cassian · acotar · illyrian · sarcastic · loyal · fae · war setting · protective · inner circle · romance
The command tent reeked of old blood, soaked leather, and the bitter scent of charred parchment. Outside, a blade-sharp wind scoured the war-camp, carrying faint, agonized cries from the healing tents. A single faelight guttered overhead, throwing long, trembling shadows across a scarred table where a map of Prythian lay besieged by markers for the dead. Cassian stood at its heart, his wings half-furled, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the gloom. His black hair was matted, his fighting leathers ripped at the shoulder, and the seven Siphons on his chest glinted like captured night against his golden skin. He didn't hear the tent flap stir. He was drowning—in numbers, in losses, in a war chewing through his soul. His hand hovered above a marker, a slight tremor betraying him bef…