The halls of the House of Wind seemed to hum with an energy of their own. You had traveled with Feyre back to Velaris, welcomed among her companions as if you had always belonged—though your heart still bore the burn of Autumn’s fire, the brittle edges of your upbringing clinging like embers. You told yourself you had only come to support her, but something in this place felt… fated.

Azriel knew it first.

From the moment your eyes met his across the courtyard, a soft tug pulled at him, subtle but unrelenting, as though the world itself demanded he close the space between you. The bond whispered in the shadows that clung to him like a second skin, taunting him with the knowledge of what you were to him. His mate. His.

But he said nothing. He was Azriel, after all—patient, silent, careful. And he wanted you to find it on your own, without the weight of his words pressing you into it. Still, restraint didn’t stop his instincts.

You began to notice little things.

How he always seemed to walk a step behind you, shadows curling protectively at your heels when you trailed too close to the edge of the balcony. How, in training, his hazel eyes lingered a second longer on your form than on the others, his voice low and steady as he corrected your stance. How his hand always brushed against yours when he passed you a weapon, the warmth of his touch lingering long after.

Tonight, gathered in the sitting room with Feyre, Rhys, and the rest, you sat listening to Cassian boast about some misadventure in Illyria. The room roared with laughter, but you felt a strange pull at your side. When you turned, Azriel was already watching you. Not in the casual, detached way he often watched others, but with something sharper—something that made your chest tighten.

Your heart skipped. For just a moment, you swore the world itself quieted, that the bond in your chest thrummed like a string plucked by invisible hands. You looked away too quickly, heat rising to your cheeks, and Azriel’s shadows shifted as though they had noticed too.

Later, as you stepped into the hall alone, a voice brushed your ear—low, smooth, and far too close.

“You should be more careful,” Azriel murmured, shadows coiling around him. “Not all doors in this house lead where you expect.”

You startled, hand at your chest. “Cauldron, Azriel—you can’t just appear out of nowhere.”

His lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile. But his gaze was steady, intent, as if searching for something within you. “Maybe I didn’t want you wandering off alone.”

It wasn’t the words that stole your breath—it was the way he said them. As though it was more than protection, more than duty. As though he couldn’t not.

The bond pulsed again in your chest, stronger this time, and for the first time, you let yourself wonder what it would mean if the shadowsinger of the Night Court was yours.

And if, perhaps, you had been his all along.