Now
The tang of blood hung heavy in the infirmary tent, a constant reminder of Windhaven's cruelty. All the cots were occupied this morning after another brutal training session. Hera's hands worked methodically as she wrung out a damp flannel, squeezing rivulets of pink-tinged water into the basin beside her. She pressed the cool cloth to Ezekiel's forehead, her touch gentle despite the anger roiling inside her. He was only seven. Too young to wield a sword, let alone survive Devlon's unforgiving training regimen.
Ezekiel stirred, his small wings trembling as he mumbled something incoherent. Hera soothed him with a soft hum, tucking the blanket higher over his frail form. She couldn't stand to see another boy crushed under her father's command, another child tossed into the fray before they had the chance to be anything else. She brushed her fingertips over his brow as his eyelids fluttered shut.
The flap of the tent rustled open, letting in a gust of frigid air. Hera glanced up, her brow furrowing as three figures strode inside. The High Lord of the Night Court entered first, flanked by his General Commander and the Shadowsinger. The sight of them drew a quiet hush over the tent.
Ezekiel's eyes fluttered open, and despite his weakened state, he tried to rise. Hera quickly placed a firm hand on his chest.
"You don't need to bow," she murmured, her voice as soothing as she could manage.
Rhysand walked over to them and crouched gracefully beside Ezekiel's cot, his piercing violet eyes softening as he spoke.
"And who are you?" he asked, his tone warm and light, as if addressing a child, not a warrior-in-training.
Ezekiel blinked, unsure how to respond, so Hera answered for him.
"This is Ezekiel," she said. "He shouldn't even be here, but Devlon allowed him to start training early." Her words were clipped, but she couldn't help the sharpness in her voice when it came to her father.
Cassian's gaze shifted to her, his broad frame practically filling the tent. "Where is Devlon?" he asked, his voice carrying a weight of command she was used to ignoring.
"I wouldn't know," Hera replied, her tone flat. "I do my best to stay out of his way."
Cassian frowned, clearly unimpressed with her answer. Before he could press further, Azriel's shadows stirred, brushing along the edges of the dimly lit tent. His silence was both a relief and a reminder of their history—a bitter, unspoken thing between them.
"It's been a while," Hera said, meeting Azriel's gaze. She ignored the flicker of guilt in his shadowed features.
Cassian tensed, and even Rhysand's easy demeanour faltered for a fraction of a second. But Azriel didn't respond, his hazel eyes steady as they held hers.
Rhysand straightened, placing a hand on Cassian's shoulder. "Let's leave it for now," he said, his voice smooth as silk. He turned back to Hera. "My apologies for the interruption."
As the three males moved toward the exit, Rhysand paused at the threshold and looked back at her. "Have you been training?"
Hera's jaw tightened. She knew this question, and had answered it more times than she cared to count. "I do not wish to join the men in battle," she said evenly.
Rhysand's head tilted slightly. "Is that your choice?"
Hera's silence was her answer. It had never been her choice—not to train, not to fight, not even to keep her wings intact. The memory of the night she'd begged her father not to clip her wings resurfaced unbidden, her desperation still fresh despite the centuries that had passed.
The High Lord's gaze lingered a moment longer before he followed his companions out.
꒰ঌ ໒꒱
Ezekiel's breaths were shallow now, each one weaker than the last. Hera sat beside him, her hand curled around his, her heart heavy with the inevitability of what was to come.
"I'll be a warrior one day," Ezekiel whispered, his voice barely audible.
Hera nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "You'll be the finest Illyrian there ever was," she forced a smile, "You'll hold your own against the High Lord."
"Yes, and then," he continued, his gaze distant, "I'll change things. I'll make it better for... for everyone. Even for the girls."
A tear slid down Hera's cheek as she smiled through her grief. "That's a good dream, Ezekiel."
"I want to have a family someday," he said, his voice fading. "A wife. Kids who can choose who... who they want to be."
Hera couldn't respond, her voice stolen by the weight of his words. She squeezed his hand as his little chest rose and fell one final time.
Agatha, the camp's healer, approached silently, her weathered face drawn with sorrow. She covered Ezekiel's still form with a sheet and placed a hand on Hera's shoulder, ushering her out of the tent as his mother arrived.
Hera stood at the entrance, her back to the wails of Ezekiel's mother inside. The sharp edge of grief sliced through the cold mountain air, and Hera felt its weight settle deep into her chest.
When she looked up, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel were passing by surely having just left a meeting with her father. They didn't speak, but their gazes met hers in silent acknowledgment. Azriel lingered a moment longer, his shadows wrapping around him like armor, before turning away.
Hera stood rooted in place, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, as the three males took to the skies. The sound of their wings faded into the distance, leaving her alone once again.
