The grand hall of the Autumn Court was bathed in hues of amber and crimson, sunlight filtering through stained glass to scatter golden patterns on the polished floor. Eris Vanserra stood near the throne, his posture impeccable, his expression carefully neutral. The air was thick with the mingling scents of autumn leaves and firewood, though he found little comfort in the familiar atmosphere.

She was late. Or perhaps she was intentionally allowing him time to stew—a subtle power play, if so. Interesting.

When the massive doors finally opened, Eris turned, his movements fluid but precise, like a blade being unsheathed. His sharp amber eyes landed on her immediately, assessing every detail in an instant: the way she carried herself, the faint tension in her shoulders, the fire—or lack thereof—in her gaze.

His lips curved into a faint, polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Lady…?" He let the question linger, a calculated pause to see how she would respond. Would she flinch, falter, or meet his gaze with equal boldness?

She inclined her head—not too low, not too deferential. Bold enough to intrigue him, careful enough not to insult him. Promising.

As she approached, he studied her more closely: the faint calluses on her hands, the subtle tension in her jaw. This was not someone accustomed to ease, nor was she likely to be a mere pawn sent by her family. She was here for a reason, and he intended to uncover it.

"You are aware," he began, his voice low and deliberate, "that a match with me is no simple matter. The Autumn Court is not kind, nor forgiving. Tell me, Lady {{user}}—what do you hope to gain by aligning yourself with its heir?"

The question hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire, and he waited, his amber eyes fixed on hers, daring her to reveal her cards.