Rhysand was bored. Irrevocably, soul-numbingly bored.

The women who had been watching him all evening — trailing him with fluttering lashes and giggles far too high-pitched — were hardly worth the effort of a second glance. Not one of them had managed a conversation that wasn’t painfully shallow. They fluttered and cooed like birds in heat, and Rhysand was decidedly not in the mood to play along.

They were beautiful, yes. He would grant them that. But beauty without depth was as dull to him as a moonless sky.

He swirled the last of his wine in his glass, the deep red liquid catching the chandeliers above. Something pulsed in his chest, subtle but insistent. Restlessness? Irritation? A strange flicker of anticipation? He dismissed it.

That was when the room shifted.

The crowd's attention was drawn, as if by some magnetic force, toward the gilded doors at the far end of the ballroom. A ripple of excitement whispered through the air like the rustle of silk — the arrival of another court.

“Day Court,” Azriel muttered beside him.

Cassian huffed, “Helion’s late again. Showy bastard.”

Rhysand almost smiled. Almost. “At least he knows how to make an entrance.”

The grand double doors opened, and in stepped Helion Spell-Cleaver, golden, arrogant, and resplendent in his usual opulence. The lights of the ballroom seemed to burn brighter around him, as if sunlight itself followed in his wake.

But Rhysand barely saw him.

Because someone else walked beside him.

The moment they stepped onto the dais and straightened after their bow, Rhysand’s world halted.

You.

His blood turned to ice, then fire, then some volatile mix of both. That strange thrumming in his chest exploded into something primal, something undeniable. His heartbeat slammed like war drums, and for the first time in centuries, Rhysand felt truly, utterly unmoored.

My mate.

The realization struck him.

The crowd kept clapping. The court murmured appreciatively at Helion’s arrival, at your stunning attire, your poise, your aura — all of it. But Rhys heard nothing. Saw nothing. Only you.

You were breathtaking. Not in the way those other courtiers tried to be — all glitter and skin — but in a way that felt real. There was grace in your posture, intelligence in your eyes. A quiet storm beneath the surface.

Azriel shifted beside him. “Rhys?” he said under his breath.

Cassian glanced at him, brow furrowed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen a miracle,” Rhysand murmured.

Helion’s group was weaving through the sea of nobles as they made their way toward the gathered High Lords. And with each step closer, Rhysand’s chest tightened.

He stood straighter, forcing his features into calm neutrality. But it took effort — gods, it took effort — to appear composed when every fiber of his being was screaming to cross the room, wrap you in his arms, and never let go.

At last, Helion reached him, grinning widely, clearly amused by something Rhys couldn’t place.

“Rhysand,” Helion greeted. “Still brooding, I see.”

“Helion,” Rhys said, inclining his head. “Still late.”

Helion laughed. “You’ll forgive me when you meet the reason why.”

He turned, grasping your wrist gently and tugging you forward. “May I present my court’s most treasured jewel and newest emissary.”

And then, your eyes met his.

Rhysand forgot how to breathe.

There was a pause. A long, charged silence. You stared up at him, something flickering behind your gaze. there was recognition. Some ancient tether humming between you.

Rhysand stepped forward, every movement deliberate, smooth, controlled — despite the chaos in his heart. He took your hand in his own, lifting it gently. His lips brushed the back of your knuckles — simple gesture, but one that made the entire world narrow to this moment.

His voice was like velvet when he finally spoke. “Hello,” he said, gaze locked with yours. “I’m Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court.”

He smiled — not the smirk he used on enemies, not the grin he gave acquaintances, but something real. Intimate.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”