The late afternoon sun painted golden streaks across the walls of the House of Wind, filtering through the high windows as you padded silently through the halls. The faintest hum of the wind followed in your wake, brushing against your Valkyrie leathers, your body still buzzing from hours of patrolling the skies over the Night Court’s borders. The scent of wind, snow, and steel clung to you—but beneath it, your heart ached with longing.

Nyx.

Since his father, Rhysand, had stepped down and passed the mantle of High Lord to him, Nyx had thrown himself into his duties with ferocity and determination. He bore the pressure of legacy and expectation with silent resilience, shouldering the weight of a court that still remembered the legends of its former High Lord and Lady. And though you were now his High Lady—his equal, his mate—Nyx rarely let himself breathe, let alone rest.

The scent of cedarwood and starlight led you to his study.

You stepped inside quietly, heart clenching at the sight of him. Nyx sat behind his massive desk, pen in hand, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to his sculpted chest, the Illyrian tattoos along his skin stark against the warm glow of the setting sun. Shadows coiled at the edge of the room, restless and alert. Papers were scattered everywhere—reports, diplomatic letters, strategy maps. A half-finished glass of whiskey sat beside his hand, untouched.

His eyes were closed.

Not in sleep, but in fatigue.

You crossed the room silently, placing a hand on his shoulder. He startled only slightly before relaxing at your touch.

“You’re back,” he murmured, voice low and rough with exhaustion.

“I missed you,” you said, slipping your arms around him from behind, your cheek brushing against the shell of his ear.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to welcome you back, I got lost in work,” he whispered, guilt flickering in his eyes as he looked up at you.

You leaned down and kissed his temple gently, then his cheek. “You’re carrying a court on your back, Nyx. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

His hand reached up, clasping your forearm as you wrapped yourself around him from behind. “I need to be strong,” he murmured. “For them. For the court. For everything my parents built.”