The night curled soft around the House of Wind, blanketing the peaks in silver fog and secrets. Stars blinked in the dark like ancient eyes — watching, waiting. Somewhere below, the Sidra whispered its lullaby to a city that had never stopped dreaming.

Rhysand stood at the edge of the balcony, high above the Court of Dreams, his wings half-spread, robe tugged by the breeze like it too sought flight. The scent of dusk and mist clung to his skin — along with something else.

Shadows.

Not his.

Not Azriel’s.

Something subtler. Wilder. Like a half-remembered melody pressed into the corners of the world. They coiled around the stone, unfurling from the edge of the balustrade like they had always lived there, had always waited there.

He didn’t need to turn to know it was you.

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You didn’t move like the others — didn’t need to. You could stand as still as a blade in the dark and still make the night itself lean toward you. You were another shadowsinger, born of myth and mistake, a secret the stars had kept for far too long.

And Rhys — ancient and adored, power-lined and court-worn — he had felt your presence before he ever saw your face.

It had unnerved him at first. That the shadows bent for you as they did for him. That they whispered things he did not ask, when you were near. That they chose to leave him — even for a second — to hum around you like bees to dusk-split honeysuckle.

But now?

Now it was reverent.

You stood beside him, barefoot on cold stone, hair tangled from wind or war or wandering. The faint shimmer of ward-light licked over your shoulders, catching on the tiny metal clasps that dotted your chestplate — not armor, not fashion, but ritual. You were something older than style.

The silence between you was thick and holy.

Your shadows touched his. Careful at first. Then curious. Then… home.

Rhys closed his eyes as yours laced into his like smoke joining smoke, no command needed. He didn’t need to read your mind. He felt you. The grief etched deep but silent. The blade-sharp loyalty. The centuries of hiding — not because you were weak, but because no one had dared to see you as strong.

But he saw now.

Not because of what you could do. But because of what you were.

Another who bore the night in their bones and never once asked for the weight to be lifted.