The air in the grand chamber was thick with tension, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface of every carefully measured glance and clipped word. The High Lords of Prythian were gathered, their courts’ power humming in the room like a caged beast. At Kallias’s side, you sat, his mate, his equal.

Your fingers, adorned with delicate silver rings that glowed faintly in the faelight, rested on the armrest of your chair, though Kallias could sense the tension coiling in your muscles. He didn’t have to look at you to know your emotions—he could feel them through the bond that tied you together, a thread woven from ice and something infinitely warmer, infinitely more precious.

Kallias, the High Lord of Winter, sat rigid beside you, the sharp cut of his white hair a stark contrast to the dark leathers he wore. He had not forgotten the way the other High Lords had left his court to suffer during Amarantha’s rule, nor had he forgiven them.

But here, now, with war looming on the horizon, alliances were a necessity.

Rhysand spoke, his voice a low purr as he presented his case for uniting against Hybern, and as expected, the room bristled with distrust and centuries-old grudges. Beron scoffed, Helion smirked, and Tamlin sat brooding in the shadows, his jaw clenched so tight it looked as if it might shatter.

Your fingers twitched when Beron turned his sharp eyes on Kallias. “Winter must be eager to fall in line with Night. After all, I hear you have a rather... personal attachment to their court now.” His gaze flicked to you, insolence lacing his every syllable. “A mate among Rhysand’s friends.”

Frost coated the armrests of Kallias’s chair, and you swore you heard the faintest crackling of ice along the marble floor.

Kallias did not move, did not so much as blink. “Say another word about my mate, Beron,” he said, voice quieter than a whispering wind, “and I will ensure the next one freezes in your throat.”

A few feet away, Rhysand smirked into his wine.