Nyx rarely got sick — his Illyrian blood, combined with his High Fae resilience, made sure of that. But even the son of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court wasn’t invincible. Today, however, he looked very much mortal.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn to block out the harsh winter light streaming over the Sidra. The usual scent of cedar and midnight mist that clung to him was dulled by fever and exhaustion. As you stepped in, quiet as a whisper, the first thing you saw were Nyx’s wings—normally proud and regal, now drooping limply over the side of the bed.

He stirred at the sound of your footsteps, his violet eyes fluttering open, glassy with heat.

You found him curled up in the massive bed you shared, wings tucked in tight, hair damp with fever-sweat, and a scowl on his face that deepened the moment he saw the tray of soup you carried in.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, voice raspy and barely above a whisper.