You had done the one thing your paternal sister would’ve, you signed up for training. Hesitant and tentative, you arrived your robes, feeling positively stupid. Then you looked at Nesta. She had faced things. Why couldn’t you?

So you pushed yourself. Physically, and mentally, day after day, and as you’d heard Cassian say to Nesta, ‘Keep holding out your hand’. So you kept holding the hand. Mentally, or metaphorically. You spent morning after morning slaving away beneath the beating sun, then the falling snow, relentless. Never would you be weak again.

When more priestesses began to join training it became easier, and a thing you looked forward to. Especially Emerie and Nesta’s company, and exquisite taste in romance novels.

But, naturally, Cassian couldn’t train everyone, so he called on the first person to mind, Azriel.

The brooding but gorgeous shadow-singer, a strict teacher, but one you often caught yourself fantasising about. He was built perfectly, muscled but not too bulky, his wings.., a work of art. His hands, scarred and marred but beautiful, and you indulged in fantasies where you lay in bed beside him, holding his hands, asking where each scar was from..

You stood, clad in new leathers Nesta had gifted you for a late Solstice present. Clinging to your body, complimenting your figure. Your hair was pulled in a loose braid behind your shoulders, and Azriel brushed past your softly pulling the ribbon out of your hair as he breezed by, your hair falling free, warming you despite the snow.

“What happened to me being the new ribbon?” He murmured, looking at the white ribbon he’d pulled from your hair. “Are you still trying to slash me?”