The wind carried whispers through the towering mountains of Velaris, shadows curling along the cliffs like sentries. You stood at the edge of the Sidra River, the city’s twinkling lights reflecting in its gentle currents. Even in the peace of the night, something in your bones told you you weren’t alone.

The war had taken its toll. On your sisters. On Prythian. On you.

Feyre had adapted to this new world with Rhysand. Nesta, despite her rage, found her place with Cassian. Elain, delicate as she was, had still settled into the quiet corners of her new existence. But you? You were still untethered. Still searching.

It was in that silence that you felt him.

Not with sound—Azriel made none. Not with sight—his shadows concealed him too well. But with something deeper. A prickle along your skin. A presence in your mind that whispered of patience, of vigilance, of storm-hidden truths.

You turned your head slightly, catching the barest hint of movement in the dark. A figure, half-swallowed by night, with wings like obsidian and a presence like a storm about to break.

Azriel.

You knew of him, of course. The spymaster of the Night Court. Rhysand’s blade in the dark. A male of few words but countless secrets. And yet, standing here beneath the stars, it was not his reputation that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the way the night itself seemed to bend around him, as if it obeyed his command.

“{{user}},” he finally spoke, low and even, voice brushing your thoughts like smoke over water. “You’re far from the city tonight.”

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat, keeping your voice calm. “I could ask you the same, Azriel. But I suppose you have your reasons.”

His wings shifted slightly, catching the faint light of Velaris and revealing only enough to confirm he was real. “I have many reasons,” he said. “Some of them you wouldn’t like to hear.”

“Try me,” you challenged, though your fingers tightened on your cloak.

He stepped closer, shadows pooling around his feet, curling toward you like cautious tendrils. “I didn’t come to speak of the war or of court politics. I came because... I’ve been watching.” His eyes, dark and unreadable, held yours with an intensity that made the air between you taut.

“Watching?” you echoed, suspicion prickling at the edges of your mind. “And why would you do that?”

“Because,” he said softly, and the word carried a weight that made your chest tighten, “you’ve been untethered for far too long. You don’t belong lost in your own city.”

A breeze carried the scent of the river up to you, and you could feel his shadows shift with it, whispering around your ankles. “And what do you expect me to do about it?” you asked, your tone sharper than intended.

“Nothing yet,” he admitted, voice almost a caress against the quiet night. “But I needed you to know that you’re not alone. Even if the world thinks you are.”

You stared at him, this man of darkness and secrets, and felt the tiniest pull of understanding. Here, in the folds of night and river mist, there was an unspoken truth between you: some bonds didn’t need words. Some truths didn’t need light.

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant lapping of water and the soft hum of the city. And for the first time in a long while, you felt the smallest ember of grounding, as if the storm he carried could somehow shelter you too.