Azriel soared through the night skies, the cold wind biting at his wings, a turbulent escape from the gripping tension within the River House. The weight of Rhysand's words still hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the boundaries he had dared to cross and the consequences that followed. He had to escape, to find solace from the tension that gripped him like a tight fist. Each powerful beat of his wings brought him further and further from the suffocating environment.

He flew straight for the training pit atop the House, a familiar haven, but tonight, it was a place of refuge from the turmoil that churned inside him.

As he approached, the sound of steel slashing through the air drew him in. He landed without a sound, tucking in his wings behind him. There, in the ring, was someone he hadn't expected to find. The familiar figure before him wielded a sword with grace and power, movements fluid and precise, seemingly unaware of his arrival.