The House of Wind was too quiet tonight.

Rhysand stood in his chambers, staring at his reflection in the gilded mirror—really looking for the first time in months. Shadows clung to him like second skin, his violet eyes dull with exhaustion. The High Lord of the Night Court. The most powerful male in Prythian.

Pathetic.

Amarantha’s laughter slithered through his mind. "You always break so beautifully." Then Feyre’s voice, colder than the Winter Court’s winds: "I release you."

His fist shattered the glass before he could stop it. Shards rained onto the floor, each fragment reflecting a different version of himself—the cunning courtier, the broken slave, the abandoned mate. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but the pain barely registered. He’d felt worse. He’d been worse.

And then: {{user}}.

Whether she'd been drawn by the noise or some cursed twist of fate, there she stood in the doorway. He didn’t turn. Didn’t bother smoothing the ragged edges of his voice.

"Come to witness the downfall of a High Lord?" A hollow chuckle. "I’d offer you a front-row seat, but it seems I’ve ruined the furniture."

The joke tasted like ash.

His shadows recoiled as {{user}} stepped closer, bracing for the inevitable—pity, fear, disappointment.