What did it take from you?
The rest of the day was just as grueling as training. Dusting endless shelves and polishing what felt like thousands of leather-bound books in the house's sprawling library left my arms burning and useless. The scent of aged paper and polish clung to my fresh leathers—apparently, the only clothing I was allowed. I hadn't even made a dent in the collection when Azriel appeared, his tone curt as he informed me the house had prepared lunch. How it managed such a thing, I didn't care enough to ask.
My stomach had never felt so hollow. I couldn't even remember my last real meal—not that the slop from the frayed dungeon could even be called food.
The flicker of hope I felt stepping into the vast dining room burned out the moment I saw what awaited me. A small bowl of grey, lumpy oatmeal sat in front of the chair Azriel motioned toward, its bland, sticky texture unappetizing at best. Across the table, several chairs down, Azriel's plate was piled high—salty meats, buttery potatoes, roasted carrots glistening with oil, all swimming in thick, brown gravy.
My mouth watered despite myself. Apparently, the house wasn't thrilled about my presence either.
Deeming even slop enough to quiet the flips of my stomach, I forced down half the bowl before shoving back my chair and rising to leave.
"I did not dismiss you."
Azriel's venom-laced voice sliced through the stillness, stopping me mid-step. My body froze as my heart raced.
"Sit," he said, his tone calm but carrying the weight of a command.
My back stiffened as I turned, unwilling but unable to resist the familiar pull of numbness and obedience. 'I'm done,' I muttered, gesturing to the half-empty bowl. My ember of defiance snuffed out for the day
His eyes flicked to the bowl, then back to me, one meticulous brow lifting slightly. "If that were true, I wouldn't be able to hear your stomach growling."
My stomach twisted, both in hunger and in frustration. With a barely contained sigh, I lowered myself back into the chair.
Azriel didn't say another word. He simply leaned against the edge of the table; his gaze locked on me. His presence was louder than anything he could have said. Ignore him Ignore him Ignore him.
The spoon felt heavier with each bite, the grey mush sticking to my tongue, thick and flavorless. I forced it down, the bowl scraping against the table as I pushed it away, empty.
Azriel straightened. "Now, you're done." He didn't wait for a reply before turning and leaving, where and to do what, I had no clue.
The hours dragged as I returned to the endless shelves, the stifling quiet unnerving without the whispers of shadows I'd grown used to. Their absence left me flinching at every creak and soft footstep, bracing for threats that never came.
When the sun dipped below the horizon, Azriel reappeared, silent as a shadow, setting another bowl of the same grey mush on the table. No words, no explanation. Just another unspoken command. His shadows had returned, curling lazily around his neck and shoulders. They moved slower now, almost as if they too, felt the weight of the day.
I stared at the bowl for a moment, the weight of exhaustion making it harder to force the bland food down. But I obeyed, spooning the tasteless paste into my mouth without protest, before I was permitted to drag myself back to my room.
The bed was stiff, the hum of the wards louder in the dark, shadows slithering in and out, watching my every breath. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, no valleys to count or map, no streams to carry me away. Exhaustion pressed against me yet refused to pull me under. The wind howled beyond the shielded windows, wild and untamed. I wondered how long it would take to fall—and if those fleeting seconds would feel like freedom.
With every thread, a path is spun
Great power, a gift —or curse to outrun?
The wind's song had turned mournful and low as the hours passed, no longer high pitched and giddy. Azriel's shadows continued their watch, yet kept their chatter to themselves, no doubt a command to withhold information. The bed beneath me felt like stone, yet I couldn't bring myself to leave it, my muscles growing more and more stiff with each passing minute.
I barely registered the sound of the door opening until it slammed against the wall, the sharp crack barely cutting through my sleep-deprived haze.
"Up," Azriel barked, his voice cutting through the room like the cold morning air.
Morning. My mind lagged at the word, disoriented and sluggish. Was it already morning? Light—soft and golden—filtered through the open windows, spilling across the floor in sharp angles. The sun had risen, its rays brushing the horizon in quiet defiance of the darkness.
I didn't move, my body refusing to respond. The stiffness in my limbs and the heaviness in my chest rooted me in place. The bed was the only thing anchoring me, and I couldn't summon the energy—or the will—to leave it.
"I won't repeat myself," Azriel warned, his boots striking the stone floor as he crossed the room.
"What?" The word slipped from my lip, my voice cracked and hoarse.
Azriel's brow furrowed, and a flicker of something sharp passed through his eyes. "I said, get up." His voice dropped, quieter now but no less commanding.
My silence stretched too long, and Azriel's jaw tightened. "Defiance won't get you anywhere."
I wasn't defying him. Not really. But I didn't correct him, didn't bother to explain that what little sanity I had left was being eaten alive without sleep. If he wanted to see it as defiance, I'd let him. It was safer than admitting I'd been too lost in the haze to remember. Safer than proving his assumptions.
His hand shot out, gripping my arm and dragging me upright with little effort. Pain flared in my muscles, and I hissed between my teeth, but he didn't loosen his grip.
"If you're going to waste time, then we'll skip the pleasantries," he said, his tone cold as steel. "Get dressed."
I swayed slightly on my feet, my legs weak beneath me. The sunlight spilling across the room was brighter now, chasing away the shadows clinging to the corners. My eyes flicked to Azriel's face, searching for the flash of anger that had always been the precursor to punishment. But there was none—only cold detachment, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and moved to obey. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn't being struck down for disobeying. But the absence of physical reminders wasn't a reprieve—it was a new kind of control; one I didn't yet understand.
The days blurred together, an endless cycle of bruising repetition. Each morning began the same: Azriel's sharp knock, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, and his clipped command to get dressed. My muscles screamed with every movement, the ache from training settling deep into my bones.
After grueling warmups—breath-stealing sprints, stomach-burning crunches, and whatever other torment Azriel deemed fit—he would shove a staff into my blistered hands, bark clipped instructions and watch as my body failed to keep up with my will. My strikes never came close to breaching his defense. My balance wavered with every step. Each misstep earned a cold remark, his words cutting deeper than any weapon.
Even Azriel's patience, steadfast as it seemed, began to wane. By the third day, he started ending the sessions earlier, his gaze narrowing each time my focus drifted, or I faltered mid-swing. The frustration etched permanently on his face was clear—whether directed at me or the situation, I couldn't tell.
But the reprieve didn't last. After training, I was sent to scrub the sprawling floors of the House of Wind until my knees were raw and my fingers pruned. Other days, I was stationed in the armory, shining weapons under Azriel's unsparing watch. His presence pressed down on me, a constant reminder that every sword, dagger, and spear I touched was still out of reach.
Each task left me more exhausted than the last. My hands grew rough from the labor, the skin splitting in places despite the salve Azriel wordlessly set down once—just once—on the edge of the armory table.
And always, he asked questions. Subtle at first, threaded between commands during training or cleaning. By the fourth day, the subtlety was gone. He peppered me with sharp, unrelenting inquiries, his words cutting through my haze of exhaustion. "What is Hybern planning? Who is he working with? What does he want with the Frayed?" He fired questions about their spies, their tactics, their plans, his voice calm but edged with steel.
I knew what he was doing—using my exhaustion to strip away my defenses, breaking me down until I bled every secret I'd ever held. And I let him. I told him what I knew, though it wasn't much. Fragments. Hints. Shadows of plans long since abandoned. He pressed harder, his questions biting, but there was nothing for me to give and nothing for him to gain. Not because I was strong willed, but because The King, his court, even my own father had never trusted me with anything important. I was just the weapon.
This was his goal. To break me. To melt away whatever I'd become and forge me into something else. But what was left to take? How many times could metal bend before it breaks?
The nights were no better. The bed was stiff, the hum of the wards loud, the shadows slipping in and out as I lay there, staring into the dark. My body begged for sleep, but my mind refused to rest, thoughts circling like vultures. The howling wind beyond the windows mocked me, a constant song of freedom that I'd never be able to play.
The house itself seemed to resent me. It offered no warmth, no respite. Meals were the same grey mush, each bite a chore. The walls felt like they were closing in, the silence more suffocating than any cell I'd ever been in.
By the fifth day, I wasn't sure how much longer I would last. My body moved on instinct, hollow and mechanical. Training was a blur of strikes and stumbles. Cleaning duties blended together, one monotonous task bleeding into the next. I didn't speak. I didn't fight back.
I was barely there.
Azriel, sharp-eyed as ever, noticed. I caught him watching me more often, his brow furrowed in something like frustration. But if he was concerned, he didn't show it. The training sessions grew shorter, the remarks less cutting. Yet his shadows still loomed, his presence a constant weight.
The end of the sixth day began like all of the others: numb, blistered hands, trembling legs and Azriel's cold stare as I finished polishing the last of the silver cutlery. But unlike the previous nights, he didn't point out invisible spots I missed or shove a bowl of lukewarm slop in my direction.
Instead, he crossed the space between us with measured precision, stopping just close enough to tower over me.
"You're done for today," he said, his voice clipped, though the usual frost had softened. "Clean yourself up before dinner."
The words stung more than they should have, as if all the scrubbing, polishing, and sweating I'd done shouldn't have altered my appearance. As if I was so far beneath him that even cleanliness was foreign to me. I didn't ask why we were eating at the table this time, when lunches were usually the only sit-down meal. I didn't care.
Untamed power brings chaos and strain,
Wielded by others, it forges the deepest pain.
The bathing chamber was a luxury I couldn't bring myself to appreciate. Steam curled lazily in the air, the water warm and waiting, but my attention snagged on the mirror hanging above the basin. Pristine and flawless, its surface left no room for denial.
I hardly recognized the girl staring back. Pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, a face more hollow than whole. My thick, black hair fell in unkempt waves down my back, the strands heavy with sweat, grease, and neglect.
The deep blue of my eyes—a trait once compared to a summer sky—was dulled, ringed with shadows from sleepless nights. My gaze lingered on my arms, the scars that stretched across them like chaotic brushstrokes on a canvas. Some were faint whispers, their memories lost to the fog of my mind. Others were harsh reminders; ones I couldn't let heal.
Thin, fragile, and broken. That's what I saw. What was left of me. And I couldn't decide if I hated it, or simply didn't care.
Dinner wasn't much different from lunch—another bowl of grey mush placed in front of me like an insult. The table stretched long and empty, save for Azriel seated several chairs down, his plate piled high again with rich, savory food I wouldn't let myself envy.
I forced each bite down, blandness coating my tongue like ash. Azriel, as always, seemed indifferent, though his gaze flicked toward the door a few too many times. His shadows moved restlessly around him, an extension of whatever thoughts churned beneath that cold, calculated exterior.
I thought it was just his usual brooding until the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Azriel didn't stiffen. He didn't react at all, which made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. He was waiting.
The footsteps grew louder, closer, until the dining room door swung open to reveal a male who seemed to take up every inch of the doorway.
Broad-shouldered and impossibly tall, his frame was made even more imposing by the gleaming black scaled armor that hugged his body. A sword was strapped across his back, and his dark hair, tousled and windswept, gave him a rugged, untamed air.
Whoever he was, he radiated power.
"Training Illyrian females is easier than dealing with you, Az," he said by way of greeting, his voice rich and commanding. He strode into the room, armor clinking softly as he moved, and clapped Azriel on the shoulder. "But not by much."
"Cassian," Azriel replied, his tone flat but lacking the usual sharp edge.
Cassian's grin widened as he took the seat at the head of the table, sprawling comfortably.
"Babysitting doesn't suit you, Az," he drawled, clapping a hand on Azriel's shoulder with a force that could reduce a mountain into rubble. "Rhysand thought you could use some backup. Said you'd been holed up here too long and that Mor and Feyre miss having you at Rita's.
Azriel sighed, his shadows flickering in irritation. "I have it under control."
Cassian snorted, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his legs like a mountain lion basking in the sun. "Sure, you do," he drawled, his grin returning. "I'm just here to help. And maybe rescue her if she choses bolting off the mountain over dealing with your brooding."
"Cassian," Azriel warned, his voice as cold as iron.
But I didn't take the bait, didn't so much as flinch as my heart cracked impossibly further. Heat stained my cheeks as embarrassment and rage mingled in my chest. A caged animal, that's all that I was to them, to weak to be weapon. To broken to deserve dignity.
Cassian's hazel eyes shifted to me then, sharp and calculating, though there was no malice in his stare. Just the heavy weight of someone used to sizing up threats.
I tightened my grip on the spoon, resisting the urge to shrink under his scrutiny.
His grin softened, though his eyes were still calculating, assessing. "She looks like she's about to drop dead. What the hell have you been putting her through?"
Azriel shot Cassian a look, but the brute just shrugged, unbothered.
I dropped my spoon into the bowl and pushed back my chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor. Azriel's shadows stirred, but he didn't stop me as I rose, my heart pounding in my chest.
Cassian's voice followed me as I left the room, low and steady. "She's a quiet one, huh?"
I didn't wait to hear Azriel's reply.