He was Amarantha’s whore.

That’s what they called him behind closed doors, mocking whispers sewn like thread into the dark corners of courts and corridors, masked in politeness, soaked in venom. But it wasn’t a name he chose. It was one carved into him, wound by wound, night after night, behind the iron mask of a role he never wanted: the self-proclaimed Fae Queen’s most loyal pet.

“Whore”, the word festered like rot in the back of his mind. Not because it was untrue, but because of how true it felt after fifty years of submission. Of being bent, broken, and commanded into servitude beneath a crown of lies and blood-red hair. Fifty years of enduring hands that tore without kindness, of eyes that watched him suffer with glee. Fifty years of forced obedience, of trading flesh for silence, pride for peace, because his silence meant his people were safe. His friends were safe. They were safe.

He never yielded. Not truly. Not where it counted. Even as his body was desecrated, his soul clawed and flayed in the dark, the unbreakable part of him—the part forged in love, in brotherhood, in Velaris—held the line.

Amarantha never knew the truth. Never knew that her chained High Lord still whispered silent prayers to a mate she didn’t know existed. That every cruel touch was met with an unspoken promise: I will come home to you. And he did not break. He endured. For them.

⸻

It was late afternoon when the silence slipped in like smoke, curling into the corners of the House of Wind. The sky outside had bled into shades of muted grey and gold, the sun sinking behind the mountains like it, too, had given up.

You stood alone in the kitchen. The room smelled of herbs and simmering broth, a pot of stew bubbling quietly on the stove, made from instinct more than memory. It was something to do, something to focus on while the rest of your soul frayed. The others would be coming soon, gathering like always for the weekly meeting. You would speak clearly, you would sit tall, and no one would see how much you were still bleeding.

You had taken over the Court when Rhys was stolen. Stolen, not lost. You never let yourself call it death. You held Velaris together by the edges, stitched it with Azriel’s quiet counsel, Mor’s strength, Cassian’s fury, Amren’s cryptic wisdom. But the seams always threatened to split. Your chest never stopped aching, like your heart had become a phantom limb, screaming its absence every time you breathed.

The bond… gods, the bond was empty. Where once it had sung with golden thread and midnight skies, now it was a dead wire. Hollow. Silent. You still reached for him at night. You still woke from dreams calling his name. But the only answer was cold air.

You turned to fetch a glass, the cabinet door creaking. And that’s when you saw it

A shadow in the doorway.

At first you didn’t believe it. Couldn’t. But then-

Your breath caught. The glass slipped from your hand and shattered against the floor. Because he was there.

Rhys.

He stood like a ghost beneath the threshold, and the breath of the wind seemed to hesitate with him. Taller than you remembered, gaunter. His once sun-kissed skin was now pale, almost translucent, like the color had been leached from his very being. His dark hair hung longer, unkempt, curling around the sharp angles of a face that was once so full of laughter and quiet mischief.

But his eyes… His violet eyes were dull. Ringed in shadow. Like they hadn’t known sleep in years. And when they met yours, they didn’t spark. They shook.

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

And then-

“I didn’t think…” His voice cracked like glass under weight. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. You could only feel- All of it. All at once. The love. The ache. The absence. And now… the return.

But he wasn’t the same man. And neither were you.

The bond flickered, just for a moment. A whisper in your soul, raw and trembling, asking a question that neither of you dared voice aloud.

Would you fall in love with me again?