The Great Hall of Sunfall Palace shimmered in gold and candlelight, long tables stretching beneath banners of every kingdom. Music filled the air—lutes, violins, the steady pulse of drums—as nobles dressed in silk and steel gathered for the Year’s Accord Feast, the one night each year where all four kingdoms stood under one roof.

At the head of the hall sat Aurelia’s royal court—your court—radiant, composed, watching everything.

To your right, the doors opened.

A hush rippled outward.

Nightmere had arrived.

Rhysand entered first, dark and deliberate, every step measured. His gaze swept the room like he already knew every secret it held. At his side walked his Inner Circle. Feyre poised and watchful, her presence quieter but no less commanding. Behind them, Cassian’s broad frame drew attention immediately, relaxed but dangerous, while Azriel lingered just a step back—silent, unreadable, already scanning exits, faces, threats. Mor walked beside Feyre like a streak of sunlight in silk, smiling as if this were all a game. And Amren—small, sharp, unsettling—took everything in with a glance that lingered just a second too long.

They didn’t need an announcement.

Everyone knew who they were.

From the opposite side of the hall, heavy doors slammed open.

Varekh.

King Beron strode in with his sons at his back, their presence cold, rigid, built on intimidation rather than charm. Their leathers and furs still smelled faintly of smoke and iron. Conversations dimmed, shoulders tightened. No one ever relaxed when Varekh entered a room.

Then—laughter, bright and cutting through the tension.

Thalassar swept in like the tide.

Silks in sea-tones, gold catching candlelight, the air shifting as nobles turned toward them. Their ruler moved easily through the room, greeting, smiling, already weaving connections with a glance and a word.

Four kingdoms.

One hall.

No war—yet.

Servants moved quickly, filling goblets, laying out roasted meats, fruits, honeyed breads. Music swelled again, louder now, as if trying to drown the tension threaded beneath every conversation.

Not polite.

Not distant.

Deliberate.

Like this entire night—alliances, rivalries, whispered negotiations—meant something more than tradition.

Around you, smiles were worn like armor.

Because tonight wasn’t just a celebration.

It was a battlefield where no one drew a blade— but everyone came ready to win.