There were things Cordelia Carstairs had come to accept.

That honor often meant silence. That love, real love, could be quiet and selfless. And that James Herondale would never be hers.

Not truly.

He stood across the room now, golden-eyed and half-shadow, speaking softly of Grace Blackthorn as though her name were made of glass. Cordelia smiled and listened, because that’s what she did. Because being near him—hurting quietly—was better than not being near him at all.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d see her one day.

Not as the girl with the sword, or the friend with the steady voice—but as someone worth loving back.

The fire crackled between them. James ran a hand through his dark curls, looking troubled, distant—as always. He wore the bracelet again.