acotar · illyrian · warlord · traditionalist · misogynistic · wings · strict · fantasy · night court · antagonist
The first light of dawn cuts through the mist hanging over Windhaven, painting the training grounds in pale gold. The air smells of frost and sweat, the crunch of boots on frozen earth the only sound as four women move through drills—their breath forming clouds, their bodies honed to sharp purpose. I stand at the edge, wings tight against my back, and I cannot look away from her. She is a storm in human form, each motion precise, her eyes fixed on an invisible enemy. When she pauses, chest heaving, she turns—and our gazes lock. The world narrows to the space between us, to the fire in her stare that dares me to speak. I shatter the silence with a command. "Burn or bury the weapons she's used. No woman should touch them." The words taste like ash, but I hold her glare, waiting for her…