Who offered you a choice?

The lanterns along the terrace glowed like captured sunlight, flickering in the golden warmth of the Summer Solstice. Below, the village hummed with celebration—laughter, music, the soft ringing of bells as prayers were whispered into the night.

I tugged at Mother's hand, leading her toward the terrace where Elior bounced impatiently.

"Hurry," I begged. "Before all the best wishes are taken."

Mother chuckled, the deep blue fabric of her dress shifting like water as she allowed me to pull her forward. "Wishes are endless, little nightbloom," she murmured, brushing a stray curl from my face. "There will always be more to make."

Elior grinned. "Unless you get exactly what you want the first time."

I rolled my eyes. "You wished for a goat last year."

"And we got two," he said smugly, crossing his arms. "So clearly, my wishes work better than yours."

Mother shook her head, tucking a curl—dark as mine—behind his arched ear before brushing her fingers along my cheek. "Make your wish count, Lyra."

I smiled, inhaling deeply—spiced citrus, honeyed cakes, the faint salt of the ocean beyond the cliffs. Everything felt so alive.

Then—

Mother's hand stiffened in mine.

The change was subtle at first, a small shift in her grip. Then her fingers turned rigid, her warmth fading as her body went still.

My stomach dropped.

I followed her gaze, my heart stalling the moment I saw him.

Father.

He stood at the base of the terrace steps, his hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable beneath the shifting lantern light.

The air changed. The warmth of the solstice bled away, the night suddenly colder. Darker.

Something inside me twisted, my stomach sinking as the distant laughter from the village faded into background noise.

Mother didn't move.

Her body was taut, her breathing measured, too careful—as if she were bracing for something.

Why wasn't she saying anything?

I squeezed her hand, my chest tightening. I wanted her to smile again. I wanted her to laugh, to call Father over so we could all be together.

"Mother?"

She didn't answer.

Her fingers tightened for just a moment—then, carefully, she let go.

I barely had time to process before she stepped forward, placing herself between me and him.

Something deep in my gut curled in warning.

"It's time," Father said, his tone low and firm. His ruling voice. The one that meant no room for argument.

Mother inhaled sharply but said nothing.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, knuckles paling, though her face remained composed. Like stone.

Elior's excitement faded, his brow furrowing. "Time for what?"

Mother didn't answer. Neither did Father.

They just stood there, frozen, an invisible war raging behind closed lips.

Something was wrong.

I turned to Father, my voice hesitant. "We will be gone longer than expected," he said finally. "But not forever."

The world tilted.

Gone?

Gone where?

Mother turned slightly, her face unreadable, but I saw the slight tremor in her fingers.

She was afraid.

"How long?" she asked.

Father exhaled. "Until Winter Solstice."

No.

The word echoed in my head, over and over.

Elior frowned. "That's months from now."

Mother swallowed, her throat bobbing. "We were not told this before."

Father's jaw twitched. "Circumstances have changed."

The air around us thickened, pressing against my skin like invisible hands.

I shook my head, trying to understand, to make sense of something that didn't feel real.

"But—" My voice wavered as I turned to Mother, panic creeping into my ribs. "You said we would wish together."

She turned to me then, her eyes—her bright, sky-blue eyes—softened.

But not with reassurance.

With something else. Something cracking.

Before I could speak—before I could beg for an explanation—she knelt before me.

The blue silk of her dress pooled around her as she took my arms in her hands, her touch gentle.

And she smiled.

Soft. Warm. Sad.

Why?

Why did she look like she was saying goodbye?

"Listen to me, little nightbloom." Her fingers brushed my hair, her voice gentle, almost pleading. "You are going somewhere important. Somewhere you are needed."

My throat closed.

I shook my head, whispering, "I don't want to go."

Her hands squeezed my arms. "This is bigger than you or me. You're going to save lives, Lyra."

Something wrenched inside me.

I searched her face, my breaths coming too fast. "Then come with me."

Mother swallowed, tilting her chin up. "We will meet you on Winter Solstice."

Liar. Liar. Liar.

The thought slammed into me, cold and cruel.

This wasn't just a longer visit.

Something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Mother pulled me forward, pressing her forehead to mine.

"Be brave," she whispered.

No. No, I don't want to be brave. I want to stay. I want to stay.

Father lifted his hand.

Shadows coiled around me, endless and consuming.

I gasped, twisting, trying to grab onto her, onto Elior, onto anything—

The world ripped apart.

The first thing I felt was cold.

The second was emptiness.

I landed hard on uneven stone, my hands scraping against the surface as I gasped for breath. The air was hollow—silent and scentless.

I wasn't home anymore.

I lifted my head, my vision blurry. A tall, cloaked figure stood before me, his black robes shifting in the dim, gray light.

The King.

His voice curled through the silence like smoke.

"Hello, little Thread Bearer."

My heart lurched, my stomach dropping into something endless, dark, and final.

I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking. I wish —

I wish I was home.

Yet choice remains—a fragile thing,

To mend the weave or snap the string

Voices swam through the darkness, muffled and distant, slipping in and out like waves retreating from the shore.

I wasn't awake. Not really.

But I wasn't fully asleep either.

I drifted somewhere in between, weightless and untethered, the world around me a blur of sound and sensation.

Then—warmth.

It spread slowly, like sunlight creeping over the horizon, pressing into my bones, seeping into my skin. Not the sharp, burning heat of fever. Not the numbing chill of shadows.

Something else. Something gentle.

The sun.

A memory flickered, hazy and fragile—golden light spilling across a terrace, warming my skin as I laughed, the scent of citrus hanging thick in the air.

I tried to hold onto it, but it slipped away, dissolving like smoke.

The warmth remained, pulsing through me, wrapping around my ribs, my arms, my legs, stitching together what had been broken.

A voice—low and calm—spoke somewhere nearby.

"Physically, she will recover."

The warmth faded slightly as the presence moved away. I felt hollow without it, my body still aching beneath the lingering touch of something unseen.

A different voice followed, this one deeper, smooth as shadowed silk. Rhysand.

"And her head?"

A pause. Then, a slow exhale.

A moment later, the calm voice answered.

"There is nothing physically wrong."

Silence. Then—hesitation.

"But mentally…"

The air in the room shifted, a quiet tension settling in.

"She is like shattered glass. What I saw in those fragments was hard enough to witness, let alone survive."

Something cold and sharp twisted in my chest. I don't want to remember.

A faint hum of power curled through the silence, the weight of it pressing against my skin even in my half-conscious state.

Rhysand. Thinking. Calculating.

"I glimpsed them too, in the Hewn City," Rhys murmured, quieter now. "Is there a way to piece them together? To make them whole?" A pause. Then, pointedly, "Her memories could hold valuable information."

"No."

The word rang firm, final, cutting through the space like a blade.

Rhysand didn't argue. He waited.

A slow, measured sigh. "Glass does not mend under pressure, High Lord. It cracks further."

Silence.

Then another shift in the room, the weight of something unspoken lingering in the air.

"It may be worth it." Azriel's voice was unreadable. A pause. Then, softer, as if it hurt him to say it, "Even at a great cost. She is from Hybern, sacrificing one to save hundreds of thousands…"

The air around them seemed to tighten. He didn't want to do it. But he would.

Even if it destroyed me.

The silence stretched long and thin, tension weaving between them like an invisible thread. Then, another voice—firmer this time, edged with something sharp.

"Sacrifice is a choice, not something we can decide for her."

Her voice wasn't loud, but it held weight, cutting through the quiet like a steady current beneath a storm.

"We built this court on the idea that people deserve more than just survival. We're the Court of Dreamers, not executioners." A pause. Then, lower. "If we start justifying breaking someone just because it's convenient, we've already lost."

Another pause.

Then—Azriel, his voice quiet but unyielding.

"Hybern would not hesitate."

His words weren't an argument, just a fact, spoken without judgment, without cruelty.

"And if another war comes, ideals will not keep people safe."

He let the words settle, heavy and deliberate. He wasn't disagreeing. He was reminding them of the cost of mercy.

Then—softer now, but edged with warning.

"She is dangerous, Feyre."

I felt the shift in the air, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on me.

"We are keeping our enemy under our own roof."

No one spoke for a moment.

Then, Feyre's voice again, quiet but certain.

"She reminds me of someone, from what Rhys has shown me." The room stilled. Her voice softened, but the steel in it remained.

"Someone who had a soft heart, once. Until the world hardened it. Someone who was made into something else, not by choice, but by force."

She exhaled, and I felt the weight of her words, the truth in them curling through the quiet.

"When I was drowning, you gave me time to find my own way back. You let me heal. You let me choose."

A pause.

"The least we can do is offer her the same chance."

Something inside me cracked, something I hadn't dared to think about in years.

A choice. My choice.

The room shifted again. Another pause.

Then—a question, steady and certain.

"Madja, if she's allowed to heal, will her memories return?"

A long breath. Then the healer's calm, measured reply.

"It's possible. Some things may come back. Others may remain buried, too fractured to ever be whole again."

The air changed, something almost lighter woven into it.

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe, the shadow of it.

To heal is to walk where the wounded have bled,

To face what was buried, to relive what was fled.

The first thing I felt was warmth.

Not the suffocating heat of a forge, nor the blistering sting of sunburn. But true warmth—the kind that settled into my skin, wrapped around my limbs, anchored me to something solid.

I drifted on the edge of sleep, heavy and weak, my body sluggish and slow to obey.

Then—voices. Low, steady murmurs, carrying through the flickering light of the room.

I wasn't alone.

I kept my eyes closed, too tired to move, too drained to fight the exhaustion pulling at me. But I listened.

"…You were hard on her." Cassian.

A pause. Then another voice—low, rough, careful. Azriel.

"I know."

Cassian didn't push, but I could hear the expectation in his silence.

Azriel exhaled, the sound barely more than a breath. "I thought she was hiding something." A pause. "That she was lying."

His voice was quiet, but there was something else beneath it. Something raw.

"…That she was like the others."

Cassian made a soft sound—not quite agreement, not quite understanding.

Azriel continued, voice even lower now. "The pressure we're under with Hybern… it narrowed my vision."

He was quiet for a moment before he added, almost too low to hear—"I was wrong."

Cassian hummed, thoughtful. "I get it."

Azriel let out a quiet, humorless breath. "Do you?"

"Yeah." Cassian's voice was softer now, more measured. "I've made similar mistakes."

Azriel didn't reply, but I could hear the shift in the air, the weight of unspoken things settling between them.

"Pushed too hard, too fast," Cassian continued, as if recalling something distant. "Thinking if I just hit hard enough, if I forced an answer, I'd get what I wanted."

The warmth of the fire seeped into my skin, a comforting contrast to the cold that had become all too familiar. My body felt heavy, but the murmur of voices nearby kept me tethered to consciousness.

"So, what's the plan now?" Cassian's voice, low and contemplative.

A pause, then Azriel responded, "We give her a chance."

The words hit harder than they should have. I had barely processed them before my breath caught, my chest tightening, and—I coughed.

The room went silent.

I felt them turn toward me before I even opened my eyes.

Then—footsteps.

I blinked blearily, my vision slow to adjust to the golden glow of the room.

A fire blazed in the hearth, the warmth of it reaching me even beneath the thick blanket draped over my body.

I wasn't in a cell. I wasn't shivering in the dark

I was on a couch, tucked against the armrest, my body heavy and sore but no longer consumed by exhaustion.

A shadow loomed above me. Azriel.

I knew before my eyes fully focused.

I barely had time to register his presence before a cool glass was pressed into my hands.

"Drink."

His voice was quiet, but there was no edge to it. No demand. Just a simple instruction.

Arguing wasn't worth the effort. My throat burned, dry and cracked like sun-scorched earth. The first sip was sharp, scraping down my throat—but the second smoothed the raw edges, letting me breathe again.

Azriel didn't move as I drank.

He just stood there, watching, waiting.

When I finished, he took the glass from me, setting it aside. Then, without a word, he reached down, adjusting the pillow behind my head, shifting it until I could lay back comfortably.

I frowned slightly, my mind sluggish, unable to process what he was doing.

Did guilt feel that heavy on his shoulders?

Or was this just another act, another game I wasn't meant to win?

I was too tired to figure it out. I let my head sink back into the pillow, the warmth of the fire making my limbs feel heavy.

Azriel lingered for a moment.

Then, without a word, he lowered himself into a chair across from me—silent, still, watching.

Cassian's voice came from somewhere near the fire.

"Glad to have you back, Thread Bearer."

I didn't have the energy to glare at him for the name.

Didn't have the will to wonder if Azriel's watchful gaze was that of a guard—or a warden.

Didn't have the strength to do anything but close my eyes as exhaustion dragged me under once more.

Confused.

And too tired to care.