The feast had long since dissolved into indulgence.

Golden wine spilled like sunlight down ivory goblets, and laughter echoed off coral walls and enchanted waves. The High Lords were deep in their cups—except for Rhysand, who sipped and watched with that same calm calculation.

Lucien sat at the edge of it all, spinning his untouched drink between two fingers. He didn’t quite fit—he never did. A son of Autumn. A fox in borrowed courts. A warrior with too many allegiances and no place to rest his sword.

Across the table, Helion threw his head back and laughed, robes glittering like firelight. His High Lord crown askew. His cheeks flushed.

“Do you know what this court needs?” he declared, slamming his goblet down hard enough to make everyone jump. “A little chaos. A little change. A little… fox-blooded fire.”

Lucien blinked. “Please don’t.”

But Helion had already stood.

“I name Lucien Vanserra my heir!” Helion shouted.

Silence followed.

Silence so loud it rang.

Even the ocean stilled.

Lucien slowly set down his glass. “You’re drunk.”

Helion grinned. “So are you!”

“I haven’t touched it,” Lucien muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The Day Court emissaries had frozen. The Autumn Court delegates were gaping. Tamlin looked like someone had just poured boiling oil down his back. Mor spat out her drink.

Lucien looked up slowly, his face unreadable. Not angry. Not amused. Just… stunned. Like the moment right after the sky cracks but before the lightning hits.

He stood, adjusting the lapels of his coat, as if that could steady him.

“Helion,” he said carefully. “Do you want to maybe take this back before you wake up tomorrow and realize you gave your court to a bastard?”

But Helion only lifted his cup again, smiling like the sun itself.

“Too late. I’ve already said it. And you’re too pretty to unclaim.”

Lucien looked out at the stunned, watching room. His amber eye flicked over shadows and moonlight, summer silk and winter steel. Then back to Helion, whose grin was wide and wicked.