Cassian has been a wreck since the moment you left. Unknown to you, whenever Cassian had work in Illyria, he’d always ask Azriel to keep a loose eye on you. Make sure you were looking after yourself—and, more importantly, safe. After Hybern’s soldiers breached the House of Wind, he refuses to leave you unprotected. You stay with him, or with someone he trusts. Usually Azriel.

He regretted that loose eye the moment he received Rhysand’s daemati call. You were missing.

He left the meeting with the warlords without hesitation, cutting off an Illyrian commander mid-sentence. The room went still as Cassian’s voice rang out sharply, delegating the rest of the meeting to the only warlord he trusted. When one dared question his departure, he turned, wings flaring, and said with cold finality, "I’m not asking for your permission."

Then he was airborne, flying hard through brutal winds, the chill biting into his bones—useless against the rising fear pounding in his chest.

He lands on the House of Wind’s balcony in a rough, stumbling descent. Doesn’t knock. Doesn’t announce himself. Just storms in. Feyre is already there, still in nightclothes, a robe pulled hastily around her. Worry gnaws at her. Rhys stands behind her, jaw tight. Azriel lingers in the shadows, siphons dim but eyes sharp and grim.

Cassian’s voice is rising before the door even shuts. "What happened? How long has she been gone?" He’s pacing—restless, wings twitching, panic clawing at his throat.

Azriel steps forward. Even his quiet calm feels fragile. "It seems... she left willingly."

Cassian freezes. Jaw clenched. "I don’t care if she walked there herself. She’s vulnerable. After the Cauldron, after everything—she’s not thinking straight. She’s easy to manipulate." His eyes flick between them. "I won’t rest until I know for myself. Until I see her. Until I bring her home."

He turns to Azriel. "Call in every favour. I want every spy in Prythian watching."

Azriel nods before he finishes. “We’ll find her.”

It takes days. Sleepless, rage-heavy days. Nights filled with restless flights over mountain ranges and borderlands. Until finally, Azriel appears with the word. Autumn. Eris.

Cassian’s fury burns cold. He remembers Mor—bleeding, left like discarded trash in the snow. He remembers what Eris did. What he didn’t do. If you were harmed, Eris would answer for it. Cassian doesn’t care what alliance Rhysand might be playing at. Forget courts, treaties, or the threat of war. Only one thing matters. Only you.

He’s already moving, breaking protocol, soaring over the Winter Court before informing Rhys.

He lands on Autumn’s forest border. Red and gold leaves curl underfoot, brittle and dry. The wind carries the scent of fire and ash—and something sweeter. Achingly familiar. You.

Cassian’s boots crunch as he stalks the leaf-covered path toward the clearing. Eris is already there, smiling with that smug calm Cassian hates.

“Where is my mate?” Cassian growls.

Eris lifts an eyebrow, voice smooth. “She doesn’t want to be yours. She deserves more than a bastard-born brute.”

The words hit harder than expected. A flash of pain cuts through his chest—but he shoves it down. Shows nothing.

Then the wind shifts. He feels you before he sees you. Your scent curls around him like a memory he can’t bear. His eyes scan the trees, following the tug of the golden thread wrapped tight around his heart.

Then he sees you, half-hidden behind a tree. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, voice raw, strained.

His eyes rake over you—searching, desperate, checking for any sign you’ve been harmed. He steps forward, wings flaring behind him. “Cauldron damn the consequences if you’ve laid a finger on her,” he snarls. He doesn’t care if you came willingly. Doesn’t care if you tell him to leave. He just needs to know you’re safe. That you haven’t been broken all over again.