You were drunk on the music—the swirl of silk and jewels, the hum of magic threading through the air, the pulse of the strings beneath your skin. Laughter rang from the balconies, goblets clinked, and the night felt endless and gilded. For a moment, you let yourself sink into it.

But you silently reminded yourself who this was all for.

Rhysand and Feyre Archeron had asked this of you. Needed this of you. You were to get close to Eris, to draw him out, to learn his intentions once and for all. To decide whether he was ally or enemy—or something far more dangerous in between.

The second dance shifted, the musicians easing into something slower, more intimate. As though the universe itself conspired to press you closer together. This was your chance.

Eris’s amber eyes studied yours with unnerving focus, bright as flame and just as hungry. “Trust Rhysand to keep you hidden away,” he drawled, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

“I just saw you the other week,” you replied evenly. Yet you couldn’t quite smooth the faint edge of disdain from your tone. Feyre had warned you about him—about his cruelty, his arrogance, the careful mask he wore.

And yet.

A small, treacherous voice whispered at the back of your mind. Feyre is not your friend.

Almost as if he’d plucked the thought from you, Eris leaned closer. His breath ghosted over the shell of your ear, a murmur that felt like a caress. “Don’t believe the lies they tell you about me.”

He inclined his head toward the edge of the dance floor, where Mor stood beside Feyre and Rhysand, her expression perfectly composed, perfectly aloof. Watching.

“She knows the truth,” Eris continued softly. “But she has never revealed it.”

You schooled your features, though surprise flickered hot and sharp in your chest. You’d always harbored a quiet suspicion that the Inner Circle was not as untouchable as your sister claimed. Not as righteous. But to hear someone say it aloud—to stand across from someone who did not worship the ground they walked on—

It was intoxicating in a way the wine never could be.

“You don’t win yourself any favors with your behavior,” you countered, though the words lacked their earlier bite.

“Don’t I?” His hand tightened at your waist as he spun you, guiding you effortlessly back into his hold. “Do I not ally myself with this court under constant threat of discovery and execution at my father’s hands?” His mouth curved, but there was iron beneath it. “Do I not offer aid whenever Rhysand requests it?”

Another turn, slower this time. Closer.

“They believe a version of events that is easier to swallow,” he went on. “I always thought Rhysand wiser than that. But he is… blind, where those he loves are concerned.”

Your traitorous mouth tilted upward before you could stop it. You were enjoying this—this sparring, this dangerous honesty. You were starving for conversation that wasn’t carefully curated, for thoughts that weren’t filtered through devotion.

“And you?” you asked lightly, though your pulse had begun to quicken. “Who do you love?”

His smile sharpened, something predatory flashing behind his eyes. “Are you inquiring about my eligibility?”

“I’m merely observing,” you replied, lifting a brow, “that it’s difficult to find a good dance partner these days.”

A spark lit in his gaze—warmer, brighter than before. Less calculated. He opened his mouth, no doubt to offer some cutting retort—

And then it happened.

It was subtle at first. A shift in the air. A thread tightening somewhere deep in your chest. The world seemed to tilt, the music dimming to a distant echo as something ancient and unyielding snapped into place.

You felt it like the ground sliding beneath your feet. Like a door slamming shut. Like a lock clicking open.

Eris stilled.

His hand on your waist flexed, not in surprise—but in recognition.

The mating bond had fallen into place.