My breath came in exhausted pants. I fell against a tree on the outer ring of a foreign camp. The world tipped from one side to the other as I clung to the bark, bent forward to catch my breath. The blood on my hands had dried long ago, but the fresh wounds continued to seep and cover my skin in a shiny film of red.

The early sun filtered through the trees like golden longswords that melted into the ground. It was the last piece of beauty I would see, with the camp ahead of me. Once I enter – snuck in – I knew I would find myself in a place I longed to leave once more. I wanted to go somewhere else. Someplace away from the rest of the Illyrians.

I surveyed the edge of the camp. Male, winged guards patrolled in their leathers. Sharp swords holstered at their waists. My back shivered and I felt the impulse to sprint in the opposite direction. My eyes snapped shut and I heard the ghostly echo of those swords swiping through the air into the membrane of my wings.

I will survive.

As soon as they breached the far corner, I used the tree as leverage to restart my strides. I swayed but kept my eyes straight and set, only letting them fleet around to guarantee that the path was left vacant and I remained unseen.

There were rugged mountains on either side, the camp tightly wedged between them. It would act as a great natural defence when their rivalries undoubtedly flared with the other camps only if the Illyrian warriors did not have the ability to fly straight over them.

I shrouded myself in the shadow of a hut, using my shoulder as a pivoting point as I dared not to place any weight on my back. My stomach ached and my eyes showed their threat to shut with their heaviness. Worst of all, my feet ached. I had not walked, let alone run for so long. I could have flown all night with only a natural tire, but my feet were not trained or adapted for endurance and their bareness meant that my toes had gone numb through the night. They were caked in dirt and blood, but that was no different to the rest of me.

Metal clanged. I winced, folding myself close against the hut as the sound became louder. Training. I must be near the training rings. Warily, I peered around the building to examine the inner workings of the camp. Windhaven, I realised. I had been here twice before, unnoticed once, the second, I had been briefly captured and questioned but I managed to escape. I would not be welcomed warmly if they saw me here once more.

I snuck through the quiet lanes of the camp, sticking close to the shadows and unused paths. It was a terrible time for me to arrive, as the entire camp awoke for their duties. I would have to wait for nightfall to even think of finding a source of food and water. Until then, I could only keep myself quiet and hidden.

It was not difficult to remain hidden for the length of the day. At first I thought I would struggle to find someplace that I would find comfortable enough to stay in for long, but pain and exhaustion battled, and the latter was granted victory. I nestled in a pile of a few crates that had a tarp covering them. I dug myself underneath it and sealed the edges shut against the ground, blanketing me in almost complete darkness. Pulling my knees to my chest and laying my forehead on them, I became lost to the world.

Xx

I believed at first, that it was an insect that wanted to fester at my wounds that awoke me. I felt an agitating tickle on my leg that snapped me awake. I quickly swiped my hand over my calf to brush it away, sure that I felt something there. But all I felt was the material of my pants. No insect, no leaf, not even the breeze. A slither of light pooled near my feet which had lifted the edge of the tarp up. And for a moment, I thought the ghostly touch might not have been so self-conceived as I dismissed it to be. A black form of smoke – a shadow – was retreating back into the sunlight like a tentacle. I stared at it until it retreated from sight completely and I was left alone, staring at nothing but the afternoon stream of sunlight that painted the tips of my toes.

"Lord Delvon," a voice commanded. It was not an introductory type of call and the conversation between Windhaven's lord and this foreign voice had started before I awoke. It was crisp and powerful yet soothing and entrancing. "Do you have any injured women?"

It was a demand. A demand for an answer, not a simple request. I wondered who dared to question that fierce Lord Delvon in such a way, for he was a powerful and striking man.

"No," he answered, his tone abrupt and defensive. "Only Magdela who gave birth last week with a few complications. But she has been seen and tended too."

"Are you sure-" I let out an airy breath at the stranger's voice; it was dangerous yet calm "-that you're telling me the truth, Delvon. I have clear orders about the treatment of women in the camps."

"I am clear on my understanding of your threat," he spat in return. "What I am not, is why your half-breed eyes aren't working. Look around. You see any women injured beyond reason?"

Another, rougher but more volumous voice joined. "Are you suggesting that our esteemed spymaster is lying, Delvon?" I could imagine the figure of a man with that voice. Broad and brawny. I recognised it, I realised. I had heard the voice of the General only three times before and all at my own camp. I was usually tucked away at the notice of his arrival, order to stay quiet and unseen.

Cassian, the right-hand of High Lord Rhysand of the Night Court. Rhysand. The other stranger's voice. I wanted to use my powers to look, to see if what I envisioned was right, but my mind and body were far too weak to concentrate.

General Cassian was a force to be reckoned with. His armours held more siphons than I had ever seen on a single person. There were tales of his skills, though those who spoke of him still did not respect him – but the was a trace of cautionary fear.

Was it me? Was Rhysand talking about me? How would he even know that I was here? His spymaster. I had heard the title and the myths that travelled with it. A Shadowsinger, notorious for his abilities to retrieve information, and in any way possible.

No. I couldn't be found. I needed to run. I needed to go.

"I suggest that your esteemed spymaster is misinterpreting something." The response was careful yet as sharp as a freshly stoned dagger. Delvon knew he was playing a dangerous game, but he was a dangerous man and would not cower at the High Lord that so many camps had refused. "And I would be happy to answer for anything in my camp."

I heard no more but I could imagine a silent string of communication happening between who I believed to be High Lord Rhysand, Cassian and his spymaster. My breath lodged tightly in the centre of my throat as the light sound of boots dusting over the ground. It was as though they were barely walking – muffled or much lighter than the average fae.

The tarp that aided in my protection ripped away in a single movement. I yelped, the sudden stream of light burning my eyes and I threw a hand up to shadow them. Now that the ground I laid upon was doused in the afternoon sun, I noticed the shadow of a tall Illyrian man standing in front of me, the hands of his shadow folding over my knee.

I blinked, lowering my hand and looked upwards.

An Illyrian man stood tall in traditional fighting leathers. An azure siphon was lodged into the chest plate of his armour but my counting of the gems did not stop there. There was seven on his body and that alone was enough to engrain fear into the marrow of my bones. His face was handsome but sharp and dangerous and though I had not heard him speak, I imagined his voice to match. His black hair was thick and whisps fell across his forehead with slight waves that acted as the only soft features the Illyrian held.

He stood there, placidly in nature, but as I felt my gaze become rigid when I met his golden hazel eyes, I saw the swirl of something behind them. Like his curls were the only softness, his eyes were the only reflection of his thoughts.

The spymaster, I thought, putting a title to the man.

I snapped my head to the small plain where I heard the voice. Three men stand there, each with their own stances. Delvon, the Lord of Windhaven had his fist clenched by his legs. The one closest to him was taller and lither in build but his wide, muscled shoulders were a true indicator that he was not without power in strength. There were no wings on his back. Another stood just behind him. He was overtly muscular, with long black hair that swept over his neck, the top half pulled into a tight warrior's tail. I could not see much else from the distance except a red glow on his leathers. Siphons, I guessed. Cassian.

"Come."

I was right about his voice.

The spymaster stretched out a hand, his palm faced towards the sky. It took a moment for my eyes to shift away from the congregation who were too, staring back at me. I examined the hand. I did not want to touch it. I could see the invisible traces of blood from the victims his blade lay to.

What would they do to me when I took it? I had run from one camp, left another, been captured by the one I was currently hiding in before. My loyalties and in consequence, my safety, was shattered. What would happen if I did not take his hand? I supposed that the offering was only icing to a choice that I did not have. If I did not reach out within another few moments, the spymaster would surely yank me from my hideaway.

"You are hurt," he spoke.

But I did not take his hand. Instead, I pushed myself to my feet, wings hanging heavily and brushing against my calves. The spymaster dropped his hand with a sharp exhale but it was a dismissive action. He jerked his head towards the other men, and like the choice I had in standing, there was none.

The General folded his arms and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was the first to speak as I approached. "No injured woman, huh?" he growled at Delvon. "Did you fucking touch her wings? They're shredded!"

There was power and rath in his voice that I had not expected. Not on my behalf. Not on the behalf of something that I often only considered precious to myself. But I reconsidered my thoughts. Delvon had orders not to touch wings, according to High lord Rhysand. That rath was fueled by the idea that an order had not been seen through.

I observed the man that drew my attention the most. He regarded me in the same manner. His eyes were a vibrant, deep purple. His black hair was tamed and cut short near his head. There was no question in the way he stood, no uncertainty in the place he stood. Rhysand. The High Lord of the Night Court. And I was the sole subject of his attention.

Unlike the spymaster, he showed more to his face. There was a dangerous flicker in the tweak of his eye and the stretching of his jaw. I stopped a few steps from him, my right shoulder weighing down with the shadows of the spymaster standing over it. I knew there was no fear on my face – I had no energy to feel it. But there was also nothing for me to show the usual pride that I held myself with. It had been broken.

The High Lord twisted his neck to Delvon, but his shoulders and feet stayed pointed at me. Delvon was staring at me, his chest moving fiercely as the situation grew worse for him. "Care to explain, Lord Delvon?" Rhysand demanded smoothly, but there was no mistaking that the High Lord was furious in the most calmed, dangerous sort of way.