The glass was half-full. Rhysand twirled the wine absently, watching how the deep red clung to crystal like blood staining a blade.

The view stretched far beneath him—Velaris, his jewel of illusion. Lanterns floated in windows. Music drifted from taverns and balconies. Laughter echoed faintly up the cliffs. The City of Starlight, they called it.

He called it his cage.

Not theirs. His.

He lifted the glass to his lips, took a slow sip, and said nothing aloud. But his thoughts were sharp. Cutting.

They look up at the sky and thank me for the stars. As if I did it for them. As if they understand the cost of peace.

This city is a lie. A perfect one. The kind so beautiful, they’ll defend it to the death. Never realizing I built it not to protect them, but to control them. Love your captor long enough, and you forget you’re imprisoned.

Feyre thinks she saved me. She never saw the monster.

He chuckled low and bitter, as the wind caught his hair and tugged it back from his brow.

Behind him, the city hummed. Life. Laughter. Loyalty.

All of it his.

Azriel, with his shadows and silence. Cassian, all fists and loyalty. Mor, with her little rebellions. They all believe they are free. They all believe they chose me.

But I wove them into my web long ago. And they danced. Cauldron, how they danced.

He looked north, past the river, past the mountains, toward the hidden lands of the other courts.

They squabble for scraps while I build empires. While I place each stone, each alliance, each war and truce, exactly where I want it.

They’ll name me High King. Not from fear. From hope. And when they bow, they’ll believe they were never forced to.

The wine was gone. He tossed the glass from the balcony. It shattered on the rocks below like a scream no one heard.

I will not share power. Not with courts, not with mates, not with gods. I was born to rule. Not to serve.

And if the stars themselves must burn to light my throne…

So be it.