Private Tales The Fall

[Raziel]

"The reward is simply watching the way you work," Raziel said.

He meant every word.

"Even when you decide to drag out every word and tease me."

His tail gave a small flick. Whether it was amusement or frustration it was difficult to see.

The girls fear was palpable. Raziel was a demon as far as she was concerned. Her home was a quaint town inhabited only by humans.

"I could always send back a piece of her he would recognise? Perhaps an eye?"

She struggled until Raziel laughed and waved the notion away.

"Still, her father has set some of guard out around the wall and we need him to realise he is not in a position of strength. We could start a skirmish on the hill to see if we can draw them out? Or maybe I should slip inside the town at night and set a fire burning. "

 

[Feyre]

Feyre watched the girl’s struggles with a measured detachment, as if she were no more than a wounded animal gnawing at its bindings. The girl’s fear did not move her—not in sympathy, at least. But it was useful. Fear always was.

She turned to Raziel, considering his suggestions with an air of idle amusement. "As much as I would love to send her father a reminder of what he stands to lose," she said, "I think we can be more… refined in our approach."

Her gaze flicked back down to the girl. "A fire in the night would certainly send a message," she said, her gaze distant for a moment, recalling the night she had met Raziel..

She swallowed and cleared her throat. "But fire is indiscriminate. It consumes all in its path, and I have no intention of ruling a pile of cinders."

She began to pace, fingers trailing lightly over the back of her chair. "A skirmish would test their defenses, yes. Draw them out, perhaps. But I want more than that." Her lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. "I want doubt to take root. I want them to wonder if the mayor values their lives as much as his daughter’s."

Her pacing stopped. "We send a messenger at dawn," she decided. "An envoy bearing a letter. A simple request—his surrender, in exchange for her safe return. Let him stew on it. Let his men hear whispers of it. Let them ask themselves if they are truly willing to die for a man who might just hand them over to save his own blood."

She turned fully to Raziel, head tilting slightly. "And if he refuses?" she said, voice light, almost playful. "Then we move forward with your fire. But not indiscriminate. Not a wild blaze. A warning. A single building set alight in the dead of night. Let them wake to the scent of smoke and know that they have only themselves to blame."

Her fingers tapped against the chair’s wood. "Fear makes men predictable," she murmured. "And I want to see just how predictable the mayor can be."

She glanced down at the girl one last time. "In the meantime… ensure she remains in one piece." A smirk. "For now."

 

[Raziel]

Fire was indiscriminate, but it was always so enjoyable to watch. It didn't care, it simply spread and consumed. He could appreciate that.

What was more fascinating that watching an all-consuming fire, was watching the way Feyre's mind worked.

Their original agreement had been one of convenience. That, he realised, was a stretch of the truth. It was convenient for him to use her as a bargaining token when he was betrayed. It had been fun to watch resentment turn to dependency when he warmed her bed at night.

"I will ensure that our messenger makes people aware of the terms," Raziel replied.

He might have broken her down and given her that focus on her goals, but Raziel hadn't given her the tools to out think her enemies.

That, it seemed, was something she could do with the right motivation.

"Come girl," he told the captive. "Do not look at me like that. I am not a demon, I am a tiefling. Save those eyes for when I get to play with you."



Raziel marched the shaking girl away, but soon returned. He took a small vial from his belt and pulled the wax-seal lid. The blood within evaporated.

It was easy to get blood with the violence taking place. Old blood was good enough for a simple spell.

"Thomund always has one of your tent guards report back. A simple spell of silence. I want to say that he won't have the stomach for a protracted series or battles. The man is a coward."

 

[Feyre]

Feyre watched Raziel work with the same detached interest she gave to a particularly well-trained hunting hound. He performed his tricks well, preened under her approval, but she never forgot what he was—a creature bred for mischief and destruction. A beast that might turn on its master if left unchecked.

She leaned back in her chair, one leg crossing lazily over the other as she considered his words. "A coward, perhaps," she agreed, tapping a single finger against the wood. "But a man who has survived this long knows when to retreat and when to grovel. He won’t risk open battle unless he thinks he has an advantage."

Her eyes flicked to the dissipating blood, watching the spell take shape with mild curiosity. Raziel’s magic was useful—messy, at times, but useful. "Silence him, then. Let Thomond act on his own assumptions. If he thinks I am sitting here waiting for his reports, he will act accordingly. He will wait. And I want him to wait. I want him to hesitate while his men grow restless, while whispers of doubt worm into their ears."

She rose smoothly, stepping toward Raziel with a measured gait. Her fingers trailed along the edge of his coat, brushing his sleeve before she plucked the empty vial from his grasp. She turned it in her hand, watching the light catch the residue of old blood clinging to the glass. "And when he does act," she mused, lifting her gaze to meet his, "we will already be three steps ahead."

She let the vial slip through her fingers, dropping it into his palm as she turned away. "See to it. And prepare the next move. If the mayor does not surrender by tomorrow night, we make it very clear that he is running out of time."

 

[Raziel]

"Cowards are easier to control," he mused.

The spell had taken effect and no one outside of the tent would hear a word spoken.

He watched with interest as Feyre considered the vial. His magic played on the strength in blood and the deceptive nature of shadows. He had chosen his magic, it hadn't chosen him.

"I will ensure all goes to plan," he said. He didn't know which plan would play out. Raziel knew Thomond wouldn't risk his people on an all out siege. Perhaps a piece of his daughter would bring the mayor to heel.

"Has anyone ever tried to teach you to use magic?" he asked suddenly.

 

[Feyre]

Feyre perched herself on the edge of the table and tilted her head at Raziel, turning his question over in her mind like a blade she was testing for balance.

"Teach me?" she echoed, as if the idea was foreign. She had seen magic wielded, had ordered it used, had watched it tear through men and stone alike—but the notion of wielding it herself? That was something else entirely.

She trailed her fingers along the map spread across the table beside her, the inked lines of the region were etched into her mind, the paths of conquest as clear to her as the veins beneath her skin. But power—true power—did not lie in swords alone.

"No," she said at last, glancing at Raziel from beneath dark lashes. There was no bitterness in her tone, only fact.

"Do you ask because you wish to teach me?" she mused, a smirk ghosting across her lips. "Or because you wish to see what I might do with it?"

 

[Raziel]

"Do you ask because you wish to teach me?" she mused, a smirk ghosting across her lips. "Or because you wish to see what I might do with it?"

"You know that's exactly why I would teach you," he replied.

An amused smirk crossed his lips. He stalked around to the other side of the table from Feyre.

"I suppose that makes it both."

He placed both of his hands against the table. He stepped back so that he could lean against it. Raziel's tail started to swing back and forth in the air behind him.

"It isn't the power to rule a small kingdom, but maybe you would take to it. If you wanted to try?"

 

[Feyre]

Feyre watched him, her gaze sharp, assessing. Raziel had always been dangerous, but it was the kind of danger that intrigued her rather than frightened her.

Curiosity coiled in her chest like a slow-burning ember, waiting to be fanned into something greater. She turned to mirror him, leaning on the table and meeting his gaze, her lips curling at the corner.

"Alright. Show me.." she arched a brow, holding her hand toward him. "Do you need blood?.."

 

[Raziel]

"You need blood, focus and the words," Raziel explained.

It was a long time since he had needed to say the words out loud. His affinity for the magic of shadows had come form his demonic heritage, but drawing power was an art he had learned from a warlock.

"I would happily waste someone else's blood but you will have an affinity to your own," he continued.

Raziel stood up. He walked over to a candle stand. He snuffed out a candle and brought it back, setting it down on the table.

He took a small metal plate and poured a little water into it. Raziel worked in silence, allowing her to watch him work.

"Now," he said, drawing a very slim knife. "Just a drop of blood watered down."

He handed her the hilt of the knife. So many of their engagements started with danger and the promise if power.

 

[Feyre]

Feyre took the blade without hesitation, her fingers curling around the hilt as she met Raziel’s gaze. Something dark flickered in her eyes—curiosity, yes, but layered beneath it was something sharper, something dangerous.

She didn’t hesitate.

Turning her palm upward, she closed her fingers over the blade’s edge and dragged it slowly across her skin. The cut was clean, precise, and the only sign of pain was the slow blink that passed over her expression, barely a reaction at all.

Lifting her hand above the plate, she flexed her fingers, squeezing until a single drop of blood swelled at the wound’s edge. It fell, breaking the water’s surface with a ripple, crimson unfurling like ink through parchment.

Feyre watched the movement, enthralled, then lifted her gaze back to Raziel expectantly.

 

[Raziel]

"Perhaps next time, use the tip for just a drop."

He took the blade from Feyre and slowly stirred it around. The blood formed little streaks of scarlet before mixing in.

"There is a lot of power in blood," he said, knowing she already knew this first hand, "so we water it down rather than waste it."

"Never concentrate on the blood still inside your veins. Keep your body away from this blood."

Given what they were about to try, he did not want to lose his new toy by setting her own blood on fire.

"Sanguis estora. Say those words and picture the blood in the water. Keep doing this until you can feel it."

She came from a strong line. Perhaps she would have a little magical talent.

 

[Feyre]

Feyre glanced down at the wound—a thin, superficial line along her palm. She flexed her fingers, watching the skin stretch and redden around the cut that hardly bled.

"But this stings more."

Her voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, before she turned her attention back to the plate.

Focus on the blood in the water.

Her brows knitted together as she braced her hands against the table, staring intently at the rippling surface. A breath in. A breath out. Then, she spoke the words.

"Sanguis estora."

Again. Slowly. Calmly. She left long silences between each repetition, waiting for something to shift.

Nothing.

Her fingers curled slightly against the wood. She kept her voice measured, but frustration lurked beneath it.

"What am I supposed to feel, exactly?"

Still, she didn’t stop. Instead, she let her eyes slip shut.

She pictured the water—not as it was, but as she wanted it to be. The blood, drifting, dissolving, thinning into nothingness. No. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t meant to disappear. It was meant to gather.

She imagined it pulling itself back together, separating from the water, reforming into a perfect drop. A single red ruby, rich and gleaming.

And then, she willed it to burn.

"Sanguis estora."

A ripple shivered through the water.

"Sanguis estora."

She felt something. Warmth. The same sort of feeling in the air she felt each time Raziel used his magic. It was weak, but it was there.

"Sanguis estora."

 

[Raziel]

"What am I supposed to feel, exactly?"

"Just an awareness of the blood. It will feel bright. That is the way you can feel an untapped power."

She felt something. Warmth. The same sort of feeling in the air she felt each time Raziel used his magic. It was weak, but it was there.

"Sanguis estora."

"Hold that sense of it," Raziel said firmly. "Do not speak the words again."

He smiled. She might have had no magical talent at all. He could feel the connection. Like a thread of gold to her own blood.

He spoke more softly, trying not to break her concentration.

"You won't be able to access blood that hasn't been spilled. When you have an open wound you can do some harm to yourself. Keep that thread to the blood."

"Now... Think of that energy. Picture a flame on this candle and say: Irrandus."

 

[Feyre]

Feyre felt it. That thread of connection, faint but real, linking her to the blood. Her fingers twitched, but she held steady, listening to Raziel’s voice like a tether in the dark.

She gave a small nod, barely more than a breath of movement.

"Irrandus."

The word left her lips like a whisper, shaped by will and hunger. She imagined that tiny ruby of blood catching fire, igniting into something real.

A flicker. A single ember sparked at the surface of the water before vanishing.

Feyre’s eyes snapped open, wide with astonishment, then delight. A grin spread across her lips as she turned to Raziel, excitement crackling in her gaze.

For a moment, it was like she might climb him right then and there. Later, she decided. She wanted more first.

She turned back to the plate, her hands pressing firmly to the table.

Fire. I want fire.

Her breath was steady now, her focus razor-sharp.

"Irrandus."

The word came like a command, not a request.

A sharper spark flared to life—brighter, wilder. Then, in the same instant, a searing pain lanced through her palm.

Feyre sucked in a sharp breath, jerking her hand back with a hiss.

"Shit."

The sting bit deep, heat blooming under her skin. But beneath the pain, beneath the lingering burn, there was something else.

Satisfaction.

 

[Raziel]

"Fascinating."

Raziel stood upright, setting his arms crossed over his chest. His tail gave away his true feelings, flicking back and forth.

"You are so hungry and ambitious that you grabbed a hold of that in seconds."

"Nearly boiled some of your blood, but still..."

He drew the small sauce from her. He didn't know if she would just try again.

"That is enough for now," Raziel said. "We will do some more experiments to test your limits. We will have you lighting a candle with blood magic within a week!" he declared.

He smiled triumphantly. Human border wars were such tedious matters. Feyre was far more interesting.

 

[Feyre]

Feyre’s brow furrowed as he spoke of weeks and candles like she was some dull student, like the taste of power hadn’t already ignited something far hotter inside her than a flickering flame.

A week?

Her hand still trembled as she looked down at it—blood smeared, raw, tingling with the residue of magic. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, adrenaline crackling in her veins like lightning. The wound was shallow, but it pulsed with more than pain. It pulsed with possibility.

Her grandmother had been whispered about in fearful tones—capable of magic, they said. Cursed, they said. Cast out like a stain.

Well, Feyre had no family left to cast her out, and the thought of anyone whispering her name with fear on their voice sent a far more pleasant chill through her than it should have.

She looked up at the devil as he smiled that wicked, triumphant smile at her—like he had shaped her from sin and will alone. Proud. Possessive. Pleased.

A breath slipped from her lips, heavy and hot—and she moved.

She caught him by the collar, fingers curling into the fabric, and dragged him down into a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was sharp and wanting, demanding. Her blood still sang beneath her skin.

When she broke the kiss, her breath was a low whisper against his mouth.

“It’s not enough for now. Not yet.”

She held his gaze, eyes alight with defiance and desire.

“Teach me more.”

 

[Raziel]

Raziel watched her carefully as she considered the small wound. He could almost imagine her ambition growing as every second passed.

He had helped create a monster that couldn't be satisfied with just a small taste.

She looked up at the devil as he smiled that wicked, triumphant smile at her—like he had shaped her from sin and will alone. Proud. Possessive. Pleased.

He had just a moment - the span of a breath - to enjoy that look before she pulled him into a heated kiss.

“It’s not enough for now. Not yet.”

She held his gaze, eyes alight with defiance and desire.

“Teach me more.”

Raziel drew back from her. He left his hand against her cheek. Slowly, the tip of his thumb tugged at her lip. It pressed into her mouth and against the flat of her tongue.

It was said that tieflings had come from the union between a human and a demon. The shadows would seem to draw around Raziel. His visage, that of a common tiefling, was drawn into the darkness. For a fraction of a second he wasn't a tiefling, but a demon. His vistagal horns replaced by great curling bone with fire pulsing through his veins.

"You are a moth, flying at the flame."

The shadows retreated back into the corners of the tent. He grinned at her.

"Maybe you will survive, but if you will be so demanding, there will be a cost." His tail had already worked it's way up her calf.

 

[Feyre]

Every now and then, Raziel reminded her what she was toying with. That she should be careful. Afraid.

And maybe she should have been.

She tried, truly tried, for just a moment, as the shadows deepened and curled around him like living things, as his form shifted into something ancient and terrible, all bone and fire and godless power. Her eyes widened, her breath caught. Her heart stumbled in her chest.

But it wasn’t fear.

No, there was no fear left in her. Not for him, for anyone. Not anymore.

Every wound she’d ever suffered, every moment of terror, had taught her one thing: pain was the gate, not the wall. Power always demanded something in return, and Feyre had been paying the price her entire life. She was ready to bleed for what she wanted.

Her lips parted easily for his thumb, hot breath slipping past them as her tongue laved along the pad of it, slow and deliberate. Her fingers curled around his wrist, nails digging into flesh, leaving little half-moon crescents in his skin. Her eyes never left his—bold and gleaming with hunger.

She sucked on his thumb, slow and suggestive, lips tight as she pulled it from her mouth with a sigh.

Her pulse thundered beneath her skin, wild and eager.

“I can cover the costs,” she breathed, dragging his thumb—over her throat, where her pulse fluttered, to the low cut V of her bodice. She pressed it there, firm and daring.

“So I’ll demand again…” Her voice was low and rough with want, with will, with promise.

“Teach me more.”