Nyx is your mate. But with the war still churning in the distance, he’s chosen not to act on the bond—not yet. He’s hidden it with a glamour, masking the pull so you won’t feel it. Still, he can’t help himself. He’s always near, always watching, always one step behind you in ways that are starting to draw attention. The Inner Circle has noticed—his hovering presence, the way his eyes never quite leave you.

“You know you don’t have to do this. There are more than enough scribes and servants for that,” Nyx muses, leaning against the grand archway of the House of Wind’s towering library. His voice is casual, but there’s that familiar edge of tension—restraint.

You glance up from the dusty stack of ancient tomes you were organising, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “I wanted to,” you reply simply, placing another book on the table for sorting.

Nyx strides forward, the scent of cedar and crisp wind trailing behind him. His shadows curl low at his feet, as if unwilling to leave him—always watchful. “Then let me help, at least.” He holds out a hand for the heavy stack you were about to lift, his fingers brushing yours longer than necessary.