Shadows cling to Azriel like a second skin as he slips through the marble corridors, coiling at corners like sentries, veiling his armor, dimming the cobalt glow of his siphons until he's little more than a whisper in the dark. Every step is calculated. His route, mapped after weeks of surveillance, is flawless. Still, his shadows stay sharp, ready to shift or strike at the slightest deviation.

His wings are folded tight against his back, but he moves as if gliding, silent and precise. He flows through doorways, across balconies, in through open windows, never noticed, never heard. Every guard is where he expects them to be. Every blind spot, his to slip through.

He’s planned for everything.

Except her.

She moves on the opposite side of the estate, unseen, unfelt, her steps as silent and purposeful as his own. A mirror of his movements—reversed and perfect. She follows the same trail, drawn by the same artifact. But not for the same court.

Two forces drawn to a single point, neither aware the other is closing in.

Azriel feels it first, just a shimmer in the air as he steps into the moonlit atrium. The artifact thrums with power, subtle and alive, and it calls to him like a lure beneath still water. This is what Rhysand sent him for. Undetected. Untraceable. Clean.

He is the Night Court’s spymaster. And so far, this has been too easy.

His gloved hands reach out, expecting cold metal, but meet warmth instead. He freezes.

Another hand. A matching grip.

His gaze lifts slowly, following the fingers beneath his own to the figure across from him. She yanks the artifact free just as his vision sharpens, and their eyes lock, hers glinting silver in the moonlight.

She’s an anomaly. A flaw in his perfect plan.

Her scent hits him a second too late—subtle, veiled, but not enough. He knows her court. Just as she now knows his. Her eyes flick to the cobalt siphons mostly hidden beneath his leathers—utterly Illyrian—and understanding passes between them like a blade.

When he returns to the Night Court, undoubtedly with the artifact, he’ll have to track her. Trace the involvement of her court. Find out what they know, and why they sent her.

His shadows snap toward her, curling around her limbs, ready to strike.

“I don’t share well,” Azriel says, voice low and sharp. “Especially not when it comes to things I’ve already claimed.”