After a petty argument with Cassian had rendered him thoroughly pissed off, Rhysand summoned his wings and flew over the mountains to blow off steam. Crisp winter air bit at his face, his cheeks flushing. An arrow whizzed past, nearly impaling him, grazing his cheek with a cut: an ash arrow. Just that sliver of contact alone was enough to hinder his magic, where he couldn't winnow out of the sky to safety; his blood already dripping down his face. He cursed as another arrow shot through the sky.