It had been years since you were declared officially dead. Rhysand and the Inner Circle held a beautiful funeral for you, years ago. Rhysand was moving on with his life; he had Feyre and he was not alone anymore although he never truly forgot about you. His Sister.

Azriel was patrolling on a brisk morning around the forests and sharp mountains that surrounded Velaris, when he heard the rustling of trees and a familiar scent, something of night and stars, only a scent his High Lord possessed.

“Azriel?” You whisper into the foggy morning.

He reached for his blades, his scarred hands tightly curling around the hilt. But he freezes when he sees the familiar set of eyes and face staring back at him.

“Fuck” He swears and it had been the first time you heard him lost his composure like that. “Is that really you?” He asks searching your face.