One of the first things an Illyrian child learns is to guard their wings — at any cost.

Long before they lift a blade, before they soar into the biting winds that carve the mountains, before they ever feel the world shrink beneath them — they learn the sanctity of those wings. Because wings meant freedom. Wings meant pride. And for the Illyrians, they meant everything.

Those great, membranous limbs — vast and powerful, capable of carrying a warrior through storms, through war — were paradoxically their most fragile possession. A single strike could tear through the thin, veined skin. A single careless fall could end a lifetime of flight.

So from childhood, they were taught the truth in the cruelest ways imaginable. The camps made sure of it — with punishments whispered of in trembling voices, lessons that broke more spirits than bones. Brutal, merciless, effective. Every Illyrian bore those teachings like brands beneath their skin: Protect your wings. Protect them with your life.

For centuries, Cassian had shielded his wings from every blade, every storm. But on that day — the day the sky itself burned — he forgot every lesson.

When the King of Hybern’s magic split the sky in two, Cassian had thrown himself between it and Azriel — without hesitation. No thought, no instinct for self-preservation. Only that stubborn, reckless, fiercely loving part of him that could not watch harm come to someone he considered his brother.

You had seen it — the blur of red siphons, the flare of wings stretched wide in defiance, the light searing white. Then the sound — gods, that sound — the ripping. Flesh and sinew and the wet snap of membrane giving way. The proud Illyrian general fell, wings shredded to ribbons. Torn remnants that fluttered in the wind like the tattered banners of a fallen kingdom.

You’d felt it through the bond — not just the pain, but the collapse of everything he was. The agony lanced through your back, sharp and all-consuming, but it was nothing compared to the hollow, broken sound that tore from Cassian’s throat. That scream — raw, primal, human. It was the sound of a soul being ripped in two.

And later — much later — when the battle had ended and the dust had settled, you found him in the House of Wind.

He lay face down on the couch in the living room, half-conscious and drenched in sweat. The firelight caught on the bronze of his skin and the slick sheen of blood that still clung to his shoulders. What remained of his wings were little more than torn stumps — black and red and trembling with the faintest twitch of pain.

Madja hovered nearby, her hands steady but her expression grim as she worked to close the worst of the wounds. You knelt beside him, fingers clutching his shaking hand, your thumb brushing circles against the rough calluses of his palm — as if your touch could ground him, could anchor him to something other than agony.

He was silent for a long time. The only sounds were his ragged breaths and Madja’s murmured incantations. And then, softly — almost too softly to hear — Cassian whispered, “Can’t… feel them.”

You blinked, tears blurring your vision. “Cass…”

“Can’t—” his voice broke. “They’re gone. I can’t—”

His hand trembled in yours, his knuckles white. The tears came quietly, at first — one slipping down his cheek, then another, until his face was pressed into the cushions and his shoulders shook with the force of it. Cassian — the male who laughed in the face of death, who bled without flinching, who had once said nothing could break him — was weeping.

And you could do nothing but hold his hand tighter, whispering his name over and over like a prayer, like the repetition might bring his wings back, might undo what had been taken.

Madja’s voice was distant, saying something about scars, about time, about magic not being enough. But you heard none of it. All you saw was Cassian — broken, beautiful, earthbound — a warrior who had given everything for the people he loved.

And when his voice came again, hoarse and trembling, it shattered you. “If I can’t fly again… what am I?”