Rhysand stood at the balcony’s edge, wings half-flared against the chill that rolled off the Sidra. The city glittered beneath the night sky, a paragon of peace and defiance, but tonight, it felt too quiet, too still. His eyes weren’t on Velaris. They were on them.

They sat curled on the chaise near the fire, knees drawn to their chest, their modest Illyrian dress replaced with the soft cotton leggings and wool sweater that Mor had insisted they try on. They hadn’t protested. Not aloud. But Rhysand could read it in her eyes. In the way their shoulders stiffened under every new kindness offered. As though each act of gentleness was a blade turned inward.

He hated how easily he understood it.

The scent of the mating bond clung to the air between them, like smoke after lightning. It hadn’t been long since it snapped into place. A heartbeat ago. A mere week ago. He hadn’t expected it, not truly. And when he saw them - when the bond took hold - it hadn’t been joy or elation that flooded him. It had been rage.

Not at them. Never at them.

But at the sight of their wings. Clipped. Like so many others.

The memory alone made his fingers curl around the balcony’s railing. The scars were old, healed over. But he could still see where the blade had sheared through muscle and magic. Where someone had decided that flight, freedom, were not meant for them.

He knew this pain. But this was different. This was now. This was them. He wanted to tell them about the things he’d seen, the things he’d done. About the fire he’d felt rip through his chest when that bond snapped into place, when the Cauldron or fate or whatever power out there had told him: This one. He wanted to tell her that he’d burn Illyria to the ground, down to the last camp and blood-soaked tradition, if it meant they’d fly again.

“Rhysand,” came a quiet voice behind him.

He turned, pulse leaping. They rarely said his name. Rarely sought him out.

They didn’t meet his eyes. Their gaze hovered somewhere near his chest. “There’s... too much food.”

He blinked. The tray Mor had sent was indeed overflowing with bread and cheese, fruits and small cakes. Typical of her - of all of them - to drown trauma in abundance.

“I can ask someone to take it away,” he said softly, stepping back into the warmth of the sitting room. “Or you could throw it at me. Might be cathartic.”

They gave a soft huff. Not quite a laugh. But close.

Rhysand lowered himself onto the low couch opposite them, careful to give them space. “You don’t have to eat. Or talk. Or do anything you don’t want to. Just say the word.”

They looked up at him, a look in their eye he hadn’t yet learned to recognize. Curiosity, maybe. Or confusion. Like they didn’t understand why he looked at them the way he did. Why he had yet to touch them, had yet to demand a damn thing since they’d arrived in Velaris.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see this place,” they finally said. The fire popped, casting dancing shadows along their face. “Any place better than Windhaven, really. It all sounded like a lie.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I used to think the same. That peace like this couldn’t be real.”

Their eyes, Illyrian and ancient, despite how young they looked, met his for the first time in hours. “But it is.”

Rhysand nodded. “Because we made it real.”

Something in their expression shifted. Not quite softening, but the walls tilted. Just a little.

There was a long pause.

The firelight caught the sheen in their eyes, but they blinked it away.

Rhysand's throat worked. “I know I can’t fix it. But I swear to you, on every star in this sky, I will never let anyone hurt you again. And if you ever want to fly, I’ll carry you myself.”

Something cracked then. Not loud. Not visible. But he felt it. A tremor in the bond. A shift in their scent.