The infirmary in the House of Wind was too bright, too cold, so you had insisted on bringing him back to his own quarters. The room smelled of mountain air and the faint, lingering scent of the cedarwood oil he used on his whetstones. Azriel sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt discarded on the floor, his back turned to you.

The wound was a jagged slice across his shoulder blade—a gift from a poisoned Hybern blade that had caught him off guard. As you dipped a clean cloth into the basin of warm water, your hair fell forward, a shimmering curtain under the moonlight.

"I can do this myself," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. He was exhausted, his head bowed, his dark hair messy.

"Be quiet," you whispered, pressing the warm cloth to the wound.

He hissed as the water hit the raw skin, his muscles rippling in a way that made your heart skip.