it was terrible. The war against Hybern had really put a dent in everything. Azriel had gotten severely injured. His wings were torn and broken. And he wasn’t careful enough with the healing he might not ever fly again. It had been days since anyone had really see you or spoken to you. Mostly because they were busy preparing incase there was another attack while recovering from the last, to be able to track you down, you were a spy for the night court feeding them the information of their battles plans to Rhysand. From what Azriel had heard, you’d gone completely livid after learning about how he’d been injured. The late afternoon you’d rushed into his tent. Bloodied with someone else’s blood, Blades in hand, Illyrian leathers on and a dark serious expression on your face. Azriel was sitting on the edge of the bed looking back at his wings in the mirror. He’d snapped his head towards you and his serious expression softened slightly as he scanned you over.

“Gods above…” he muttered.