The music in the tavern was loud enough to rattle the wooden beams above your head, laughter spilling through the warm golden glow of lanternlight. It smelled like spiced wine, roasted meat, and rain drifting in through the open windows. A normal night. A normal life.

At least… that’s what you believed.

You leaned against the bar, fingers wrapped around a glass, listening to a story someone was telling about a merchant caravan that had been robbed along the Sidra road. Outside, Summer Court shimmered quietly beneath the night sky and the waves crashed.

And across the room, a pair of violet eyes watched you like you were the only star left in the sky.

Rhysand stood in the shadows of the tavern doorway, the sounds of the room muffled to a distant hum in his ears. Four hundred years. Four hundred years of searching. Of waiting. Of hoping the Cauldron had kept its promise.

And now you were here.

Alive.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Just as beautiful as the night you were stolen from him.

But you did not know him.

You brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling at something the bartender said, unaware of the way Rhys’s hands trembled slightly at his sides. The same gesture. The same laugh. The same light in your eyes.

The last time he saw you, those eyes had been filled with blood and terror.

The memory clawed its way up his spine.

Winnowing into the courtyard, Rhys had known something was wrong immediately. The air smelled of iron and smoke, the wards shattered and flickering like dying stars.

Bodies littered the marble steps.

Guards. Servants. Soldiers.

The doors to the estate hung open.

Rhys had run.

Through the silent halls. Past shattered glass and overturned furniture. Past streaks of blood smeared across the white floors.

No answer.

Only silence.

Until he reached the grand hall.

That was where he found you.

At the base of the staircase.

Your body lay twisted against the marble, your once pale night robes soaked dark crimson. Blood had spread beneath you in a wide pool that had already begun to cool and thicken.

Your skin was pale.

Too pale.

Rhys had dropped to his knees so hard the stone cracked beneath the impact.

“No… no, no, no…”

His hands had lifted you gently, desperately, pulling you into his lap. Your body was limp, frighteningly still, your head falling against his arm.

Cold.

Cauldron, you were already cold.

But when his shaking fingers pressed against your throat—

There.

Faint.

A fragile, fluttering pulse.

You were still alive.

“Stay with me,” he whispered hoarsely, voice breaking as his power surged forward.

Dark violet magic poured from his hands, weaving desperately through your body, trying to knit torn flesh back together. He pressed his palm over the worst of the wounds—your side where a blade had pierced deep, the blood soaking through his fingers.

“Come on,” he begged, panic clawing up his throat. “Come back to me. Come back.”

The healing magic fought hard, trying to close the torn veins, trying to force life back into a body that had lost too much blood.

And Rhysand screamed.

The reincarnation gift had always been rare. Sacred. A blessing of the Cauldron itself.

Your soul would return.

But it could take centuries.

Rhys had waited through every single one.

Now here you stood only a few yards away… completely unaware that the male watching you had once been your husband.

Your mate.

Your entire world.

Rhys took a slow breath, steadying himself. He could not rush this. If he pushed too hard, he could frighten you. Break whatever fragile thread fate had woven back together.

No.

He would be patient.

He had already waited four hundred years.

A small smile touched his lips as he stepped further into the tavern, shadows curling softly around him.

You didn’t recognize him yet.