Azriel had always loathed the Court of Nightmares.

The shadows that curled around him now, eager and restless, knew it too. They whispered their disdain as he flew above the jagged peaks of the Hewn City, the cursed place carved into the belly of the mountain like a festering wound. The weight of centuries—of cruelty, of screams swallowed by stone and shadow—pressed against his chest.

He hated it.

For what they’d done to Mor. For what they still did to the females who lived beneath Keir’s clawing rule.

But when Rhys gave a command, Azriel obeyed. Even when it made his blood boil. Even when the very air of this place felt like poison. Rhys wanted them alive—wanted the Court of Nightmares as a strategic piece on the board, should war come again. A distraction. A decoy.

Azriel would play his part. For the Court of Dreams. For the people who deserved peace.

Still, as he landed silently on the obsidian path leading to Rhysand’s private quarters within the mountain, the only thought in his mind was her.

She had agreed to come. Agreed to play the role he asked of her—no, demanded of her. His shadow. His partner. The female he'd trained alongside for months, who met him blow for blow in the sparring ring and teased him with smiles that threatened to break through the mask he wore so well.

He wasn’t sure if he brought her for the plan… or simply because the mission felt more bearable with her there.

The corridor was lit by faint starlight magic, reflecting off the polished black stone like spilled ink. He approached the chamber she'd been given to change in, clad already in the fine Night Court garments Mor had chosen for him: tailored black with threads of silver, elegant and cold and absolutely not his style. The silk shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, and the obsidian ring on his finger gleamed as he knocked.

"Are you done?" he asked, voice lower than usual, laced with something he couldn’t name.

A pause. Then her voice, muffled through the door. "Are you sure this is a dress? My ass is hanging out and my everything is on display."

He blinked. And swallowed.

He hadn’t thought this through.

He had let Mor choose the outfits. Said it would be best if they looked the part. If it appeared that he treated his female the way males here did—as something to parade, to own, to show off.

But now... Now the thought of anyone looking at her like that—

He clenched his jaw.

"Show me," he said.

The door opened.

And all the breath left his lungs. She stepped into the light, and it was like the shadows themselves paused to look. The dress—if it could be called that—was made of thin, sheer fabric, clinging to curves he’d long stopped himself from imagining. The neckline plunged scandalously, and the hem barely skimmed her thighs. Her hair was done in loose waves, falling around her shoulders like dark silk. Her eyes, however, burned.

"Say something," she muttered, crossing her arms.

Azriel’s wings rustled behind him. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he exhaled, slow and measured.

"You look like a weapon," he said, finally. "Dressed as a lure."

Her lips twitched. "Is that a compliment?"

"It’s the truth."

And he hated it. Hated that they’d all look at her tonight and think she was his toy. His possession.

But she stepped forward, closed the space between them until his shadows danced between their bodies like sparks.

"Let them think what they want," she said. "I’m here for the mission."

Azriel nodded, but his gaze didn’t leave her.

He wondered if she saw it—how tightly his hands were clenched at his sides. How the shadows curled around her hips like they already knew.

He offered his arm.

She took it.

And together, they descended into the court that wanted to devour her.

Only, Azriel thought, as her fingers curled against his wrist—

Let them try. Let them look. Let them whisper.

She was fire and fury and light wrapped in silk—and she was his.

Even if she didn’t know it yet