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Cassian was dreaming again, fast asleep with his mate tucked against his chest, held there by a thick arm. He was dreaming of shredded wings and Nesta screaming for him in a room with a cauldron—

“Cassian!”

He sat up so fast the room spun. Nesta jerked awake with him, breath caught in her throat as her heart pounded against his chest.

“What was that?” she asked, voice groggy but tight with alarm.

Another scream came, and it was even louder, more raw than the previous. It made the hairs on Cassian’s arm stand up, made his gut churn, made his eyes buzz with pure and utter terror.

“Cassian, wait! We don’t know what happened, we should call Azriel-”

Cassian was already halfway to the door, completely ignoring his mate.

“Azriel,” he breathed, more a prayer than a word. That voice—it was Azriel, and it wasn’t. It was strained and cracked and wrong, broken by pain and fear Cassian didn’t think Azriel was even capable of expressing, let alone feeling. The walls of the House trembled like they were reacting to it, to the wrongness of it.

Nesta stole her robe off the floor from where her mate had thrown it earlier that evening and followed, bare feet stuttering on the hardwood.

“What’s happening?” He didn’t answer, he couldn’t answer. His heart was a drumbeat of panic as he bolted down the hall, the sound of Azriel’s cries growing louder, hoarser, until it wasn’t even words—just screams.

He turned the corner…

“Mother’s tits, Az!”

Azriel was crumpled at the foot of the stairs, his back against the wall. His legs were sprawled like he’d collapsed mid-climb, scarred hands trembling and flexing in and out, wrists contracting and extending as if he was trying to ground himself. One hand was clamped over his left side, scarlet pouring through the spaces between his fingers in thick, steady gushes. The other clutched the stone step as if it was the only thing anchoring him. His left wing—Cassian’s stomach turned, and he covered his mouth with a fist to keep from vomiting. The membrane was shredded, the joint twisted and inside out at a grotesque, impossible angle. The General couldn’t even comprehend how the Shadowsinger was still speaking. The scent of blood, so much blood, saturated the air so thickly that Nesta was gagging.

Az’s bloodshot eyes found his brother.

“Cass, Cass, I—I can’t—” He choked on his own sobs. “I c-couldn’ getup— I’m sorry— it hurts—”

Cassian dropped to his knees, already reaching for his brother, hands hovering helplessly.

“Az, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

But Azriel screamed when Cassian touched his arm. It hadn’t even been a hard touch, but it seemed that the gentlest of hands would set Az off in this state. The scream was guttural, like it had been torn from the Shadowsinger’s larynx. It was the sound of something breaking open.

Cassian flinched. “Shit, Nesta!”

She was already moving, robe tucked around her body as she stood behind her mate, staring at her friend in absolute horror. Her voice broke. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” Cassian said, voice cracking, panic rising. “I don’t know, he must’ve come in through the window, and he’s bleeding everywhere.”

“I tried—” Azriel sobbed, tears streaking down his ash-stained face. “I couldn’t make it, couldn’t make it to your door. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scream, I didn’t—”

“Stop apologizing, Az, fuck. Nesta, summon Feyre now, I need Rhys, I need a healer, I—” Cassian couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe beyond his fear. He pressed a cloth—his own tunic—to Azriel’s side, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood was coursing through any and everything he held to it.

“How are you still awake?” he whispered. “You should’ve passed out. ”

Azriel coughed, spattering blood on his abdomen and Cassian’s face. “Didn’t want to—die alone.”

Cassian’s throat closed. “You’re not gonna die.”

But he turned his head and screamed his thoughts to anyone who might listen.

Rhys. Now. Azriel’s down, he’s hurt bad. I need you. Come now. Come now, come now—

Nesta was shaking, whispering Az’s name over and over, her voice cracking under the weight of it.

Azriel curled forward, or tried to. His wing moved and he screamed again, this one sharper, higher, and Cassian lost the ironclad hold on his composure.

“Stop moving! Az, please, don’t make it worse!”

“I can’t—” Azriel sobbed, rocking against the wall within the limited range his injuries allowed him. “It burns, I think something might be broken—I can’t feel my hand—Cass, my hand—”

Cassian stared at Azriel’s fingers. They were twitching uncontrollably, smeared in red, and the arm was twisted slightly, shoulder sagging.

“Fuck. Okay, okay. Just stay with me, alright? Just keep your eyes on me.”

Azriel nodded, but his gaze was unfocused, eyes fluttering like he was slipping under.

A crack of power lit the stairwell like lightning, and shadows recoiled. Air collapsed into a vacuum.

Rhysand appeared.

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Rhysand was yanked from his peaceful sleep so violently he nearly fell out of bed.

Cassian’s voice—screaming— his thoughts loud enough that they’d penetrated the High Lord’s dream.

Not just fear,

Panic.

The kind that tasted like metal in his mouth.

Feyre drew herself upright beside him. “What’s wrong—?”

“Nesta,” Rhys said shortly. “She’s calling you. Go.”

He vanished before she could respond.

The House of Wind greeted him with the thick, metallic stench of blood.

The Shadowsinger’s blood.

And then he saw them. Cassian on his knees, covered in gore. Nesta pale and shaking. And Azriel…

Rhys’s heart stopped.

Az was on the floor, sobbing, sobbing like a child.

The Shadowsinger was curled around himself, his side painted in dark crimson, his face blotched and twisted in agony. His wing—Rhys’s stomach turned, bile burning the back of his throat. The wing was shredded like someone had flayed it with a whip and then wrenched it backwards. Oh, gods, Azriel’s wings—

Cassian looked up, his face streaked with Az’s blood and his own tears. “He needs a healer now. He’s losing too much, he’s losing everything—”

“I’m here,” Rhysand said, already kneeling as he pressed his hand to Azriel’s forehead. The flesh was clammy, cold as his pulse fluttered under the male’s touch.

“Az,” he said gently. “Brother. You’re safe now.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. “Hurts, Rhys. Hurts so bad. I couldn’t, I couldn’t climb—”

“I know,” Rhys whispered, his impeccably cool voice breaking. “I know. You’re not alone.”

He sent a surge of power out into the world, summoning Madja without words.

“I don’t know how he got here,” Cassian muttered. “I think he must’ve crawled through the window. He didn’t want to wake us but he couldn’t make it and then—fuck, Rhys, he was screaming.”

Az let out another sob that shook his whole body. His hand reached for Cassian’s blindly.

Cassian caught his brother’s trembling hand and held it tight.

Rhys wrapped his arms around Azriel’s shoulders, careful of his mangled wing, and whispered, “It’s over. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Azriel’s reply was a whisper: “I didn’t want to die alone.”

“You won’t,” Rhys said firmly. “You never will. Not while I’m breathing.”

Rhys didn’t let go of Azriel, not even when Madja appeared with a rush of wind and scent of juniper. The elderly healer took one look at the scene; blood pooled on the stairs, Azriel’s gaping wounds, Cassian white-faced and shaking, Nesta clinging to the bannister like it was the only thing holding her up, and didn’t even attempt bother with formalities.

“I need space,” she said calmly, “and I need water. Towels. Bandages. Move.”

Nesta nodded and bolted without a question or even a hint of hesitation.

Cassian didn’t move.

“Cass,” Rhys said quietly. “You have to let her work.”

But Cassian was gripping Azriel’s hand like a lifeline.

“I’m not leaving him. His wings, he injured his wings. He can’t fly without his wings. How can he fly without his wings?” He asked, voice shaking.

Madja, to her credit, didn’t argue. She crouched beside Azriel and began pulling gauze and vials from her satchel, her magic flickering to life, green and gold and precise as a scalpel. Azriel was barely conscious now, his breath ragged and his lips blue.

“Wings first,” Madja muttered. “That bleeding won’t stop on its own, and it won’t matter if I can save the rest of him except the wings— he won’t want to live without them. High Lord, help me extend this one.”

Cassian started to move forward.

“No,” Madja said sharply. “You’re too rattled, too close to this. Sit down before you collapse and I have to worry about two of you.”

Cassian snarled. “He’s my brother!”

Rhys held up a hand. “Cass, please. Let her.”

Something about the quiet in Rhys’s voice made Cassian stop and sit back.

Rhys gently unfolded the ruined wing.

Azriel didn’t scream this time; he just moaned, gritting his teeth as if the sound had been pulled out of his chest too many times and was already fading to nothing.

Rhys swallowed hard.

The membrane was flayed—long tears and shredded edges like some creature had raked through it with talons. The joint was dislocated, possibly shattered. Every movement sent another flow of blood trickling from his side, soaking the stone beneath them.

He looked so small. Not a killer, not a spymaster, not a shadow. Just a broken, trembling male.

Madja worked with steady hands, setting bones, stitching the wing, using magic and salve to slow the bleeding. Rhys had to pin Azriel’s good shoulder to the wall with his arms when the agony made the Shadowsinger thrash.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured. “Just hold on.”

Rhys’s brother whimpered.

Then a rush of footsteps.

“Rhys!” Feyre was running up the stairs, barefoot, wearing only one of her mate’s tunics. Her face crumpled when she saw Azriel. “Mother above—”

Nesta appeared behind her with towels and water. Feyre rushed to Rhys’s side, touching his shoulder as she sank down next to Azriel.

“Don’t touch his left side,” Madja warned. “And no questions yet. I need silence.”

So Feyre took Azriel’s hand, the one Cassian had reluctantly released, and held it in both of hers. Her thumb traced circles across his knuckles.

“We’re here,” she whispered. “You’re safe. We love you.” And Azriel, whose face was almost always unreadable, mask upon mask, cried.

He didn’t scream, he didn’t sob violently, just cried, tears silent and endless, streaking across his temple and into his dark, matted hair.

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Cassian couldn’t take it.

He stood up and walked to the far wall. He put both palms against it and breathed. In, out. In again.

Azriel crying. Azriel calling for him. Azriel sitting on the stairs like a child in the night, dying—

He felt sick.

Nesta approached her mate on quiet feet, voice soft as she spoke.

“Cass.”

“I’ve never heard him scream like that,” he whispered. They both knew who he was talking about.

She touched his shoulder gently. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I do,” he said hoarsely. “I do. Because I didn’t hear him. I didn’t hear him until he was—until he couldn’t stop. What if we’d woken up later? What if he’d—”

Nesta stepped in front of him, making him look at her. “You heard him,” she said. “And you ran. And you held him. And you stayed. That’s what matters.”

He shook his head, blinking hard. “He said he didn’t want to die alone.”

“He didn’t. He won’t. We won’t let that happen.”

Cassian’s world felt like it would collapse on itself.

Madja looked up. “He’s stable.”

Both Cassian and Rhys turned at once.

“He’s lost too much blood to move,” she said. “The wing is… it’ll take weeks, maybe months, to fully heal. But he’ll live. He’s asleep now.”

Rhys finally sagged back on his heels, tension rolling off him like a wave. Feyre clutched his hand, both of them still kneeling at Azriel’s side.

Cassian stepped forward.

Azriel’s face was slack, lips parted. His side was bandaged. The wing, though wrapped and cleaned, still looked wrong. But his chest rose, fell, and rose again. Az was breathing steadily.

“He crawled here,” Cassian whispered. “All that way. Alone.”

“He should’ve sent word through his shadows.” Rhys muttered, but there was no anger. Just devastation.

“He didn’t want to be a burden,” Feyre said softly.

“He never does.” Cassian sat beside him again. Touched Azriel’s hair. “You idiot,” he murmured. “You should’ve screamed sooner.”

Azriel didn’t answer, but his hand twitched slightly in sleep. Toward Cassian.

Cassian took it, and held on.

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Cassian couldn’t sleep.

Even after Madja finished, even after the blood was scrubbed off the stairs, even after Nesta got him to put on a shirt and Feyre had wrapped blankets around Azriel’s still body. Cassian just sat there, on the floor, at his brother’s side.

The Shadowsinger lay unconscious, wrapped in soft wool, his breath slow but steady. His skin was still too pale, but the lines of agony had softened, his mouth relaxed at last. Only the bandages—layered thick across his side and chest, over half his wing—hinted at the thing that had nearly torn him apart. And still, Cassian watched him.

He’d never heard something like that before, not from Azriel, not from anyone. Azriel was the eye of storm, the calm one of the Inner Circle. He stopped all their fights and negotiated all their extravagant apologies.

But tonight, he’d shattered.

And Cassian couldn’t unhear it, couldn’t unsee the way Azriel’s fingers had clawed at the stone, how he’d sobbed for help, retching from the force of it, because he couldn’t get to them.

Because he thought he might die alone.

Cassian gripped Azriel’s hand again. “Never again,” he whispered. “You hear me?”

Behind him, Nesta returned with more clean towels and a warm bowl of broth, just in case Az had woken while she’d been gone. She didn’t speak, only set them down, then quietly took a seat beside her mate. Her hand found Cassian’s on his thigh and squeezed. Across the room, Feyre and Rhys sat close together. Rhys’s jaw was tight, his eyes unfocused, like he was speaking down a bond again. Probably coordinating with the rest of the Inner Circle, Cassian figured. Or the more likely option, the High Lord was trying to hide the way his own hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Feyre leaned into Rhys’s side. “He should’ve called for help.”

“He’s never called for help,” Rhys replied softly. “Not in the five hundred years we’ve known him.”

“He did tonight,” Cassian said without looking up. “But we didn’t hear him until it was nearly too late.”

“He screamed himself hoarse,” Feyre murmured. “His voice will be gone for days.”

Cassian closed his eyes. It was worse, somehow, hearing her say it aloud. With these kinds of things, Cassian preferred to have everybody keep their observations to themselves so he could pretend it wasn’t as bad as it truly was.

“I keep thinking,” he murmured, “what if we hadn’t heard him at all? What if he’d died right there, on those stairs, trying to crawl to us?”

No one answered, because none of them wanted to think about it either.

Time passed strangely after that.

Madja returned once more to adjust the Shadowsinger’s wound dressings and left strict instructions: Az wasn’t to be moved, spoken to for long, or allowed to so much as twitch that godsdamn wing. She left a vial of sedative just in case, a glowing purple liquid that looked like something a child had made.

“He’s going to be in pain when he wakes,” she warned. “Real pain. Be ready.”

It was nearly dawn when Azriel stirred.

Cassian felt it first—the slightest twitch of movement in the Shadowsinger’s hands under his fingers. He jolted upright.

“Az?”

The others roused. Rhys was immediately at his side, shadows rippling behind him.

Azriel’s eyes cracked open, and panic instantly returned to his face. He tried to sit up, his shallow breaths accelerating—

“Stop!” Cassian barked, hands on his shoulders. “You’re safe, you’re at the House of Wind. Az, look at me.”

Azriel stilled. His eyes locked with Cassian’s, wild and agonized. “You found me,” he croaked. Barely a whisper.

“Of course we did,” Cassian said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You scared the shit out of us.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked to Rhys, to Feyre, to Nesta. He tried to move his wing, and when it refused to, he paled. “I—I don’t remember,” he whispered. “I thought I wasn’t gonna make it. I kept calling—”

Cassian gripped his hand again. “I heard you, brother. We all did. You’re safe now.”

Azriel blinked hard. Tears slipped silently down his cheeks again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“No,” Rhys said, stepping forward, his voice calm and controlled, even though there was something shaking under it. “You don’t ever apologize for asking for help. Not to me, not to us, not even to yourself.”

“I should’ve sent my shadows—”

“You were dying,” Feyre interrupted gently. “You didn’t have to be perfect. You just had to live.”

Azriel turned his head slightly, expression tight. “I was halfway through the window before I passed out. I don’t remember falling. Just… stairs… and pain.”

“You were trying to get to us,” Cassian said. “That’s what matters.”

Azriel didn’t reply.

Rhys crouched down beside him. “You are not alone. Not now. Not ever.”

Azriel’s lip trembled as he nodded once.

That morning, none of the Inner Circle left Azriel. Nesta brought broth and made him drink small sips. Feyre changed the dressings when they bled through, and Cassian sat by his brother’s side the whole time.

Even when Azriel finally drifted into a calmer sleep thanks to Madja’s potions, Cassian stayed.

And when the others stepped out for breakfast or air, Nesta remained next to him. “You’re shaking,” she said at one point.

“I thought I’d lose him,” Cassian murmured. “I thought he’d die right there, with my name in his mouth.”

Nesta said nothing, but she leaned into him, laying her head on his shoulder. “You didn’t,” she whispered. “You didn’t lose him.”

And for now, that was enough.