You had been pinned to the rough training ground by the other Illyrians in the camp, your wings crushed painfully beneath their iron grips. Dust clung to your skin, mixing with sweat and fear. They were going to clip your wings—your wings—and the realization hollowed you out with terror.

You thrashed, twisting beneath them, muscles straining as you tried to wrench yourself free. It was useless. There were too many hands, too much weight bearing down on you. Their laughter and muttered insults blurred together, ringing in your ears as panic clawed up your throat.

“Hold them still,” someone barked.

You squeezed your eyes shut, heart hammering so violently you thought it might shatter your ribs.

Then the air shifted.

A low, dangerous rumble rolled across the camp like distant thunder. Power—ancient and suffocating—pressed down on everyone present. The Illyrians froze.

You knew that presence.

“Let them go.” The voice was quiet, but it carried effortlessly. Commanding. Final.

The hands restraining you vanished almost instantly. The weight lifted. You sucked in a sharp breath, scrambling upright as the warriors stepped back, their bravado dissolving into uneasy silence.

When you looked up, he was there.

Rhysand stood at the edge of the training ring, shadows curling lazily around him as if they answered only to him. His violet eyes locked onto yours, piercing and unreadable—yet burning with something fierce beneath the surface.

The camp felt very small under his gaze.

He crossed the distance between you in a few slow steps. Every movement was controlled, lethal grace barely contained. When he reached you, his expression softened—just slightly—as his eyes traced your face, your trembling wings.

A flicker of fury darkened his features before it vanished, replaced by something deeper. Older.

“You’re my mate…” he breathed, voice hoarse, reverent, as though the words cost him something.

The world seemed to still around you.