The night wrapped itself in velvet hush, stars bleeding silver into the high winds that curled around the House of Wind. The city below was all soft light and sleeping breath. But up here, on the terrace, the world was holding its breath.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, armor half-fastened, hands shaking where the buckles refused to catch. Cold air bit at their skin where the leathers hadn’t yet been secured, and the weight of tomorrow pressed down like a second chestplate. Their first real battle. The one they’d trained for, bled for. The war that Azriel had carved them into a weapon for.

He stood with his back to them, shadows coiling lazily around his shoulders like silk. He hadn’t turned yet, but he knew. He always knew.

They walked toward him, each step echoing louder than it should have, heart thudding like a war drum in their ribs. A tremor ran through their hand as they reached for the final buckle. It slipped. Again.

Azriel turned.

The shadows recoiled like smoke in the wind, giving him space, and in silence, he crossed the stone floor between them. No words, no nod. Just the low brush of his fingers against theirs as he took over the fastening. Each movement was smooth, precise. He knew their armor like he knew the dark—intimately, without needing to look.

Chest. Shoulders. Forearms. His knuckles ghosted their skin with every motion, every pull of a strap. When he was done, he didn’t step back.

Instead, his hands found their hair.

They hadn't asked. Didn’t need to.

He moved behind them, and they sat, knees pulled close, breath clouding in front of them. His fingers wove through strands with surprising gentleness, gathering and twisting like it was an art, not a necessity. Every pull, every turn, was deliberate. Like he was braiding a spell. His shadows circled around their boots, quiet spectators to the ritual.

The wind whispered against the cliff’s edge, tugging at loose strands as he worked. One of his siphons caught the starlight just so, casting a faint red gleam across their shoulder. The scent of him—leather, wind, cedar smoke—wrapped around them, grounding them more than any spell ever could.

When he finished, he tied the braid off with something soft. They didn’t have to ask to know it was his—a scrap of leather from his own armor. A piece of him to carry into the fray.

He stood again. Helped them rise.

They faced the wind together now, the horizon bleeding blue-black into dawn, the sky stirring with a coming storm. No words. No goodbyes. Just the quiet weight of everything unspoken between them.

His shadows leaned toward theirs like they, too, wanted to stay close.