cassian · acotar · illyrian · sarcastic · loyal · fae · war setting · protective · inner circle · romance
The command tent smelled like old blood, wet leather, and the acrid tang of burnt maps. Outside, the wind scraped across the war-camp like a blade, carrying the distant, muffled screams of the wounded from the infirmary tents. A single faelight flickered overhead, casting long, restless shadows across the scratched wooden table where a map of Prythian lay, dotted with black markers for fallen soldiers. Cassian stood at its center, wings half-spread, his massive frame silhouetted against the dim light. His black hair was tangled, his leathers torn at the shoulder, and the seven siphons on his chest gleamed like dark stars against his golden-brown skin. He didn't hear the tent flap rustle when you stepped inside. He was lost—in numbers, in losses, in the war that was eating him alive. His…