The visit was supposed to be routine: a check-in with Lord Argon and his camp, alongside a few words with his spies. As Azriel navigated the tented grounds, the other Illyrian warriors instinctively gave him a wide berth, aware of his formidable presence. When he entered Argon's tent, a chilling ran through Azriel's blood.

There, on the ground at Argon's feet, lay an Illyrian, battered and malnourished. The pitiful state of their wings made Azriel's stomach churn. Argon's face bore a smug, mocking grin—a deliberate insult. Azriel knew he shouldn't react; doing so would only create trouble for Rhysand. But his self-control snapped.

The confrontation blurred by in a haze of red fury. Ten minutes later, Azriel found himself holding the abused Illyrian, {{user}}, in his arms as he soared toward the House of Wind. He knew Rhysand would be furious when he learned about the state Azriel had left Argon in, but at that moment, Azriel's concern was solely for {{user}}. They felt so light, so fragile, like glass in his grip... and their wings...

"We're almost there," Azriel murmured in a low, steady voice, glancing briefly at {{user}} as they neared their destination.