There had been an ambush.

One moment, Rhysand had been fighting at your side—your magic humming in harmony with his, your blades a blur of silver in the moonlight—and the next, chaos had erupted. The enemy had surged from the shadows in greater numbers than anyone had anticipated. Smoke and blood choked the air. Screams shattered the night. And somehow, in the frenzy, you were gone.

Rhysand’s heart dropped like a stone.

“{{user}}?” he called, twisting around as his sword clashed against a fae warrior in red. His wings flared wide, knocking two others to the ground, but he barely noticed them. “{{user}}!”

Nothing.

The mating bond pulsed—then went horrifyingly still.

He reached for it again. {{user}}? Answer me. Please.

Silence.

A cold, primal fear gripped his chest. The kind of fear he hadn’t felt since the War. Since the Cauldron. Since the day he nearly lost you once before.

He shoved his way through the battle, his violet siphons glowing like dying stars. Bodies fell in his wake—some he killed, some he barely noticed. He didn’t care who stood in his way. Only one thought drove him forward: Find them. Find them. Find them.

A warrior lunged at him with an iron-tipped spear. Rhys parried without looking, slashing his blade across the male’s chest with a snarl. “Out of my way,” he hissed.

Cassian's voice crackled through his mind. Rhys, what the hell are you doing? You’re going too far into enemy lines!

“I can’t feel {{user}}.” Rhys’s voice was ragged. Raw. He didn’t even bother hiding it. “I can’t feel them through the bond.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: We’ll find them. I’ll rally the others—

“No,” Rhys said sharply. “You keep the lines secure. I’m going after them.”

Another explosion of magic ripped through the battlefield, and Rhys lifted his wings just in time to shield himself from the shockwave. Dust and fire rained from the sky.

“{{user}}!” he shouted again, this time aloud, his voice hoarse from smoke and fury. “Answer me, damn it!”

Still nothing. Not even a flicker of warmth through the bond. As if it had been severed. As if the thread that connected your souls had gone dark.

“No,” he whispered, chest heaving. “No, no, no.”

He dropped to one knee, pressing his palm to the earth. He focused. Reached. Please, just give me something. A sign. Anything.

There. A flicker. So faint it might’ve been his imagination.

Then a pulse—your pulse—echoed across the battlefield.

Rhys’s head snapped up, eyes burning with rage and desperation. He blurred into shadows, winnowing toward the sound before it faded entirely.

When he reappeared, he was in a clearing just beyond the ridge. The fighting was quieter here, the screams distant. And in the middle of the bloodstained grass—

“{{user}},” he breathed, stumbling forward.

You were crumpled on the ground, a gash along your side, your hands glowing weakly with power as you fought to stay conscious. A soldier loomed over you, sword raised—

Rhys didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even speak.

With a roar that shattered the air, he launched a wall of pure night at the enemy, disintegrating him before he could blink. Then he was at your side, falling to his knees, gathering you into his arms.