The war with Hybern had left the world in shambles. Its toll was beyond words. Thousands had perished, entire armies reduced to whispers of what they once were, and the Courts of Prythian had nearly bled themselves dry to put an end to Hybern’s reign.

You knew all too well how devastating the aftermath had been—because you’d lived it. Fought through it. Side by side with the Night Court on the front lines. But it was the loss in the Illyrian territories that cut the deepest. They’d been gutted—whole villages wiped away, bloodlines severed. And though Prythian was supposed to be in the process of healing—and it was—you had never felt more hollow, more adrift.

You'd tried to hide your grief in the weeks that followed, tried to keep the mask intact. But the cracks had started to show. Rhysand noticed, of course. He always noticed. And he refused to let you fade into yourself. That’s why he sent you and Azriel to Windhaven—to check on the Illyrians, to bear witness to their mourning, to maybe find some footing of your own in the process.

It was supposed to help.

But standing there, watching them—bitter, broken, burning with the weight of all they’d lost—you only felt yourself unraveling further.