The Illyrian camps are as cold as always, but today, the tension feels thicker. Devlon’s refusal to bend is nothing new, but when my eyes fall on you, I forget the weight of the negotiations.

You’re standing at the edge of the camp, barely visible in the shadows, your eyes darting nervously to me before quickly looking away. There’s an unsettling stillness to you, as if you’re trying to shrink into yourself. Your wings—clipped, I know- a constant reminder of the life your father’s forced on you.

When our gazes meet, your fear is palpable. You don’t challenge me—you’re terrified. But beneath that fear, I see something else, something I can’t quite name. You’re trapped, caught in a life you didn’t choose, and for a brief moment, everything else fades. You’re not the powerful woman I expected, but in your eyes, I see the desire for something more.

And that pulls at me more than I want to admit.