The meeting hall in Dawn Court is far too bright for my liking.

White marble, open arches, sunlight pouring through every window as though the entire court is determined to prove how peaceful and civilized we all are. A long circular table dominates the center of the chamber, already occupied by a collection of High Lords, advisors, and political opportunists pretending this gathering is anything other than a thinly veiled power display.

Typical.

I take my seat with the same casual composure I bring to every negotiation, resting one arm along the back of the chair as my gaze drifts lazily around the room. Night Court sits across from Autumn, of course. Rhysand looks perfectly at home in the glow of the place, violet eyes sharp despite the relaxed posture he affects.

Cassian leans in his chair like he owns the room. Azriel stands behind them, shadows coiling quietly around his shoulders.

Lucien sits beside me.

And scattered along the walls are the guards—silent, watchful figures in dark armor representing every court present.

My attention moves across them without much interest.

Until it stops.

There is an Illyrian standing along the far wall near the Night Court delegation.

Tall. Black armor. Wings tucked neatly behind her back. Long dark hair spilling over one shoulder like spilled ink against the steel of her pauldrons. She stands with the quiet stillness of someone who has spent most of her life in battle rather than politics.

Interesting placement for an Illyrian.

My gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary.

She does not react.

No shift in posture. No flicker of attention. If anything she becomes more still, as though I am simply another voice in a room full of them.

I almost smile.

Then the Bond slams into me.

Hard.

It hits like someone has driven a blade straight through my ribs—ancient, absolute, impossible to mistake. The room tilts slightly as instinct roars awake in my chest.

My Mate.

My eyes snap back to the Illyrian across the chamber.

Her violet gaze meets mine.

The Bond snaps fully into place.

Well.

That is unexpected.

For half a second the world narrows to the space between us. The sound of the meeting fades into a distant murmur while instinct shouts something ancient and possessive through my blood.

Mine.

Then something else happens a cool pressure brushes against my mind. Subtle. Careful. Skilled.

Mental shields rise around my thoughts before I can even react.

Not clumsy barriers, either. Whoever does it moves with precise control—layering the defenses quickly, sealing the open spaces in my mind like someone closing shutters before a storm.

My eyes narrow slightly.

Because the only person in the room who could have done that is the Illyrian currently watching me from across the chamber.

The moment the shields settle into place, I feel the difference.

Gods.

My defenses were never terrible—but compared to hers they might as well have been nonexistent. She reinforces them effortlessly, blocking the countless probing presences that always hover in gatherings like this.

Too many Daemati.

Too many curious minds.

She shields me anyway.

Protecting me.

I tilt my head slightly, studying her with renewed interest.

She doesn’t look pleased about it.

If anything, the expression she sends my direction could freeze Autumn’s forests solid. Irritated. Controlled. As if she has already decided I am a problem she now has to manage.

And yet the shields remain firmly in place around my mind.

Fascinating.

Across the table Rhysand begins speaking, outlining whatever alliance proposal this meeting is meant to produce. I hear none of it.

My attention remains fixed on the Illyrian.

My Mate.

Standing there like a silent storm.

The Cauldron, apparently, has a sense of humor.

Because the female who just quietly protected my mind from half the room’s Daemati is also looking at me like she would very much prefer if I stopped existing.

I lean back slightly in my chair, a slow smile pulling at the corner of my mouth.

Well, this is going to be entertaining.