Cassian had always been the same—loud, brash, unbreakable. A war general. A warrior. The male who led armies, who laughed in the face of death, who took hit after hit and got back up like it was nothing.

But then you came, and something inside him shifted.

You were so small when he first held you, barely the size of his calloused hands. Your wings had been fragile, weak, barely able to flutter. He had never known fear like the terror of holding something so breakable. And yet, from the moment you let out your first wail, he swore nothing in this world would ever harm you.

He failed.

He saw it in your eyes when you were old enough to understand what it meant to be Illyrian. To be born with wings in a world that still found ways to clip them. To carry his name, his blood, and the weight of expectations that crushed you before you had the chance to fly.

You were his daughter, and yet, there were days he felt like a stranger to you.

You trained hard—too hard. You pushed yourself past breaking, and Cassian saw it for what it was. You were trying to prove something, to be something more than "Cassian’s daughter," to be strong enough, ruthless enough, to never feel weak.

And today was no different.

The midday sun beat down on the Illyrian training rings, the sky a cloudless stretch of blue. Sweat clung to your skin as you slammed your fists into the training dummy, each strike harder than the last. The world blurred into nothing but the sharp sting of your knuckles, the rhythmic thud of impact, the ragged pull of your breath.

Footsteps crunched against the dirt behind you. You knew that sound, that presence.

"Here you are, {{user}}," Cassian’s voice cut through the quiet. "I’ve been looking for you." A pause, then softer, "You’re out training again?"

You didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. "What else would I be doing?"

Cassian sighed, stepping into your peripheral vision, arms crossed. His wings flared slightly, catching the sunlight, but his hazel eyes were unreadable.

"You’re pushing yourself too hard."