Nyx had been injured during battle.

The moment you felt it through the bond, you ran—faster than you ever had—until the medical tent came into view. Your heart was thundering in your chest, dread coiling in your stomach like a viper.

Inside, chaos reigned. Healers moved swiftly around cots, blood stained the floor, and the air was thick with magic and pain. But all of it faded the second your eyes found him.

Nyx lay on his stomach, his usually powerful wings torn and mangled beyond recognition. The sight nearly brought you to your knees. His back was a mess of blood, bruises, and lacerations. Feyre was at his side, her hands shaking as she pressed a cloth to one of the deeper gashes. Rhys stood nearby, his jaw clenched.

Then Nyx’s gaze lifted—hazy with pain but unmistakably focused on you.

“{{user}},” he rasped, his voice barely more than air.

You were at his side in an instant, pushing past the others with a calm that belied the panic screaming in your chest. You grabbed ointments, bandages, bowls of warm water, and antiseptic herbs, your hands moving with instinctual precision.

With every touch, you poured your power into the healing, fighting to piece back the broken edges of your mate. You refused to cry. Not while he was bleeding. Not while he needed you.