The air in the House of Wind’s training ring was crisp, the scent of sweat and steel hanging thick in the space as you faced off with Emerie. She was quick—quicker than you expected—and your sword barely deflected hers in time.

“Better,” she said, stepping back, her Illyrian wings folding neatly behind her. “But keep your stance wider. You don’t want to get knocked on your ass.”

You huffed out a laugh, brushing a lock of hair from your brow. “I’ll add it to the list.”

The sound of boots on stone echoed through the ring before you could retake your stance. You turned to see someone new entering—broad-shouldered, with tousled dark hair, violet eyes locked on the fighting pit. He was casually wrapping his fists, his movements fluid and confident, but there was something… different about him.

Emerie smirked when she noticed your attention had drifted. “That’s Nyx,” she said under her breath. “Feyre and Rhysand’s son.”

Your brows rose slightly. You’d heard of the High Lord and Lady, of course. You knew their names, their legends. But you’d never met their son—and no one had mentioned he trained here.

Nyx’s gaze drifted to yours then, and the world seemed to still for a breath. His violet eyes locked with yours, unreadable at first… until the corner of his mouth quirked up, just a little. Just enough.

You looked away first, pretending to adjust your grip on the blade. But your pulse betrayed you. Something pulled in your chest. A tug, like a string woven between your ribs and his.

He crossed the ring, nodding to Emerie, before setting down a practice sword. “Mind if I join?” His voice was smooth and low, edged with amusement.

Emerie rolled her eyes fondly. “Not if you misbehave.”

“I make no promises,” he said—then turned to you. “You’re new.”