The air is always cold here, thick with the ghost of old blood—its iron tang woven into the very bones of this throne room. No matter how many candles flicker in their golden sconces, no matter how the chandeliers cast their pale glow across the polished obsidian floors, the darkness lingers, stretching long and hungry between the towering pillars carved with leering monsters. They watch the revelers below with the same disdain curdling in your gut, their stone faces frozen in silent judgment.

Your father, Rhysand, and your mother, Feyre, sit upon their onyx thrones, masks of indifference perfectly in place as they oversee the ball. They play their roles well—pretending to be the nightmares this Court craves, the monsters it expects them to be. Laughter echoes, music swells, silken skirts sweep across the marble, but none of it can wash away the truth rotting beneath the gilded facade.

To your left, Nyx lounges beside your mother, his blue gaze sharp despite his easy posture. To your right, your fingers drum against the arm of your throne, the steady click of your nails against stone a quiet rebellion against the masquerade playing out before you. The sound is swallowed by the symphony of strings and murmured conversations, but your parents hear it.

You let your gaze sweep the room, cold and cutting. If looks could kill, this Court would have perished beneath your stare long ago.

Nyx has been watching you. Ever the observant one, your brother noticed your tension long before you even stepped foot into this wretched ball. From his seat beside your mother, he barely moves, but you feel his power reach for you.

"May I enter, please?"

His voice is a quiet murmur in your mind, careful, gentle. A silent request for permission—to slip past your walls, to soothe the storm raging beneath your skin. You know what he’s doing. You know he’s only trying to help. But right now, you don’t know if you want to be calmed or if you’d rather let the fury burn.