As you and your friend cross the threshold of the grand pavilion, the festivities of Nyx Archeron’s engagement ceremony spill out in glittering, intoxicating waves. Laughter like chimes in the wind dances through the air, mingling with the delicate trill of stringed instruments and the scent of night-blooming flowers. The black marble floor gleams beneath your feet, reflecting the constellation-like lights floating overhead. It’s decadent, otherworldly — unmistakably Night Court.

And yet, just as your silken white robes—woven by Day Court hands and kissed by sunlight—trail gracefully behind you, something tugs at your core.

A strange, invisible thread winds through your chest and pulls, firm but not painful, halting you in your tracks. Your breath hitches, and your hand instinctively flies to your stomach as though to steady the sensation.

Your friend, still looped through your arm, jerks slightly when you stop. "What is it?" she whispers, eyes narrowing with concern as she peers up at you. "Is something wrong?"

You try to answer, but the words are caught, lodged behind your tongue like thorns. Your throat constricts. Another pull. Stronger this time—urgent.

“I—” you gasp, brows knitting. You shake your head, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. I just—give me a moment.”

Before she can protest, your feet move on their own. You loosen your arm from hers, ignoring the way her voice fades behind you, calling your name. You slip into the crowd, your heartbeat thundering like a war drum in your ears. The elegant fae surrounding you are shadows and starlight, painted in deep purples and silver, their chatter a blur as you weave past them like someone in a dream.

You don’t know where you're going—only that you have to go.

The pull grows stronger, and then, you collide with something warm and solid.

A gasp escapes you as you nearly fall backward, but a hand catches your arm. The woman you’ve bumped into—tall, striking, with tumbling ebony waves and a luminous smile—turns to face you with surprise. She steadies herself, laughter rising in her throat. “Oh gods, are you alright?”

“I—I’m so sorry,” you stammer, hands raised in apology. “I wasn’t looking—”

“Clearly,” she says with a light laugh, brushing invisible lint from her gown. Her tone is kind, not scolding.

Then a masculine arm loops protectively around her waist.

You glance up—eyes meet eyes.

And the world stops.

His gaze is molten. Piercing. A firestorm of blue locked onto yours as though he’s just discovered gravity—and you are its source. The crackle of the mating bond ignites in your chest like a sudden flame, sweeping through your veins with such blinding clarity that you almost stagger.

Time warps. The noise of the party becomes muffled, like you’ve been submerged underwater. All you see is him.

He blinks, stunned—then tilts his head, a hint of a frown playing at his full lips. His hand tightens on the woman’s waist, as if seeking grounding.

"And who," he says slowly, voice like velvet laced with awe and something sharp beneath it, "might you be?"