Who did you meet?

"Here," Azriel says, his voice even, steady. He presses his palm against his chest, where his heartbeat should be. "This is where you can feel their connections."

His eyes, sharp as ever, flick to mine, waiting. I don't know what he expects me to do with that information. I barely know how to listen to the shadows, let alone feel their connections.

The wind howls through the barren pass, lifting dust from the cracked ground, swirling it around us in lazy spirals. The air here is thin, dry, brittle like old parchment. It suits the landscape—harsh, empty, a place where nothing soft survives. That's why he chose it. If my magic lashes out, there's no one around to be caught in the crossfire.

I roll my shoulders back, shaking out my arms. "What am I supposed to feel?"

Azriel exhales through his nose, his patience stretching. "You have to feel them to command them," he says, his tone steady but firm. "Shadows aren't just darkness. They have weight, form, and intention. They remember things. When they pass through people, through places, they gather pieces of them. That's how I tell them apart."

His fingers curl slightly, and the shadows move, twisting around his wrist, up his forearm. Unlike mine, they obey him without hesitation.

I glance down at my hands, bare and empty. Not a single wisp.

The days have blurred into one another. The way they treat me has changed, and it's starting to wear at my nerves, an itch I can't quite scratch. They tread carefully around me, like I might crack if they push too hard. And it's infuriating. No more scrubbing floors or polishing weapons—another thing I've noticed, another shift they won't acknowledge. After what happened on the stairs, they see me differently now. I can feel it in the way they watch me, like they're waiting for me to shatter again. They don't want me broken, not yet. They need me. For answers, though I don't even know if I have them. My mind is still a fractured mess, threads tangled beyond recognition.

Instead, my days are split between two things: learning the shadows with Azriel and enduring Cassian's physical training.

Cassian is relentless. He pushes me through drills that leave my body aching—bicep curls, core work, thigh-burning squats that make my legs shake. All the while shouting encouragements or playful jabs at my lack of balance. But his lessons are different now, focused on making me stronger, not breaking me down. There's no edge to his commands, just an unwavering insistence that I regain what I lost. He teaches with the kind of patience I never thought a battle-hardened general would possess, breaking down footwork, posture, and balance until my muscles remember what my mind has long forgotten. When I finally asked why, frustrated by the lack of brutality, he only smirked and said, "Turns out, I like my trainees conscious. Who knew?'

Azriel, however, is still a puzzle I can't solve. He is no longer cruel, no longer goading me to the brink of collapse or whispering words designed to unravel me. But he is reserved.

Cold.

His lessons are quiet, methodical. Shadows dance at his fingertips as he demonstrates how to will them into submission, to shape and merge them as he does. He keeps them silent now, for me, so I don't have to hear them—so their whispers don't crawl under my skin and distract me. I try, and fail, and try again, the darkness slipping through my fingers like silk. He does not mock me for it. He corrects my form, his voice careful, distant, as if he has learned to temper himself around me. As if he's forcing himself to hold back.

But I notice the little things. The way his hand jerks back when our fingers brush. The slight tension in his shoulders when I stand too close. As if something in him is desperate to stay away.

I don't understand it. I don't understand him.

And I hate that I care.

The House, too, has changed its approach to me. My meals are no longer just the gray sludge meant to sustain, but not satisfy. It started subtly—first with the broth and fruit, then a warm piece of bread, salted potatoes, roasted meats that I pretended not to gawk at too long.

I eat, reluctantly, shoveling the gray slop down to keep my head from swimming, to keep my thoughts from scattering like loose thread. But the real food—the warm bread, the salted potatoes, the roasted meat—I savor, even if I pretend not to. It feels indulgent, undeserved, but I eat it anyway. The taste sparks something in me—a memory just out of reach, a time and place I can't quite grasp. But I crave it, whatever it is, and that, more than anything, unsettles me.

"Lyra." Azriel's voice cuts through the haze, sharp but not unkind. I blink, the last few days slipping away like mist, their moments of exhaustion and repetition blurring into one. The cold air of the barren pass settles against my skin, grounding me in the present.

Azriel moves in close, his body a shadow against the dimming light. His breath is steady, measured, but I can see the moment he realizes just how near he is. His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, he lingers—then he steps back, a quiet, instinctual retreat.

His expression smooths, unreadable as he lifts a hand. Shadows ripple from his fingers, gliding toward me, slow and deliberate. They are smooth, calm, as if they carry a quiet patience. But I know better. I have seen them shift—turn cold, unforgiving, striking like a blade when commanded. They brush against my skin, feather-light, carrying a whisper of something familiar yet unreachable, like a name I've forgotten.

"Feel them," he instructs. "They are more than darkness."

I try, stretching my senses out to meet them, but there is nothing—just the sensation of their presence, but no connection, no deeper thread pulling me toward them.

Azriel exhales. "Close your eyes. Your own shadows are easier to command than others—they're already a part of you. Even if you can't feel it yet, the connection is there, waiting. Find that pull, follow it back to its source. To you."

I hesitate, then obey. The world behind my eyelids is endless, stretching beyond time, beyond presence. And then—

A flicker. A whisper. Something just beyond my reach, yet achingly familiar.

A laugh—small, bright. A boy's laughter, distant yet intimate, as if I have heard it before in a dream I can't recall.

It skims the edges of my awareness, slipping through my fingers like fine thread, teasing recognition but refusing to settle. My fingers twitch toward it, and the moment I touch the connection, a wave of something crashes over me—a grief so vast it swallows me whole. It is a weight pressing against my ribs, an ache that steals the air from my lungs. It is the ghost of something once whole, now shattered, leaving behind only the echo of what was lost. My knees weaken, my breath falters, and I stumble back, drowning in the quiet agony of something I cannot name.

Azriel catches my arm before I fall, his grip grounding me. The world tilts, reality rushing back in like a flood, the cold air, the weight of my own body, the sound of my ragged breathing. "What did you see?" His voice is steady, but there's something in his gaze—something almost cautious, as if he knows more than he's saying.

I shake my head, my pulse unsteady. "I don't know."

But something in me does. The laughter lingers in my chest, a hollow ache where recognition should be. I just don't understand it yet.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't press. Instead, he pulls away, stepping back as if he hadn't just steadied me. "That's enough for today."

I frown, still caught in the lingering warmth of his touch, the brush of his shadows against my skin before he shut them down. "That's it?"

He doesn't answer, just gathers his weapons with an efficiency that leaves no room for argument.

As he turns, he pauses, like he's considering whether to say more. Instead, he settles on, "You need to get ready. We're going to dinner."

I blink at him. "Dinner?"

"Rhysand has requested our presence at dinner. In Velaris," he says, adjusting the strap of his blades. "I had clothes left for you in your room."

I open my mouth to argue, to ask where that is, but the words tangle before I can speak. Velaris. The name holds nothing for me. It could be another prison, another battlefield, another place I don't belong. But before I can ask, he's already walking away, shadows curling around him as if to shield him from the conversation.

A path retraced, a fate reclaimed,

A choice repeated, the ending unchanged.

The water is warm, nearly scalding, but I don't move to cool it. It seeps into my skin, loosening the tight ache in my muscles, dulling the lingering exhaustion that clings to me like a second skin. My eyes drift shut as I reach for the thread of connection I touched earlier, but —nothing. The child's laughter has vanished, swallowed by the stillness. The shadows that once lingered at the room's edges now stand in silence, dampening the hum of the wards but never fully erasing it. The quiet is measured, intentional—not absence, but restraint.

The peace should be soothing, and in some ways, it is. I've slept better these past nights than I have in years. It's Azriel's doing, and I am grateful for it. For the reprieve. But gratitude does not erase the unease. How long will this last? How long before he realizes what I am, and stops? Before I am nothing but noise and chaos again? I cannot rely on mercy. I need to learn. I need to control. Because when that day comes, I will not be left defenseless. I will not lose myself, again.

A hum stirs beneath my skin instead, my power shifting, restless. It presses against me, coiling and uncoiling like a thing aware of itself, more persistent now that my body is healing. A few weeks ago, it barely stirred—content to sleep, or simply unable to fight. Now it lingers, waiting. I shove it back down, ignoring the dull irritation of it settling beneath my skin. Not as frustrating as the alternative. Not as dangerous. Here, in the Above, it's easier to suppress. Easier to pretend it was never there at all.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I tense, expecting the door to swing open without warning, expecting Azriel's sharp command. But it doesn't. Instead, a soft, lilting voice calls through the wood, gentle but firm. "It's time to get ready."

I sigh, the exhaustion from the day settling deep in my bones, making it harder to move. With effort, I push myself up, wrapping a towel around my waist before stepping toward the door. When I pull it open, two figures stand waiting—twin reflections of each other, their night-veiled forms draped in flowing black, shadows clinging to their graceful frames. Their dark eyes, calm but unreadable, flick over me in quiet assessment.

Recognition stirs, faint but there. I have seen them before. And they have seen a lot of me.

"Azriel sent us to help you get ready," one of them says, her voice smooth and melodic. "I'm Nuala, and this is Cerridwen."

My gaze flicks to the gown they hold—simple, soft, the color of the sky before dusk. Light blue. Too pure to be draped over my scars, too clean for what I am. I let out a quiet sigh as my shoulders slump. At least it will match my eyes.

Azriel's arms tighten around me as we glide through the sky, his grip firm but measured, like he is both holding me steady and keeping his own distance. The wind should bite at my skin, should send my dress whipping violently around me—but it doesn't. Azriel's power dampens the worst of it, a shield against the harsh currents, leaving only a faint breeze curling through my hair and along the edges of my gown. I barely register it, my mind still lingering on the twins' quiet efficiency. Their fingers had moved deftly through my damp hair, twisting and weaving twin braids that ran sleek over the crown of my head before merging at my nape, cascading in a thick, intricate plait down my back. A style I had never worn before, never imagined on myself. The feeling of it, the care they took, unsettles me almost as much as the weight of the dress itself.

Azriel doesn't speak at first, and I don't press him. My focus drifts downward, drawn to the landscape stretching beneath us. Rolling hills ripple like the cresting waves of a restless sea, silver streams winding through the valleys like veins of light. The night sky casts a soft glow over the land, illuminating every curve and shadow. And beyond it all, cradled in the arms of the mountains, are the lights I had seen before—Velaris. Not scattered fires or flickering torches, but a city carved from the dark, glowing like a jewel set into the earth. And we are flying straight toward it.

As we glide over the city, the full splendor of Velaris unfolds beneath me. The streets are alive with movement, fae of all kinds flowing through them like currents in a river. Lanterns cast a warm glow over the cobbled paths, reflecting off fountains that sparkle like captured starlight. Laughter rings out from a cluster of children playing near a bridge, their bright voices carrying through the night. The sight of it all—so full of life, of warmth—strikes something deep within me. A city untouched by war, by cruelty. A place that feels more like a dream than reality.

When we arrive, stay by my side." Azriel's voice cuts through the wind, jolting me from my thoughts. His grip remains steady, but there's a new edge to his tone. "Speak only when spoken to. Don't draw attention to yourself."

I nod, swallowing the unease rising in my chest. My fingers tighten against the fabric of my dress, its softness doing nothing to soothe the tension building beneath my ribs. Who exactly are we dining with?

We descend, and Azriel's grip shifts, steadying me as my feet touch the ground in the center of it all. A townhouse stands before us, elegant but welcoming, its dark stone softened by the glow of faelight spilling from its windows.

Before I can take another breath, Azriel's hand brushes mine, hesitant, reluctant, before his fingers close around my wrist. A barely-there touch, meant only to get my attention. My gaze snaps to him, but his focus is already on the door.

"One last thing," he murmurs. "There's someone inside who—" He exhales sharply. "Just don't stare. Don't react to her. No snarky comments."

The warning sends a fresh wave of unease curling through me, but before I can press him, he knocks.

The door swings open, revealing Rhysand on the other side, his expression a careful balance of cold cunning and effortless charm. But it's the smile—measured, knowing—that catches me off guard. I've never seen him wear one before.

Beyond him, warmth spills into the night, a stark contrast to the crisp evening air. The townhouse is a balance of elegance and comfort, dark stone softened by golden faelight that glows from sconces along the walls. A deep blue rug stretches across the polished wood floors, and a grand staircase curves along the side of the entryway, disappearing into the second level. The scent of roasting meats and spiced wine drifts through the air, laced with something richer—home, something lived in.

Through the open archway of the sitting room, I take in the occupants. They are beautiful, all of them, in different ways—golden and radiant, dark and sharp, strong and effortless. But it's not just their beauty that strikes me. It's the way they move around each other, how they laugh, how they settle into the space as if it belongs to them, and they belong to each other. There is no stiffness, no hesitation—only ease. Only familiarity. They interact as though they have always been this way, as if they are bound not just by blood or duty, but something deeper. A family in every way that matters.

Two females lounge across the couch, wine glasses in hand, their laughter easy and unrestrained. The first, golden-haired and radiant, moves with effortless confidence, tipping her glass back with a grin, even as some of the dark burgundy liquid spills over the rim. The second, dark-haired with piercing, assessing eyes, watches her with amusement before laughing, a rich, full sound that carries through the space.

Across from them, Cassian is sprawled in a chair near the hearth, a glass of dark liquor balanced easily in his hand. His broad frame is relaxed, but his gaze is sharp, scanning the room between swigs of his drink. Whatever joke was spoken before our arrival still lingers between them, his low chuckle blending with theirs—until his attention shifts. His laughter fades as his eyes flicker toward the doorway, toward me, assessing, weighing.

In the kitchen, soft voices murmur from where two females move between the counters, their figures similar yet distinctly opposed. They share the same high cheekbones, the same delicate features—but where one is golden-haired, warm and soft in her movements, the other is all sharp edges and cold precision. Even their eyes set them apart—one a rich, warm brown, the other a piercing, icy blue, as if carved from the heart of winter itself. One moves with quiet grace, lifting a tray with practiced ease. The other is still, unmoving, her sharp gaze missing nothing. A steel edge surrounds her, an invisible blade honed just beneath the surface.

The moment Azriel and I step inside, the warmth of laughter and quiet conversation fades, replaced by the weight of unspoken curiosity. Some faces turn with interest, others with discreet assessment, but all of them watch. Their attention isn't heavy or demanding, but I feel it pressing in at the edges of my awareness, sharp enough to keep my spine straight, my hands still at my sides.

I hesitate. My fingers curl into my palms as I take in the room, the warm glow of faelight, the rich, well-worn furniture, the faint hum of something unseen threading through the space. This place is not just lived in—it is loved. A home in a way I have never known.

The dark-haired female is the first to rise, her expression open, warm. She moves with an effortless confidence, a quiet surety in every step. "It is nice to properly meet you, Lyra, my name is Feyre" she says, stopping just close enough to be inviting and not imposing. "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you."

She gestures toward the others, her tone easy as she introduces them. "This is Morrigan," she nods toward the golden-haired female draped across the couch, who smirks over the rim of her glass. "And you've already met Cassian."

She glances toward the kitchen, where the quiet murmur of voices has gone silent. "My sisters are in there."

As if summoned, the two females step through the archway. The first, golden-haired and graceful, her warm brown eyes flick over me with quiet curiosity. "Elain," Feyre says, her voice soft. The second, taller, her icy blue gaze cutting sharper than a blade, holds herself with an almost unnatural stillness. "And Nesta." There's something about the way she stands—rigid, unyielding—that unsettles me, as if her very presence demands acknowledgment, even in silence.

I go still. Azriel's warning echoes in my mind, and instinct grips me with certainty. Nesta.

I drop my gaze before I can meet hers directly, my muscles locking tight. My feet hesitate, my shoulders inching inward. Without thinking, I step closer to Azriel, letting his presence become an unspoken barrier between me and the room. His shadows shift, curling subtly—just enough to soften the weight of their stares.

I don't fight it. I welcome it. And silently, I thank them for it.

Rhysand's voice breaks the silence, smooth and laced with amusement. "You can breathe, you know. We don't bite—well, most of us don't." A smirk tugs at his lips, violet eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Dinner will be ready soon."

Azriel remains still at my side, his face unreadable. "Why was she needed here?" His voice is quiet, controlled, but there's something pointed beneath it.

The words land like a small jab, intentional or not. A reminder that I am not one of them—that I do not belong in this house filled with warmth and laughter, with a family that understands each other in ways I never could.

Rhysand's smirk lingers, but something shifts in his expression—something colder, heavier. Cassian's easy posture straightens slightly, his fingers tightening around his glass. Feyre's brows knit, but she stays silent. Rhysand leans back just a fraction, his gaze settling on Azriel.

'Because,' he finally says, his voice deceptively light, 'by this time tomorrow, you'll both be gone. And if we fail—well, we won't have the luxury of another dinner like this."