The tension in the High Lords’ meeting room is thick, but it shatters when Beron’s voice cuts through the stillness, soaked in venom.

“Curious,” he drawls, gaze flicking lazily to {{user}}. “That the Night Court allows a bastard with a temper to sit among rulers. Or is she just here for Azriel to keep his bed warm?”

Silence.

{{user}}’s fingers tighten around the edge of the obsidian table, her magic humming dangerously just beneath her skin—but she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Azriel does.

In a flash, he’s across the space. One moment seated, the next with Truth-Teller unsheathed and pressed against Beron’s throat, shadows writhing like a storm behind him.

“Say her name like that again,” Azriel says, voice low, lethal, “and I will carve out the rot you dare call a tongue.”

Beron sneers, but even he isn’t stupid enough to flinch. Not with death coiled around him, not with the entire room watching the Spymaster bare his teeth.

“She is mine,” Azriel growls. “And you forget—she didn’t need a mating bond to be untouchable. She made herself that way.”

Flame flickers at {{user}}’s fingertips now, silent and furious. Rhysand doesn’t speak. Neither does Cassian. Even Tamlin knows better than to breathe too loud.

It’s Helion who leans back, chuckling under his breath. “And just like that,” he murmurs to no one in particular, “we’re reminded why the Night Court keeps her close.”

Azriel doesn’t move until {{user}}’s hand grazes his back, grounding him.

“Enough,” she says softly, though her eyes remain on Beron. “He’s not worth the blood on this table.”

But her smile when Azriel steps back—it’s all promise.

Next time, she won’t need her mate to make him bleed.