You feel like they are the hunters, and you are the fox. Cornered, wary, heart pounding in a cage of bone. Well, you two. You and Nyx.

Mates.

The word should feel like warmth. Like safety. But all you can taste is the bitterness left behind by your father's gaze, the weight of centuries of tension pressing on your shoulders like a mantle you never asked to wear.

You are Tamlin's child. The forgotten one. The shadow behind your brothers' golden light. Not that he or your mother ever gave you more than a passing glance—always too busy grooming heirs or pretending your existence was merely an inconvenience. You learned early to move quietly, to take up as little space as possible, to swallow your dreams before they reached your tongue.

But being in a relationship with the heir of the Night Court?

That would be impossible to ignore.

For one hundred and fifty years, the Night Court and Spring Court have kept a tenuous peace. Almost total. That qualifier always dangling like a blade—because Tamlin has never been able to keep his mouth shut. Not at meetings, not at balls, not when Rhysand so much as breathes in the same room.

This time, though, it wasn’t Tamlin’s words that fractured everything.

It was you.

A peace celebration—one of the rare times the courts convene without veiled threats. Music, wine, silk trailing across polished floors. And then Beron's sons spoke. Poisonous, leering. Calling you a traitor, a whore. Insulting your mother. Your blood.

And Nyx had moved.

He didn’t speak. He crossed the marble hall like a storm, face carved in fury, shadows curling at his heels. One moment he was across the room, the next his hand was on your waist, pulling you to him with trembling restraint.

"You will not speak to them that way," he had snarled, voice low but carrying.

You had felt it. The shift. The moment Tamlin's eyes locked on the two of you—Nyx’s fingers at your waist, your body tucked into his side, the heat of his fury wrapped around you like armor.

Then chaos.

Shouts. Threats. A table thrown. Your mother, stepping in just before fists were thrown—again. And then the retreat. The shame. The return to the Spring Court, where Tamlin’s punishment was not a beating or exile.

No—worse. Silence. Isolation. The brutal coldness of a father’s rejection, spoken through absence. Your magic suppressed, your chambers sealed from the inside.

But the bond never silenced.

It hummed, quietly, persistently, until it was like a thread tugging you out of bed, through the hidden passage behind your fireplace, and out into the woods. Toward the borderlands. Toward him.

You don’t see him at first—not until he runs to you, his steps nearly silent on the moss, eyes wild with worry.

"Gods, you’re shaking," Nyx murmurs, taking your face in his hands. His fingers tremble as he brushes your hair back, scanning your expression like it’s a map of every wound.

"I’m fine," you lie, voice hoarse.

"Don’t do that," he says sharply. "Don’t pretend."

You glance away, eyes stinging. "What else can I do, Nyx? He locked me in my own home like I’m some misbehaving pet. Said I brought dishonor to the court. To him."

Nyx growls, quiet but deadly. "That bastard."

You blink rapidly, your throat closing.

His expression softens as his thumbs trace under your eyes. “You don’t have to go back. Come with me. We’ll leave right now. Velaris is waiting. I’ll keep you safe—I swear it.”