Aithusa and Morcant knew they were wrong for each other from the moment the bond snapped in place. She loved him, yes, but only because he was her mate, and had saved her wings. Otherwise, she might have hated him, and often thought she did regardless. 

After the mating frenzy ended, they did not particularly care for each other's company. It wasn't hard to understand why the all-powerful, centuries-old high lord didn't have much time for his young, wild, Illyrian bride. Though they amused each other on occasion through a shared dry humour, and often shared each other's bed - and enjoyed doing so - they were simply too different to truly understand each other.

The heart of their problems were that he liked to control everyone and everything, whilst she ran from anything that even resembled shackles. He had grand ambitions despite being one of the most powerful fae in Prythian, and there was nothing he would not do to get what he wanted. Her only desire was to be free to do the things she enjoyed.

Perhaps it made her immoral, but Aithusa did not particularly care that Morcant was ruthless and often cruel. There was nothing she could do to change that, and she had no desire at all to be caught up in any kind of political scheming or plots. Not because she was scared of the consequences, but because she simply did not care. Such things were foreign to her, uninteresting too.

The one thing she tried to push was banning the clipping of Illyrian female's wings, but he was resistant to her arguments on that. He disiked the practice too, but claimed that it was not worth the trouble it would cause. Many an argument had occurred between them on this subject. He didn't tend to raise his voice, and neither did she, but their words were nothing short of vicious; his full of threats she knew he would not follow through on (not when it came to her), her own full of sharp insults designed to rile him further.

Her mate would only indulge her coarseness so far. It amused him to see her deal with simpering or hostile courtiers in a blunt, borderline rude fashion, not even entertaining their games, true. But he disliked how she preferred simple clothing, how she spoke to the servants as though they were equals, how she did not follow the flowery mannerisms and courtesies expected of the Lady of the Night Court. It was as though he had been expecting her to have transformed to his liking in the time since she arrived here. As if! Just because they called her lady, didn't mean she wanted to act like one.

They had battled bitterly over such matters, neither holding back any verbal punches. Their arguments were private but vicious. 

"I might as well try to tame the sky itself, for all the good trying to get you in line does," He snarled at her, and she had just snorted and declared that a good thing.

Aithusa felt a stab of satisfaction at the fact that for all his power, Morcant could not control her. Well, he could if he tried, but physically forcing his mate to act how he wished was a line that even the High Lord would not cross. She was lucky enough to be certain of that.

Others in the Court of Nightmares attempted to approach her often, usually to sneer at her, belittle her, force her into a mould she would not fit into, that of the delicate, well-mannered high fae lady who Morcant was supposed to have married. A mould that her wings were too large for. 

Her wings... She may have gone insane without them. When the court stifled her, when even the Moonstone Palace - lovely though it was - felt like a gilded cage, Aithusa went flying. She soared amongst the wind and clouds, and it was only there that she could relax completely, and forget for a while. The mountains were beautiful, a reminder of the Illyrian wilderness, and she could easily spend days out there. 

She and Morcant came to a compromise eventually. She would act his dutiful lady to those whose opinion he cared about. She would appear at feasts and ceremonies, whenever she was required (though she would not organise them, as a proper hostess should). She would not insult anyone important or embarrass him too much. And in return, in private, she could do whatever she liked, within reason. So long as she did not shame him, and could pretend when it mattered, and let someone know where she was going, he wouldn't try to tame her.

Aithusa thought that was fair enough. Morcant had given her a remarkable existence beyond that of the drudgery of an Illyrian housewife. It was due to him that she had her wings at all, and for that she would be eternally grateful no matter how often she thought she hated him.

She took his words to mean that she was permitted to hire an instructor to teach her to fight. Not an Illyrian, of course - what Illyrian would even dream of teaching a female? - nor a Darkbringer for the same reasons, but Ewan was a formidable warrior despite being neither of those things. He was lesser fae, with skin as dark as night, and didn't even blink at the prospect of training a female, let alone the Lady of Night. Over time, he would become a very good friend of hers.

Of course, Morcant wasn't pleased by her decision to learn to fight when he first heard, let alone hiring a male teacher; never find the fact Ewan was mated himself, to another male. This resulting in more vicious arguments, which ended in another compromise. She could learn, but only if two of his own loyal guards were present, and only so long as no one who mattered found out she was doing something so unladylike.

Fine. She had nothing to hide, and couldn't care less about showing off. She wanted to learn for herself, because she was bored.

Aithusa found she loved to fight almost as much as she loved flying. She wasn't particularly good at it at first, and spent much time with aching muscles and bruised pride, but slowly, steadily, she improved. It gave her a purpose, something to strive for, in a way that courtly balls, gossip and politics never would.

*

It was only two years after they wed that Aithusa gave birth to a son. A miracle, many praised it as, for fae females rarely conceived, let alone so quickly. The one good thing about marrying an Illyrian, many in the Court of Nightmares sneered, but she was used to ignoring them by now, and cared nothing for their opinion.

Morcant's smile was genuine as he beheld the boy. It had faded slightly when he took in the black wings protruding from his back, and returned when the wings vanished then reappeared. The High Lord could hardly have an heir who could not hide his Illyrian heritage, after all.

"Your name shall be Rhysand," Her mate named their child, whose hair was as black as his father's, his eyes just as purple. "And one day you will shake the world,"

He was rather dramatic, her husband, but who was ever going to tell him so?

Aithusa saw little of herself in the boy at first. She loved Rhysand - Rhys, she had started calling him - but there was a part of her that resented the baby as yet another shackle. She always shoved those thoughts away whenever they surfaced, however, for one day her son would soar alongside her.

Morcant had little interest in Rhys until he was old enough to teach how to rule, other than that the boy was healthy, strong, and not an embarrassment. Despite her lingering concerns about her own freedom, Aithusa put that aside and insisted on taking care of him herself, the Illyrian territorialism coming out; she did not want another female holding and loving her son.

Very soon, it became obvious that the baby was not normal, even for a high lord's son. Rhys' power, the same darkness as his father's, was scarily strong even before he could sit upright on his own. Not to mention the fact that the child could read minds, which they realised within a month of his birth. Rhys was a daemati, a trait that did not run in families. 

Morcant immediately sought out an expert, an old acquaintance; a mysterious (slightly terrifying) female named Amren. Aithusa was almost certainly sure Amren was not fae at all, but something other. Yet as unnerving as her silver eyes might be, however, the female was very knowledgable, and satisfied with being paid in obscenely large and gaudy jewels (of which the High Lord of the Night Court had many). 

Everyone who had any contact with Rhysand was given extensive training in blocking the probing mind of an unreasonably powerful infant, including Aithusa and Morcant. It was an odd experience, watching her domineering, control-freak of a mate being ordered about by this sharp-tongued little monster. Aithusa tried not to think about how powerful Amren might be, if even Morcant only ground his teeth at her rudeness and blunt remarks.

Rhys' power would only grow as he got older, yet by the time he was strong enough to break through anyone's rudimentary defences, he would be old enough to be instructed in proper use of his power. No doubt Amren would teach him too. Good. With power like that, the poor boy needed to be scared into not abusing his magic. 

*

Aithusa managed to convince her mate to let her take Rhys to be trained at Windhaven when he turned eight. Whilst part of her despised her people for what they had tried to do to her, she respected the warrior culture. If her son was to survive in this world, he would need to be tough, and there was no better place than her childhood home for that. She had known he was immensely powerful from the day he was conceived, even as an heir rather than a high lord, and knew he would be hunted his whole life. If his magic failed him, she wanted him to have something to fall back on.

It was strange, being back here again. Aithusa had often returned to Windhaven to visit her mother Helene - who was treated with great respect, now her daughter was the High Lord's mate - but not for any length of time.  She bought a modest house with two bedrooms, and met the dark looks of many of the males, the bitter, judging ones of many females, who all resented her for her intact wings. 

Lots of them didn't judge her, of course; she still had a few friends from before she left, and there were plenty more willing to overlook the fact that she defied tradition in order to befriend the Lady of Night. She asked after Leona, one of her closest friends as a child, but the female had not returned since going off to live with her mate, the Lord of Ironcrest, half a year before Aithusa herself had left. What a pair both of them made, mated to males far above their station.

As every Illyrian mother did, she shoved her son into the sparring ring on the first day and walked away without looking back. It would have been an embarrassment to both of them if she tried coddling Rhys, and he knew that. Her son was brave, and despite the fact Aithusa knew he was nervous, she had taught him to never show his fear.

Rhys was a clear target in the ring, many of the boys wanting to take down the proud, half-breed heir a peg or two, or prove themselves against him. But her son held his own. He wasn't quite a natural in the ring, but he listened well, and was a good learner who tried his hardest, which made him increase in skill fast. He was also good at making friends, naturally charming even as a child, though that was not to say he didn't make enemies just as quickly when he took a dislike to someone. That charm could change into him being a little shit in an instant, words designed to rile and anger.

That was proven through his new rivalry with Cassian, who was (of course) the biggest boy in his training group, despite being a bastard cast out from the main village. Rhys really didn't make it easy for himself. The other boy was half feral, and vicious enough to fight for enough food to make him so large when by all rights he should have been scrawny and weak, alone in the world as he was. The two would relentlessly target each other, and her son would grumble about his 'nemesis' all the way through her tutoring sessions when training was over. She didn't offer to tend his bruises, and he wouldn't have let her if she tried. They both knew the injuries were his own fault.

Yet it wasn't entirely to Aithusa's surprise when one day Rhys came home with the hulking, dirty child beside him. Both boys were bedraggled from the rain. Cassian was clutching a meagre bundle of what was presumably all his worldly possessions, and looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, eyes wide as he took in the warm house. His eyes widened even further as Aithusa slowly got to her feet, raising an eyebrow at both of them.

"What is the meaning of this?" She snapped. "I thought you hated him, and now you're bringing him home as a stray?"

"I still hate him," Her son protested, indignant, then his expression softened slightly. "I didn't realise he slept out in the rain under a scrap of cloth. My room is big enough for two," Then, to keep his reputation, he had to add, "I don't want him to be right when he calls me spoilt," 

"You are spoilt," Aithusa snorted slightly. She turned to the other boy, who held her stare but was clearly nervous, and trying to hide it.

"I sleep in a tent, not a scrap of cloth," Cassian said stoutly, as proud and defensive as any child who has had to look after themselves as long as they can remember, fighting every step of the way. "It's been fine my whole life. I don't want pity," 

"Then why did you follow me?" Rhys glared at him.

"And you won't get any pity here," Aithusa told the boy dryly, holding up a hand to stop her son's protest. "However, you can stay. Rhys needs someone to take him down a peg or two,"

A small, smug smile flickered briefly on Cassian's face.

"He does,"

Rhys elbowed him, and the larger boy elbowed him back, harder.

"Boys," Her tone was sharp enough that both of them stopped instantly. "Do what you like outside, but there will be no fighting in here. Rhys, I expect you to show Cassian how to live in a house. Shoes off at the door, wash every day, make your bed, help clean and prepare dinner,"

Both children nodded; neither knew any better, that in Illyria a female was supposed to do all the housework, and she would keep it that way. The day her son turned to her and told her it wasn't his place to cook and clean was the day she beat him bloody. 

"There's a hot bath upstairs," She glanced at Cassian, who she had never seen look anything other than filthy. His clothes were covered in dirt, and though they fit him well - he had likely won them off of other children - they were torn from fighting, and his hair was well below his shoulders, a matted rat's nest. "Get in it and wash before you stink up the whole house, or you can go back out in the cold,"

"Yes, my lady," The boy mumbled.

"Call me Aithusa," She corrected, and he nodded meekly as Rhys showed him up to the bathroom.

The moment the door shut behind him, her son came to her, letting his tough expression slip.

"Why do they make him live out in the cold?" He asked. "He's a prick, but he didn't do anything wrong to them. He says it's because his mother wasn't married to his father, but his father forced his mother to have him - and then they took him away from her and sent him here - so how is that even her fault?"

Gods. Times like this made Aithusa remember why she had so freely left this place.

"It's not her fault," She said, sharper than she intended. "It's never any female's fault if a male forces them to do anything, especially have a child. No more than it's Cassian's fault for being born. Why do you think I let him stay? But you have to remember Rhys, that things aren't fair here,"

"When I'm High Lord I'll make them fair," He said with the conviction of the dreamy child he was underneath all that bravado. Aithusa hoped they didn't beat that out of him.

Shortly after, she seent her son to bed and went to check on Cassian. It was clear that the boy had never bathed properly before. The bathwater was black when she went in, so she emptied it and filled it again, having the filthy child scrub himself until there was no trace of mud or grime left. She cut his hair, cut his ragged nails, and had clean nightclothes waiting after he had dried himself off. They were Rhys', and too small, but Cassian did not notice.

"You wear different clothes to sleep in?" He seemed bemused as he put them on. "Very fancy, you lords and ladies,"

Aithusa snorted.

"Don't lump me in with that lot, boy - I was common as muck when I was your age," 

Cassian balked when she showed him the bed he was to sleep in. Rhys' bed. She would have to have another one made, as the room was large enough to fit two. For now there was plenty of room for them to share; no matter how large Cassian might be, he was still only nine. No, the boy balked because he had likely never even seen a proper bed before, let alone slept in one. 

"What are you standing there for," Rhys grumbled from under the blankets, shuffling up. "It's just a bed,"

Cassian looked up at her, and she saw his thoughts written across his face - it's so soft, warm, comfortable, how did I get here, what do I do - and Aithusa let her expression soften. She had felt a similar thing on her wedding night, when she had seen the bed she was to sleep in after years of lying on the floor in her mother's house.

"It'll feel like you're being swallowed up at first," She told the boy. "The bed will seem far too big, too warm, too much, but you get used to it,"

He nodded a little shakily.

Rhys was looking at her in a new light - her son was far too perceptive, even without his daemati abilities (which she now knew to detect, if not block) - but Aithusa just made sure that Cassian got into bed, then kissed her son on the forehead and turned out the light before leaving the room. 

Hopefully they would not kill each other before morning.

*

Leona had been Aithusa's close friend growing up. And her exact opposite, in the best possible way. Where Aithusa had always been surly, blunt and cynical, Leona was bubbly, vibrant and slightly naive. Both of them were wild, however, which had brought them together. Except that where Leona was wild in the sense of dancing through a meadow of wildflowers and dreaming her days away, Aithusa was wild in the sense of viciously throwing off any chains and soaring high in the sky.

A year before Morcant had named her as his mate - three years after Leona's first cycle had come and her wings were clipped, when the girl was only seventeen - her friend had met her own mate, the visiting Lord Crastus of Ironcrest. Aithusa had begged Leona not to go - the man was cold, with a nasty look in his eye - but her friend had always been a romantic, and loved the idea of being a fine lady. She had gone and Aithusa had left Windhaven soon after, and aside from a few vague letters that told her very little, she had not heard from her friend since.

Until she received a letter from her own husband, saying that she was to take in another stray. A shadowsinger child had been found in the Lord of Ironcrest's household, and Morcant wished to have the boy train at Windhaven, so he could enter his employ when he was grown. He would require close supervision, so would live with her, Rhys and Cassian, now eleven and twelve. 

Aithusa could hardly refuse when the child was her old friend's Leona's bastard son with Lord Crastus. Though she wondered why the boy couldn't train at Ironcrest. Was Morcant truly such a control freak as to separate a child from his parents just so he could be under a watchful eye?

Her mate failed to mention the disdain Lord Crastus held for his bastard son.

The male landed in the centre of Ironcrest carrying a small bundle in his arms that Aithusa took a few moments to realise was a boy, who was now standing shakily, not helped by his father's rough hand grabbing him. Eleven years old and unable to fly... And everyone here now knew about it. Devlon was already sneering down at the child. Gods, the poor boy won't survive the sparring ring.

The child did not look eleven years old. No, he looked about eight. He was scrawny, painfully so, with dark eyes looking out from hollow, extremely pale cheeks. Though his wings were unusually large for one so small, even looking at them made her wince; they were skeletal, emaciated and weak, clearly never having been used to fly. There was even a cobweb between the webs of one. 

Those wings made him strangely menacing, feeble though he was otherwise. The look on his face did too, dark, hateful and sharp. But the most unnerving thing about the boy were the shadows. Swirling, twisting, dancing around him, making it hard to get a good look at him, an undeterminable number of dark shapes.

The boy did not look remotely saddened when his father left after a few words with Devlon. The Lord of Ironcrest had ignored Aithusa entirely, despite her being introduced as the Lady of Night, which gave away much of his attitude towards females. Gods, poor Leona. If this was how the lord treated his own son, how did he treat the boy's mother?

Without bothering to introduce herself, Aithusa grabbed Azriel by the wrist and took him out of the public gaze as fast as she could. The boy didn't need to hear any more of the sneering and muttered comments going around the square. He'd have enough of that in the training ring.

*

Rhys and Cassian were eavesdropping. He had used his magic to conceal the fact that they were both peering through a crack in the door at the top of the stairs, Rhys standing, Cassian crouching on the floor; they had fought savagely for the privilege of standing, and this time Rhys had won.

Despite this animosity, both were desperately hoping that his mother did not catch them when she returned. Aithusa was kind, but scary at the same time, never mind that Rhys' power was likely strong enough to overpower her. He wouldn't dare.

The front door opened and they heard his mother's voice, rough but not unkind.

"In here, boy, go on,"

Aithusa ushered in what he first took for a wraith. Rhys realised after a few moments that it was a boy, though strange dark shapes - shadows - danced around him, swirling and twisting in a way that made him somehow menacing.

That was stupid, because this boy was scrawny - painfully thin - and pale too. It was hard to tell the grime on his face from the sunken hollows of his cheeks. His hair was a long, straggly mess of dark strands falling well past his shoulders, and he wore a ragged black tunic and breeches that hung high above his ankles, clearly made for a much younger child. No shoes at all, though for some reason his hands were covered in black gloves that looked oddly well made.

His wings were the worst of all; emaciated, weak and eerie. As though they had never been used.

"Sit down," His mother shut the door with a click, gesturing to the table.

The boy did not move, eyeing the chair doubtfully for a split second, though otherwise did not take his eyes off of Aithusa. He was wary, Rhys realised. Scared. He did not drop out of what Rhys recognised as a subtle fighting stance, bracing for... something. Either that, or he was ready to run. It reminded him somewhat of a wild animal. It reminded him of Cassian when they had first met and he had been fending for himself his entire life; defensive and feral.

Rhys' mother did not make a thing of it, however, simply moving over to pull out the chair herself.

"This isn't a trap," She said, rather more softly than she ever spoke to Rhys and Cassian. "I don't know what happened to you at Ironcrest, but it won't happen here with me," The boy still did not speak, or move a muscle. "If you don't trust my good intentions, trust that my husband is High Lord of Night and believes a shadowsinger would be highly useful in his court. That's the reason your father brought you here - to train,"

Rhys and Cassian shared confused looks. Neither had heard anything of this.

Slowly, shakily, the boy nodded, then cautiously sat.

"I'm Aithusa," His mother said, sitting opposite him. "What is your name?"

"A-Azriel," His voice was hoarse, rasping, like it was not used often.

"A fine name," She said honestly. "Were they right when they told me your mother is Leona?" Wide, unblinking eyes stared for one second, two, then Azriel nodded. "She was my friend, when I was a girl. We were seventeen when she mated to Lord Crastus of Ironcrest," A year before Rhys' mother had been rescued from having her wings clipped by his father. "Is he your father?"

Azriel's face suddenly twisted in what was undoubtedly loathing. The sheer venom in it took Rhys and Cassian aback, though Aithusa merely frowned.

"He doesn't treat her well, did he?"

"She's his servant," The boy managed to get out. "He hates her. So does his wife,"

Rhys' mother smiled humourlessly.

"He hates her because she's lowborn, but she's his mate and he can't stay away," There was an all-too-knowing note to her voice. Was she alluding to his own father? Rhys knew they didn't like each other all that much, but had not known that was why. "Does she still dance? She always loved to dance and sing,"

"I don't - " Azriel broke off as though his words had lodged in her throat. "I only saw her once a week. She sang sometimes, but she cried more,"

Aithusa's face had hardened.

"Where were you when you weren't with her?"

The boy didn't answer, simply gritted his teeth, fists clenching tight, and Rhys' mother let it go, much to Rhys' annoyance; he was curious.

"Alright. Would you like something to drink, Azriel?"

"Who are the ones behind the door?" The boy asked instead.

Cassian cursed, scrambling to his feet, as Rhys fought to raise up the darkness concealing them. He got the impression that Azriel had known they were there the entire time. His mother's eyes sharpened as her head swivelled around to look right at them.

"Rhysand," Her tone was no longer the kind one she had used with Azriel. "Cassian. Out, now,"

Knowing there would be hell to pay if he disobeyed, Rhys grudgingly opened the door, letting his shields drop.

"We just wanted to see what you were bringing into the house," He said rather sulkily, shooting the boy a glare for grassing on them. Despite his annoyance, Rhys was still rather taken aback by the wary look Azriel was giving him and Cassian, eyes darted between them, clearly ready to run - or to fight - if he had to.

"Why do your wings look like that?" Cassian asked, more out of curiosity than meanness, though Rhys wasn't sure it sounded that way. "How do they not break when you fly?"

Azriel did not answer, shadows rising more menacingly - protectively - around himself. He looked like an alley cat that had been cornered by two dogs.

"And what are they?" Rhys pointed at them. They were similar to his own dark powers, but he could tell they were something else.

"Ignore them. This is my son Rhys," Aithusa pointed him out to the boy. "And this is Cassian. They're at each other's throats more often than not, so don't worry yourself. Boys, this is Azriel. He'll be living here from now on, and train with you in the ring,"

"Is he even old enough to train?" Cassian asked doubtfully.

"He's only a year younger than you are," Aithusa said flatly, and both of them looked at each other in disbelief. 

"Are you sure?" Rhys asked.

"Stop it, both of you," His mother snapped, and they both stopped abruptly. "Azriel is here on your father's orders,"

"What makes him so special?" Rhys asked against his better judgement. "He's thin enough to snap like a twig, looked like he just crawled out of a ditch and all those shadows do is float around,"

He was once again startled by the venomous look on the boy's face, though it was ten times worse directed at him. The shadows stirred, drifting his way, and he reached out to swat at one. Rhys' hand went straight through it, but then he yelped as he received a painful thump to the jaw; the shadow had hit him. Hard. Turns out they did not just float around.

"You little prick!" He exclaimed, starting forward out of the fighting instinct beaten into him by the Illyrian trainers.

Azriel was off her chair in an instant, backing up a few steps but not running. The boy was unmistakably readying herself for a fight, lips twisted into a snarl like some kind of tiny, feral beast. His emaciated wings flared slightly behind him, shadows shrouding his face into darkness. And despite his size, the fact he didn't speak... Azriel was scary.

"Rhysand," His mother's voice cut across his anger - and fear - as she delivered a sharp slap of her own to his cheek.

"He hit me first!" He protested indignantly, rubbing his face.

"Can you blame him? He has come from unimaginable horrors that you are lucky enough to be unable to understand. Since you were listening in from the stairs, how did you not manage to hear his words at all?"

He felt rather guilty at that, though scowled nonetheless. Rhys did not continue to argue with his mother.

*

"This can't be right," Azriel said after she showed him the bed he was to sleep in. Rhys and Cassian were thankfully downstairs, fighting over the last slice of cake.

"And why is that?" Aithusa asked.

"This is the kind of place where my brothers sleep,"

"Well now it's yours,"

"But there's a window. A... a bed, and a fireplace,"

She frowned at that. The room was little more than a cupboard, really. She had had the house altered since hearing there would be another boy living with them; now Rhys, Cassian and Azriel would all have rooms of their own, admittedly small. She was glad for that given how he had reacted to the boys earlier. And why was a window a novelty?

"Azriel, where did you sleep in your father's keep?" 

A silence, so long that she doubted he'd answer. Then,

"Underneath it,"

"He made you sleep in a cell?" She asked sharply. "How many years was that for?"

"Mother said he took me when I was two," He turned to her, with a stare remarkably hateful for one so young. "If you were her friend, then why did you leave her in that place?" The shadows flared as he spoke.

She thought how to answer that for a moment, realising there was no excuse.

"I thought she was happy. I should have known better," Aithusa watched the boy closely. "Tell me why your father's keep is so awful. Aside from being locked in a cell. If you do, I can try and get Leona out of there,"

Azriel was silent, still wary, then seemed to decide to speak.

"He treats her as a servant. A whore. Lets his wife torment her," He sneered the word.

His words made her realise fully that she was not dealing with her son Rhys - too perceptive for his own good but ultimately born with a silver spoon in his mouth and not very knowledgable about everyday hardship - nor Cassian, who had been feral but largely decent, too young to appreciate the true horror of the things around him. This boy had experienced first hand the worst of what one person could do to another. 

There was very little of Leona in him, she realised, nothing of the dreamy girl who loved flowers and dancing. He had his mother's striking looks, and her hazel eyes, but little else. The boy was broken, full of hate and uncertain in normal situations, yet even that was surprisingly functional for one who'd had so little social contact since he was barely more than an infant.

Hopefully it wasn't too late for him to adjust. Aithusa only hoped that his perception of people hadn't been skewed too much by his awful experiences; he feared boys his own age, no doubt down to his brothers, and seemed wary of grown males as well. And the fact that the only experiences he'd had with females were his abused, unstable mother and bitch of a stepmother, gods only knew what that had done to warp his mind.

And now Morcant wanted to turn him into a deadly weapon.

But Aithusa wouldn't give up on him before she even knew the boy, before he'd been given a chance. Everyone deserved at least one.

*

The next morning, Aithusa had shown Azriel the bath. Unlike Cassian, she hadn't forced him into a tub of water the night he arrived, despite the fact the sheets would need changing. The boy was skittish enough as it was; he had wedged his door shut after she bade him goodnight, yet the curtains and window were left wide open.

Azriel had not known what the bath was, and had to be shown how to use it, though seeing as he stayed in there for over an hour, refilling the bath twice, the boy enjoyed it. As any reasonable person would, if they were covered in the dirt that came from being locked in a dungeon their whole life.

She had to admit, she had been startled - and furious - to see that now those odd gloves had been removed, both of the boy's hands were a mottled, twisted, melted mass of scars. Burn scars. Azriel was clearly trying to conceal them as best he could, and had been reluctant to remove the gloves, so she had not mentioned it. Not yet, at least. She would ask at some point, so she could assess how much Lord Crastus of Ironcrest needed to suffer.

Once satisfied the boy was not going to drown himself in the tub, Aithusa had gone out into the village that morning while Azriel was still in the bath and bought several plain but practical - and most importantly clean - set of clothes. She also bought a few sets of fighting leathers, along with a sturdy pair of boots and a warm jacket.

She took one set of clothes into the bathroom, along with a comb and scissors. When Azriel emerged, he looked very different already. All the grime covering him was gone, his awful, matted hair had been trimmed to shoulder height and brushed smooth, and he wore a new, pale blue shirt and dark breeches.

There was no hiding the starved look of his face and body, however, nor the still-wary look in his eyes. Yet despite his attitude towards Rhys and Cassian, something had changed in Azriel's stare when he looked at Aithusa, when he thought the female wasn't looking. Gratitude, a lowering of walls... hope, even.

*

Azriel was vicious in the training ring. Not necessarily good, but vicious.

He hadn't seemed especially affected by the jeers and insults from the other boys mocking him. Well, perhaps he had been, but he already appeared so defensive anyway that it made no difference. In the sunlight, he looked like a fish out of water. Even in the brightness of the morning, those shadows hovering around him brought him his own little patch of darkness.

Of course, under the guise of 'seeing what he could do', they put the boy against Cassian first, who was now the biggest trainee in their age group. They did it to humilate both of them; they still resented Cassian for being a bastard, never mind that he and Rhys were the best here. Cassian grumbled that he couldn't win here - either he beat up a scrawny weakling, which there was no pride in, or he was beaten by one - but obeyed nonetheless.

Azriel was not strong by any means; even after a week of being fed, he was still thin as a rake and tiny, though his pallor was not so unhealthy and some shine had returned to his wings. But somehow he was scarily quick, and good at dodging. The onlookers jeered at him for not facing his opponent, and jeered at Cassian for not catching him.

The boy had no technique, and was largely on the defensive, waiting for his opponent to come to him. When Cassian did, and escape was unavoidable, Azriel fought like a wildcat; hitting and punching and kicking and scratching, even biting. He had been forbidden from using his shadows, or any magic at all - the Illyrians feared it despite themselves - and undoubtedly suffered for that.

His frenzied, unpredictable fighting made it hard for Cassian to get a hold of him, particularly as he was reluctant to punch such a tiny opponent with the full force he used on the others. Azriel eventually irritated him enough, however, that he soon forgot this. He was bigger, stronger and better than the younger boy, so was eventually able to capture his thrashing limbs and wrap him in a chokehold. Cursing when Azriel's teeth sank into his arm, he was forced to grab the boy's head with the other hand, preventing him from biting again.

Many of the watching Illyrians found this all rather amusing, the entertainment factor winning out, while others still muttered darkly about how they never should have let a shadowsinger anywhere near their camp in the first place.

"The little freak is vicious, I'll give him that," Devlon, their chief trainer, chuckled darkly. 

*

Baby Rhys, Cassian and Azriel are very fun to write. I love the contrast between the well-meaning, kind but ultimately spoiled Rhys, to the half-feral Cassian and Azriel, who Aithusa can relate to on some level.

Please take a minute to leave a comment, even if it is only one word - I love reading them and they really motivate me to write more. I hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading!