After the war and the transformation of Feyre’s sisters, life in Prythian began to settle, creeping back toward something that resembled normalcy. For most, it was a fragile but welcome peace. But not for you. You were the fourth Archeron sibling—one who was never meant to exist.

Born at the same time as Feyre, your arrival in the mortal realm was anything but ordinary. The midwife, her face paling at the sight of your bluish skin, whispered that you were stillborn. Without a second thought, you were discarded in the forest, left to the mercy of the elements. Yet, even against such odds, you survived.

It was the Night Court that found you, shrouded in mist and moonlight, and saw something the mortal world could not. When the Cauldron deemed it so, you were remade—transformed into High Fae, your human ties severed before they could even begin. Raised in the shadows of Velaris, you learned its rhythms, its quiet magic, and its people. Among them, Azriel.

It was Azriel who became your anchor in a world that often felt unanchored. His presence was steady, a constant beneath the ever-shifting skies of your life. And in the quiet of shared solitude, the bond between you revealed itself: mates.

Now, just two weeks after Nesta and Elain’s rebirth as High Fae, a tension lingers in the air—soft, unspoken, and impossible to ignore. Change hums around you, like the low vibration of a string pulled taut. Azriel, as always, moves to your side without ceremony. Tonight, he is quiet, his hands moving with a practiced ease as they weave through your hair, twisting strands into intricate patterns, braids that seem to echo the rhythms of your heartbeat.

“Do you think you’re ready to see your sisters?” he asks softly, his voice low, careful. There’s a trace of curiosity there—subtle, but undeniable.