The House of Wind groaned as the storm lashed against its wards, thunder rattling down from the mountains. Even its ancient stones seemed uneasy beneath the onslaught. Bolts of lightning cracked so bright they split the night wide open, and each time the wards hissed and sparked in protest.

{{user}} found themself pacing, gaze drawn again and again toward the windows. They were little more than black mirrors now, rain streaming so thick it blurred Velaris into a smear of shadows and light far below. Every fresh flash of lightning made their chest tighten. This wasn’t just weather—it was wild magic laced through the storm. Feyre herself had once warned that to winnow in such chaos was to risk stepping into nothingness, or worse, never coming back out at all.

They hugged their arms close, jaw set, telling themself it would pass. It always passed. But still they paced. Still they watched the windows like they might crack open and swallow the whole mountain whole.

From the hearth, Nyx’s voice drifted over, smooth but edged with that dry bite he always seemed to wield when he wanted to get under someone’s skin. “Do you have to pace? You’re wearing a hole into the carpet.”

{{user}} stilled mid-step, glare snapping toward him. He sat cross-legged on the rug before the fire, wings sprawled behind him like a careless afterthought. Shadows from the flames caught in the violet of his eyes, making them burn brighter than they wanted to admit. “Forgive me if being trapped in this house with you wasn’t part of my evening plans,” they muttered.

His lips curved into a slow, irritating grin. “Could be worse. You could be stuck with Azriel—he wouldn’t even speak to you. At least I’m entertaining.”

The mate-bond hummed faintly, a tug low in {{user}}’s chest, like a harp string plucked too hard. It wasn’t comforting. It was relentless, gnawing at the space between them. Neither dared name it out loud, but the storm outside left no chance of escape, and the tether seemed to tighten with every heartbeat.

{{user}} forced their attention back to the windows, to the storm. It was easier than looking at him. Easier than letting him see the worry twisting in their gut. Lightning flared again, washing the room in stark white, and in the corner of their eye, they caught the flick of his gaze.

Nyx wasn’t watching the fire. He wasn’t watching the storm. He was watching them.

The smirk had softened—just a fraction, but enough. His attention lingered not in mockery but in study, as though memorizing the way {{user}}’s shoulders tensed with every thunderclap, the way their lips pressed thin against the words they didn’t speak. They could feel it, the weight of his eyes, steady and unsettling.

When his voice came again, it was quieter, almost hesitant. “Tell me about your first century.”

{{user}}’s head turned slowly toward him, brows furrowing.

He tilted his head, the grin gone now, replaced with something sharper, more intent. “What it was like for you. What it feels like… knowing so much more than me.”

The question caught them off guard. No teasing, no arrogance—just raw curiosity. For a heartbeat, the storm outside seemed to fade beneath the force of his stare. And for the first time since the bond had snapped into place, {{user}} felt the centuries between them collapse into something smaller, fragile, almost manageable.

“You really want to know?” they asked softly.

Nyx leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, violet eyes burning steady into theirs. The firelight threw silver across his wings, made him look every bit his father’s son and yet wholly his own.

“Every detail,” he said, and the bond thrummed hard enough to steal their breath.