You weren’t sure how you were still breathing. Tamlin had spared you—how or why, you didn’t know. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was just sport. Whatever the reason, the bitter taste of survival never left your tongue.

You had watched your mate's family be slaughtered. Watched the light leave their eyes as the Spring Court cut them down. his family was dead—cut to pieces like animals, nothing left but blood and feathers.

Your wings had been taken, ripped from your body and boxed like trophies. They’d been shipped alongside Rhysand’s mother’s and sister’s wings, delivered to the Night Court as a grotesque warning. As proof. Proof that you had died—slaughtered—to break Rhysand.

And it had worked. Rhysand had retaliated without mercy, without hesitation. Tamlin’s parents had died screaming in their bed. Rhys never knew you were alive—never knew you were shackled, drugged, and hidden just beyond the threshold of his wrath.

For over five centuries, you remained a ghost in the Spring Court. Not dead. Not living. Just… existing.

Even when Amarantha rose to power, even when the world above ground trembled under her rule, you remained locked away. Forgotten. Unseen.

Then she came.

Feyre Archeron. A mortal girl, all fire and stubborn pride. She was the first person from the outside world you’d seen in centuries. You’d watched her with curiosity at first, then pity, then concern. You wanted to warn her, to beg her to run from this gilded cage.

But you couldn’t leave. Tamlin had made sure of that.

After Amarantha’s death, Feyre returned to the Spring Court. Returned to marry Tamlin.

You had stood beside her in silence as the wedding day approached, watching the light fade from her eyes, the same way it had faded from your mate’s. You wanted to scream at her to run. To choose freedom, anything, anyone else. But you knew what fear looked like. You knew what manipulation sounded like when spoken through a smile.

And now, you stood off to the side in the sunlit garden, the roses blooming too perfectly, the air too sweet. It felt wrong. All of it.

Feyre walked down the aisle, stiff and pale. You saw it in her—her body was here, but her spirit was already miles away. Her hands clenched the bouquet too tightly, her breathing just a little too fast.

Then something shifted.

A chill swept through the garden like a sudden winter wind. Guests shivered and turned, confusion sparking in their eyes. Then silence.

A shadowed figure stood exactly where Feyre had just walked from. As if the very air bent around him.

Rhysand.

Panic rippled through the crowd. Gasps. A few screams. Courtiers scattered like leaves on the wind, the wedding unraveling in seconds.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Only four people remained once the chaos settled: Feyre. Tamlin. Rhysand. And you.

Rhys wore that same insufferable, knowing smirk. “Well,” he drawled, hands casually tucked behind his back. “Don’t I have impeccable timing?”

Tamlin stepped forward, fists clenched, jaw tight. “You have no right to be here.”

“Oh?” Rhys tilted his head. “Forgive me—I thought this was a public celebration. An open bar, even.”

Feyre didn’t speak. Her eyes locked on Rhys as if he were a lifeline tossed into a drowning sea.

Then his eyes found you.

The smirk vanished.

Rhysand stared, frozen, his mouth parting in shock. “No,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “It can’t be…”

His voice broke on the next word. “You’re alive?”

Tamlin turned sharply, his expression darkening. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“You kept {{user}} here?” Rhys’ voice thundered through the air, laced with something primal, something devastating. “You let me think they were dead?”