Cassian landed on the flat stretch of mountain pass, the snowdrifts higher than at Windhaven. Hiding any trace of the village that had stood here.
Only cinders and debris remained anyway.
He’d made sure of it.
When those who had been responsible for her suffering and torment had been dealt with, no one had wanted to remain here a moment longer. Not with the shattered bone and blood coating every surface, staining every field and training ring. So they’d migrated, some blending into other camps, others making their own lives elsewhere. None had ever come back.
Centuries later, he didn’t regret it.
Standing in the snow and wind, surveying the emptiness where he’d been born, Cassian didn’t regret it for a heartbeat.
His mother had suffered every moment of her too-short life. It only grew worse after she’d given birth to him. Especially in the years after he’d been taken away.
And when he’d been strong and old enough to come back to look for her, she was gone.
They’d refused to tell him where she was buried. If they’d given her that honor, or if they’d thrown her body into an icy chasm to rot.
He still didn’t know. Even with their final, rasping breaths, those who’d made sure she never knew happiness had refused to tell him. Had spat in his face and told him every awful thing they’d done to her.
He’d wanted to bury her in Velaris. Somewhere full of light and warmth, full of kind people. Far away from these mountains.
Cassian scanned the snow-covered pass. His memories here were murky: mud and cold and too-small fires. But he could recall a lilting, soft voice, and gentle, slender hands.
It was all he had of her.
Cassian dragged his hands through his hair, fingers catching on the wind-tangled snarls.
He knew why he’d come here, why he always came here. For all that Amren taunted him about being an Illyrian brute, he knew his own mind, his own heart.
Devlon was a fairer camp-lord than most. But for the females who were less fortunate, who were preyed upon or cast out, there was little mercy.
So training these women, giving them the resources and confidence to fight back, to look beyond their campfires … it was for her. For the mother buried here, perhaps buried nowhere. So it might never happen again. So his people, whom he still loved despite their faults, might one day become something more. Something better.
The unmarked, unknown grave in this pass was his reminder.
Cassian stood in silence for long minutes before turning his gaze westward. As if he might see all the way to Velaris.
Rhys wanted him home for the Solstice, and he’d obey.
Even if Nesta—
Nesta.
Even in his thoughts, her name clanged through him, hollow and cold.
Now wasn’t the time to think of her. Not here.
He very rarely allowed himself to think of her, anyway. It usually didn’t end well for whoever was in the sparring ring with him.
Spreading his wings wide, Cassian took a final glance around the camp he’d razed to the ground. Another reminder, too: of what he was capable of when pushed too far.
To be careful, even when Devlon and the others made him want to bellow. He and Az were the most powerful Illyrians in their long, bloody history. They wore an unprecedented seven Siphons each, just to handle the tidal wave of brute killing power they possessed. It was a gift and a burden that he’d never taken lightly.
Three days. He had three days until he was to go to Velaris.
He’d try to make them count.