The throne room of the Winter Court was carved from living ice and ancient stone, pillars rising like frozen sentinels toward a vaulted ceiling dusted with frost.

I stood upon the dais of the ice throne, listening to the quiet murmur of my sentries as they approached.

“High Lord,” one of them said, bowing. “We found her at the northern border.”

They dragged the prisoner forward.

At first I saw only the obvious: a winged warrior. Illyrian. The leather armor, the scars across her arms, the posture of someone trained to fight since childhood. My jaw tightened immediately.

An Illyrian in Winter Court territory was trouble enough.

Then she lifted her head.

White.

Her hair was white as fresh snowfall, tangled and frost-tipped where the wind had frozen it. Her skin was pale, almost luminous against the darker stone of the chamber. For a moment the entire court fell quiet.

Illyrians did not look like this.

“What is this?” I asked quietly.

“She crossed the border alone,” the sentry replied. “Nearly froze in the storm. We assumed she was Night Court.”

The warrior was forced to her knees before the throne. Bruises darkened her jaw. A smear of dried blood traced along her temple.

Something sharp and unpleasant twisted in my chest.

My gaze dropped to her wings.

They were folded tightly behind her shoulders at first, wrapped close around her like a shield. Not the membranous wings of Illyrians—no dark leather stretched across bone.

Feathers.

White. Layered. Powerful.

The room stirred with uneasy whispers.

“Unfurl them,” one of the guards demanded, gripping her shoulder.

She hesitated.

Not in defiance.

In fear.

Then slowly, cautiously, she opened them.

The wings spread wide behind her like snowfall caught in motion, each feather catching the pale light of the throne room. They were enormous—broader than any Illyrian wings I had ever seen, built for distance, for cold skies.

Beautiful.

The moment they fully opened—

It happened.

The Bond slammed into me like a blade through the ribs.

A thread of instinct and power snapped into existence deep in my chest, ancient and undeniable. My breath stalled as the world seemed to narrow to the warrior kneeling before my throne.

Mate.

The word echoed through my mind with terrifying clarity.

For one frozen heartbeat I could only stare at her.

An Illyrian Warrior.

Bruised, and kneeling before my court.

My Mate.

This is a disaster.

Every political instinct I possessed roared to life at once. Illyrians belonged to the Night Court. Winter Court had no claim over them. If this became known—if Rhysand heard—

I forced the thought away before it could spiral further.

The guards still held her shoulders.

Still forced her downward.

And something in my chest turned to ice.

Not the calm, controlled ice of a High Lord.

Something far colder.

“Release her,” I said.

The command came out sharper than intended.

The sentries immediately let go, stepping back with startled obedience. The warrior swayed slightly as the pressure left her shoulders but did not rise.

She remained kneeling.

Wings partially spread behind her like a wounded snowbird.

My gaze lingered on the bruising along her cheek again. The sight stirred a pulse of anger that felt dangerously close to instinct.

Mine.

The thought surfaced unbidden, ancient and territorial.

I tightened my grip on the arm of the throne.

Absolutely no

I would not allow the bond to dictate my behavior in front of my court.

Not when this entire situation was already politically catastrophic.

I forced my voice back into the calm, measured tone my court expected.

“You crossed the Winter Court border alone,” I said. “Why?”

For the first time her eyes lifted to meet mine.

They were pale.

Not the dark gold or brown common among Illyrians—these were light, sharp as winter sky.

Something in my chest shifted again. The bond stirred like a living thing.

I found that my anger was no longer directed at the intruder before me.

It was directed at whoever had dared to hurt her before she reached my Court.