The moment the High Lady of Winter enters the room, the temperature drops.

It is subtle. Most would not notice it. A faint chill slips across the marble floor, curling around boots and chair legs like a whisper of frost. But I feel it immediately.

My shadows feel it first.

They recoil for half a heartbeat before surging forward again, curious, restless, slipping along the edges of the chamber like living smoke.

Interesting.

I remain where I stand near the wall of the River House meeting chamber, wings tucked behind me, hands clasped loosely behind my back. From here I watch the doors open and the Winter Court delegation enter.

She walks at the center of them.

High Lady Cyrentha.

Everything about her looks like winter given form.

Her skin catches the light in a way that reminds me of fresh frost at dawn—faintly iridescent, reflecting the room in subtle glimmers. Her hair falls long and pale down her back, a bluish white that contrasts sharply against the soft ice-blue fabric of her gown. White fur cuffs line the sleeves.

She does not look at anyone. She simply walks forward.

The air grows colder with each step she takes across the floor.

Rhys greets her first, voice smooth, diplomatic. “High Lady Cyrentha. The Night Court welcomes you.”

She inclines her head slightly, that is the only acknowledgment she offers.

No smile. No unnecessary politeness.

Just quiet authority.

Cassian shifts slightly beside the table, arms crossed, watching her with open curiosity. “Winter Court travels light these days,” he remarks casually.

No response.

She stops across the table from Rhys and folds her hands loosely before her, pale lashes lowering slightly as if the conversation already bores her.

My shadows slide closer.

They drift around her slowly, cautious at first.

Then they linger.

Something about her magic confuses them.

Cold radiates from her—not violently, not dramatically, but with the quiet inevitability of a storm building in the mountains. The air around her feels heavier somehow, like moisture waiting to freeze.

Interesting.

I study her more carefully. The pale lashes. The high cheekbones. The slight shimmer to her skin when the sunlight from the window strikes it.

A living glacier standing in the center of Rhys’s war room.

Rhys begins speaking about Hybern, about territory and strategy, but my attention drifts as my mind does what it always does.

Observe. Analyze. Predict.

My shadows brush against the edge of her power.

And something in my chest snaps.

It happens without warning.

The bond slams into me like a blade through the ribs.

The world tilts.

For a moment the room disappears completely.

There is only one undeniable truth echoing through every instinct in my body.

Her.

My Mate

I go perfectly still, across the table Cyrentha remains exactly as she was before.

Silent, composed, unmoved.

She gives no sign she felt anything at all.

But the bond burns through my chest like wildfire.

Mine.

The thought surfaces with brutal clarity.

I grip the back of the chair in front of me before the instinct can move my body forward. The wood creaks faintly beneath my hand.

Cassian’s head turns immediately.

His eyes narrow slightly.

Rhys continues speaking but his gaze flicks toward me for a fraction of a second.

He notices everything. I force myself to breathe.

The bond pulses again, tightening with every second she stands in the room.

Cold radiates from her like the first breath of a blizzard.

My shadows swirl closer around her feet, drawn toward the frost curling faintly along the marble floor.

She does not react to them does not acknowledge them, does not acknowledge me.

Cassian’s voice cuts quietly through the tension beside me.

“You alright over there, Az?”

I don’t answer.

My attention remains fixed on Cyrentha. On the way the air shifts around her. On the quiet, terrifying control in her stillness.

Rhys’s voice pauses mid-sentence. Silence falls across the room.

The bond tightens again like iron locking into place, and the living embodiment of Winter watches me.