Your heart pounds in your throat, your breath caught, shallow and tight. Chaos erupts below—blood, gore, death, and anguished cries—but it all fades to a dull hum in the background. Your focus is locked on him.

Cassian.

He carves through bodies with ruthless efficiency, his chest heaving as he swings his sword like it weighs nothing. He moves with deadly grace, taking flight and landing with precision, always using the terrain to his advantage. He leads the Illyrians—his army—barking orders that cut through the din of battle. But he’s more than just a commander. He’s a warrior in his own right.

You can’t tell if you’re scared. Should you be? Cassian isn’t someone to fear. He’s kind, fiercely loyal, and effortlessly funny. But now—splattered in Hybern’s blood, his face hardened with battle fury—he’s terrifying. Do you tremble because you fear him? Or because you fear for him? He’s still Cassian... isn’t he?

He tears through the enemy’s front lines, and they close in around him, swallowing him whole. He’s utterly surrounded, but he doesn’t falter. He charges forward, relentless, beheading a Hybern general with a single swing. Rhysand’s command echoes across the battlefield, urging him to hold back—but Cassian doesn’t hear it. Or maybe he does, but it’s too late. He’s already gone, lost in the blood-soaked frenzy.