The wind over the mountains cut like glass, cold and sharp, yet it did nothing to cool the storm inside him.

He flew harder than he needed to, wings slicing through the winter night as Velaris glimmered far below. The command still burned through his bones, an invisible chain forged by Rhys’s power. High Lord. Brother. And tonight—his jailer.

'Stay away from Elain.'

The order had not been shouted. Magic threaded through it, ancient and absolute, the weight of a ruler’s authority binding itself to Azriel’s instincts like iron around his ribs. Disobedience was impossible.

It had been two hours since he had stood in the quiet of the River House with Elain before him, the soft glow of candlelight brushing over her skin like sunlight on petals. Two hours since he had clasped that delicate necklace around her throat, his fingers grazing the fragile line of her neck, close enough to hear the quickening of her breath.

She had wanted him.

He knew it with the same certainty he knew the weight of a blade in his hand.

And now he was forbidden.

A growl ripped from his throat as he banked sharply toward the mountain carved with the ancient bones of the House of Wind. The icy wind clawed through his hair, yet the heat in his chest only burned brighter.

His brothers had been gifted mates by fate itself.

Rhys had Feyre. Cassian had Nesta.

Three sisters. Three brothers. It should have been simple. Symmetry written by the Mother herself.

Yet fate had twisted the pattern and left him standing outside it like a shadow cast by someone else’s light.

The question had followed him for a while, whispering through the darkness of sleepless nights. Why had the Mother given his brothers love while leaving him with nothing but silence? Had his hands spilled too much blood? Were the scars across his wings and skin proof that he was something broken beyond redemption?

He had never envied them openly. Never let bitterness poison the loyalty he felt toward them. He cared deeply for Feyre, admired Nesta’s fire even when it burned. Their happiness mattered to him more than his own empty heart.

And yet…The loneliness remained.

He landed without a sound.

Not the scrape of leather, not the whisper of stone beneath his boots. The shadows welcomed him back like old companions, swallowing the last trace of his presence as his wings settled quietly against his back.

He needed to strike something until the rage and longing clawing through him burned away.

But he wasn’t alone.

At the center of the training ring stood another figure, moonlight spilling across the blade held in steady hands.

The youngest Archeron.

Not entirely Archeron, as Nesta had once spat during a bitter argument months ago. Bastard, she had called her, voice sharp enough to cut bone. Azriel had remembered the way the girl had simply took it, as if cruelty were something she had learned long ago to endure.

He understood that kind of silence.

Tonight her hair was pulled back, loose strands catching the silver glow of the moon as she moved through careful sword forms. Not clumsy. Not inexperienced. The movements carried echoes of techniques he himself had once shown her before the war—simple, efficient strikes meant to keep her alive on a battlefield.

Yet something about the scene unsettled him.

He had seen her earlier that evening at the River House laughing, her voice bright and effortless. Yet now she stood alone in the cold night hours.

And his shadows had not sense her leave.

That alone was enough to stir his curiosity.

Azriel stepped closer. His shadows stirred along his shoulders as she lowered her sword and turned toward him, as if sensing him. Her eyes reflecting the pale starlight. Her chest rose and fell quickly from the exertion, strands of hair clinging slightly to her damp temples.

“Rough night?” she asked lightly.

Azriel studied her in silence, something in his chest loosening despite himself.

"Yes." The word left him quieter than he expected. Not bitter. Not sharp. Just tired.

Perhaps the Mother had not finished with her strange games yet.