Nyx stood at the doorway of your townhouse in Velaris, the morning sun gilding his wings with threads of gold. He was dressed in Illyrian leathers, sword strapped to his back, and a storm of emotion clouding his violet eyes.

Two months.

Two whole months in the Illyrian steppes on a reconnaissance mission for the Court—tracking growing unrest, dealing with old rivalries, and ensuring the safety of the warriors under his command. He’d argued against being gone that long, had tried to refuse the assignment, but as High Lord, it was his duty.

Nyx cradled your face in his hands. “I don’t want to leave you. But I have to make sure things stay calm out there before they spiral.”

“I don’t care about the steppes, Nyx. I care about you.” Your voice cracked. “I care about the way the bond goes silent when you’re in danger. I care about what happens if you don’t come back.”

He leaned in and kissed you—deep and slow, like he wanted to burn the feeling of you into every corner of his soul.

“I’ll come back to you. I swear it.” He rested his forehead against yours. “The bond will always lead me home. To you.”

And with one last lingering look, he spread his wings and took off into the skies.

⸻ The first few days were agony.

You buried yourself in work, in training, in anything that could drown out the emptiness gnawing at you. You avoided your shared bedroom, the one that still smelled like him. You wore one of his shirts to sleep, just to trick your mind into thinking he was near.

The bond between you tugged faintly in your chest—quiet and distant, like the soft flicker of a candle in a far-off tower. You could feel when he was exhausted. When he was frustrated. When he missed you.

And gods, did he miss you. ⸻ By the time the eighth week arrived, you’d stopped pretending you were fine. You missed him too much. Everything ached.

And then—one morning—it happened.

You were standing at the balcony when the bond lit up like wildfire. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He was close.

You ran outside barefoot, breath catching in your throat.

And there—descending from the sky with worn wings and a tired smile—was Nyx.

You barely gave him time to land before you were in his arms, sobbing, kissing every inch of his face.

“I hate the Illyrian steppes,” you murmured against his mouth.

He laughed, hoarse and broken. “Same. Let’s never do this again.”