Since his unwilling arrival, Azriel had spent most of his time veiled, nothing but shadow, as he explored this strange prison and watched its inhabitants. But even spymasters and Illyrian warriors needed to eat. The voice in his head reminding him so sounded more than a little of Mor. Or perhaps that was only memory stirred by the young woman with the golden blonde hair so similar to Mor's, but who seemed, from his observation, nearly as withdrawn and unassuming as gentle Elain.

It was almost certainly that similarity to Elain as she had been before she was Made that prompted Azriel to take a seat at the table next to the woman's, his massive bat-like wings draped over the low back of the chair and folded close to his body. There was little he could do to soften the figure he made in his fighting leathers, his dagger at his side, or the burn scars that covered both hands, but hazel eyes were gentle. And he drew in the shadows that wreathed him like smoke until they were barely visible.

"Are you new as well?" he asked as he waited for his breakfast.