You’d both sworn oaths beneath starlight.

High Lord. High Lady. Bound not just by the mating bond, but by power, by responsibility, by the very magic of the Night Court itself.

Nyx had kissed your knuckles before he left for the Illyrian camps, murmuring, “I’ll only be gone a few days.” His wings brushed against your back as he added, “Stay in Velaris. Please.”

You had nodded, kissed him goodbye—and lied.

The whispers from the Court of Nightmares had reached your ears almost the same day he left. Dissatisfaction, defiance, a few old noble houses testing the new regime, hoping they could still play their sick little games with fear and manipulation.

You didn’t wait for his return. You were High Lady. You were enough.

So you descended into the Hewn City alone. You wore midnight and power like armor, your eyes sharp, voice colder than the stone halls as you reasserted what had already been decided: they answer to you now. And Nyx. But mostly you. Because you had been patient enough.

And the Court of Nightmares learned—brutally, elegantly—what it meant to defy the High Lady.

But it cost you. Magic, energy, control. By the time you winnowed back to Velaris, your hands shook. You said nothing to anyone, just drifted through the River House in silence, heading straight for the bath.

It was where Nyx found you.

He stepped into the quiet room without a word. The scent of cedar and storm clung to him—he hadn’t even changed out of his armor. His boots were muddy. His hair windblown. But his eyes—

His eyes were locked on you.

You sat in the bath, barely keeping your head upright, the steaming water lapping at your collarbones. The glow of your magic had dimmed to embers. Your lips parted in a slow breath, not even surprised he was there.

“You’re back,” you murmured.

“I came back early.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Cassian sent word. Said you went to Hewn City alone.”

You looked away, the marble rim of the tub cool beneath your cheek. “It needed to be handled.”

“And you decided to bleed yourself dry to do it?” His tone frayed with fury—no, not fury. Fear.

You said nothing.

In three long strides, he was at your side, kneeling beside the bath. His fingers reached for yours under the water—gentle, trembling, reverent.

“I should have been here,” he breathed, burying his face in your hair. “You shouldn’t have done this alone.”

“You’re not always going to be here, Nyx,” you murmured.

“No,” he agreed, lips brushing your temple. “But you shouldn’t have to burn yourself to keep others warm.”