Azriel had been hurt during the battle—badly. The news had reached you like a dagger to the heart, and before your mind could catch up, your legs were already moving.

You sprinted toward the medical tent, dodging healers and soldiers alike. The thick stench of blood and smoke clung to the air, but none of it mattered. Only one thing did.

You tore the flap of the tent open, heart thundering in your chest—and there he was.

Your mate was sprawled on his stomach across a blood-stained cot, his wings in tatters. What was once beautiful, powerful, divine… now looked like they had been shredded by claws and flame. You faltered at the entrance, nausea and grief crashing into you in equal measure.

Rhys stood beside him, face grim, murmuring something low and urgent. He looked up as you entered, his violet eyes full of quiet fury and worry—but he stepped aside for you without a word.

Azriel’s gaze found yours instantly.

“{{user}}…” he rasped, voice raw and hoarse like gravel.

That one word shattered you.

You rushed to his side, swallowing your anguish as you knelt by the cot. Your fingers trembled, but you forced yourself into motion—grabbing salves, disinfectants, rolls of bandages from the nearby shelf with mechanical precision. Every breath you took was a war between fear and focus.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice cracking as you leaned over him. “I’ve got you.”

His blood-streaked skin was hot under your touch, and his wings—Cauldron, his wings—were torn in ways that made your stomach churn. But you didn’t flinch. You cleaned the wounds with careful hands, applying balm with the tenderness of someone holding the world in their palms. You wrapped each gash, each tear, whispering soothing words more for your own sanity than his.

Azriel groaned quietly, but he didn’t take his eyes off you. Even through the pain, there was something in his gaze—something raw, aching, and fiercely alive.

He was still fighting. And so would you.