Lady of Nightmares | ACOTAR | Rhysand's Sister x Azriel

Aithusa

Morcant, High Lord of the Night Court, did not make a habit of visiting the Illyrian camps. He preferred to let the stubborn brutes deal with their own affairs, set in their ways as they were. Yet they were the strongest legion in his army, which meant he had to inspect the camps at least once every year. Officially this was to show they were respected, and unofficially it was to make sure they were being kept in line.

This was particularly necessary now, given one of the strongest warlords had died and his rather young son, not even forty years old, had taken over his position. Windhaven had always been one of the more civilised camps, one of the largest too, and Morcant would not see it descend into chaos and savagery under a poor leader. The less civilised camps were often unruly, occasionally rebellious, and almost more trouble than they were worth.

Yet upon his visit, the new lord, Devlon, had been... competent, despite his age. The young Illyrian was as gruff and grizzled as many fae twenty times his age, and the males listened to him just as well as they had listened to his father. Devlon had seemed to have knocked his soldiers into order quickly and efficiently. An impressive feat with this backwards, hot-tempered lot.

Morcant had been relatively satisfied with his visit to Windhaven, glad that he would not have to return for at least another year. He was just about to depart with his guards, when the relative peace was abruptly shattered. A young female Illyrian was being dragged, kicking and punching, through the village by no less than four males.

The High Lord looked on dispassionately. Despite being relatively small, the girl fought like a wildcat, hissing curses and threats, lashing out with fists, feet, teeth and sharp nails, but they were stronger. The males wrestled her to a whipping post, one bringing out a length of rope and attempted to bind her wrists to it, to no avail.

"What has she done?" He asked Devlon, mildly curious of their brutish customs despite himself.

The Illyrian squinted in the girl's direction.

"That's Aithusa. A seamstress. She ran away yesterday, after one of the warriors smelt her first cycle had started. They went out after her to bring her back," The warlord shrugged. He was a male of few words, which Morcant appreciated. 

"That warrants a whipping?" He raised an eyebrow. "Surely if the girl wants to leave, you'd best be rid of her anyway. She's not likely to survive the wilderness alone,"

Although the more he saw of her, the more it seemed she could fend off all the beasts that lurked in the Illyrian Mountains through sheer willpower alone. The girl was still fighting despite being beaten bloody, and they still hadn't managed to tie her wrists to the post. A woman, presumably her mother, was sobbing on the ground nearby, though did not make any effort to intervene.

"Yeah, well, I told them to let her go," Devlon grunted. "But others are more attached to tradition. Whose to stop them? Her father died twelve years ago, and she's got no brothers. Some see it that it's the camp's responsibility to have her wings clipped, now she's a woman,"

Not a whipping, then. Morcant hummed in response to that, largely indifferent. He found wing clipping a rather barbaric custom personally, though didn't care enough to end it. It was the way of the Illyrians, had been for millenia, and wasn't worth the inevitable rebellion banning the tradition would cause. Every other fae female managed well enough without being able to fly; Illyrian women could surely handle it too.

The four males had bound the girl's hands now, pressing her front roughly into the post. There was a moment where her eyes - wildly travelling the crowd, almost imploring anyone to help her, to stop this - met his. Naturally. He was the most eye-catching person here, in a sea of plainly dressed, tanned Illyrians.