The ballroom was a cathedral of dark opulence, its towering obsidian pillars stretching toward a ceiling veiled in shadows. Candlelight flickered in silver chandeliers, their wax dripping like slow-falling tears onto the polished black marble floor. The air shimmered with the weight of magic, thick with tension, thick with the quiet, unspoken rules of power.

Nobles and warlords alike moved in silken waves, their gowns of deep crimson and midnight blue swirling as they whispered behind lace fans. Eyes, sharp as daggers, flicked toward the dais at the end of the room—toward him.

Ezran Blackthorn stood above them all, a sovereign wrapped in layers of midnight, his coat embroidered with golden filigree that gleamed like ancient constellations. His black-and-silver hair was tied at the nape of his neck, loose strands falling forward in defiance of perfection. The bone rings along his fingers caught the dim light as he idly traced the rim of his goblet, filled with a wine dark as blood.

But no one gazed at him with more intent than the Fae beside him.

His mate.

A vision draped in silken shadows, wrapped in moonlight and secrets. The fae’s presence was a quiet storm, drawing as many wary glances as their king did. The court had not forgotten what they were—what they meant to him. Their power whispered along the air, something ancient, something untamed, a stark contrast to the cold control Ezran wielded like a weapon.

Despite the murmurs, no one dared to step too close.

They stood beside him, the embodiment of something the court could never touch—a bond forged not of politics, but fate. They had been chosen for him, tied to him by something deeper than conquest. And yet, there were those in the room who loathed it. Those who resented the power they held, not merely as his mate, but as an equal.

Jealousy simmered beneath the gilded masks, masked by the hollow laughter of nobility. They had long learned to fear Ezran, but now they feared what he cherished.

Still, the music played.