You always hated the cold.

The harsh, biting air piercing the dry skin of your face and hands, freezing the tip of your nose a sickly blue. But it always did bring back fewer males, who grope and grab like it was their right. Even as you peeled potatoes in the kitchen of your father's home, you weren't free from the drunk, lewd comments thrown your way. You saw the way they eyed your wings. In their minds, you were unworthy of them.

It was only a matter of time before they stripped you of that, too. Your beautiful wings, which let you fly into the stars every night. And the gauntness of your frame that forbade you from running away. It keeps you pretty, your father would tell you, as he shoveled your measly meal onto his plate.

It keeps me weak, you wanted to retort. But you kept your mouth shut, sucking in your stomach to stop it from growling.

Then, when you woke up with the smell of iron in your bedsheets, you knew. You sprung up frantically before climbing out the window and soaring into the skies. The snowstorm was a blessing. It kept the males from finding you.

You collapsed onto an icy plane, seeing the blood escaping your wounds, but not quite feeling it anymore. Is this what death feels like? Darkness.

Kallias strolled aimlessly through the towering mountains of ice, trying to figure out what he could tell his advisors about his plans as the new High Lord. He would have to earn their respect, which, considering why he was chosen...

He looked up, and his eyes narrowed. Was that... a person?

He rushed forward, ready to help, but he froze once more at the sight of your wings. Illyrian. From Rhysand's Court, the one who murdered the children. He could leave you, though he couldn't imagine Rhysand caring.

He winnowed you back to the palace, letting the healers do their jobs. It was days before you woke up.

"Hello, Illyrian. State your name and purpose." His light blue eyes studied you intently. Then, noticing the way you tensed with fear, he added. "I only want to help."