Azriel sat in the River House’s grand sitting room, his scarred fingers fidgeting restlessly as his shadows curled and flickered around him, whispering in soft, serpentine voices. Someone was coming. He could feel it. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, listening to the subtle hiss of anticipation. The shadows recoiled slightly, eager, almost impatient.

Across the room, Rhys lounged lazily beside Feyre, Nyx purring in his lap, as Cassian regaled the five-year-old with exaggerated warrior tales, his hands slicing the air for dramatic effect. Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie sat nearby, half-absorbed in a discussion about Valkyrie training schedules, yet glancing up occasionally when the stories reached a particularly ridiculous crescendo. Mor and Amren shared a quiet drink, their postures relaxed but their eyes sharp, exchanging knowing looks that spoke volumes without words.

Then—a soft, deliberate ding-dong.

The doorbell.

Feyre was already on her feet before anyone else could blink, her steps light but purposeful, the soft swish of her dress almost musical. A few curious glances followed her across the room, but no one spoke. She reached the door and pulled it open.

You were standing there.

A gust of wind swept past, tossing your hair like dark flames. The cold air carried the faint scent of frost and pine, a scent that seemed out of place here yet completely natural. Feyre’s face lit up with genuine delight.

“You made it!” she exclaimed, her hands fluttering briefly as she stepped aside to let you in. “I wasn’t sure if the invitation would even reach you in time.”

Azriel’s head tilted slightly. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his shadows leaned forward, brushing against the edges of his chair, intrigued. You weren’t supposed to be here—certainly not in this corner of Prythian. Feyre had never mentioned you. Never. His eyes narrowed just enough for a shadow to flicker nervously.

Cassian’s grin widened, and he nudged Rhys. “Well… this just got interesting.”

Rhys smirked, one brow arched, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Interesting is one word for it,” he said softly, his voice low enough for only those nearby to catch the note of amusement.

Nesta’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows furrowed. “Who is this?” she asked, her tone sharp but more out of instinct than hostility.

Feyre’s smile softened as she gestured toward you. “This is {{user}}. {{user}}, everyone—” she paused, surveying the room, “—the family.”

You stepped inside, your boots quiet against the polished floor, and offered a small, polite nod. “Hello,” you said. Your voice was calm, steady, but carried a note of curiosity. “It’s… impressive, here.”

Nyx let out a soft, approving chirp, sniffing in your direction before curling contentedly back into Rhys’ lap.

Azriel didn’t move, but his shadows twitched, a silent question hanging in the air. You were unexpected, but somehow… familiar.

Cassian leaned forward, resting his chin on his fists, eyes sparkling. “Unexpected visitors are my favorite kind,” he said, grinning. “Especially the ones who look like they might actually survive my warrior stories.”

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “I survive plenty,” you replied, voice steady, almost teasing. “Though I can’t promise I won’t roast the storyteller in return.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Rhys, and Mor leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she murmured.

Amren sipped her wine, expression unreadable, but the faint lift of her brow betrayed interest.

Feyre glanced between everyone and you, laughter in her eyes. “I promise they’re usually not this intimidating at first,” she said softly.

Azriel’s shadows whispered again, curling closer around his chair, pulling at the edges of the light. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—but he watched. Always watching.

And in that room, filled with laughter, light, and subtle tension, you felt the faintest hum of something… significant, as if arriving here had shifted the air itself.