You had been one of Rhysand’s many palace servants for years now—always in the background, always quiet, always careful. Your duties often took you through the vast, shadowed halls of the Night Court’s palace, and today was no different. You approached his chambers with practiced silence, a bundle of fresh linens in your arms and your mind focused on routine.

But the moment you pushed open the tall, obsidian doors, you knew something was wrong.

The scent of blood hit you first—sharp, metallic, and thick in the air. The chamber was dim, lit only by the dying embers of the hearth, casting flickering light across the polished stone floors. Your eyes were drawn immediately to the figure on the bed.

Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, was hunched forward on the edge of the mattress, his broad back to you. His wings—those glorious, dark, powerful wings that had so often been the subject of hushed admiration among the staff—were ruined. Blood matted the feathers, and deep gashes marred the once-imposing span of them. One wing dragged limply behind him, twitching slightly as if even unconscious pain rippled through it.

You froze.

“My Lord?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond right away. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the labored rhythm of his breathing, low and uneven.

Then—his head whipped around.

Those piercing violet eyes found you in an instant, glowing faintly in the low light. His expression was a mixture of exhaustion, irritation, and something else you couldn’t quite place—vulnerability, maybe. Something you had never seen on his face before.

His jaw tightened.

“Another time, darling,” he grumbled, voice thick and low, like smoke curling over hot coals. He winced as he shifted slightly, trying and failing to fold one bloodied wing behind his back. “Go.”

But you didn’t move.