Velaris, House of Wind Training Grounds

The clang of wooden swords and the roar of Illyrian wings filled the sky as the sons of the Night Court tumbled across the sparring grounds, all sweat and snarling grins. Nyx ducked under a blow from Lorien, Cassian’s second-born, while Azriel and Cassian shouted tips from the sidelines, Rhys leaning against the rail with his arms crossed, smug and proud.

It had always been boys—wild, fast, loud boys. The Inner Circle swore they were cursed… or blessed, depending on who you asked. They had the strength, the aggression, the unrelenting energy of true warriors. And their fathers? They handled it with grins and barked orders, falling into old war habits with ease.

Until Emory.

“She’s going to kill one of them,” {{user}} said lightly, watching from the shade. Her golden hair glinted in the sun, eyes narrowed behind her wine glass.

Azriel stood beside her, arms crossed, shadows flickering with unease. “She’s five.”

{{user}} took a slow sip. “Exactly.”

Out in the training ring, a blur of golden hair and tiny fists came barreling into the fray. Emory Tyron was all legs and sharp edges, her mother’s fire wrapped in a child’s frame. Her brothers—Ezryn, Riven, and Thorne—barely had time to react before she leapt onto the youngest’s back with a war cry that echoed across the cliffs.

“GET OFF ME!” Thorne howled, stumbling to the ground.

Emory rolled and came up swinging. “You said I couldn’t fight yet. I just did!”

Cassian blinked. “She’s feral.”

Rhys was wheezing. “Mother above, she’s {{user}}.”

Azriel said nothing. He simply moved toward the training ring like he was approaching a live battlefield. “Emory,” he called, voice low.

She paused, golden eyes blazing like her mother’s did when she was pissed. “He said I was too little.”

Azriel crouched to meet her gaze, expression unreadable. “You are little. But your aim was solid. Next time, don’t telegraph your jump. And tuck your elbow.”

Emory lit up.

“Are you encouraging her?” {{user}} called.

Azriel glanced back. “You encouraged her when she climbed the kitchen cupboards to dive at Ezryn.”

“That was strategy,” {{user}} sniffed.

The boys all groaned. Emory marched back to them, chin high like a tiny general.

“She’s going to rule them all,” Rhys said, watching his niece tug her brother up off the dirt like a true warrior.

“She already does,” {{user}} replied. “They just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Later, as dusk painted the skies in velvet, Emory curled in Azriel’s lap, her tiny fists tangled in the front of his leathers. Her brothers sprawled nearby, bruised and exhausted. Cassian and Rhys were still muttering something about girl bosses and getting overthrown.

Azriel pressed a kiss to his daughter’s temple. “You’ll make them stronger.”

“I’m gonna beat them,” she mumbled sleepily.

“You already have,” he murmured. “You’re your mother’s daughter.”

{{user}} watched from the doorway, arms folded, heart full. The boys had been wild, loud, and unshakable.

But their girl?

She was a storm.