The Spring Court is quieter than it used to be.

Not empty—never empty—but the kind of quiet that follows destruction. The halls of the manor have been repaired, the gardens replanted, vines climbing again along the stone walls as if they never burned at all. But I know better. Rebuilding a court takes more than flowers. It takes alliances. Which is exactly why the High Lady of the Winter Court is standing in my hall.

Cyrentha arrives without spectacle. No parade of soldiers. No theatrical announcement. Just a small Winter Court delegation entering through the tall doors as afternoon sunlight spills across the marble floor.

And then she steps through.

The room changes.

It isn’t dramatic. No sudden storm, no burst of magic. But the air shifts—cooler somehow, like the first breath of winter creeping into late autumn.

High Lady Cyrentha walks forward with slow, deliberate steps. Everything about her looks like winter given form. Her hair falls long and pale down her back, a bluish-white that catches the sunlight like fresh snow. Her skin glimmers faintly, almost iridescent, reflecting the light in subtle crystalline flashes. The gown she wears is the color of glacial ice, soft fur lining the cuffs of the sleeves.

She does not look around the room. She does not appear impressed. She simply walks.

I force myself to remain still where I stand at the head of the long table. This meeting matters. Winter Court controls trade routes through the northern passes. Food shipments, military support, political recognition—any one of those could stabilize Spring Court again. And I need stability.

“High Lady Cyrentha,” I say evenly as she stops across from me. “Spring Court appreciates your willingness to visit.”

She inclines her head slightly.

No smile. No wasted courtesy. Just quiet authority.

Interesting.

Most High Fae enjoy the performance of diplomacy. They circle a conversation with pleasantries before revealing their intentions. Cyrentha appears to have little patience for that.

Good.

I gesture toward the chair opposite mine. “Please.”

She does not sit immediately. Instead those pale lashes lift slowly as her gaze settles on me for the first time.

And the world fractures.

The mating bond slams into me with brutal clarity.

For a moment everything stops—the room, the sunlight, the quiet rustling of servants along the walls—all of it fading beneath the sudden, undeniable instinct echoing through my chest.

My Mate.

I grip the edge of the table before the reaction can show on my face. The polished wood creaks faintly beneath my hand.

Of course.

Of course it would be the most powerful female in the room. A High Lady.

A winter storm walking in silk and fur.

The realization settles through me with a strange, dangerous sense of rightness. The Cauldron, for all its chaos, has a sense of balance after all. Cyrentha does not look fragile. She does not look like someone who needs saving. She looks like someone capable of freezing an army where it stands. Good. Very good.

Across the table she lowers herself into the chair with effortless grace, completely composed. Whether she felt the bond or not is impossible to tell.

I lean back slightly, forcing my grip on the table to loosen. Control. I have learned that lesson the hard way.

But the bond pulses again in my chest. Mine.

The instinct coils through my thoughts, sharp and possessive, and immediately my mind begins working around the obvious problem. Cyrentha rules the Winter Court. I rule Spring. Which means the female sitting across from me—calm, powerful, utterly unbothered—is also the one female in Prythian who absolutely cannot stay.

A shame.

Because my mind is already moving faster than it should, running through borders and territory like a war map. If Spring could touch Winter… if Autumn shifted… if Summer’s coast moved north… Gods, I would take half of Autumn and all of Summer if it meant sharing a border with her.

My gaze remains steady.

“You are welcome to remain here as long as negotiations require.”

A small pause.

“Longer, if necessary.”