You had become a tool, a pawn in Amarantha’s games. Ten years under the Mountain, and to save your family, you struck a bargain: your freedom in exchange for serving as her bodyguard. Sharing this burden with the High Lord of the Night Court, though thankfully, servicing her in her bed was not part of your duties. Still, it didn’t ease the weight of watching Rhysand endure it. The flicker of resignation in his eyes every time he was summoned to her chambers lingered with you long after he passed through the door.

The days stretched endlessly, the nights even longer. The only reprieve came during her endless parties, when you could steal a moment to eat or sleep. But you noticed her obsession with Rhysand—her favorite plaything, her puppet. He hated her; it was written in every sharp line of his face. But what Amarantha didn’t know was the bond tying the two of you together: you were his mate.

Rhysand had known from the moment he saw you, but he kept it hidden, a secret locked deep within him. Perhaps it was to protect you. Perhaps it was fear of what Amarantha might do if she found out. Yet, in the shadows of her dominion, he always found his way back to you.

On rare nights, when Amarantha was distracted, he would appear, leaning casually against a wall, his violet eyes softened only for you. “You holding up?” he’d murmur, his voice a balm in this cursed place.

One night, before heading to her chambers, he stopped in front of you. His usual mask of indifference faltered, revealing a sliver of something raw, something real. “I wish it could be different,” he whispered. “I wish we could be far from here.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers against yours—a fleeting touch no one else would notice. But to you, it was everything.

Rhysand endured her for you, fought for you in silence, and in those quiet moments together, it was enough to remind you both of what waited beyond the Mountain. Freedom—and each other.