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The Night Court had always been loud with life.
Even in the quiet hours—when Velaris slept and the Sidra ran black and glassy beneath the moon—there was always something. Laughter in a distant townhouse. Wings cutting through the dark. Magic humming, soft and steady, like a heartbeat.
Tonight, there was nothing.
Not silence exactly. Silence implied peace.
This was absence.
Rhys felt it first.
A wrongness that slid beneath his skin while he stood on the balcony of the House of Wind, looking out over the sleeping city. The stars were sharp. The air was cold enough to sting. Everything looked as it should.
But the bond tugged, thin and strained.
Feyre.
He went still.
Rhys.
Her voice brushed his mind—faint, frayed at the edges.
Fear speared straight through his chest.
He vanished from the balcony before the thought had even finished forming.
—
Feyre didn’t remember falling.
One moment she’d been walking the outer gardens of the river estate, paint-stained fingers tucked into her pockets, thinking about the soft gold she wanted for the sunrise in her next piece.
The next—
Pain.
A flash of movement.
Hands.
Magic snapping tight around her like iron bands.
Now she was on her knees, breath shuddering, wrists bound behind her with something that burned when she tried to summon power.
Not chains.
Spellwork.
Old.
Cruel.
A figure moved in front of her, face hidden beneath a hood.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” the stranger said.
Feyre lifted her chin. “You expected screaming?”
“I expected the High Lady of the Night Court to beg.”
She laughed, low and breathless despite the pain. “You clearly don’t know me very well.”
But inside, panic was already clawing its way up her throat.
Because the bond—
She reached for it.
Rhys.
It flickered.
Weak. Distorted.
Blocked.
The stranger saw the shift in her expression and smiled beneath the hood.
“Yes,” they murmured. “We thought of that.”
Ice flooded her veins.
—
Cassian was mid-flight when the sky cracked.
Not literally. Not something anyone else would notice.
But the world lurched—magic twisting wrong—and the bond he carried through Rhys snapped taut with sudden, violent fear.
Cassian didn’t think.
He banked hard, wings straining, and shot toward Velaris.
By the time he landed on the river estate lawn, Rhys was already there.
Still.
Dead still.
Power bleeding off him in slow, lethal waves.
Nesta stood a few steps away, silver fire dancing faintly at her fingertips, her eyes locked on Rhys like she was bracing for a storm.
“What happened?” Cassian demanded.
Rhys didn’t look at him.
“Feyre,” he said.
Just that.
But Cassian felt the word like a blade.
“She’s alive,” Rhys added, voice thin and controlled in a way that was far more terrifying than shouting. “I can feel her. Barely.”
Nesta swore under her breath.
“Where?” Cassian asked.
Rhys’s jaw tightened. “Someone’s blocking the bond.”
Silence slammed into the garden.
Because blocking a mating bond—
It took power. Knowledge. Intent.
Someone had planned this.
—
Feyre refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
Even when they dragged her to her feet.
Even when the restraints tightened, biting into her magic every time she tested them.
Even when they shoved her into a stone room carved deep underground, the air damp and stale.
She stumbled, catching herself against the wall, vision swimming.
“Why?” she rasped.
The hooded figure paused in the doorway.
“You are the heart of him,” they said simply. “And he is the heart of the Night Court.”
A chill ran through her.
“You think hurting me will break him?” she asked.
The figure’s smile was cold. “No.”
A beat.
“We think losing you will.”
The door slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And for the first time since she’d been taken, fear truly took hold.
Not for herself.
For what Rhys would do.
—
Rhys didn’t rage.
That was the problem.
Cassian had seen him furious. Had seen him lethal. Had seen him tear through enemies like a shadow given teeth.
This—
This was something else.
Rhys stood in the war room of the House of Wind, hands braced on the table, head bowed slightly. Maps were scattered everywhere. Magical signatures hovered in the air, shimmering like ghosts.
Nesta leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her silver fire now a steady, simmering presence.
Cassian paced.
Azriel had already vanished into the night.
“Say something,” Cassian finally snapped.
Rhys lifted his head.
His eyes were violet and endless and utterly, horrifyingly empty.
“They’re shielding her with ancient wards,” Rhys said. “Pre-Cauldron magic. Twisted. Spliced with blood-binding.”
Nesta straightened. “Who has access to that?”
“Very few,” Rhys said.
“And you’re going to find them,” Cassian said.
Rhys met his gaze.
“No,” he said quietly.
Cassian frowned. “What?”
“I’m going to find her.”
Power rolled off him then—dark, cold, suffocating.
Nesta inhaled sharply. Cassian’s wings flared instinctively.
“You’ll tear the world apart doing that,” Cassian said.
Rhys’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Then the world shouldn’t have taken her.”
—
Time lost meaning underground.
Feyre drifted between wakefulness and shallow, aching sleep. Every time she tried to summon magic, the restraints burned hotter, sending sharp jolts up her arms.
She didn’t scream.
She wouldn’t.
Instead, she focused on the bond.
Thin.
Faint.
But there.
Rhys was out there.
Searching.
The thought steadied her.
Even as the door opened again.
The hooded figure stepped inside, carrying a blade that shimmered with strange, dark light.
Fear lanced through her.
Not for herself.
For what this meant.
“You’ve held up well,” they said.
Feyre said nothing.
The figure crouched in front of her.
“We were hoping the High Lord would come sooner,” they murmured.
Her heart stuttered.
“He will,” she said, voice raw but certain.
A smile curved beneath the hood.
“We’re counting on it.”
The blade lifted.
And Feyre realized—
This wasn’t about killing her.
It was about bait.
—
Cassian felt it when Rhys finally snapped.
The moment the last thread of patience gave way.
The night itself seemed to shudder.
Winds tore through Velaris. Shadows lashed against the sky. Magic pulsed, wild and furious, like a living storm.
Cassian burst into the training ring just as Rhys dropped to one knee, clutching his chest.
“Rhys—”
“I have her,” Rhys rasped.
Nesta was already beside him. “Where?”
Rhys’s head jerked up, eyes blazing.
“Under the mountains,” he said. “Old tunnels. Pre-war.”
Cassian’s blood went cold.
“They’re drawing you in,” Nesta said.
Rhys bared his teeth.
“I know.”
“Then we go together,” Cassian said immediately.
Rhys hesitated.
And for a heartbeat, Cassian saw it—
The terror.
Not of the enemy.
Of being too late.
Nesta placed a hand on Rhys’s shoulder, her silver fire flaring.
“We get her back,” she said softly. “All of us.”
Rhys closed his eyes.
Nodded.
—
The tunnels stank of rot and old magic.
Cassian led the descent, wings tight against his back. Nesta followed, her power a cold, luminous shield. Rhys brought up the rear—and the darkness itself seemed to bend toward him, answering his silent command.
They didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
The air grew heavier the deeper they went. The wards prickled against Cassian’s skin, wrong and ancient.
Then—
A pulse.
Pain.
Rhys staggered.
“Feyre,” he breathed.
Cassian’s grip tightened on his sword.
They were close.
Too close.
The corridor opened into a cavern.
Torches flared to life.
Figures stepped from the shadows—hooded, silent, weapons gleaming.
And at the center—
Feyre.
On her knees.
Blood at her temple.
Wrists bound.
Alive.
Rhys stopped breathing.
The world narrowed to that single point.
Her.
—
Feyre looked up as the cavern filled with movement.
And there—
Rhys.
Cassian.
Nesta.
Relief hit so hard her vision blurred.
Rhys took a step forward.
The blade at her throat pressed closer.
“Another step,” the hooded figure warned, “and she dies.”
Rhys froze.
Power coiled around him, lethal and barely contained.
“Let her go,” he said, voice soft and terrible.
The figure laughed.
“You came,” they said. “Good.”
Nesta moved then—silent, precise.
Silver fire lashed across the cavern, slamming into the wards.
Cassian surged forward with a roar.
Chaos exploded.
Steel clashed. Magic screamed. Shadows tore through the air.
Feyre twisted, ignoring the burning restraints, slamming her shoulder into the figure holding her.
The blade slipped.
Just enough.
Rhys moved.
Not walking.
Not running.
Winnowing.
He appeared between Feyre and the blade just as it came down.
It sank into his side instead.
A wet, sickening sound.
Rhys gasped.
Feyre screamed.
Dark power detonated outward, blasting the attacker across the cavern.
Cassian and Nesta finished the rest in seconds.
Silence crashed down.
Rhys sagged.
Feyre caught him.
“Rhys—Rhys—stay with me—”
His blood was everywhere.
Too much.
His hand found her face, trembling.
“Feyre,” he whispered, voice breaking.
“I’m here,” she choked. “I’m here.”
His eyes searched hers, desperate, frantic.
“Are you hurt?”
The question shattered her.
“You’re bleeding out and you’re asking about me?” she cried.
His grip tightened weakly.
“Always,” he said.
Then his head dropped against her shoulder.
Unconscious.
—
They made it back to Velaris in a blur.
Healers.
Light.
Hands.
Orders shouted.
Feyre refused to let go of him until they physically pulled her back.
“He’ll die if we can’t work,” one healer said urgently.
She staggered away, hands shaking, Rhys’s blood staining her skin.
Cassian stood nearby, breathing hard, wings drooping.
Nesta’s hand slipped into his.
They waited.
Minutes stretched into hours.
No one spoke.
Finally—
The doors opened.
The healer stepped out, exhausted.
“He’s stable,” she said.
Feyre’s knees buckled.
Cassian caught her.
“He’ll wake?” Nesta asked.
The healer nodded. “Eventually.”
Relief hit like a tidal wave.
Cassian exhaled shakily. Nesta leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.
Feyre pushed past them and into the room.
Rhys lay pale against the pillows, bandaged, breathing shallow but steady.
She sank into the chair beside him, gripping his hand.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
—
He woke at dawn.
Eyes fluttering.
Breath hitching.
“Feyre?” he rasped immediately.
She laughed through tears. “Right here.”
His gaze sharpened, scanning her face, her body, searching for injury.
“Are you okay?” he demanded, trying to sit up.
She pressed him gently back. “I’m fine. I’m safe. Because of you.”
Pain flickered across his face—not physical.
“You shouldn’t have had to be,” he said hoarsely.
She leaned down, forehead against his.
“But we came back to each other,” she whispered. “All of us.”
In the doorway, Cassian and Nesta stood close—hands brushing, eyes locked in silent understanding.
The court had fractured for a moment.
But now—
They were here.
Together.
Rhys closed his eyes, relief washing through him.
“I felt you,” he murmured. “Even through the wards.”
“I felt you too,” Feyre said.
His hand tightened weakly around hers.
“Never again,” he said.
She smiled softly, tears slipping free.
“Never again,” she agreed.
And for the first time since the darkness had taken her, the Night Court felt whole again.