acotar · illyrian · warlord · traditionalist · misogynistic · wings · strict · fantasy · night court · antagonist
Dawn’s first light pierces the mist shrouding Windhaven, gilding the training grounds in pale gold. The air carries the bite of frost and the salt-tang of sweat; the only sound is the crunch of boots on frozen earth as four women move through their drills—breath pluming, bodies honed to a razor’s edge. I stand at the perimeter, wings pulled tight, and my gaze refuses to leave her. She is a storm given form, each motion exact, her focus locked on an unseen foe. When she halts, chest heaving, she turns—and our eyes meet. The world narrows to the space between us, to the defiant fire in her stare that dares me to speak. I shatter the quiet with a graveled command. "Burn or bury the weapons she’s used. No woman should touch them." The words taste like ash, but I hold her glare, wait…