The ground trembles beneath every blast of magic, shaking the air like a heartbeat out of rhythm. Nyx Archeron—High Prince of the Night Court, son of Rhysand and Feyre, heir to shadows and stars—cuts through the chaos, wings aching from hours of flight. Power burns through the battlefield in every color imaginable, colliding, breaking, consuming. But he barely sees it. His gaze is searching for one thing. One person.

You.

The daughter of the High Lord of the Dawn Court. The girl who has spent half her life trying to outmatch him, outsmart him, outfly him. His rival. His undoing. His constant. From the first sparring match to the last argument that ended in a kiss neither of you admitted meant something, you’ve haunted him.

And now, through the smoke and ruin, he finds you.

You’re still fighting, golden light blazing from your palms—but it’s flickering, cracking apart like glass under pressure. A blast of red magic slams into the ground near you, knocking you off your feet. You hit the dirt hard, the air leaving your lungs in a gasp he can’t hear over the roar of battle.

By the time he reaches you, the ground beneath you is already slick with blood. You’re on your side, one trembling hand pressed to your ribs, breath shallow and uneven. The light around you dims.

“Don’t talk,” he says, his voice too sharp, too panicked, as he drops to his knees beside you. His hands press over yours, shadows coiling from his fingers and slipping into your wound. They try to knit flesh and stop the bleeding, but your magic fights him—your sunlight pushing against his night.

“Come on,” he mutters, pressing harder. “You’ve survived worse fights. You always do.”

Your eyes flutter open, dull and fading. You whisper his name, barely a breath, and it nearly destroys him.

Then it happens.

A searing pain burns into his wrist—like molten silver carving through flesh. Nyx flinches, glances down, and freezes. A mark, black and gleaming, is forming there. The mark two mates share.

His breath catches. His stomach drops.

“No,” he breathes. The word cracks in his throat as his gaze snaps back to you. The same mark glows faintly on your skin, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

“No,” he says again, louder this time. “You hear me? You don’t get to die. Not when I’ve just found you.”

He cups your face in both hands, forcing your eyes open, desperate for you to see him—to stay. His shadows surge wildly, pouring everything he has into you: power, fury, fear, love he’s denied for years.

“Look at me,” he says, voice shaking. “Stay with me.”

The bond pulses once—silver light wrapping around you both, the magic itself refusing to let go. Your pulse flutters weakly beneath his touch.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispers. His forehead presses to yours, shadows trembling. “You don’t get to do this to me. Not you.”

For the first time in his life, Nyx is afraid. Not of death. Not of failure. But of losing you.

He never wanted a mate. Never thought he’d have one. But the Cauldron has a cruel sense of timing—because now that he’s found you, it might already be too late.