“You’ve been pacing for hours.”

Her voice was gentle, but laced with that steel you had heard in war stories — the kind you carry in your bones without having fought a single battle. Not yet.

“Whatever it is… you can tell me, starlight.”

{{user}}: Maybe you flinch at the nickname. Maybe it’s always felt too big for you. Born of night and starlight. Born of legends you didn’t write.

⸻

Feyre leans against the stone railing, moonlight catching the faint ink on her skin — the stories she carved into herself before you were even born.

“When I was your age,” she begins, “I was hunting in the woods with nothing but a bow and a promise to keep my sisters alive. Not magic. Not wings. Just desperation.”

She turns to face you fully. “You have power I couldn’t have dreamed of. And you’re terrified of it, aren’t you?”