The night wrapped itself in velvet hush, stars bleeding silver into the high winds that curled around the House of Wind. The city below was nothing but soft light and sleeping breath. But up here, on the terrace, the world seemed to be holding itself still.

You stood in the doorway, armor half-fastened, fingers clumsy where the buckles refused to catch. Not from inexperience—this wasn’t your first war—but from the weight of what lay ahead. The mission. The kind that changed the shape of futures. Your hands shook despite yourself, and the leather straps slipped once more.

He was already waiting. Nyx stood at the edge of the terrace, the wind tugging at his dark hair, moonlight gilding the sharp lines of his face. He hadn’t turned, but you knew he felt you—like a string pulled taut between you both, thrumming with every heartbeat.

You stepped forward, boots whispering against stone, and when your breath caught on the last buckle, Nyx finally turned.

His eyes softened instantly. No shadows of doubt, no cold distance—just warmth, like he’d been carved from the very hearthfire inside the House. Without a word, he crossed to you, closing the space with the surety of someone who had always known where you belonged.

His fingers brushed yours as he took over the task, steady where you trembled. He fastened each buckle with practiced ease, but his touch lingered, knuckles grazing your skin as though grounding you was as vital as securing your armor.

When he finished, he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he tugged gently at your hair. “Sit,” he murmured. Not an order. A promise.

So you did, lowering yourself to the stone steps, knees drawn close as the cold nipped at your face. He knelt behind you, his presence wrapping around you like another layer of armor. His fingers wove through your hair with surprising gentleness, gathering and twisting with deliberate care.

Every pull, every turn was steady—like he was braiding not just strands but prayers, protection, pieces of himself into the braid. The rhythm was unhurried, tender, each movement a vow: Come back to me. Always.

The wind teased loose strands, carrying the mingled scent of leather and cedar and the faint spice that was only him. His warmth pressed close at your back, an anchor against the vastness of the night.

When he tied the braid off, you felt it immediately—the scrap of leather wasn’t from your own gear. It was his. Worn, familiar. A piece of him to take with you.

Nyx leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of your head for a lingering moment, before rising and helping you to your feet. His hand lingered in yours, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.