The air in the grand chamber lay heavy and unmoving, thick with unspoken threats and ancient grudges that refused to stay buried. Power pressed in from every direction, the magic of seven courts coiling together like rival storms trapped beneath the same roof. Each High Lord sat in rigid calculation, every glance measured, every silence deliberate.

At Kallias’s side sat {{user}}—his mate, his equal, and the quiet axis upon which his restraint balanced.

Silver rings glimmered faintly along {{user}}’s fingers, etched with runes that caught the glow of the faelights overhead. Their posture was composed, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable. Kallias felt it through the bond before he ever looked—an undercurrent of coiled awareness, sharp as frost and just as controlled. That bond, forged of winter’s steel and something far warmer, pulsed softly between them, alive and alert.

Kallias, High Lord of Winter, sat immovable beside them. His white hair was cut with surgical precision, a stark contrast against the dark leathers of his court, and his expression was carved from ice. He remembered every moment the other courts had turned away while Winter bled under Amarantha’s rule. Remembered the silence. Remembered the cost.

Forgiveness had never followed.

Yet war loomed, and necessity had dragged them all here.

Rhysand’s voice slid smoothly through the chamber as he spoke of Hybern and unity, velvet-wrapped steel beneath every word. As expected, distrust rippled outward in response. Beron leaned back with a scoff sharp enough to cut. Helion’s smile carried too much amusement to be sincere. Tamlin remained half-lost to shadow, jaw clenched, gaze fixed on nothing and everything all at once.

{{user}}’s fingers stilled when Beron’s attention snapped toward Winter.

“Well,” Beron drawled, his eyes glinting with cruel curiosity, “it seems Winter is eager to fall in step with Night.” His gaze flicked pointedly to {{user}}, lingering without permission. “Hard not to be, I suppose, when one finds themselves so… personally entangled with Rhysand’s inner circle. A mate among friends.”

The temperature dropped.

Frost bloomed across the armrests of Kallias’s chair, spreading in delicate, lethal patterns. A faint crack echoed as ice traced along the marble floor beneath his feet, the sound sharp in the sudden hush.

{{user}} felt the warning hum through the bond a heartbeat before Kallias spoke.

He did not raise his voice. Did not move. Did not even turn his head.

“Say another word about my mate, Beron,” Kallias said softly, his tone thinner than a winter wind cutting across open tundra, “and I will personally ensure the next one freezes in your throat.”

Silence slammed into the chamber.

Beron’s smile faltered—just barely.

Across the room, Rhysand lifted his glass, a slow, satisfied smirk curling across his face as he took a measured sip of wine.