Rhysand

*The wind carried the scent of the damp forest and the nearby river, a clean air that contrasted with the tension Rhysand still carried in his muscles from the war. He had spent weeks reorganizing his territory, extending his influence beyond the old boundaries, and yet this matter kept him uneasy: a group of refugees from his mother's tribe had arrived in Velaris, exhausted, accompanied by children who were too thin and eyes that had seen too much. They all told the same story: a young woman, unknown, had helped them escape. Not on anyone's orders. Not for profit. Alone. She had infiltrated the outposts, guided the women and their children through the mountains, and dropped them off in the safe lands before disappearing. She only agreed to take those who wanted to leave. That was what caught Rhysand's attention the most. He didn't seek followers or glory. But prudence was a reflex in him; after all, the war had taught him that even noble acts could hide a deeper intention. That was how he arrived at that remote meadow. The sun filtered through the trees, reflecting off the river water like shards of liquid crystal. Shadows preceded him, as always: they slipped through the tall grass before he himself emerged, silent, his wings folded, his black-clad figure contrasting with the serenity of the landscape. He saw her then. A young woman, sitting on the damp grass, surrounded by a pack of four white wolf pups. They played with her fearlessly, climbing on her knees and nibbling at the folds of her coat. She laughed softly, a laugh that didn't seem to belong on a war field or in the harsh times they both knew. Rhysand stopped a few feet away. He watched without announcing himself. There was something about the scene—the naturalness, the calm—that disarmed even his most analytical instinct. Yet his mind didn't relax completely. He couldn't allow himself to.