What did he want form you?
Azriel's grip loosens, and I nearly collapse under the weight of my own exhaustion. My legs tremble, barely holding me upright as I sway on the spot, the ache in my limbs a dull, constant reminder of how much muscle I've lost—how far I've let myself fall. The years have been unkind, the endless strain of guilt and the relentless whispers stealing more than just my focus.
I'd stood by in silence, watching the decline, knowing what it would take to turn myself around. Knowing I don't have that kind of strength, that kind of hope. Not for myself. Not anymore.
I take in a shaky breath, but it doesn't steady me. The main sitting room of the House of Wind stretches before me, vast and overwhelming. It's a blur of polished wood and marble, with sunlight streaming through towering windows that seemed to reach the sky. Colors swirl—vivid reds, deep blues, and glints of gold catching the light—and my chest tightens, the brightness too much after years of darkness and ash, muted tones of grey and black.
"Rule number two," Azriel snaps, dragging my attention back to him. His cold gaze locks on mine, sharp and demanding. "You will remain in your rooms from sundown until sunrise. If I find you wandering, there will be consequences."
The word consequences lingers, heavy and sharp. My throat tightens as flashes of cruel hands and hungry nights flicker through my mind, jagged and fleeting. I nod silently, my voice trapped beneath the familiar exhaustion pressing against my chest. Another cage.
"And rule number three," he continues, his tone unyielding. "You will train. Every day, without exception. Strength, weapons, endurance—I'll decide. Weakness won't save you. Prove you're not as useless as they left you, that you're not a liability, and maybe-just-maybe you'll get something that resembles freedom. Or stay broken, I don't care.
My gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet his piercing stare. Freedom has always been a myth, a cruel lie whispered to keep me in line.
Pull it together. He'll use every weakness, every crack, against me. And right now, my body is screaming exactly what I can't afford for him to see, to use, fear.
Azriel's wings flare slightly, his shadows curling tighter around him. "When you're not training," he says, his voice sharp and clipped, "you'll clean. The floors, the weapons, the windows—whatever I decide needs up-keeping. If you're not training, you'll be working. You will earn your place here."
I nod again, though my thoughts are slipping, scattered like fragments of glass. The sunlight spilling across the floor starts to hold weight, too warm, too bright. My breath catches as I force myself to stay upright, though my knees threaten to give out.
"Do you understand?" Azriel asks, his tone sharp and demanding.
"Yes," I manage to whisper, though the word feels foreign, my voice too far away.
He steps back, his gaze sharp and calculating as it sweeps over me. "Good," he says, the word clipped. His eyes linger before he turns and strides across the expansive living space. "Your rooms are this way," he tosses over his shoulder. It takes a moment for his command to register, my mind sluggish and unable to process his movements until he's already disappeared around the corner.
Stumbling down the hallway, I barely register the carved doors and sunlight streaking across the polished marble. My legs feel like they're made of stone, each step heavier than the last, the world tilting and blurring around me.
I don't see it until it's too late.
I slam into something solid, the impact jolting through my body like a shock. I stagger back, blinking up in confusion. Not something—someone.
Azriel stands as still as a statue, his wings slightly flared, casting dark shadows that ripple across the walls. His shadows stir at his feet, restless and predatory, as if sensing my imbalance. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch, just stares down at me with cold, piercing eyes that make my stomach twist.
"Pathetic," he mutters, his tone low and edged with disdain.
He grips my arm, steadying me for only a heartbeat before letting go with a flick of his hand, as though touching me is beneath him. His shadows recede slightly, but not enough to let me forget their presence.
"These are your rooms," Azriel says curtly, pushing the door open with a flick of his wrist. He steps aside, his shadows curling around his feet as he gestures for me to enter. The movement is impatient, a command rather than an invitation.
I hesitate at the threshold, the faint scent of cedar and clean air wafting out into the hallway. It's too open, too bright, the sunlight pouring in through the windows striking me like a physical blow.
The room is average, ordinary compared to the royal chambers I was raised in. A single-sized bed sits at the center, adorned with plain, pearl-white bedding that looks untouched, pristine. A low-lying table with two matching chairs rests against the back wall, while an armoire stands in the far corner beside an intricate door—likely leading to a bathing chamber. Simple, elegant, astonishing compared to the cells I've grown used to.
I'd drop to my knees in gratitude if it weren't for the glaring light streaming through the open, glassless windows lining the far wall. Tentatively, I step into the room, my blood-crusted hands pressed tightly against my chest.
The brightness pulls me forward, step by shaky step all the way to the window lined wall. My gaze catches on the cliffs far below, jagged and endless, the expanse stretching out like an invitation. My chest tightens, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder how easy it would be. One heartbeat. One step.
My hand trembles as I reach for the windows, the urge pressing against my ribs like a second heartbeat. Relief comes only when my fingers meet the invisible barrier, smooth and solid as glass, thrumming faintly with power. A shield.
A shaky breath escapes me, the relief fleeting. The shield beneath my fingertips is a silent promise of safety. I can't decide if I'm grateful it's there—or dreading the day I might wish it wasn't.
I press my hand against the shield again, the invisible barrier firm and unyielding. My fingers curl against the humming power, and my gaze drifts back to the jagged cliffs below. One heartbeat. One step.
"You're not strong enough to break it," Azriel's voice comes from the shadows, low and unforgiving.
I whip around, my heart slamming against my ribs. He's standing near the doorway, his shadows curling and coiling at his feet, whispering secrets I don't wish to hear.
His gaze locks onto mine, cold and unwavering. "Don't bother trying," he says, stepping further into the room. His wings shift slightly, and his voice lowers, sharper than the edge of a blade. "If the shield wasn't there, you'd regret it long before the ground ever found you."
The words hit like a blade, sharp and precise, cutting through me with the weight of someone who's felt that regret. My breath hitches, and I force my gaze away, my hands falling limp as the tension coils tight in my stomach.
Azriel's gaze lingers for a moment longer, his shadows curling tighter around his boots as if they, too, are watching me. Without another word, he pivots and strides through the door.
"Get some sleep," he says, his tone sharp and indifferent. "Training begins at dawn. If you're late or useless, you'll regret it."
The door shuts behind him on a phantom wind, leaving the room too bright, too open, and too clean for someone like me. Someone with blood on their hands.
Through threads that weave and shadows that bind,
Fate twists its loom, both cruel and kind.
The training ring atop the House of Wind was merciless, the morning air sharp against my skin. Dawn painted the sky in muted hues of gray and gold, though none of its warmth seemed to reach me.
I hadn't slept.
How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, jagged rocks and rushing wind filled my mind. The wards hummed endlessly, a constant reminder of my cage, while shadows slipped through the room—his shadows, ever-watchful, making sure I stayed put. By the time Azriel appeared, knocking once before throwing the door open to drag me out of bed, I was already hollowed out, running on the fumes of fear and resolve.
He'd tossed a bundle of leathers onto the bed without so much as a word, the dark material landing in a heap like a challenge. The fit was snug, the fabric heavier than I expected, designed for movement and protection. Azriel now wore a similar set—dark, battle-worn, and built for practicality. How he managed to get them over his wings, I didn't dare ask.
Now, my muscles screamed with every strike, the wooden staff trembling in my blistered hands. Azriel circled me, his gaze colder than the morning air, his wings casting long, restless shadows across the stone. His own shadows, however, were absent—deliberately so.
"Hybern warriors are trained from the moment they can hold a blade," he said, his tone sharp enough to slice. "And yet here you are—weak, clumsy. As coordinated as a newborn fawn."
My grip tightened on the staff, the wood biting into my palms as heat crept up my cheeks. I fought to steady myself, forcing my legs to stop trembling, though the exhaustion from the sleepless night made every movement feel sluggish, unsteady.
"Pathetic. If this is where we're starting, it'll take weeks just to build enough strength for you to hold a shield properly. Hybern warriors are supposed to be fierce, but you? You're barely standing after the warmup."
The staff wavered in my hands as I tried to mimic the stance Azriel had demonstrated. Feet shoulders width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced—but no matter how I adjusted, the movements felt awkward, wrong.
"Stop," Azriel barked, his voice cutting through the crisp morning air. His wings snapping closed as he stepped closer. "You're overthinking."
I froze, my grip tightening on the staff as my chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. Overthinking? Was that the word for it? Another might be spiraling.
Azriel exhaled sharply, the sound almost a growl as he stepped behind me. "Your stance is too rigid. You're not a statue. You need to move with the weapon, not against it."
His words mirrored my father's, though father had always been harsher. Weapons aren't tools; they're extensions of your will. The memory struck, unbidden—his voice sharp as he demonstrated a movement I was too drained to master. I'd been stronger then—toned, well-fed, still clinging to some semblance of control. Better, but never great. The toll of fraying threads had already begun to pull me apart, one strand at a time.
But I hadn't always been trapped beneath his thumb. Warmth filled my chest as afternoons with Seren flitted through my mind, skipping training altogether, her bright laughter carrying us through the castle halls. Come on, Lyra, she'd say, tugging me along. He won't notice one game of tag. He always noticed.
Azriel's hand shot out, tapping the back of my knee and jolting me back to the present. My leg buckled, and I staggered, barely keeping the staff upright.
"See?" he said, his tone edged with irritation. "You're fighting yourself at every turn. It's no wonder you're this weak. If you can't find your balance, you're useless."
Heat flared in my cheeks, a mix of frustration and humiliation. My legs trembled as I forced myself upright, trying to correct my stance again. The edges of my vision blurred, exhaustion threatening to consume me.
Azriel crossed his arms, his expression colder than the wind cutting across the ring. "You don't trust yourself. That's why you hesitate. You second-guess every move, and it shows."
I don't trust myself because I know what I'm capable of, I wanted to say, but the words lodged in my throat. Memories of blood and ash, of frayed threads pulled tight and severed, curling around my mind like smoke.
I swallowed hard, adjusting my grip on the staff even as my muscles screamed in protest. Every movement felt heavier than the last, exhaustion dragging me down with each step.
"Swing," he ordered, stepping back and raising his own staff to block with.
I raised the staff, my hands trembling as I swung. Too fast, not enough control—the momentum yanked me forward. My foot slipped, my stance collapsing as the staff flew from my grip and my knee cracked on stone.
Azriel caught it mid-swing, his hand steady and unyielding. His jaw tightened, the frustration in his eyes cutting deeper than his words. "If you can't even hold onto a weapon, then you're more worthless than I thought."
The words struck deep, sharp and deliberate. Old embers of defiance flickered weakly in my chest, fragile but refusing to die. My voice was hoarse, trembling, but still mine. "At least I'm trying," I snapped, the words escaping before I could stop them.
"Again," he commanded, shoving the staff back into my hands. His voice was sharp, but for a fleeting moment, I swore I caught the faintest glimmer of hope before it was buried beneath the cold.
So I tried again.
And again.
And again.
Each swing heavier than the last. Every movement just as painful. Nothing was good enough. Not one strike came close to hitting its mark, not one move spared me from his cold, cutting remarks.
"Worthless," he muttered under his breath more than once, the word lodging itself deep, settling alongside all the others I couldn't shake.
By the time it was over, I was drenched in sweat, trembling from head to toe, the staff slipping from my hands for what felt like the millionth time.
Azriel's voice was a shadow against the wind, low and emotionless as he turned to leave. "Clean yourself up. You're not done yet."
I stood there, alone in the training ring atop this new cage, the morning sun now out and glaring down, exposing every crack, every failure. It didn't warm me. It only made the emptiness impossible to ignore.
I wanted to crumble, to let the stone beneath me swallow what little was left. Every swing, every failure, carved deeper into the nothingness that had taken root long before this place. Freedom? What would I even do with it? I'd forgotten how to want it—or anything at all.
The wind tugged at my hair, whispering of the jagged cliffs far below. It didn't matter if I swung the staff a thousand more times or never again. Nothing was good enough. Nothing would ever be good enough.