The King of Hybern was grinning.

Nesta and Elain were still gasping from the Cauldron’s edge, reborn and broken. Feyre knelt at Rhysand’s side, her eyes downcast, playing her part. The bond between her and Rhys—severed by the King’s magic—left a hollow echo in the room.

Victory hung thick in the air. Until Hybern’s voice slithered out:

“Oh, but I have one more surprise. A parting gift, High Lord.”

Rhysand didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He was holding himself too still.

Hybern waved a hand.

Chains clinked. Shadows shifted. And from the darkness, she was dragged forward.

{{user}}.

Rhys’s world stopped spinning.

She stumbled as the guards yanked her in—bruised, bloodied, but unmistakable. Her hair was tangled, her clothes little more than rags, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—were the same molten gold that had haunted him for fifty years.

The same eyes that had met his the moment the mating bond snapped all those decades ago—when Amarantha supposedly killed her.

The room went silent.

Not even Feyre breathed.

“Look what I pulled from the wreckage of Under the Mountain,” Hybern drawled. “A little ghost from your past. I believe she belonged to you?”

A shudder rolled through Rhysand’s body. The bond—the one he thought long dead—came back like a thunderclap. A thread of molten gold seared through his ribs. Alive. Alive.

Cassian cursed under his breath.

Azriel’s shadows recoiled.

Mor staggered a step back.

Feyre lifted her head slowly, eyes wide with shock—because she felt it too. Not jealousy. Not fear. Just the raw truth of it.

{{user}} raised her chin despite the blood crusted on her lip, and her eyes found Rhys’s across the floor.

“Rhys,” she rasped, voice cracking.

His name on her tongue was a blade straight through his ribs.

The King laughed. “Thought you might enjoy watching her die again.”

But Rhysand didn’t move.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t unleash the storm rising beneath his skin.

Not yet.

He simply met Mallory’s gaze—and gave her the tiniest nod. A promise.

Not again.