As he saw Hybern's soldiers drop her into the Cauldron, Cassian's body turned to stone. He did not freeze out of fear. He did not pity; he had no use for it. Yet the sight of the girl—so small, so mortal—thrown into that ancient darkness made something ignite in him. It was rage, pure and blistering, that roared through his veins.

He charged before he could think, his roar shaking the air, but the sound of it was swallowed by the chaos around him. He thought only of reaching her, of pulling her free before the Cauldron sealed its grip.

But then it spilled over, casting her body to the ground. She lay there, drenched in its power, trembling, her humanity bleeding away with every ragged breath. He saw the terror in her eyes, and it cleaved through him. He had failed. He had failed her. And he knew—knew with the cruel clarity of truth—that he would never forgive himself.

It had been a month since that day, and her transformation into fae was no less a curse than the Cauldron had intended. She hated it. She hated herself.

She loathed the sound of her sisters' muffled sobs echoing through the House of Wind. She loathed the way her own breath caught whenever a voice rose too loud, or how her skin burned at the faintest brush of another's hand.

The nightmares came every night, dragging her back to the Cauldron's depths. Back to the helplessness, to the cold. And when morning came, the memories stayed—poison threading through her veins. She saw her sisters’ struggles, their pain. Nesta’s fire dimmed, Elain’s light flickering. And still, she hated her own survival most of all.

She hated the training with Rhysand, though she couldn’t hate him. No. But this life—this fae body, this power coursing through her blood—she wanted none of it.

Cassian watched from a distance as Rhysand worked with her. But there was no training here. No progress. Only stubbornness and fear. She clung to the pieces of her humanity with a desperation that felt like a blade against her own skin.