You'd never given up. Not truly. Not even when they told you he was gone. Not even when the nights stretched long and empty, your bed cold and your soul colder.

Cassian was still out there, somewhere. You felt it in the marrow of your bones, in the ache behind every breath.

Azriel had woken earlier than usual this morning. He didn’t say anything. Just left, quiet and swift, long before dawn bled into the sky. He’d been told to stop searching weeks ago. Told to let the dead rest, but something pulled him from sleep today. A nagging tug in his chest that refused to be ignored.

At breakfast, you'd been seated at the table like always, pretending to eat, stirring your food more than tasting it, the silence hanging thick until Rhysand suddenly stood. His eyes cut to Feyre, a silent exchange between them. Words passing directly from one mind to the other through the bond, unspoken and purposefully hidden, from you.

Cassian.

They wouldn’t say it aloud. They never did. But you'd known it had to be him.

When Feyre’s mouth opened, to soothe you to distract you from following, you cut her off. You used her own story against her, threw her pain back at her like a weapon. Reminded her of what it felt like when Rhysand disappeared. How she would’ve burned the world to find him.

And so she had let you go.

The snow is cruel, the wind sharp and merciless as you push through the wilderness. The world is white and dead and cold, but your blood is on fire. You don't know exactly what you are following, only that you wouldn't stop moving. Faint trails of Rhysand’s and Azriel's scents linger through the woodland, snagged on branches.

Your breath catches as fingers close around your wrist, firm and demanding, but familiar.

“What are you doing out here?” Rhysand’s voice is tight, colder than the wind.

You meet his eyes, hard and glowing with restrained fury. Azriel stands behind him, expression unreadable, but the disappointment is there, etched into every shadow around him.

Rhysand scolds you, demanding you return to Velaris.

“…Sweetheart.”

A raw and cracked voice breaks through the tension, silencing Rhysand's scolding.

Your heart seizes, your body tight and frozen but not from the cold.

Cassian steps out from behind a boulder, limping. His wings hang broken and twisted behind him, useless. His leathers are torn, skin bruised, dirt and blood clinging to every inch of him. His eyes, his warm, beautiful eyes, lock onto you.

He looks wrecked, but he's alive.