Winter fast approached the Illyrian Mountains. Snow already lay in drifts around Windhaven with only the most traveled routes through the war-camp cleared in any form. Young Illyrian warriors proudly practiced in the sparring ring. Their clothes mere scraps of cloth against the biting cold. Azriel watched them impassively remembering his own time in that ring. A gust of wind ripped through the camp, carrying with it small bits of dislodged snow. Against the sensitive membranes of his wings the wind felt closer to claws, digging in and wiping from Azriel every trace of warmth that he might have had. He did not shiver, however, as shivering in this sort of weather would be considered a sign of weakness.
This camp culled the weak.
"I'm tired of this argument." Cassian muttered beside him. They were both dressed in their full fighting leathers, with fourteen siphons shining between the two of them. It was nice to remind their people who the best of them were. Illyrian bastards and still the most powerful out of all of them.
"Your task is not an easy one." Azriel said letting his eyes scan over the camp. Even with the cold the camp was abuzz with activity. Azriel focused on an Illyrian female, holding a full basket of laundry, making her way across the icy trails. Her face wary, her mouth pinched into a hardened line as she maneuvered past the warriors around her. A quick glance to her wings sent a pang of anger and pity curling through his stomach. They had been clipped.
Rhysand had banned clipping, but during Amarantha's reign many clans had returned to the barbaric practice. The cases of clippings were fewer now, but reigning control over such a war-mongering people was a difficult endeavor.
"You'd think he'd be able to at least follow orders." Cassian mumbled, folding his arms across his chest in a minor sign of impatience.
"Illyrians are a people resistant to change."
"Our people." Cassian reminded him. Azriel kept quiet and instead, with a half-thought, scattered his shadows to scout out the camp fully. After a moment information began to pour in. His shadows spoke in a language he had only learned in the desperate moments of his childhood. A time where he heard the language of darkness, cold, and neglect and understood. They had, in that moment, become an inseparable part of Azriel. In return they crept out seeking knowledge for him. A hunting party was nearing the camp, carrying with them a fattened buck. A mother nursed her child, humming some snatch of an old lullabye. One of the trainees staggered and fell, his opponent looking on with a grim expression, as blood gushed from his newly broken nose.
So much information, but none of it was what he wanted.
Like a disease he could feel her absence eating at his sanity. Mentally he brushed against the proof of their bond, the proof that she was still alive. It was muted and dull, like the cold here had not only leeched the color out of Devlon's camp but out of his innermost pathways as well. The urge to move, to pace, hit him like a tidal wave, but Azriel managed to keep himself rooted in the same spot.
The only tastes he got of her were random. Ripped into her head without warning. Azriel had started foisting missions off on his subordinates as he couldn't be trusted to focus on the task at hand. It was an easy thing to pull away from the visions, to return to his body in an instant. The issue was that part of him didn't want to let go. That was the same part that had taken to internally snarling at anyone and everyone who dared mentioned her by name.
Azriel hadn't gleaned much from where she was, the visions often hit when she was alone or with that horse. Shadowfax. He had caught glimpses of a red-haired figure once or twice, but he was usually shunted back into his body before he could get a good look. It was when her guard was down that he was pulled to her, it hadn't taken much for Azriel to figure that part out. He had also seen the trees, which narrowed his search down.
Spring, Winter, and Summer had been eliminated from the list. Azriel was quite sure the red-haired figure was High Fae, which ruled out the mortal realm. That left Day, Dawn, and Autumn. Rhysand had assured Azriel that if she had been in his lands, he would have found her by now.
A whisper of movement across camp caught Azriel's attention, familiar brash movements that could only be Devlon himself. Proud of his position in the camp Devlon often walked with a slight swagger, subtly posturing for those under his rule. He always had a proud tilt to his chin and held his wings just a hair higher than needed. Following him the females seemed mere whispers compared to his arrogance, but there was a determination there that warmed Azriel slightly. Any female brave enough to face the stigmas of the Illyrian people and fight to be heard had earned the shadowsinger's respect.
"Devlon is bringing them now." Azriel told Cassian quietly. The girls who had chosen to train already looked exhausted trudging behind Devlon. Whatever 'chores' they had been doing had most likely been engineered to wear them out long before they were allowed to practice.
Cassian let out a low rumble of disapproval when he caught sight of the girls. Devlon sharply ordered them to begin their warm-ups in the practice ring. He wandered back over to the pair of bastards crossing his arms as he came to a stop before them.
"There. Anything else you wanted to bark about?"
"How are winter preparations?" Cassian asked seemingly unbothered by his comparison to a dog.
"Slower than previous years," Devlon glanced about the camp, "we have less hands." Just like any other force that had been in the war the Ilyrians had lost people all the same. Cassian's face was hard but Azriel knew that he mourned the loss of his unit. They had been obliterated in the blink of an eye.
As Devlon began giving a more detailed report a strange fluttering brushed against Azriel's mind. The bond, which had been so silent for so long, stirred with a distant brush of betrayal. Immediately he focused on that inner pathway. Strife, conflict, and a small surge of pain flickered like lightning in the distance. Azriel growled his entire body going taunt.
"Azriel." Cassian clamped a hand onto his shoulder, anchoring him briefly in the moment.
"She's in danger." He managed to grind out. Inaction was painful, and Azriel found himself pulling away from the comforting hand of his friend so that he could pace. Devlon was looking on first in shock, and then in amusement.
"So the rumors are true." Devlon murmured watching his movements. "Has the shadowsinger lost his edge due to some Made whore?"
Cassian growled low and menacing, enough so that the rest of the camp seemed to clash to a halt. Azriel simply turned to look at Devlon, the rage in his chest spreading icy tendrils along his body.
"You'll hold your tongue if you want to keep it." Cassian spoke in a low tight voice.
"Oh?" Devlon looked Cassian over for a moment. "You seem to have feelings for the whelp too. Interesting, do you share her then?"
An earth splitting crack echoed across the camp, and it took Azriel a moment to realize that he had been the one to punch Devlon. The shock of the impact rang through his arm, but something in the violence sated a small part of his bloodlust, and so Azriel tackled the male fully intent on ending his life. Too quickly he was dragged backwards by Cassian. Azriel struck out, and felt his knuckles graze the side of Cassian's face. The blow should have struck true. He must have dodged, and quickly at that to avoid a blow from Azriel.
"You have to calm down." Cassian muttered, locking Azriel's hands behind his back. He didn't fight back. Before Azriel could answer his back exploded into agony.
It felt as if something were melting the base of his wings, searing down until they hit bone. His entire body went taunt, and he twisted, throwing Cassian off to find his attacker. He had only felt this kind of burning once, in that darkened tower with his biological siblings laughing as his hands were burned down nearly to the bone.
It was only when the initial burst of pain suddenly sharply cut away from him, leaving him numbed, did he realize that pain was not his own.
"Nova." He managed to spit out before a frenzy took hold of his mind.