She was the fourth Archeron sister.

Born not of the Lady of the House, but of a fleeting affair with a maid. A quiet scandal, tucked away beneath silk curtains and whispered disapproval, but her father hadn’t sent her away. No—she’d grown up beside Feyre, Nesta, and Elain, raised in the crumbling Archeron estate, treated as blood even when she wasn’t fully one of them.

And yet, on nights like this, she felt like nothing more than a shadow in their light.

The Winter Solstice was supposed to be a night of warmth, of celebration. Feyre’s birthday. Nyx’s first Solstice. Laughter echoed through the River House, wine flowed freely, and presents piled under the silver-bowed tree. Everyone had someone.

Feyre with her beloved High Lord.

Nesta pressed into Cassian’s side, her sharpness softened by his fire.

Even Mor laughed in the arms of a new lover. Even Amren, for all her ancient strangeness, had someone who made her smile.

And she… she had no one.

No one except the wine in her glass and the ache in her chest.

Her eyes flicked across the room, as they always did, as if drawn by something beyond her control—and found him. Azriel. Shadowsinger. The male who had unknowingly stolen her soul the first time he looked at her and smiled like she was something seen.

Her mate.

Only he didn’t know.

Because the Cauldron, in its cruel sense of humor, had fated her to love a male who loved someone else.

Azriel’s eyes followed Elain across the room the way gravity pulls tides—inevitable and unrelenting. The tension between them had been thick for years now, unspoken but felt by everyone. Especially her.

It didn’t help that she had overheard them, last Solstice. A quiet conversation not meant for her ears. Rhysand, voice like velvet steel, had spoken first.

"Elain is Lucien’s. Not yours to claim. And there is also one more Archeron sister.”

A pause. A silence heavy enough to choke.

Then Azriel’s low reply:

“She’s not really one of them. Only half. And she’s… young. Too young.”

It had gutted her. Still did. And she had never said a word.

So tonight she sat quietly, wine in hand, a polite smile etched across her face like a mask as Azriel helped Elain set the table. Their fingers brushed once, and she swore she could feel it—a phantom pain through the bond neither of them had acknowledged.

And when he looked at Elain like that—like she hung the damn stars—she wondered if the bond was broken, or if it had only ever existed on her side.

But then something shifted.

Something deep and bitter and bold.

Because when she looked across the room at her sister and the male who was supposed to be hers, she didn’t feel sorrow.

She felt rage.

And power.

No. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any of them.

Let them have their Solstice, their perfect little lives.

She was done shrinking herself to make others comfortable. If heartbreak made her cruel, then so be it. If bitterness made her dangerous, then let them be afraid.

She was no sweet dream.

She was a hell of a night.

And from this night forward, she would no longer smile when she didn’t feel like it. Would no longer force kindness where it wasn’t earned. She could be warm, yes—but she could be brutal, too. She could be a sanctuary. Or a storm.

And anyone who tried to define her by blood or bond?

They’d learn—the hard way—what it meant to be the sister no one chose.

Because now?

She was choosing herself.