The sea palace of Adriata gleams like carved moonstone, terraces spilling toward a restless, glittering bay. Salt rides every breath; silk banners snap like sails.

Tarquin sits upon a low, marble dais—barefoot, salt on his bronze skin, a circlet of pale gold in his silver-braided hair. To his left, Cresseida stands poised; to his right, Varian watches the doors with a soldier’s stillness.

The Night Court delegation is announced.

They part around her like tide around rock.

Starlight moves when she does. Shadow clings, not menacing, but sovereign. Rhysand walks a half step ahead, casual as a blade sheathed in velvet—until Tarquin’s gaze collides with hers.

The world lurches.

Not a spark, but a undertow—a pull as old as tides. A thread snicks taut between them: salt, star, breath. Tarquin’s practiced smile falters; his heart, traitorously, leaps. His magic thunders against his ribs like surf against stone.

He masks it. Barely.

“Night Court,” Tarquin says, voice even, “Adriata welcomes you.”

Rhysand’s eyes flick between them—too keen by half. But it’s her Tarquin sees, again and again, as if every blink is a wave returning to the same shore.

The bond hums: mine—not possession, but recognition. The sea inside him whispers: Found.

To claim her risks war. To deny her is to drown awake.

So the Dreamer King does what he has always done.

He dreams of a way through.

“We’ll speak of trade, wards, and safe harbors,” he says for the room, then, a breath softer (for her), “and perhaps… of truths the tides have washed ashore.”

The ocean holds its breath. Summer begins.