What broke you?
"I've seen younglings swing harder than that," Cassian mused a few feet away, his leather-coated arms crossed over his chest as he cocked his head, examining my form yet again. "Lose the staff," he added, his tone edged with a mix of command and determination. It followed his earlier onslaught of critiques—foot placement, weight distribution, and a litany of reminders that mirrored those Azriel had been drilling into me for over a week.
Unlike Azriel, however, Cassian made a few subtle adjustments to my stance, compensating for what he called my "slight frame." In other words, he had no issue pointing out how underweight and untrained I was.
We'd been out here for hours—judging by the way my body trembled just to keep upright. Repeating the same set of movements over and over: swinging the staff up, slicing it down, and halting it just before it touched the dirt of the sparring ring. No offense, no defense, no actual striking. Just guiding the staff while focusing on balance, form, and shifting my weight.
Somehow, it was even more grueling than Azriel's version of training. With Azriel, I could push him out of my mind—ignore him unless he was barking an order or pointing out my mistakes. His cold commands were familiar, predictable. But Cassian? He was impossible to ignore. Broad smiles and big movements, his presence filled every inch of space between us.
Even with what he knew—or what I assumed he knew, based on his remark last night—he treated me like any other Fae you might pass on the street. No name-calling, no dirty glances. Not a single word about Hybern, my father, or the King. The interrogation, it seemed, was reserved for the Shadowsinger. Cassian simply focused on the task at hand, correcting my form, encouraging me with that infuriating grin, and pushing me harder than I thought my body could endure.
Even with the simplified tasks, my limbs betrayed me at every turn. My arms, ablaze with fatigue, struggled to lift the staff above my chest. Each downward swing sent a sharp flare of heat through my muscles, and by the time the staff paused just above the dirt, the edges of my vision were laced with black. My ears rang with the strain, muffling some of the corrections that followed each attempt.
His hands were sudden, solid, and encased mine before I even saw him move. I flinched, a sharp intake of breath tearing through my chest, my heart slamming against my ribs. He was too close—too fast. My fingers twitched against the staff, the ghost of that dangerous hum prickling just beneath my skin. "Drop the staff, Lyra," Cassian said, his deep voice steady but tinged with something I couldn't place. Confusion? Concern?
I jerked back, instinctively freeing my hands from his. The staff clattered to the ground, forgotten as my pulse thundered in my ears. "Don't," I rasped, my voice cracking. Ignore it, ignore it, Ignore it.
He pulled back slowly, his hands lifting as though taming a feral animal. His voice dropped low, soft, almost gentle. "Alright," he murmured, his gaze steady on mine. "We're done for today." But his stance remained ready—prepared to act.
The wind howled between us, threading its mournful song through the jagged peaks. It wasn't heavy with ash like the winds I'd grown so used to, but light and untethered, carrying a different weight I couldn't name—but recognized, deep in my bones.
The wind's sorrowful notes followed us down to the house, its remorse weaving around the stones of the house like an unspoken truth. My legs dragged like lead as we descended to the dining room. The burn in my muscles was nothing compared to the growing ache in my stomach, a hollow that hadn't been full since... I couldn't remember when. The thought of food made my steps quicken, even as the bitter part of me whispered not to hope.
The dining room's long table stretched before us, its polished wood reflecting the light of the midday sun. My eyes immediately fell to my seat—the same grey mush, thick and unyielding, sat waiting for me like a cruel joke. Across the table, Cassian's plate gleamed with roasted meats dripping in juices, golden bread still steaming, and bright green asparagus that glistened with oil.
Of course.
I sank into the chair without comment, the exhaustion muting my frustration. Cassian, however, watched me carefully as he lowered himself into his seat. The chair creaked under his weight as he shifted his wings and started listing the adjustments he'd made to my training, ensuring me he would inform Azriel.
The bowl of mush sat untouched before me, its grey lumps thick and lifeless. Cassian's voice droned on, low and steady, but his words slipped past me, muted and distant. The bland scent of the mush clawed at the fog of my thoughts, pulling me into the past before I could stop it. The grey bowl blurred into golden light, the dining room fading as a memory clawed its way forward.
Willow whisps. I could still taste them, their sweet, sugary crunch melting on my tongue. I'd loved them, hoarded every precious piece I could find. The jar in my father's study had always been full, a rare treasure brought by limited trade. I hadn't thought twice when I'd slipped inside one afternoon, my hands plunging into the jar for just one more taste.
The door slammed open behind me.
The jar slipped from my fingers, crashing to the floor. I froze as the shards scattered around my feet, sticky sugar dust clinging to my hand. The sweetness curdled in my mouth as I turned, meeting my father's gaze. His silhouette filled the doorway, tall and unyielding as his near black eyes zeroed in on the broken jar.
"Lyra," he barked, my name slicing through the air like a whip.
I stammered, "I didn't mean to—"
He crossed the room in two strides, his shadows swallowing me whole. "Do you have any idea how hard these are to get?" His voice was sharp, clipped. "Twice a year, Lyra. Twice. And you steal them for yourself."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, wiping my hands on my red velvet dress as though that might erase the evidence. "I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean to?" His tone grew colder, his words deliberate, calculated. "You didn't mean to steal from me, the King, his people?"
My chest tightened, my hands trembling as I tried to step back. My heel caught on the shattered jar, the glass biting into my ankle. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist like iron.
"You appropriate from our people," he hissed, his other hand rising. "And that has consequences."
Panic clawed at my chest as his hand drew back. The sweetness of the willow whisps dissolved into ash on my tongue.
The taste of sugar lingered on my tongue, now forever bitter with the memory of my father. The golden light of the past faded, dissolving into the rich, jewel tones of the present.
I blinked, staring down at the bowl of mush in front of me. How long had I been sitting here? The spoon lay untouched, my hands limp in my lap, and the hollow ache in my stomach twisted tighter with each passing second. Across the table, Cassian's chair creaked as he shifted forward, his sharp eyes tracking every movement I didn't make.
"It's not exactly a feast," he said, his tone light, almost careful. "But it's full of nutrients, calories—it's what we feed our soldiers to keep them going through battles." He gestured to my bowl, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. "The house is trying to help."
The words barely registered. My fingers twitched, brushing against the edge of the spoon, but I couldn't bring myself to lift it. My body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. The memory still clung too tightly, the ghost of my father's hand heavy on my wrist.
"Lyra?" Cassian's voice softened, the teasing edge gone. His chair scraped back as he stood, and I flinched at the sound, my gaze darting toward him. He didn't move aggressively, just slowly walked down the row of chairs, before taking the seat opposite me. His broad frame blocked out the world beyond, his eyes narrowed, searching my face for something I didn't have the energy to hide.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his tone almost gentle.
The question echoed hollowly in my mind, what wasn't wrong? My chest felt tight, my lungs unable to fill fully. I was stuck in the memory, hearing the jar shatter again and again, feeling the sticky sugar on my fingers, the weight of his coal dark eyes.
"Lyra." Cassian's voice sliced through the haze, anchoring me to the present. "Go to your room," he said, his words deliberate and steady, as though he were speaking to someone teetering on the brink of something irreversible. "I'll deal with Az when he gets back. Get some rest."
I blinked at him, unsure if I was supposed to respond. Exhaustion smothered the last embers of defiance that once kept me standing. My limbs felt leaden as I forced myself upright, my hands gripping the table for support. My legs trembled so violently; I was certain they would give way beneath me.
Cassian stepped aside as I shuffled past him, each step heavier than the last. But with every movement, the question clawed at me, growing sharper, harder to ignore. At the doorway, I faltered, the weight of it dragging me to a halt. Slowly, I turned, glancing back over my shoulder. My throat tightened, the word catching before I forced it out, my voice barely more than a whisper.
"Why?"
The single syllable cracked in the air, too small to carry the burden of everything I meant. Why was he helping me? Why was he looking at me with anything but disgust?
Inside, the rest of the question roared. Why would you care? I'm from Hybern—your enemy. My people slaughtered thousands of yours. I was their weapon, their tool. I destroyed without question, frayed countless lives. What makes me worthy of even a second glance, let alone mercy?
Cassian's gaze softened, the unyielding warrior giving way to someone quieter, someone who wielded strength in understanding rather than fury.
"Because I've fought enough wars to know what real monsters look like," he said, his voice low but steady. "And you're not one of them."
The words lodged in my chest, heavy and unwelcome. I couldn't respond, couldn't look at him any longer. Turning away, I let the silence fill the space he left behind, his answer trailing after me like a shadow.
The walls of the House of Wind loomed, each step toward my room more cumbersome than the last. His words echoed in the quiet, unbidden and unbearable. Not a monster.
If only he knew.
When hope unravels, the threads decay
A soul left broken, drifting away
"You're back early," Cassian remarked, his tone edged with curiosity but tempered by something heavier. "How was the mission?"
"Hybern's forces are gathering faster than expected," Azriel replied, his voice clipped and cold. "We don't have the luxury of time. She has answers we need."
Cassian exhaled sharply, the sound closer now, carrying the weight of his frustration. "So, what's your plan? To run her into the ground? She's barely able to walk from one room to the next, Az."
"I don't care," Azriel shot back, his voice cutting through the haze like a blade. "The courts are still recovering from the last war with Hybern. We can't afford another. This ends before it begins, and she's the key."
The words pressed against me, each syllable sinking into the emptiness I was drifting in, their weight too much to bear. A sharp pain sparked behind my temples, flaring with each set of footsteps growing louder.
Cassian's tone softened, though the sharp edge remained. "I lost soldiers, Az. You may resent your heritage, and I've had my moments too. But I trained those males. I shared meals with their families, laughed with their children, and then stood before their loved ones as their faces crumbled, telling them their sons, their husbands, were dead—cut down by Hybern."
His voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of unspoken grief. "Don't mistake my hesitation for cowardice." The footsteps paused outside my door, the silence stretching thin. "She's not the enemy you want her to be, Az. Not the monster you're so desperate to destroy.
"She's frayed thousands," Azriel hissed, his voice a blade cutting through the air. "If she knows even a fragment of what Hybern is planning, it could mean the difference between life and death for hundreds of thousands. I'm not willing to take that risk."
His words sent a chill down my spine, the fog clouding my thoughts thinning just enough to catch the sharp edges of their conversation.
I wasn't sure how much time had passed when the sharp sound of the door cracking open pulled me from my haze. Azriel's silhouette filled the doorway, shadows swirling lazily around his shoulders, his expression carved from stone.
"Get up," he said, his tone devoid of patience.
I didn't move, my body too heavy, my limbs unwilling to obey.
"Now," Azriel snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet like a whip. When I still didn't respond, he stepped into the room, crossing the space in two measured strides.
Without warning, his hand gripped my arm, pulling me upright. Pain flared through my muscles as I stumbled, barely managing to catch myself on the edge of the bed.
"You're going to regret this, Az," Cassian warned from the doorway, his tone quiet but final, stripped of its usual fire.
Azriel's expression flickered, a crack too brief to name before his mask slid back into place. His voice was quieter this time, roughened by something unspoken.
"I know."
Before I could process his words, the air shifted, shadows swirling with a suffocating silence. The hum of the wards vanished, replaced by the cold, hollow echo of stone. My stomach twisted from the sudden lurch, my knees threatening to buckle as we landed.
Blinking against the fog wrapping my mind, I took in the endless spiral of stairs stretching both above and below. The sheer scale of it made my breath hitch.
Azriel stepped back, his wings folding tight, his expression as cold and unyielding as the walls surrounding us. He gestured sharply toward the stairs, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Start climbing."
I stared at him, the fog choking my thoughts. "What?"
"You'll climb." His wings spread, a silent warning against escape. "And you won't stop until you start giving me answers."
My chest tightened, panic clawing its way up my throat. "But—"
"Unless it's information, I don't want to hear it," Azriel interrupted, his voice low and unyielding. "Start talking or start climbing. Those are your only options."
His shadows coiled tighter, his gaze burning into mine. When I didn't move, his jaw tightened. "Fine," he said. With a wave of his hand, his shadows surged forward, nipping at my heels. My legs moved on instinct, dragging me up the first step.
Up you will climb, with nowhere to flee, to fail or pre-vail, soon we will see.
Each step was like a battle, the burn in my muscles spreading like wildfire. Azriel followed closely behind, his questions firing faster than my mind could process. "Where is the stash of faebane? Are their Frayed in the below? How are they transferred between realms?"
"I don't know," I rasped, my breath coming in shallow bursts.
Failures an option; it always will be. But strength lies in facing what you cannot see.
Azriel didn't slow, his sharp eyes tracking my every faltering step. "You're lying."
"I'm not," I gasped, my vision blurring as the searing strain in my legs became unbearable. "I—I wasn't trusted with anything important." My foot faltered halfway up the next step, and I collapsed forward, the cold stone biting into my knees. My lungs heaved, sending specks of iron-tasting lava up my throat and salty tears spilling down my cheeks.
"Keep going," Azriel commanded, his voice colder than the wind slicing through the stairwell.
Before I could even lift my head, his shadow loomed over me. Without hesitation, he gripped my arm hard enough to bruise and hauled me upright, his movements cold and detached. A choked sob broke from my lips as my legs buckled beneath the effort.
He didn't release me. Not as his shadows scattered like smoke on his silent command, nor as he began pulling me upward. His wings brushed the stone walls, their faint rustle in rhythm with my labored breaths. Each stumble sent my knees grazing the sharp edges of the steps, my legs screaming in protest as they fought to keep pace.
"What continents have allied with your King?" Azriel's voice cut through the air like a blade, his grip tightening as I faltered again. "Where is he planning to attack first?"
I vomited, the bile hit the stone stairs with a sickening splash, its acrid scent rising with the wind. My stomach churned again, but there was nothing left to give. My hands shook as they gripped the edge of the steps, my forehead pressed against the cold stone. Each breath scraped like sandpaper in my chest, burning with every shallow gasp.
Azriel's hand, still iron-strong, clenched tighter on my arm as he pulled me upright with a sharp yank. "Get up," he ordered, his voice cutting through the haze of pain clouding my mind. "We're not done."
"I—I can't," I gasped, my knees trembling so badly they threatened to give out again. My vision blurred, the endless spiral of stairs spinning around me.
"You can," he snapped, releasing me abruptly. I swayed, barely catching myself on the banister. "And you will. Now move."
I took a faltering step, then another, my body begging for reprieve. Azriel's questions, cold and unyielding, pressed against my ears, as relentless as the stairs beneath my feet.
"How does he control them?" he demanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"I don't know," I whispered, my voice hoarse, barely audible above the wind.
"How many commanders are in your realm?" he pressed, his wings casting sharp, flickering shadows in the dim light.
"I don't know," I repeated, tears streaming down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat and grime caked on my skin. My entire body trembled, my legs barely responding to the commands I willed them to follow.
"You expect me to believe that?" Azriel growled, his tone like ice. "You were there. You frayed their enemies, stood at their King's side. You must know something."
"I wasn't trusted with anything important!" The words erupted from me, raw and desperate. "I was a weapon—a tool. That's all I ever was to him. I don't know anything!"
The silence that followed was heavier than the weight crushing my chest. Azriel's gaze bored into me, unyielding and cold. He took a slow step back, his wings brushing the narrow walls of the stairwell as his shoulders dipped in understanding.
"Then you truly are useless." His tone was cold, but something flickered in his eyes—something he buried as quickly as it surfaced.
He turned sharply, his back to me as he started up the stairs without a second glance. The words sliced through me, more deeply than I thought they ever could. My knees buckled, trembling under the weight of exhaustion and despair. The edges of my vision blurred as the ringing in my ears swelled, drowning even my rasping, wet breaths.
"I…" The word caught in my throat, swallowed by the tide of darkness crashing over me. My body gave out, my legs folding as the world tilted, then fell. The stone steps rushed to meet me, spinning in a chaotic blur of red stone—up and down, down and up. The jagged edge of a step met my ribs, sharp and unforgiving. Pain flared, hot and bright.
My vision fractured, coming in short, rapid bursts. The stairs, the ceiling, the banister. All dotted and smudged in black, over and over.
The last thing I saw was Azriel spinning around, his eyes wide with something that might've been panic—his wings snapping open as if to catch me. But I was already too far gone. When the darkness embraced me, I welcomed it with open arms.