The House of Wind loomed above Velaris, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. The wind howled around the cliffs as you stood at the balcony’s edge, arms crossed, watching the city below with a guarded expression. Rhysand had flown you here. It had taken Feyre two weeks of careful persuasion—two weeks of quiet reassurances and relentless insistence—that the Inner Circle was not like the monsters you had faced Under the Mountain. You weren’t so sure. You had died screaming beneath Amarantha’s hands. Had felt your life bleed out onto the stone. Had woken up something other—something not quite mortal, not quite anything you recognized. And now you were expected to sit at a table full of strangers who served a High Lord you meant to fear? Who had power that could just as easily be turned against you? Still, Feyre was your cousin. And though you didn’t know who you were anymore, you knew one thing: you would not leave Feyre to face this world alone.