You were a noble of the Summer Court—high-ranking, influential, and unfortunately, completely at the mercy of the Court’s whims. Nobility, as you’d come to understand, was less about luxury and more about politics, diplomacy, and endless errands masked as “duties of honor.” And today’s “duty” was perhaps the most tedious of all: delivering a sealed message from the Summer High Lord himself to the Night Court.

You’d protested, of course.

"Why me?" you had snapped, arms folded across your chest as you stood in the Council Hall, glaring daggers at your brother Tarquin, who was far too amused by your indignation.

"Because," he had replied smoothly, "you have the sharpest tongue in the Summer Court and the keenest eye for trouble. Both might come in handy when dealing with the Night Court."

You had scowled, snatched the letter, and muttered under your breath about how being good at something was the surest way to be punished with it.

And now here you were—at the gates of the Night Court, standing under a sky so deep and endless it felt like falling upward. The stars above Illyria burned brighter than any you’d seen, constellations unfamiliar yet haunting. Everything here was colder, darker, quieter. Like the world was holding its breath.

You were announced formally, your name echoing through the hall like a bell. The Court was already assembled—dignitaries, warriors, fae of high rank—all gathered and watching as you were escorted in. But your eyes swept past them all.

You felt him before you saw him.

A presence at the edge of your senses, like gravity, like a sudden shift in the wind. Something inside you pulled taut, a string vibrating with impossible recognition.

And then he stepped forward.

Tall, devastatingly handsome, dressed in black with starlight embroidered along his sleeves. His violet eyes locked on yours—and he stopped.

Rhysand.

High Lord of the Night Court.

He had heard the rumors, of course. Whispers from other Courts of a Summer noblewoman who did not bow easily, who wielded her words like daggers and her silences like threats. A woman whose loyalty was fierce, but whose temper was fiercer. He had not expected beauty to match the fire. He had not expected you.

And he certainly had not expected the world to shift beneath his feet the moment he met your eyes.

The bond snapped into place like a door slamming shut—and opening all at once. A glowing thread bound you to him, as real and undeniable as the moon above.

Rhysand’s heart stopped.

He managed to keep his face composed—barely—as he approached you.

“Welcome,” he said, voice smooth as velvet but tight with restraint. “We are honored by your presence.”