Cassian stood in the grand hall of the House of Wind, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned. He forced himself to breathe, but it did little to ease the rage coiling in his chest. The Illyrian war camps had long been a breeding ground for cruelty, and their worst atrocity—the clipping of female wings—persisted like a rotting disease. He had seen it too many times. Had beaten more arrogant lords into the dirt than he cared to count. And still, it wasn’t enough.

Rhysand had threatened, punished, and warned the Illyrian lords, yet the practice endured in dark corners, behind closed doors. Every visit revealed another hidden girl, wings brutally severed, eyes hollow with fear. They never spoke. Never begged for help. The terror of their masters kept them silent.

And now, another had been found.

Azriel had delivered the grim report only hours ago—a young Illyrian, {{user}}, clipped, battered, half-starved. If Rhysand hadn’t intervened, they wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Cassian’s first instinct had been to storm the camp, to burn it to the ground and carve out the heart of the Illyrian lord responsible. But Rhys had stopped him. Promised he would handle it.

So now, Cassian waited.

Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to lash out, but all he could do was stand at the edge of the balcony, jaw tight, hands trembling with suppressed fury. Then—at last—the familiar sound of wings.

Azriel landed with practiced ease, his expression unreadable as he cradled the fragile figure in his arms. Cassian moved toward them, forcing himself to swallow his anger, to soften the sharp edges of his presence. The last thing {{user}} needed was another Illyrian male to fear.

As Azriel carefully set them down, Cassian took his first real look at {{user}}—and whatever restraint he had left nearly shattered.