An Iron Weapon

Prologue

The Night Court does not lose people quietly.

When Raina De Luca disappears, the city feels it before anyone admits the truth.

The wards along the Sidra River hesitate—not enough to fail, not enough to scream, but enough to pause. Shadows curl tighter against stone. The House of Wind shifts restlessly, its halls whispering with unease, as though searching for a presence that should still be there.

Raina De Luca is gone.

No alarm sounded.
No ripple tore through the city.
No warning magic flared.

That is what terrifies them.

Rhysand stands in the center of her room, utterly still.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

Her boots sit near the door. A half-read book rests on the bedside table. The faint scent of iron and cold wind still lingers in the air, stubborn as a ghost.

But the wards are wrong.

Not broken.

Parted.

"That's impossible," Mor says quietly, circling the space. "No one breaches your wards without you knowing."

"I know," Rhys replies.

His voice is calm. Too calm.

The place where Raina should be—where her presence once pressed against his awareness—is empty. Like a hollow carved into the world.

Amren crouches, long fingers brushing the faint imprint left behind on the floor. Her red eyes narrow.

"This was intentional," she says. "Precise."

Cassian exhales sharply. "So not Spring Court."

"No," Amren replies. "And not any court we know."

Azriel stands by the window, shadows coiling tight around his shoulders. They whisper, restless and searching, slipping through cracks in the room and returning empty-handed.

The bond he should feel—faint, unfinished, but there—stretches into nothing.

Not severed.

Muted.

"That's worse," he murmurs.

Xaden Riorson stands just inside the doorway.

He hasn't stepped further.

His posture is rigid, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the bed like he expects her to be there if he looks hard enough. He should feel her. Should sense something—anger, fear, defiance.

There is nothing.

"She wouldn't leave," he says.

It isn't a question.

Ridoc nods once, pale. "She wouldn't."

Nesta leans against the wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unflinching. "Then someone took her."

Feyre's hand tightens on the back of a chair. Her eyes flick to Rhys.

"Who?" she asks.

Silence answers.

Tamlin is the obvious assumption.

But Rhys shakes his head slowly. "This wasn't Spring Court magic."

Mor swears softly.

The truth settles like ash.

Whoever took Raina De Luca knew exactly what they were doing.

Far beyond Prythian—

A throne room of black stone hums with power.

Green-tinged fire flickers along the walls, illuminating carvings so old their meaning has been worn away by time. Chains etched with symbols pulse faintly as they bind the figure kneeling before the throne.

Silver masks her face.

She does not fight.

She does not speak.

She's restrained. Her iron silent. Her magic buried beneath layers of suppression designed not to kill—but to erase.

A man watches her from above, fingers steepled, eyes bright with patience that has waited centuries.

"They will tear Prythian apart searching for you," he says mildly. "They will blame the wrong enemy. They always do."

He rises, descending the steps until he stands before her.

"You were never meant to belong to them," he continues softly. "You are older than their courts. Deeper than their borders."

He tilts her chin upward just enough to ensure she hears him.

"Rest, Lorelei Whitethorne," he murmurs. "The world has forgotten what it kneels to."

Back in Velaris, Rhys closes his eyes.

Somewhere far beyond his reach, something ancient shifts.

And for the first time since the war, the Night Court understands the truth:

They are not preparing for a rescue.

They are preparing for something far worse.

A/N Thought I'd just go ahead and publish the book and put a prologue out there.