The Day Court felt too bright.

Lucien thought that was the first thing he noticed as he stood beneath its endless dome of light and glass—the way the sun seemed to watch him, the way it lingered on his skin as if testing whether he truly belonged here. The palace breathed warmth and knowledge and ancient magic, every corridor humming with power that answered him whether he wished it to or not.

Not by choice. By necessity.

He stood at the center of it all, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight out of sheer habit. Centuries of surviving Beron had taught him how to look composed even when he felt like he was unraveling inside.

High Lord.

The word still didn’t fit. It slid off him like an ill-tailored coat.

He had spent most of his life being the wrong thing—wrong son, wrong heir, wrong temperament. Too soft for Autumn. Too defiant. Too kind. A fox born among wolves, teeth bared at his back since childhood. He had learned to live lightly, to never sink roots too deep. Homes were temporary. Affection was dangerous.

And now Prythian expected him to rule.

The magic hadn’t asked for permission. The moment Helion’s power had settled into his bones, it had been irrevocable—sunlight threading through his veins, ancient wards bending instinctively to his will. The Day Court had recognized him, claimed him with quiet certainty.

Everyone else seemed to see it clearly.

Lucien did not.

He moved through the palace like a guest who had overstayed his welcome, nodding to scholars and sentries who bowed too deeply, who looked at him with awe and relief and something like hope. It made his chest ache. He didn’t know what to do with their faith.

He paused before a tall window overlooking the city below—white stone, gold accents, open terraces overflowing with light. Beautiful. Alive.

Not his.

A familiar presence drew closer behind him, grounding as a hand at his spine without ever touching. You. Of course. You had learned his silences better than anyone else ever had.