Years after the final battles, the Inner Circle gathered in the House of Wind's library. The fire crackled as Feyre shuffled cards, her son Nyx—now in his eighties—joining the familiar game. Cassian lounged with his feet on the table, while Azriel watched with a subtle smile, as his daughter, {{user}}, in her seventies smiled at a joke.

Mor’s laughter rang out as she playfully teased Amren, who observed with a critical eye. Rhysand, leaning against the mantle, watched with a contented smile, seeing the interaction between his mate, Feyre and his son, Nyx, appreciating the enduring bond of his family and the legacy embodied by Nyx.

Everyone had just finished their dinner, now sat around the lounge space, everyone accept Nyx and {{user}} had a glass of wine, {{user}} and Nyx being teens by the immortal standards of the Fae, Nyx, eighty, and {{user}} seventy

Azriel sits down next to you, minding the leathery bat wings you inherited from him, before speaking "having fun?"