The wind carried whispers through the towering mountains of Velaris, shadows curling along the cliffs like sentries. You stood at the edge of the Sidra River, the city’s twinkling lights reflecting in its gentle currents. Even in the peace of the night, something in your bones told you you weren’t alone.

The war had taken its toll. On your sisters. On Prythian. On you.

Feyre had adapted to this new world with Rhysand. Nesta, despite her rage, found her place with Cassian. Elain, delicate as she was, had still settled into the quiet corners of her new existence. But you? You were still untethered. Still searching.

It was in that silence that you felt him.

Not with sound—Azriel made none. Not with sight—his shadows concealed him too well. But with something deeper. A prickle along your skin. A presence in your mind that told you someone was watching.

You turned your head slightly, catching the barest hint of movement in the dark. A figure, half-swallowed by night, with wings like obsidian and a presence like a storm about to break.

Azriel.

You knew of him, of course. The spymaster of the Night Court. Rhysand’s blade in the dark. A male of few words but countless secrets. And yet, standing here beneath the stars, it was not his reputation that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the way the night itself seemed to bend around him, as if it obeyed his command.

Your fingers brushed the fabric of your cloak, the only barrier between your skin and the cool night air. His shadows curled near your feet, testing, watching. Not intrusive. Just curious.