Azriel wasn’t okay. He had failed. The mission he’d been entrusted with, the one that had to succeed at all costs, had crumbled in his hands. And now he sat—or rather, hung—in a cell. Shackles bit into his wrists and ankles, suspending him against the cold stone wall. Truth-Teller, his other weapons, all his tools of the trade, were gone. Even the shadows that had once been extensions of his will seemed distant, impotent, dulled by the thick, oppressive magic of this dungeon. There was no escape here. Not for him.

He’d known the mission was reckless. Risky. Dangerous. He had begged Rhysand to reconsider, to send someone else, anyone else—one of his spies trained for this sort of infiltration. But Rhysand had stood firm, unwavering, and in the end, Azriel had gone himself. Because if this mission failed, if even the smallest detail went wrong, it could be construed as a breach of the treaty. At worst… an act of war.

And so he had walked into the lion’s den.

Everything had gone wrong. The soldiers of Spring had seen him. Magic had flared, blades had struck, and he had been overwhelmed before he could react. They had thrown him here, into this cell, with the walls closing in around him, with every second a reminder of his failure. Azriel didn’t know whether Tamlin—or his court—knew of his capture. He didn’t know if they even cared. He was a spy, a shadow moving through their courts in secret, invisible and expendable.

Two hundred years had passed since the Hybern War, and the relationship between Night and Spring had improved. Tamlin had changed; Spring had grown stronger. With his daughter old enough to take on matters of politics, Spring had begun to flourish again. Even Rhysand, who once would have sneered at such diplomacy, could see the value of keeping Spring as an ally rather than a thorn in their side. But now… now? This mission—this failure—threatened to undo all that progress. If word of this reached their courts, if Spring took it as an insult or a provocation… it could set them back a century.

Azriel groaned, a low, bitter sound that echoed against the stone walls. If only Rhys had listened to him, just once. If only he had taken Azriel’s warnings seriously. No, the plan had been sound. The failure wasn’t in the strategy—it was in him. He hadn’t been strong enough, fast enough, clever enough. He had failed. Yet, somewhere deep inside, a nagging, stubborn voice whispered back: he had warned Rhys. He had.

The thoughts swirled, twisting into self-recrimination, when sudden movement in the hallway made him stiffen. Footsteps, measured and deliberate, echoed down the corridor. A group of soldiers approached, escorting someone he didn’t know well, but had seen in the halls of courts, at gatherings, at events he had observed from the shadows. Someone important.

A breath escaped him, ragged.

“Princess…” he mumbled, his voice rough, the word tasting foreign on his tongue, like admitting something he had almost forgotten how to feel.

The figure stepped closer, and for a moment, time slowed. Azriel’s heart, still throttled by the weight of failure and magic, betrayed a flicker of curiosity. Who was this? What role did they play in this web of betrayal and diplomacy?