal wine she is used to.

Kazi, while still frustrated at the need for such a plan, can see its practicalities. Feyre will receive proper food, something other than the bug-ridden mold they serve her in the dungeons. She will be warm; she will have space to move. And the paint will ensure she is never touched. It is the lesser of all evils.

A mercy not many are offered Under the Mountain.

Cerridwen situates a bucket full of water beneath her head before kneeling next to it silently. Nuala steps back, holding a comb and neatly folded towel for when they finish. There is no way for them to bathe Kazi properly with the canvas sacks on her body and the shackles at her neck and wrists, but they can sponge her down and wash her hair and face to the best of their abilities.

"Did Nazir say anything when he and Tsavani gave you the salve?" Kazi dares to ask as a scoop of lukewarm water is poured over her hair. Disclosing information with the twins will put them in the danger she tries so hard to keep at bay, but they are expertly trained in covert affairs. She trusts them with this.

Cerridwen fingers through her wet hair for a moment before answering in a light, raspy voice. "He said he does not envy you."

Kazi smiles ruefully even though she should have expected it. Cerridwen's eyes flicker up to her sister's for a moment, just a single moment. But it is enough of a moment for Kazi to see the silent conversation. For experienced spies, they certainly do little to stop others from seeing their secrets.

"That's not all he said, was it?" she asks, blinking away a stray droplet of water. "Tell me."

"It wasn't Nazir," Nuala answers instead, her sotto voice taking a lighter turn. "We've received word from...the Inner Circle."

Kazi curses colorfully under her breath, and Cerridwen looks like she might shove the bar of soap into her mouth. Any line of contact between the mountain and Velaris is risky, so much so that Rhysand placed a barrier around Velaris to prevent any crossing. Amarantha's spies are monitoring all messengers and all suspicious activity—even activity that appears harmless. Rhysand had strictly cut them off from any strand of communication to keep their beloved city safe.

"I hope you told him" —for there is only one who would be able to bypass the barrier and contact the twins successfully— "just how foolish he was for disobeying Rhysand."

By their blank expressions, Kazi can guess that they would never even think about calling their mentor foolish or anything of the like. They admire him too much.

"Someone better be dead or nearly dying." She says this with casual impatience, but she knows it would absolutely kill her to discover that one of her family members is in peril. "And if they're not, then I don't even want to hear it."

"There was a message for you," Nuala says timidly, stretching out the towel so she can help wring out Kazi's clean hair. "Strictly for you and no one else."

Her immediate reaction should be to reject it, to turn them away. It should be her first instinct; to not encourage this disobedience. But Kazi wants to hear it. Mother, damn her, but she wants to hear it so much that she might beg for it.

Their separation has been chiseling away at her soul, slowly chipping away at her. And though she knows this message may be her salvation, it can also be her ruination. Some small part of her knows that if she hears his voice, touches his shadows, she may forget herself and her duty. She may compromise everything just to get another taste.

"Did you report to Rhysand already?" she inquires, biding her time before she has to give her answer.

Nuala sets the towel off to the side and takes the comb to her hair. "Yes, he's received his report."

"And what did he have to say about this behavior?"

The bristles pause at her scalp. "The reprimanding was severe."

"Good." And she convinces herself that it is.

Nuala carries on in silence, Cerridwen at her back. The nerve endings in her head are tingling at the sensation of the brush, bringing up memories that both soothe and trouble her.

Kazi cannot remember the last time she put her sword down. Her fingers, to her knowledge, have always been clenched around this hilt. The leather grip is molded perfectly to her; it feels like it belongs. So how can she possibly put it down?

How can she stop the swing and arch of every slash when there are still enemies alive on this field? How can she stop fighting when fighting is all she's known for the past seven years?

"Kazi, fall back!" She doesn't, she can't.

"Kazimyrah, the 24th legion can finish this!" No, she can finish it herself.

But her body betrays her mind. It hears these commands and falls apart at the ripping seams. The sword, the sword she swears she must have been born with, finally drops from her palm. It slips down to the bloody patch of dirt at her feet, imbedding itself in the red-soaked earth. And she feels like she's lost a part of herself, like she is incomplete without the blade in her hand.

Her fingers cramp with nothing to hold onto anymore. The speed at which her heart has been beating suddenly becomes far too much. Her muscles constrict as the will to continue moving forward flees her bones. A dizzying rush sends her mind into abrupt darkness. She falls to her knees, coughing as she tries to suck in more air.

"Kazimyrah! Dammit, Azriel, get her out of here!"

And then there are arms surrounding her. They push and prod into her sore muscles in ways that make her cry out. She would take the pain of a blade over this.

"I know," the voice above her rumbles.

What they know, she doesn't.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

And then she is weightless, lost in space for a muddled second, before she is once again back in those arms that feel like steel chains. But the sound of war is gone, the smell of blood has lessened, the taste of smoke is dim, and the darkness is receding slowly.

"I'm putting you down," the voice says. The bed beneath her back is soft against her muscles, gentle, comforting. "Can you see me, Kazimyrah?"

The room is out of focus, the face in front of her even less so. But he is there; she doesn't need to see him to feel him.

She nods through a sharp sting of pain in her skull.

"You've been on the field too long."

Another nod, lighter than the last. Of that, she can understand.

"Sleep."

Sleep? She can still smell the blood, can still feel it on her skin. It coats her tongue, dancing with the ashes between her teeth. She cannot sleep; the dead will follow her into her dreams. And if they don't, then they will greet her when she wakes.

Even though it hurts every bit, she grabs onto his arm when he retreats. "I need to bathe."

"You can clean up after you've rested some. Don't worry about the sheets."

"No." Resting with the dead will invite them into her head.

"..."

His face is still a jumble of harsh lines and blurry skin, but she can feel the contemplating silence. She tightens her hold, tightens it till she feels like she's holding her sword once more.

"No one is here to assist you, Kazimyrah."

"If you can get me to the bath, that's all the assistance I need," she answers.

There is a short sound of disagreement, but he does not resist further. The arms of steel are around her body once more, and she tries to ignore the flash of pain everywhere they touch. Instead, she tries to think of their warmth. Her own body is chilled from rapidly drying sweat and grime, but his heat is expertly battling it away.

A few steps out of the room and down the slim hallway takes them to what she guesses is a bathhouse. She can make out a clawfoot bathtub, a tall arching window with blackout drapes, a shallow basin on a vanity, and a mirror. Even in the mirror, she can see the blurry painting of blood across her skin. Above her, the same mess of red streaks across his face.

He sets her easily against the bathtub's edge, holding her steady with one hand while he works the faucet handles with his other. She watches, vision slowly coming to her, as he tests the water that collects in the tub and adjusts the dials. He continues the process until it's full.

Once he's satisfied, he turns to her. "Do you..." he looks down at the arm that is still very obviously supporting her. His other hand settles down on the lip of the tub and the tan skin blooms white at the knuckles. "Do you need anything else?"

Kazi can move, she is sure of it. It is just going to hurt.

"Nothing else. Thank you."

But when his body shifts to move away, her spine trembles and the muscles in her abdomen cannot stop her top half from careening backwards toward the water. Luckily, she is stopped from complete submergence by his steadying arm once more.

"I just need a few moments," she says.

"You've built up too much lactic acid in your muscles," he explains.

Like she knows what that is.

"It's going to take a few hours before you can move properly again."

How inconvenient.

"I am still not sleeping until I get this shit off me," she hisses under her breath, not angry, just frustrated. Limply, her arms tug at the hem of her leather jerkin uselessly. "Help me get this off."

"Kazimyrah," he says haltingly. His hold on the tub dents the metal with a creak.

"Just—please. You don't have to look at me, but it needs to come off." She understands his hesitance to her forwardness. But if this is what she needs to do to feel clean, then she's going to ask it of him without shame. "You know how these leathers work inside and out. You can take them off without needing to see it."

He doesn't speak against her; she's right, of course. And he has no excuse to refute it. So, with a noticeably quiet sigh, he closes his eyes and moves his left arm around her back in a way that allows her to rest against his forearm while his other hand finds the ties and clasps around her torso.

Interestingly, the shadows that encompass his form begin to accumulate and whirl about at his feet, as if they are holding back to allow her privacy like their master.

The fingers of his right hand skate across the leather seams along her side. Through her sore and numbing muscles, she can hardly feel its skirting trek, but she knows they're there, he's there. When his fingers come upon the first knot, he hastily pulls at it until it loosens.

She watches his throat tense as he then traces further downward to the next ties, feeling waves of guilt for pushing this onto him when it clearly makes him uncomfortable. She could have easily waited for him to fetch Rhysand or Mor, or just forced her body to work.

Each knot releases pressure across her chest, allowing her to breathe easier and easier, smoother and smoother, as he goes. But as her breathing deepens with relief, she finds his own rhythm quickening. His chest is rising and falling in short bursts, and his moves are getting clumsy. His hand slips away from her waist at one point, and he grips the tub beside her for a moment before forcing himself to continue. He rushes through the ties on her left side, roughly tugging at each knot until they slacken.

She waits for a moment to see if he'll help to pull off the coat, but his clenched jaw and hand tell her that's too far for him. So she shifts her body around with short winces until it falls back off her shoulders, draping over his forearm behind her. Her breast binding is still secured, and she doesn't think she'll convince him to assist her with it, so it'll have to stay.

But her pants are just as blood soaked as her jerkin is.

"My trousers," she says quietly.

"Yes," he rasps, eyes still tightly closed, but doesn't move.

Seeing his hesitance, she weakly pulls her arms into herself and commands each finger to work separately. The ties at her lower stomach are always tightened to a point that squeezes her waist in, so she doesn't have to worry about them loosening mid fight. An unfortunate fact right now.

At her forehead, she can still feel quick hurried puffs of air hitting her skin. She tries not to think about it, already filled with apologies to give him when he calms down.

When she thinks she can finally get the knots loosened, the male in front of her takes a deep breath and moves his hand back to her waist. He hits exposed skin and pulls back for a moment before trying again. This time, he hits only the waistband of her trousers and slowly but surely moves his fingers along to her front.

She's caught, unnervingly mesmerized by the shaky carefulness with which he trails the thick fabric. Her hands fall back down to her sides.

When he finds the crisscrossing ties, his hand draws back again. This time, when his hand returns to her body, he doesn't flinch when he accidentally touches the skin of her abdomen. And unlike when he urgently untied the bindings at her torso, this time he calmly locates each loop and string to work with next.

Once he's got every tie loosened enough, he takes a step back. The hand supporting her moves down her shoulder, bicep, forearm, and then encircles her wrist. He kneels down to the ground before her and places both of her hands on his shoulders to keep her upright. She holds herself up against him with the small amount of strength she can find.

First, he takes each of her boots and works through their own buckles and knots. Strangely, she thinks his eyes are still closed despite his head being lowered and safe from any sight of her. After her boots and short stockings are easily removed, he holds her ankles lightly for a couple seconds. Like he's grappling with his bearings.

Then with another deep sigh, he reaches up and hooks his fingers within the waistband of her pants. She is lost in the sight of his fluttering eyelids as he pulls the material down her thighs, calves, and feet. The skinny lines of skin the backs of his fingers touch light up with flaming heat.

And then she is almost completely bare before him. Her undergarments are modest enough to keep her from being entirely shameless, but it is still far more exposed than she's been with any male who isn't her father or Rhysand.

His hands, again, are circled around her ankles. Barely touching her.

The water is far colder than when they first began this process. It's enough to make her shiver after fully sinking down into it. His rough hands leave her biceps, from where he'd helped her get in.

He stands there a while longer, eyes ever closed. The shadows still timidly swirl about his feet and calves, warily staying just below the bathtub's edge.

"Do you need anything else?" He finally finds the words.

She's tempted to say nothing else, again. She wants to, for him. She's asked for much, and he has catered to her despite his obvious unease. But she doesn't think she can move her arms around enough to get the grime out of her hair. Surely, this would not be so bad as undressing.

"Do you think you could help me with my hair?"

"Yeah," he breathes, hesitation vacant from his expression. He shuffles around, hand moving along the rim of the bathtub to help him navigate to her head.

Bliss is the only word that comes to her mind when his fingers finally delve into her hair. Her body; weightless in the water, mind, free of battle weariness; and soul, at peace in this moment. She feels nothing but relief in this room with him.

Maybe it is the memory of those hands, the memory of a time she felt peace in a lifetime of war. Maybe she is just too weak to resist. Maybe it is all of those things that make the decision for her.

At last, she says, "I will hear it."

Nuala pulls the comb through her hair one last time before backing up just enough to hold out her palm, face up and empty. Her gray skin ripples as shadows erupt and wrap around her elbow and forearm. Slowly, a tendril of deep obsidian forms upon her hand, darker than the shadow-wraith's own conjurings. It weaves itself in clean and sharp motions as if desperately searching for something.

As Nuala brings her hand closer to Kazi's face, the strand of inky midnight stills harshly. She watches as its movements turn fluid and tame in her proximity, gentle. Though it moves with patience and composure, she can see its eagerness to touch her, the slight jerks that pinpoint the shortest distance to her skin. It floats closer to her, brushing against her cheeks, her chin, her lips. It is a lover's caress, darkness's warm embrace. One she's almost forgotten the feeling of.

Nuala and Cerridwen are gone, their shadows disappearing while this one stays behind to bask in her presence.

It nuzzles her neck, brushing her damp hair away from her collar. It skims the edges of her wounds, its breezing warmth sending a shudder through her jittery bones. It moves down her arms and body languorously, sweeping her rags until it reaches her wrists and ankles. It pauses to circle them, taking note of every bruise she's failed to heal, every pale scar that peeks under the hems of her sleeves.

It is assessing her.

"You can stop fussing." She almost chokes on the words, seeing the shadows still once more at her voice. After a second, they whip around, returning to her face. They brush her lips one last time before crawling to her ears over her cheekbones.

She doesn't breathe as it delivers its whispered message. The message she now realizes she would have torn down the mountain to hear.

"Before, I thought that the distance between us couldn't be greater. I thought that we were as far as we could possibly be from each other, and I made myself content with that because you were still there. But I find, no matter how hard I try, that I cannot make myself content with this. And there is so much—too much left unsaid for me to ever be content with your absence in my life. Every moment without you is an agony. Every minute you do not return is a blade to my chest. The pain of not having you beside me is not even comparable to the pain of losing you completely."

Her eyes flutter shut to contain a whirlwind of longing. It is all she can do not to let a tear fall. It takes all of her strength to keep her resolve. There is no further whisper, but the flick of an onyx whip against her hair is answer enough. It pull back from her dark hair and scrapes her jaw just enough to make her shiver.

She clears her throat as the shadows wander their way back into her gaze. "It's agony for me, too," she sighs honestly. "I'll return to you, somehow I always do. But you cannot do this again, not now. Things are very delicate. You have to trust us down here, just like we're trusting you up there."

It pains her to say it, pains her to turn him away like she always does when every fiber of her being wants the opposite. Desiderium plagues her like an incurable disease.

There is one last nudge of darkness against her forehead before the tendril of shadows dissolves into the spacious room.

She waits until there is complete and total loneliness before finally allowing herself to weep.

Utter agony, it is an utter agony. It always has been, and she fears it always will be.

—TAMLIN begged for Lucien's life after the first trial, begged for his trusted friend to be spared. And still, the High Lord had been forced to whip the son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court twenty times. Some part of Kazi almost wishes she had been in his place. Some part of her would have rather been tortured so mercilessly that she was on the cusp of death.

Instead, she's been granted 29 days and 28 nights in solitary with a rotting monster.

There isn't one meal that successfully remains in her stomach anymore. Not one bucket of soap-water the twins deliver that makes her feel truly clean. Not one minute where she isn't waiting for her misery to end—by any means.

But on the eve of the 30th day, her High Lord comes for her.

She feels him even before he enters the arena. Even through the iron manacles and suppression spells placed on them, she can sense his nearness. Like a beacon of festering darkness, a force drawing her to him. The need to protect, the need to defend. She's missed it, this feeling of purpose.

She looks up at his silent entrance, scanning him carefully for any signs of abuse. But she knows she will not find any visible scars. He pauses at the threshold, nose wrinkling in distaste. She almost releases a sardonic laugh but decides against it.

Resuming his trek over to her, he lets wisps of darkness curl around his fingers. "I think you've spent long enough in this shit-hole."

She doen't even have it in her to smile at that.

Even before he reaches an arm's length away, he is flicking his hand out viciously to relieve her of her binds. With four simultaneous clicks, the shackles at her wrists and ankles fall away. The echoes clang around the room as they hit the stone floor one by one. The sound of freedom.

Her hands come together slowly, rubbing the throbbing pain away.

Rhysand waits until he's crouched directly in front of her before addressing her collar. His violet eyes dig into her own, head at a slight tilt with an unspoken apology. She stares right back, hoping her easy breathing shows her forgiveness.

"Get it off," she whispers. She would have cringed at how hopeless she sounded. But she can't pretend to be someone she isn't, not in front of him. Realizing she's given her High Lord an order and not a request, she adds, "Please."

He does not hesitate to heed her plea. His hand brushes her hair over one shoulder so he can look upon the lock at the nape of her neck. She can hear a slight rumble of anger in his chest as he evaluates the intricacies. Obviously, Amarantha had it made with the intention of never coming off.

Wretched bitch, Kazi does not know whether it is her own thought or Rhysand's.

Finally, the solid release of the mechanics inside the clasp reach her ears and he eases the block from around her throat. She hadn't realized just how heavy it is; a literal weight falls away from her shoulders. He pulls it away, staring at it with unfettered fury. She watches as he slowly stands, hand clenching around the metal until his knuckles turn a pale white.

With a guttural growl, he chucks it at the nearest wall, strength unmatched. It shatters upon impact, sending a tremor down Kazi's spine.

"I hope you didn't grow attached to that."

An effort to dispel the horrors surrounding the past month.

"I thought it would have made a rather nice necklace," she rasps. Her throat is raw from heaving and lack of talking for a prolonged period of time. "I had just the dress in mind to pair it with."

Rhysand's hands move underneath her elbows to help her stand. Maybe once she would have pushed him away for it, would have demanded the time and space to get up on her own. But she does not think she would last a minute longer in this filth. And she's been slumped on the floor for far too long.

Her muscles scream as she tries to support her own weight. Her legs feel as if they'd give out if she so much as takes a single step. Rhysand seems to notice her shakiness and sighs gently.

"Don't kill me for this," he says lowly.

She doesn't even have time to tell him it is impossible for a guardian to kill their High Lord before he is swooping down to lift her into his arms. She convulses with indignation, but his grip only tightens around her back and legs.

She groans as her arms can't even whip up the strength to hit him. "Killing you wouldn't be enough."

"You let me know when you can stand on your own without toppling over and then maybe I'll think better on your threats." There is a smiling undertone to his voice. She's missed that too.

Slowly fading into darkness, Kazi's stomach roils as they step through the fold and entered his private chambers. It is a fight not to send up her guts all over his tunic and polished floors. Perhaps it would be punishment enough for the personal torment he is putting her through.

His nose twitches again as he steps further into the room. "A bath first, I think."

She does not protest despite the underlying insult. She knows she carries the lingering scent of decaying wyrm. The sooner she is rid of it, the better.

He sits her down on a stool in the main room before moving to draw her bath. She turns to the vanity, overlooking all the things he never uses. Serums, creams, writing utensils, the combs Nuala and Cerridwen have been using when they attend to her. But there, front and center, the salve the twins received from Nazir. Intended for Kazi but passed on to Feyre Archeron.

Indeed, the room is coated in the human girl's scent. She's been in here plenty the past month.

She grabs the tin to take with her into the bathhouse. She will only use enough to take the pain away. With the iron shackles gone, her healing abilities have returned; she can already feel her skin trying to repair itself.

Rhysand walks back out, hands stuffed in his pockets casually. He opens his mouth to ask her something, but she holds up a hand, wincing at the energy it takes.

"I can get there myself."

"As you say," he concedes with a shallow bow of his head. He leans against the wall to watch her, there in case she goes back on her word or collapses with fatigue.

She sighs heavily, placing her palms against the wooden desk to push herself to standing. Her arms shakes uncontrollably as she makes it to her feet. Each step, she wobbles, one hand supported against the wall to keep her balance. She feels humiliation settle within her, knowing he is watching. But then she has to remind herself that Rhysand has seen her this way plenty. Vulnerable.

Learning to walk as a faerie toddler, just as he was learning to fly with his adolescent wings. After he took her out on a joy-flight quite a few years later and accidentally dropped her, breaking both her legs and her collarbone. After her first battle in the war, too battle-weary to even walk off the battlefield. He carried her back to the townhouse then, unconscious. She woke up in a frenzy, unaware of where she was and, to her horror, still in a killing mindset. That was the first and only time she'd hurt her High Lord. And that was the last time she let him carry her anywhere.

She makes it to the tub, a small triumphant smile settling on her face. Kazi looks over her shoulder to dismiss him and finds him watching with a smile of his own.

"I'll have Nuala and Cerridwen come with fresh clothing. The Trial begins in two hours."

She nods once, watching as he disappears in a swirl of darkness once more.

Now, she must learn to play the pet.

Tame, dutiful, weak.

NOTES ;

I REALLY FED YOU GUYS WITH THIS
ONE, DIDN'T I?
I DEFINITELY CHANGED THIS CHAPTER
AROUND FROM THE FIRST VERSION.
ACTUALLY, NOT SO MUCH CHANGED
AS ADDED TO IT. THE FLASHBACK IS
NEW AND I THINK IT'S PRETTY 🥰
KAZI IS JUST LIKE "I WANT TO BE
CLEAN. HELP ME. A BODY IS A BODY."
AND AZRIEL IS INTERNALLY
PANICKING BUT IS STILL A GENTLEMAN
(HIS SHADOWS ARE ALSO LITTLE
GENTLEMEN 🥰)

(ALSO LET ME BE CLEAR, THE WAR
TAKES PLACE WHEN THEY ARE YOUNGGG
LIKE REAL YOUNG IN FAE YEARS.
KAZI: 38
AZRIEL: 46
RHYSAND: 44
SO AZRIEL IS STILL PRETTY LOST IN
HIS ABILITY TO TALK TO THE
OPPOSITE SEX. I PROMISE YOU THAT
HE'S GOING TO WORK UP TO HIS
AHEM DOMINANT SELF—WITH KAZI'S
HELP, OF COURSE 😉)

I MADE SOME PARALLELS WITH
KAZI'S BATH SCENE WITH AZRIEL
AND HER BATH SCENE WITH RHYSAND
TO SHOW THEIR DIFFERENT DYNAMICS
AND TO SHOW HER GROWTH

NOW TO ADDRESS THE ANGSTY SHADOW
MESSAGE. ACTUALLY THERE ISN'T
A LOT TO TALK ABOUT. AZRIEL JUST MISSES
HER, AND EVEN THOUGH THEY HAD
A BAD DYNAMIC BACK HOME, KAZI WAS
STILL THERE WITH HIM AND NOW SHE'S
NOT EVEN THERE SO HE'S GOT NOTHING
OF HER

AAAAND TO ADDRESS KAZI'S OPINION
ON RHYSAND'S DRUGGING FEYRE.
THIS IS ONE OF THE THINGS THAT I
STILL FIND A LITTLE QUESTIONABLE
BUT I TRIED TO MAKE IT AS REASONABLE
AS POSSIBLE. IN THAT FIRST LITTLE SNIPPET
WE SEE FEYRE STRUGGLING TO SLEEP, TO
EAT, TO DO ANYTHING REALLY SO RHYSAND
COMES ALONG AND TAKES HER TO THESE
PARTIES WHERE SHE CAN EAT GOOD FOOD,
STRETCH HER BODY, AND THE SCANDALOUS
CLOTHING IS SO HE CAN MAKE SURE
NO ONE TOUCHES HER. AND THE DRUGGING
IS TO HELP HER FORGET AND TO HELP HER
SLEEP. SO...YEAH. I LOVE RHYSAND, BUT
THIS PLAN OF HIS WAS ONE OF MY
LEAST FAVORITES

ALSO FROM NOW ON, THE FLASHBACKS
WILL BE A LITTLE MORE AZRIEL HEAVY,
AND THEY WILL HAVE A LOT MORE
PROGRESS IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP!