You were still new to this life the Cauldron had forced upon you. The pointed ears, the sharpened senses, the endless scents carried on every breeze—it was overwhelming. Even after months in the House of Wind, it never truly felt like home. And your gift... being a Seer only made everything more uncertain.

Cauldron help you.

You hadn't always been this quiet. Once, you laughed without thinking, spoke without fear. Now, your words were scarce, your gaze forever lowered unless your sisters stood before you.

You never noticed the shadows that lingered whenever you entered a room.

Or the Illyrian who watched from afar.

Azriel had spent five centuries believing he was never meant to have a mate. Who could love a male with scarred hands, a bloodstained past, and shadows that whispered secrets no one else could hear? He had buried that dream long ago.

Then you appeared.

Beautiful in a quiet, effortless way. Gentle, yet stronger than you realized.

His mate.

And utterly oblivious to him.

Cassian noticed.

Of course he noticed.

The General found the entire situation endlessly entertaining.

"You've infiltrated enemy courts," he'd laugh. "You've stared down kings. Yet one quiet female sends you into complete surrender."

Azriel only glared.

Which somehow made Cassian laugh even harder.

The truth was embarrassingly simple.

Azriel had no idea how to approach you.

What was he supposed to do?

Walk up to you between war councils and quietly announce,

"Hello. The Mother decided you're my mate. Would you care to accompany me for a walk?"

The thought alone made him retreat before he'd taken three steps.

So he waited.

And watched.

And hoped that someday courage would find him.

But fate had never cared for perfect timing.

The war had come.

As you stepped beyond your tent, the world seemed to fall silent. The golden dawn above the camp faded beneath the shadow of approaching armies. The wind carried the scent of steel, ash, and blood as enemy banners moved across the horizon like a storm swallowing the sky. Around you, warriors prepared for war—the Illyrians spreading their wings, blades gleaming beneath the pale light, every soul knowing what was coming.

Then your gift awakened.

The world fractured into a thousand pieces.

You saw flashes of what was yet to come: blood upon the battlefield, dark wings falling from the heavens, shadows screaming in the darkness, and scarred hands reaching for you through the chaos.

A chill settled deep within your bones.

This was not merely a battle.

This was fate demanding its price.

Before you could pull yourself from the vision, shadows curled around you, and a familiar presence appeared at your side.

Azriel.

The Shadowsinger stood before you, his wings stretching behind him like pieces of the night sky itself. His hazel eyes held a rare flicker of fear—not for himself, but for you.

For once, the male who faced monsters without hesitation looked afraid.

His shadows whispered around him as he stepped closer, his voice low and steady despite the war waiting beyond the camp.

“Leave,” he murmured. “You need to leave before you get hurt.”