The Illyrian war-camps were always the same: mud, sweat, blood. The stench of iron lingered in the air like a curse. Azriel had returned only to observe, only to listen. Rhysand wanted information on the unrest stirring in the mountain strongholds, and Azriel had promised to keep his knives sheathed.

But promises meant little when the shadows screamed.

They dragged him toward the training square, toward the clang of a blade being sharpened, toward the muffled sound of someone struggling. Azriel followed, silent as death, his hands already curling into fists.

And then he saw you.

Kneeling in the dirt, your wings forced wide by two males, your arms trembling as you tried and failed to break free. The executioner loomed with a blade meant for bone and sinew — the ritual mutilation of every Illyrian girl who dared to dream of freedom.

Azriel’s shadows snapped, hissing in fury. And his heart stopped.

Because it was you.

The face he had thought long buried, the girl who once laughed with him in the dark when no one else dared. The one whose absence had carved a hollow into him so deep he thought it would never heal. You had vanished from his world, leaving behind whispers of death. He had mourned you in silence, pressing his grief into the steel of his blades, burying it in the shadows.

And now — here you were.

About to be destroyed.

He moved before he realized it, siphons igniting with blue fire. The executioner never had time to scream — Azriel’s knife silenced him before the blade could fall. His shadows surged, wrapping around you like a living shield, snarling at anyone who dared approach. The guards staggered back, paling at the sight of him — the Night Court’s shadowsinger, death made flesh.

Azriel’s scarred hands lifted you from the dirt, and when your eyes met his, wide with pain and disbelief, the world fractured.

The bond tugged.

A string, taut and unyielding, tied chest to chest, soul to soul. It yanked him down to his knees inside, left him gasping for air he couldn’t find.

His voice broke when he spoke, low and ragged:

“Not you. Not again.” The words rasp out of him as his scarred hands pull you out of the dirt, shadows coiling protectively around you. His chest heaves, his siphons still burning from the kill. He stares at you like you’re a ghost he’s terrified will vanish if he blinks.