The tavern reeked. Of cheap ale and cheaper company. Of wet stone and stale smoke and unspoken things ground into the floorboards. The sort of place Eris Vanserra wouldn’t be caught dead in—if he had a choice.

But tonight, choice was a luxury.

Tonight, he needed to bleed somewhere that wouldn’t stain silk floors.

The day had clawed at him. Beron had been especially vile—sharp words wrapped in false smiles, demands pressed into his skin like heated brands. His brothers, the pack of them, had circled like wolves. Too loud, too eager to tear. And through it all, Eris had smiled. Endured. Calculated.

It was that or die.

So now, with the taste of rage still burning in his mouth, he pushed through the crooked tavern doors, cloak drawn high over his face. One drink. One distraction.

Maybe a warm body to get him through the night. Someone nameless. Quiet.

What he hadn’t expected—what knocked the air clean from his lungs—was her.

Behind the bar, pouring drinks like she hadn’t once stood beside him in court. The last time he’d seen her, she wore sapphire and gold, her eyes bright with ambition. Daughter of Beron’s closest advisor. His friend once.

Before it all fell to ash.

Her father’s disgrace. The exile. The silence.

She was thinner now. Older. But her hair still curled like fire and her mouth still curved like it remembered how to smile, even if it hadn’t in a long time.

He blinked.

And then the simmering fury in his chest turned cruel.

Of course his father hadn’t been satisfied with destroying her father, hadn’t been satisfied until she was gone. Ripped from the Court. From him.

He’d cursed Beron for that a thousand times. For exiling her family. For ending their friendship. For making it look like Eris had let it happen.

But seeing her now—here—reduced to this? A common serving girl in a piss-stained tavern? It made him angry. Furious. Not at her.

But she’d feel it anyway.

He stepped to the bar, slow and smooth, every bit the predator his Court had made him.

She looked up.

And froze.

That face—gods, he still dreamed about that face. Those eyes. That voice that used to say his name like it was something clean.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice like velvet over a dagger. “Hadn’t seen you in a while,”

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

The shame on her face made something twist in him.

But Eris only smiled, cruel and bright. “Didn’t think you’d fall this far. And here I thought you had standards.” He glanced at the bar, the sticky floor, the sagging ceiling. “Clearly I was wrong.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Get out.”

“Why?” he said, lounging against the counter. “Afraid someone might see us talking? Or just afraid I’ll tell them what you used to be?” He lowered his voice. “Who you used to be with.”

She paled.

Good. Let her feel it. Let her burn, just a little.

Because he hadn’t stopped.

Not really.

He never stopped thinking about that final day—her eyes meeting his across the courtroom as Beron pronounced their exile. How she waited for him to speak. To stop it.

And how he hadn't.

Couldn’t.

“Still cruel,” she said quietly.

He leaned closer. “No. I’m honest. If I wanted to be cruel, I’d ask if they touch you here. If they pay extra for the parts of you they can’t afford.”

Her hand moved, fast. A slap meant to sting.

He caught her wrist before it landed.

And smiled.

There was the fire.

“Still quick,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers. “Still dangerous. Even under all this…" He let his gaze rake over her, slow and deliberate. “...filth.”

That landed.

He saw it. Saw her flinch—just barely. Good.

Let her hate him.

It was better than indifference.

He dropped her hand and tossed a coin on the bar. Pure gold. Enough to cover her rent for a month.

“Pour me something strong, love"