Azriel knew pain.

Knew what it looked like when someone tried to hide it. Knew the way silence could be a scream, the way a stiff spine could mean someone was about to shatter.

So when he heard soft footsteps echo through the halls of the House of Wind—bare, slow, uneven—he stilled.

It was well past midnight.

He hadn’t been able to sleep, of course. He never did. Nightmares clung to him like a second skin, worse when the world was too quiet, when the stars above his balcony reminded him of the cold stretch of endless sky above Illyrian war camps.

So he sat in the shadows, untouched glass of whiskey on the table before him, waiting for sleep that would never come.

And then—her.

Moving like she was trying not to be seen. But she was limping slightly, one arm wrapped low around her middle. He could smell her before he could see her. Blood, sharp and bitter, but not from injury. Her scent was tangled in it—faintly sweet, aching.

Her cycle.

The realization hit him like a stone to the chest.

He rose silently, moving down the corridor just as she reached the kitchen. Not because he was alarmed, but because he’d seen it before—the way Fae females suffered through the pain like it was a burden they were taught to carry in silence. And she… she was too proud to ever ask for help.

She didn’t hear him. Didn’t sense him. Her back was to him, shoulders hunched, hands braced on the counter as she tried to steady her breath.

Azriel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, voice low and calm.

“Do you need anything?”

She startled—just barely. Her head whipped toward him, and even in the low light, he could see the tight lines around her mouth, the sheen of discomfort over her brow.

She straightened slowly, too slowly, trying to hide it.

“I’m fine,” she said. But her voice was thin. Brittle.

He took a step inside, shadows curling around his ankles. “You don’t look fine.”

Her eyes flashed, defensive. “It’s nothing. Just—something I ate.”

Azriel’s brow arched. A quiet lie, spoken like a truth.

“You smell like blood,” he said gently. “And your scent is off. It’s your cycle, isn’t it?”

Silence.

She didn’t deny it. Only dropped her gaze, the mask slipping for half a second. That second was enough.

“I can make you some tea,” he said, softer now. “Or find a heating gem.”

He moved into the kitchen, the soft rustle of his wings the only sound. She didn’t stop him as he pulled down a small tin of tea from a high shelf, the one he knew Mor had used before during her cycles. He didn’t comment when she sat at the table, arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if holding her body together.

He brewed the tea in silence. Watched the water swirl, his shadows curling around the kettle like they wanted to help.