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The House of Wind has never felt so suffocating.
Rhysand stands at the far end of the corridor outside the healer’s ward, hands clasped behind his back, wings tucked tight, violet eyes fixed on the closed doors like he could burn through them with will alone.
No one meets his gaze.
Not the priestesses passing quietly by.
Not the sentries posted at the entrance.
Not even Mor.
Because everyone can feel it.
The power simmering under his skin. The barely restrained storm.
High Lord of the Night Court.
Most powerful High Lord in Prythian.
And he is not allowed inside the room.
“Rhys,” Mor says gently for the third time, stepping closer. “They’re doing everything they can.”
His jaw tightens. “That isn’t the point.”
She exhales slowly. “They need space to stabilize her magic. You know how volatile it gets when you’re near. The bond—”
“I am aware of how the bond works,” he snaps, then immediately grimaces, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m sorry.”
Mor softens. “You’re terrified.”
His laugh is hollow. “Terrified doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Because Feyre Archeron—High Lady of the Night Court, his mate, his heart—lies unconscious beyond those doors.
And he cannot reach her.
—
The attack had come fast.
Too fast.
An Illyrian border dispute, a flare of magic gone wrong, a trap buried beneath false negotiations.
Feyre had been closest to the blast.
Rhys had felt it through the bond.
The sudden snap of pain.
The disorientation.
Then—
Nothing.
Silence where her mind should be.
He had winnowed in seconds later, power tearing through the air, but she was already collapsing, magic flickering wildly around her like a dying star.
He caught her before she hit the ground.
“Feyre,” he’d breathed, shaking, hands cradling her face.
No response.
Only the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
He’d brought her home in a heartbeat.
And then the healers had taken her from him.
—
Inside the ward, Feyre floats.
Not in darkness.
In gray.
A hazy in-between where sensation flickers in and out.
Her body feels heavy. Her magic sluggish, tangled like threads pulled too tight.
She hears voices.
Muted.
Distant.
“…internal magic burn…”
“…unstable bond resonance…”
“…High Lord interference could worsen it…”
Interference.
Rhys.
Her mind latches onto the name, instinctive and desperate.
She tries to reach for him.
Nothing answers.
The bond is quiet.
Not broken.
Just… distant.
Fear coils sharp in her chest.
She forces herself to surface.
—
Outside, Rhys paces.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Every step precise, controlled.
Every movement a battle not to tear the doors off their hinges.
Cassian leans against the wall, watching him carefully. Azriel stands silent beside him, shadows curling uneasily.
“She’s strong,” Cassian says quietly. “She’ll pull through.”
Rhys doesn’t stop pacing.
“I know.”
“Then sit before you wear a trench into the floor.”
Rhys halts.
Turns.
His eyes glow faintly in the dim light—violet shot through with silver.
“I can’t feel her properly,” he admits, voice low. “The bond is there, but it’s… muffled. Like she’s underwater.”
Cassian’s expression tightens.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know what it means,” Rhys cuts in, voice razor-thin. “It means she’s hurting. And I’m standing out here doing nothing.”
Azriel finally speaks.
“You’re doing what she would want,” he says quietly. “Letting the healers work.”
Rhys’s wings twitch.
“What she would want,” he echoes bitterly.
“She wouldn’t want you tearing the House apart in panic.”
Silence.
Then, softer—
“She’ll call for you,” Azriel adds. “When she wakes, she’ll call for you first.”
Rhys closes his eyes.
He wants to believe that.
Gods, he wants to.
—
Hours drag.
The House of Wind grows quieter, heavier.
Rhys stops pacing and instead leans against the wall across from the ward doors, staring straight ahead.
He replays every moment.
The blast.
Her body going limp.
The absence in the bond.
His hands curl into fists.
If anything happens to her—
The thought is a cliff edge he refuses to step over.
—
Inside the ward, Feyre fights.
Her lungs burn. Her head aches. Magic prickles under her skin.
She forces her eyes open.
Light floods in.
Blurred shapes sharpen into the familiar white-and-gold of the healer’s chambers.
A priestess leans over her, relief washing across her face.
“High Lady,” she breathes. “Can you hear me?”
Feyre nods weakly.
Her throat is dry. Words scrape out.
“Rhys.”
The priestess hesitates.
“You need rest—”
“Rhys,” Feyre repeats, stronger this time. “Where is he?”
The healer exchanges a glance with another.
“He’s outside,” she admits carefully. “We couldn’t allow him in. The bond was destabilizing your magic. It could have made things worse.”
Feyre’s heart twists.
“He’s been waiting?”
The healer nods.
“All night.”
Emotion surges sharp and fierce.
“Bring him,” Feyre says, voice hoarse but commanding. “Now.”
No one argues.
—
Rhys looks up the moment the doors open.
A healer steps out, eyes gentle.
“My lord… she’s awake.”
Relief hits like a physical blow.
“And she’s asking for you.”
He’s moving before the sentence finishes.
Crossing the corridor in three long strides.
The doors open.
And there she is.
Pale.
Tired.
Alive.
Their eyes meet.
The bond snaps back into place like a struck chord.
Emotion floods through him so violently his knees nearly buckle—fear, relief, love, raw and overwhelming.
“Feyre,” he breathes.
She smiles weakly. “Hi.”
He approaches slowly, like she might vanish if he moves too fast.
“Are you in pain?” he asks, voice rough.
“Only a little.”
His hands hover near her, not touching yet.
“I wasn’t allowed in,” he says quietly. “They said I could make it worse.”
“I know.”
“I tried to argue. I offered to shield my power, sever the bond temporarily, anything. They wouldn’t risk it.”
She studies him.
The exhaustion lining his face. The tension in his shoulders.
“You stayed,” she murmurs.
“Of course I stayed.”
The answer is immediate, fierce.
“I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”
Her chest tightens.
“I tried to reach you,” she admits softly. “It was so quiet. I thought… I thought something had happened.”
Fear flashes across his face.
“I was right here,” he says, voice breaking. “The entire time. I kept talking through the bond, hoping you’d hear me.”
She blinks, tears stinging her eyes.
“I think I did,” she whispers. “It felt like… warmth. Like you were pulling me back.”
He finally reaches for her then, hands cradling her face with aching gentleness.
“I was terrified,” he admits. “I felt you go silent and I thought—”
His voice fractures.
Feyre presses her hand over his.
“I’m here,” she says.
His forehead drops to hers, wings curling instinctively around the bed like a shield.
“I love you,” he breathes, the words raw and unfiltered. “I love you so much it feels like it’s carved into my bones. And not being able to reach you— not being able to help—”
“You help just by being here.”
“I should have protected you.”
“You always do.”
He shakes his head, tears glinting in his eyes.
“I’m supposed to be the most powerful High Lord in history,” he murmurs. “And I was useless. Standing outside a door while you fought alone.”
“You weren’t useless,” she says firmly. “You were waiting. Trusting me to come back.”
His eyes search hers.
“I would tear the world apart for you,” he confesses. “Burn every court, challenge every god, if it meant keeping you safe.”
She smiles, soft and certain.
“I know,” she whispers. “That’s why I asked for you the moment I woke up.”
Emotion crashes through him.
He kisses her gently, reverently, like she’s something sacred.
The bond hums between them—steady, alive, whole.
And for the first time since the attack, Rhys finally breathes.
She’s here.
Alive.
Calling his name.
His High Lady.
His mate.
His heart.