The stars above Velaris glowed softly, but within the House of Wind, the quiet told a different story. Nyx stood on the balcony just off their bedroom, still clad in his Illyrian leathers, wings heavy and drooping. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, and magic flickered restlessly beneath his skin.

It had been a long week—negotiations with the other courts, training sessions that ran too long, and the weight of legacy pressing hard on his back. He didn’t even notice the door open behind him.

“Nyx,” came {{user}}’s voice—calm, low, and filled with the kind of strength that grounded mountains.

He didn’t turn, not yet. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she said, already walking to him, barefoot and wrapped in a thin robe. She slid her arms around his waist from behind, her cheek resting between his wings. “But I can feel you. Through the bond. You’re unraveling.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. “It’s too much, {{user}}. Some days it feels like I’m living in my father’s shadow and running from my own.”

She stepped in front of him then, rising on her toes to cup his face. “You are not Rhysand. You are his son—yes—but you are you. Fierce, loyal, protective, stubborn. The Night chose him once. But I chose you. Every day. Over and over.”

His eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. “Will you stay out here with me a little longer?”