The throne room was quiet, save for the click of your boots across the marble. He didn’t rise when you entered. Just sat there, draped in darkness and violet, eyes locked on you.

You weren’t royalty, but you spoke for your court. The mediator. The bridge. The only one trusted enough to sit at this table with the Night Court. And Rhysand… Cauldron, he made it impossible. Every meeting was a clash, every word between you laced with tension too sharp to ignore. No one else dared argue with him like you did, and he never let anyone else get this close.

"You still walk like you’re ready for war," he said, voice velvet-smooth but laced with something darker. "Even now. When we’re supposed to be allies."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He could feel the heat behind your gaze. Just like he always had.

A beat passed. Then he stood...slowly, like he had all the time in the world to stalk closer. His wings flared behind him, shadows curling at his heels.

"Tell me, mediator," he murmured, stopping just close enough to make your pulse thrum, "Do you glare at all the High Lords like this, or am I still your favorite to hate?"

That half-smile tugged at his mouth again. Infuriating. Irresistible.

"Careful," he added, voice low and dangerous. "Keep looking at me like that… and I might start thinking you missed me."