Nesta draped herself in Night Court black as she strode into the ballroom, trailing behind her sister and her mate. She had wanted to wear something else—something in deep crimson that would have made the Autumn Court's heir look twice. But Mor had intercepted her choice with a sharp smile that didn't reach her eyes, insisting on Night Court colors.
"Tradition," Mor had called it. But there had been something else in her voice. Something brittle.
Nesta had caught the flicker of emotion when Mor had seen the red gown—the wariness, the flash of something too raw to be mere distaste. It took her a moment to understand.
Mor had been meant to marry Eris once. She had fought her way out of it, had shattered that fate before it could claim her. But the idea of Nesta wearing Autumn's color, of her stepping into the ballroom in a dress that might make people wonder, had been too much.
Mor had never said it aloud, but Nesta knew she hadn't truly escaped untouched. And Nesta knew, too, that her role here was not to make Eris fall in love.
Just to toy with his heart.
So she had let the red gown go. Let Mor win that battle.
For now.
She barely spared Elain a glance. They hadn't spoken in months—not since that night in the House of Wind, when Nesta had finally let her fury spill over. Never before had she spoken to Elain like that. But the way they had all stared at her—like she was some untamed creature in need of a leash—had set her blood ablaze.
Silver embroidery wove glimmering patterns across the fitted velvet bodice, its delicate straps barely more than whispers against her pale skin. The neckline plunged boldly, stopping just above her navel, where silver threads converged around a deep sapphire—the same hue as the jewels adorning her crown. She hadn't planned to wear it, but Feyre had insisted. A lingering ghost of her human life, of their mother's expectations that she would marry a prince.
That dream had long since withered. There would be no fairy-tale prince, no gilded future.
Only Feyre had been granted a throne.
With each step, the full skirts of her gown whispered against the polished floor, the only sound in the charged silence. She and Elain stood behind Feyre and Rhysand, though Nesta barely registered the words being spoken. This—this was the battlefield she understood. Making a prince fall in line.
She had barely noticed him before. A presence lingering at the edges of her awareness.
But in the woods, when Tamlin had come upon them—when she had chosen to stand her ground instead of retreating—her blood had roared in her ears, loud and unrelenting. Even as fear had coiled in her gut, she had refused to give in to it. Refused to let her body betray her.
And now, here, with the heat of the room pressing against her skin, it still hadn't settled. It had to be Cassian's scent in the air, the way it always made something bristle inside her. Or maybe it was just the remnants of that moment with Tamlin, still rattling through her veins, refusing to be silenced.
Then there was that smirk.
Not Cassian's.
Not a hungry look, not admiration, not desire.
Just a flicker of something too unreadable to bother deciphering.
It barely registered before she turned away. He was nothing. Like every other male who had ever tried to control her.
If her blood still roared, it wasn't because of him.
Rhysand's voice pulled her back. "Before you join the festivities, Eris."
With a flick of his wrist, a long black box appeared, tied neatly with an equally black ribbon—Night Court colors, as always. Nesta fought the urge to roll her eyes. Even in their gifts, they had to remind everyone where power lay.
"We got you a Solstice gift," Rhysand continued smoothly, floating the box toward Eris's outstretched hand.
Nesta barely spared Eris a glance as he tugged the ribbon loose, his sharp eyes narrowing before widening—just a fraction, but enough. A flicker of something deeper, something she knew all too well.
Nesta followed his gaze.
And saw her dagger.
Rage slashed through her, sharp and unrelenting.
Her dagger.
Not Rhysand's to give. Not Feyre's to offer. The weapon she had forged with her own hands, before she had even understood what she was capable of. The dagger that had been hers in a way nothing else had ever been.
And Rhysand had gifted it away. As if it were nothing more than a trinket.
Eris's fingers hovered over the blade, his expression unreadable. "What's this?" His voice dropped lower, edged with something that sent a ripple of heat through the space between them.
He was looking at it—really looking at it.
Nesta clenched her fists at her sides, forcing herself to stay silent.
Feyre answered for her. "You sense its power?"
Eris's gaze flicked to Feyre before returning to the weapon. "There's a flame in it." His fingers twitched, almost touching the blade—but he hesitated, as if something in his magic warned him of what lay within.
As if he knew, without even touching it, that it could burn.
Nesta tore her eyes away from him, from the dagger, before the fury consuming her broke free.
Because she understood now.
Rhysand hadn't given it away because he valued Eris. He had done it to control him.
To mark him as theirs.
And like everything else in her life, her power—her very self—had been used as the price.
She tuned out the conversation again. She was here to play a part—nothing more. Whatever they discussed was none of her concern. It never was.
Just as she hadn't been important enough to be included in the talks about her own dagger. Just as no one had thought to tell her that she had forged those cursed weapons. They only deemed her useful when it suited them. A tool to wield, a power to contain.
Would she ever be anything more than shackled? Since the moment she became Fae, that feeling had never left her.
Her sister's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Originally, as High Lady, I would ask you to dance, but my condition makes that impossible," Feyre said, resting a hand on her swollen belly. "So my sister will take my place. I hope you don't mind." A glance toward the male before she added, "She's quite the dancer, but I hope you don't push her too much."
There it was again. Her cue. Another decision made for her. Another reminder of how they always underestimated her—how she was nothing but a piece to move across their board. As if she wouldn't be able to keep up with the Fae prince. As if all those lessons with Mor had been for nothing.
Why teach her at all if they never meant to let her use what she had learned?
But Eris said nothing as he extended his arm, waiting.
Nesta stepped forward, slipping her hand into his, her movements as effortless as if the dance had already begun. The box containing her dagger was gone—vanished, no doubt whisked away by his magic, much like Rhysand's tricks.
The music swelled, the first notes cascading through the air. At the very first sound, she placed her hand in his—precisely on beat.
Eris noticed.
Not even the most disciplined Fae princess could time her movements so flawlessly, as if she were part of the melody itself.
A slow grin curved his lips.
"Let's see what you can do, Nesta Archeron."."
Eris glanced at the female on his arm, curiosity flickering beneath his composed mask. Nesta Archeron. Feyre's sister. A supposed gift from the High Lord of Night.
What game was Rhysand playing? First, the Made dagger—now Feyre's sister?
She looked bored, like a creature bound in golden chains, going through the motions of duty rather than desire. Obligated. Contained. It struck something in him—something unwelcome.
If he had ever had a sister, perhaps she would have looked like this before their father had sold her off in a cold, calculated transaction.
But Nesta Archeron was not his sister. She was Feyre's. Feyre, who had been granted a throne. Feyre, who had been raised up, cherished, and crowned.
So why did this sister look like she had been left in a cage?
There was power in her. He had sensed it the moment they met. He could feel it now, simmering beneath her skin, sharp and unrefined.
And yet, the court that so proudly proclaimed itself built on freedom had left her shackled.
She should be an equal to Feyre in the Night Court.
So why did she look like she had spent her life being told where to stand, what to wear, when to dance?
Unless…
Unless that power wasn't meant to serve the Night Court at all.
As the first notes of one of the most difficult waltzes began, Eris's lips curled slightly. Let's see if this female can keep up.
He had danced with queens and courtiers, with noble-born females trained from birth to master the art. But Nesta Archeron was neither a queen nor a courtier—at least, not in the way she should have been.
Would she falter? Would she hesitate?
Or would she prove that the cage they had built around her had never been enough to hold her at all?
He placed his hand on her waist, and they danced into the swell of the waltz.
The music burned through the room, wild and unrelenting. And the female in his arms—Nesta Archeron—moved as if it had been made for her. As if she had been forged in it.
He had danced with queens before. With noble-born females trained to follow, to flutter their lashes and execute every step with perfect, delicate precision. But this—this was something else entirely.
Nesta didn't just dance—she devoured the music, let it sink into her bones. She moved with intent, with control, like the melody was a weapon in her hands.
He matched her step for step, adjusting to her rhythm with ease. She held his gaze through each movement, her body supple yet unyielding, bending to the music without ever truly surrendering to it. When she arched into a cluster of notes, the movement seamless, deliberate, he let his grip tighten at her waist, fingers pressing into the elegant curve of her spine. A test.
A slow, knowing smile curved her painted lips, red as blood and twice as dangerous. A queen's lips.
The realization struck him like a blade between the ribs. Not the sister of a High Lady. Not a soldier or a noblewoman. Something colder. Sharper. Something like him.
She had power—that much, he had suspected from the moment they met. But now he saw it for what it truly was. Not raw magic alone, but something even rarer in a court like this. She knew how to wield it.
He released her waist to spin her, and she moved perfectly in time with the music, her steps precise yet effortless. When she snapped back toward him, eyes locking onto his, he saw it again—that defiance, that simmering, leashed power.
So he spun her again. A move that was not part of the dance, not part of the carefully crafted steps taught to daughters of great houses. But she followed through as if she had expected it. As if she had known he would test her.
Her skirts flared around her, and when she turned back to him, the challenge was unmistakable. Flame burned in her eyes, not like his own fire, but something just as dangerous. As hungry. And gleaming with something else. Excitement. Like no one had ever pushed her like this before.
His lips curled with approval. She had passed.
Nesta smirked back, her gaze glittering with something wicked.
Eris had spent years perfecting the game of courtly maneuvering, knowing when to play the fox and when to play the wolf. But this dance was not his game. Not tonight. Nesta Archeron wasn't playing at all. She was proving something.
And for the first time in a long while, Eris found himself looking forward to losing.
Rhysand had seen countless waltzes, danced them himself for centuries, but this—this was something else entirely.
The music swelled, a perfect storm of rising strings and pounding drums, but it was the two figures on the floor who held the room captive.
Nesta and Eris moved like forces of nature, like two creatures who had known this dance for lifetimes. But Nesta—she wasn't just dancing. She was transforming.
Rhysand had never seen her like this. She didn't just follow the music—she consumed it, let it course through her veins until it seemed as if the very room breathed with her. And Eris, for all his cunning, all his arrogance, matched her step for step. His eyes blazed with something close to revelation, as if he had discovered something unexpected—something dangerous.
The final minute of the waltz was a test of skill, a risk few dared to take. Most couples would retreat into safety for the finale, content with elegant but forgettable closing steps. But there were always those rare few—those with fire in their blood—who dared the legendary twelve spins. The female would surrender to vertigo, arm extended skyward, placing her fate entirely in her partner's hands as she turned with eyes that could no longer distinguish ceiling from floor.
Nesta didn't hesitate. And Eris followed her lead.
Rhysand barely breathed as the music thundered into its crashing finale. Across the ballroom, every eye locked onto them. Cassian sat rigid at his side, so still it was unnatural for a warrior like him. Not watching—witnessing.
Rhysand felt something then, watching Cassian's face. The way he looked at her. At Nesta, spinning like a tempest given flesh, like she had been born for this exact moment. It was written all over his face. What Rhysand interpreted as undeniable. Inescapable.
Cassian and Nesta must be mates, he thought. It made perfect sense. And Rhysand couldn't have been happier at the possibility for him.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Eris lifted Nesta's arm and whipped her around so fast her heels rose from the ground. She barely finished the rotation before he spun her again, her head snapping around with such precision that even Rhysand—who had seen Feyre move with flawless grace—had to admit it was breathtaking.
And her feet—gods, her feet. One spin after another after another, Nesta twirled across the floor like she was weightless, like the air itself bent to her will. Even with Eris guiding her arm, it was Nesta who held the power in that dance. It was she who led, she who demanded more.
On the seventh spin, she rose onto her toes. On the ninth, Eris let go. And Nesta, arm still stretched above her head, continued to spin—three more times, her sapphire-studded crown catching the light, scattering blue fire across the walls.
A collective gasp echoed through the chamber. Next to him, Feyre sucked in a breath.
Nesta smiled. Not a courtier's polite grin. Not the smirk of someone playing a game. But pure, wild joy. It was like watching someone being reborn. Like seeing a star ignite after eons of darkness.
The Hewn City murmured, but Rhysand barely heard them. Because Cassian—Cassian looked undone. Not with jealousy, nor with anger. With something far deeper, far more ancient.
Nesta's mother had wanted her to marry a prince. Rhysand realized now, as Cassian's knuckles turned white at his sides, as Eris devoured the sight of her with that gleaming, predatory stare—he had thought it was nothing more than a human mother's shallow wish.
A prince was never going to be enough for her. Only a king or an emperor would do. Or perhaps—a general who commanded legions and held the loyalty of immortals.
Rhysand had no doubt that Eris saw it, too. That Eris was calculating what Nesta could become—with ambition, with guidance, with someone who truly saw her for what she was. If Eris ever learned the truth—that the Dread Trove answered to her, that she had Made the very dagger in his possession—
It was a mistake to bring her here. To let Eris see her. To let the world see her. Nesta Archeron was emerging from her cocoon of grief and rage, and the being taking her place could very well bring entire courts to their knees.
The music rose, climbing faster and faster until it exploded into its final, breathtaking note. Eris released her. Nesta spun one last time, the room spinning with her, and as she completed her final turn, Eris dropped to a knee before her—and lifted his hand.
The final note held, ringing through the stone halls, and Nesta came to a perfect, preternatural stop. With one seamless movement, she took Eris's offered hand, her back arching as she flung up her other arm, a portrait of triumph.
A queen without a crown. A female who had never needed one in the first place.
Cassian let out a slow, unsteady breath. Rhysand turned his head slightly, taking in the raw, unguarded way his brother watched her. The way he had never looked at another female in his five centuries of life.
Yes, Rhysand decided. They had to be mates, even if neither realized it yet. And for Cassian's sake, Rhysand hoped Nesta would see what he thought he saw before Eris sensed any connection between them.
And another thing dawned on him—they had underestimated Nesta Archeron.
They should not have kept things from her. Should not have tried to contain her. Because as he looked at her now, bathed in the aftermath of her triumph,something was coming. Not fate, not prophecy—but a storm of their own making.