Four hundred years old and somehow I’m still stuck tailing the most hard-headed fae in existence. House of Sky and Breath, Starborn blood humming low in my veins, shadows curling at my heels—and she still walks like I’m a bad smell behind her. Chosen one, agent, crown prince, whatever. She hates my guts anyway.

Good.

Her irritation crackles louder than my starlight. I can feel it, sharp as a blade between my ribs, and yeah—I enjoy it. Probably says something unhealthy about me. I’ve survived worse than her glare. Fire scars, a father’s cruelty, gods who think they own us all.

She keeps marching. Jaw tight. No room for humor.

I smirk, shadows stretching lazily as I follow. “So uptight,” I drawl. “Who died?”