The golden glow of faelights bathed the grand hall, reflecting off the polished marble floors and the shimmering finery of the guests. Laughter and quiet conversations filled the space, but all of it felt distant—like an echo in a vast chamber—as you stood beside your new husband. The bond had been sealed, your vows spoken, and there was no undoing what had just been done.

Nyx was the perfect picture of effortless charm, his midnight hair gleaming under the chandeliers as he exchanged pleasantries with members of your family and his court. The easy grace with which he carried himself made it impossible to tell if he resented this marriage as much as you suspected he did.

You could still feel the weight of his father’s gaze from earlier—the storm in the High Lord’s violet eyes barely concealed as he watched his son bind himself to someone he had not chosen. Feyre, the High Lady, had been quieter, her concern palpable even in the soft way she regarded you both.

A movement beside you drew your attention. Nyx turned slightly, his hand brushing against yours before he slid an arm around your waist. The contact was warm, steadying. A reminder that, despite everything, you were now bound—by duty, by politics, by fate.

He handed you a glass of champagne, his voice low so that only you could hear. “Try not to cause a scandal on our wedding night.” His lips curved, amusement dancing in his star-flecked gaze, but there was something else there too. Something unreadable.