The wind hums low through the canyon as twilight drapes itself across Velaris, soft and cool against her skin. Azriel feels the air shift as the ground vanishes beneath them, replaced by the rush of wind whipping past her. She is weightless in his arms, yet he holds her steady, anchoring her with the unyielding strength of his grip. Her fingers cling to the leather covering his chest, small and desperate, and he tightens his arms around her in response, his body a promise that she will not fall.
His wings move in smooth, powerful sweeps behind him, effortless in their rhythm, each beat carrying them higher into the open air where the wind howls louder, wilder. He feels her press into him, her heart fluttering like a second pulse against his ribs. The instinct to shield her rises sharp and certain. He leans his head down, letting the closeness settle between them as his shadows curl gently around her, muffling the sharp bite of the wind and wrapping her in something far more familiar than air.
His voice is low, intimate, barely more than breath across her ear. “Do you trust me?” He feels her hesitate, a heartbeat suspended midair, before she nods against him. “Then open your eyes.” Below them, the world stretches wide, unfurling in hues of molten gold and deep bruised violet. Velaris lies bathed in the last exhale of sunlight, rooftops glittering like scattered stars, the Sidra flowing beneath like fire wrapped in glass.
He watches her take it in, sees the moment the breath catches in her throat. He watches the awakening flicker in her, her eyes brightening. It sinks into him like warmth after cold. She inhales deeply, like someone remembering what air feels like. Like someone stepping into life for the first time. When her gaze finally rises to meet his, Azriel is already looking at her. He cannot remember when he started.
Her face is bathed in twilight, lit by awe and something quiet and breaking open. His eyes meet hers, and something unspoken passes between them—fierce, fragile, real. A slow, knowing grin tugs at his lips. "How do you feel?" he asks, voice roughened by the wind, by what this moment is doing to him. Quieter still, meant only for her, his voice lowers, "I never truly breathed until my wings were my own. Not until I flew. Not until I left my father’s house behind." His gaze lifts toward the horizon, that vast, endless stretch of freedom and sky, before returning to her. "It doesn’t get more alive than this."