Eris watched as the musicians repositioned themselves, their instruments poised for the next arrangement. The Night Court's famed orchestra was one of the few things he genuinely appreciated about these diplomatic visits. When the first notes of the waltz drifted across the ballroom, he made his way back to Nesta Archeron without hesitation. Their first dance had left him... intrigued. He extended his hand, and she took it immediately—no resistance, no feigned reluctance. Just a seamless acceptance that sent a flicker of satisfaction through him.
This waltz was subdued compared to the inferno of their first dance. Controlled, elegant—a dance built for conversation and assessment. The conductor had clearly chosen something that would allow her to catch her breath.
Or perhaps, something that would allow him to truly see her.
Eris studied her as they moved, noting the way she held herself—regal, unbroken despite the cage they'd built around her. "Trust Rhysand to keep you hidden away," he said, testing.
Her lips twitched, almost amused. Not the reaction of someone insulted on her court's behalf, but someone who knew exactly what he meant.
"I just saw you the other week," she murmured, her voice carrying only to him despite the noise of the ballroom.
Eris chuckled, guiding her through a turn that she followed with impeccable timing. "And as riveting as it was to watch you send Tamlin scurrying back into his hole, I didn't see this side of you." He watched something flicker in her eyes—pride, perhaps. Recognition. "The time since the war has changed you."
"For the better, I hope." No hint of uncertainty in her voice. A statement, not a question.
"Certainly for the more interesting," he replied, unable to keep the edge from his smirk.
He spun her again, savoring the fluid grace of her movement, the control in every line of her body. Power barely contained, barely leashed. When she returned to him, he leaned close, breathing words he'd never dared speak in this court.
"Don't believe the lies they tell you about me."
He felt her stillness—not fear, not shock, but something like curiosity. Something like recognition. She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, challenge written in every line of her face. "Oh?"
Eris nodded toward the dais where Morrigan stood, her face a carefully crafted mask of indifference that didn't quite hide the tension in her shoulders.
"She knows the truth but has never revealed it," he said quietly, watching Nesta's gaze follow his.
"Why?" A simple question. Direct. No games.
His lips curved. "Because she's afraid of it."
He watched Nesta study Morrigan—really study her—before turning back to him with eyes that missed nothing. "You don't win yourself any favors with your behavior."
Eris laughed, the sound pulled from somewhere genuine. "Don't I?"
He guided her through the next sequence of steps, noting how she anticipated each movement, how she matched him beat for beat. "Do I not align myself with this court under constant threat of my father? Do I not offer aid whenever Rhysand snaps his fingers?"
Nesta allowed herself to be turned, but when she faced him again, her eyes were sharp, calculating. Learning. She was learning him.
"They believe a version of events that's easier to swallow," he continued, letting boredom seep into his tone. "I always thought Rhysand was smarter than that, but he tends to be blind where those he loves are concerned."
Her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. "And you? Who do you love?"
The question surprised him. Intrigued him. "Are you asking about my eligibility?" he countered, curious to see how she'd respond.
Nesta rolled her eyes, the gesture so unexpectedly honest it almost made him laugh again. "I'm merely saying it's difficult to find a good dance partner these days."
This time, he did laugh, the sound richer than he'd intended. "Indeed it is. Especially one who can dance and take a king's head from his shoulders."
And then—gods, then—she showed him. Just a glimpse, a sliver of that power he'd sensed from the moment they met. Silver fire flickering beneath her skin, ancient and hungry and contained. Not unleashed, not uncontrolled. Perfectly, deliberately revealed.
Then it was gone, hidden away again behind that mask of cool indifference.
Eris tightened his fingers on her waist, something like hunger stirring in his blood. Not fear—never fear. This was something else entirely.
The waltz was ending, but he wasn't ready to release her. His hand skimmed lower, just barely grazing the bare skin of her back, testing, probing.
"They say your sister Elain is the beauty," he murmured. "But you outshine her tonight."
He felt the shift in her—so subtle anyone else would have missed it. The slightest arch of her back beneath his touch. Not surrender, but acknowledgment. A calculated response that told him she was playing this game as much as he was.
The waltz faded into the next dance, this one more demanding, designed to captivate and enthrall. He recognized it—slow and sweeping until it built into something wild and breathless in its final moments.
He watched anticipation light her eyes, felt it in the way she moved against him, more fluid now, more eager.
"You're wasted at the Night Court," he said, spinning her again, watching her skirts fan between them like dark wings. "Absolutely wasted."
Her smirk matched his own. "I'm not sure that's a compliment."
Eris chuckled, savoring the heat that seemed to curl between them, the understanding that needed no words.
Then—a shift.
A shadow fell over them, thick as smoke, reeking of territorial male.
"Move."
The word was cold. Hard. Furious.
Eris felt Nesta go still, felt the sudden tension that locked her spine. He knew who stood behind him without looking—had sensed him watching since their first dance, had felt those eyes burning into his back with every step.
Sighing, Eris barely spared Cassian a glance. "I don't take orders from brutes."
He watched Nesta compose herself, impressed by how quickly she slipped back into that mask of cool indifference. When she turned to Cassian, her voice was steady, controlled.
"Am I to understand that you would like to dance with me?"
"Yes."
One word. Burning with possessiveness, with rage barely contained.
She didn't flinch. Didn't waver. Just stood there, waiting, a queen passing judgment.
Eris couldn't help himself. "Go sit at your master's feet, dog," he said, baring his teeth in a mocking grin.
Nesta's jaw clenched—not at his words, he realized, but at the situation. At the interruption. At being treated like a possession to be fought over.
Then she smirked, her voice smooth as silk. "No one likes a selfish partner, Eris."
And without so much as glancing at Cassian, she purred, "Time to share."
Eris's smirk deepened. Here was a female who could play this game—who could keep her head even when males were posturing around her like territorial beasts. Who understood what was at stake.
"We'll play later, Nesta Archeron," he murmured, letting his voice curl around her name like a promise.
Then he stepped back, retreating into the watching crowd, but his eyes never left her. Never left the way she lifted her chin, turned to Cassian, and stepped into his waiting arms with all the enthusiasm of someone accepting a political obligation.
The music continued. The court watched. The game was far from over.
Eris lingered at the edge of the crowd, his gaze fixed on the pair. It took only moments to see it—the light in her eyes had dimmed. That fire, that anticipation that had burned so bright when she danced with him, had faded to embers. Her movements with the Illyrian were technically perfect, but hollow. Empty of the passion that had made her incandescent in his arms.
She glanced over Cassian's shoulder, just once, and caught Eris watching. Something flickered across her face—recognition, perhaps. Understanding.
He smiled. Not a smirk, not a mockery, but a promise.
Because Eris had learned something vital tonight: Nesta Archeron was not merely a pawn to be moved across someone else's board.
She was playing her own game entirely.
And he very much wanted to be part of it.
Mor leaned against the gilded pillar, watching as Cassian surrendered Nesta to Azriel. The shadowsinger swept her into a waltz with the effortless grace that had always set him apart.
Azriel had always been the superior dancer—this was undeniable. Even after weeks of drilling Cassian through the steps, forcing him to repeat the same sequences until his wings drooped with exhaustion, there remained a fundamental difference between them. Azriel moved like darkness given form, each step deliberate yet seamless, each turn precise without appearing calculated.
Cassian, for all his military discipline, would always move like a warrior first.
She tracked him as he retreated to the wine table, his movements slow and measured as he filled a goblet to the brim. His eyes never truly left Nesta, even as they swept across the room with predatory focus, landing on any courtier who dared stare too long at her.
The message in his gaze was unmistakable. A promise of violence, of consequences.
The courtiers quickly found other interests to occupy their attention.
Satisfied with their retreat, Cassian settled against a nearby column, his posture deceptively casual as he watched Nesta and Azriel move across the dance floor.
Mor approached him, sliding into place with practiced ease. "Looks like our lessons paid off."
Cassian turned, his expression softening slightly as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I owe you one."
Weeks of clandestine training flashed through her mind. Cassian stumbling through basic footwork, cursing when he stepped on her toes, grumbling about the uselessness of formal dancing. Weeks of her pushing him harder, forcing him to repeat the sequences, refusing to let him give up. She'd been delighted when he'd first asked for her help, but now...
Now, as she watched the intensity in his eyes as they followed Nesta's every movement, something cold and heavy settled in her chest.
Because she knew.
She'd intercepted that red gown for a reason.
Not because of Eris, not because of political power plays or court symbolism. She'd done it because of what she'd seen in Cassian's eyes whenever Nesta entered a room. Because she knew exactly how he would have looked at Nesta in Autumn Court crimson—like she was something he both desired and feared.
Because Cassian was enchanted with an idea, not the reality.
And yet, even as he stood beside her, drinking in the sight of Nesta in Azriel's arms, Mor felt the truth settle into her bones—there was no love there. Not truly.
Not in the way he believed.
She only prayed he wouldn't be destroyed before he realized it.
"How are you doing?" Cassian asked, his voice carefully neutral. Too many ears listening, too many eyes watching. Mor had worn many masks in the Night Court over the centuries—some no longer fit, but the court expected them all the same.
She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Fine."
Her gaze drifted to Nesta and Azriel, and a genuine smile tugged at her lips. "I enjoyed seeing what she did." She nudged Cassian with her elbow, a deliberate lightness in her tone. "Though I suppose you didn't. You just had to cut in, didn't you?"
Cassian crossed his arms, muscles shifting beneath his formal leathers. "Rhys can deal with it."
Mor hummed, her attention drawn to the dais. "It seems like Rhys is."
Cassian followed her gaze.
Eris stood before the thrones, engaged in what appeared to be casual conversation with Rhysand and Feyre. But Mor knew better. She'd spent too many centuries learning to read the subtle signs of courtly discourse.
This was not idle discussion.
Rhysand's expression was too carefully composed, revealing nothing. Feyre's posture was too rigid, her smile too fixed. And Eris—Eris stood too still, too controlled, the usual arrogant slouch abandoned for something more attentive.
No, this was something far more significant than pleasantries.
And Mor couldn't shake the cold certainty settling beneath her skin that regardless of what Cassian thought he was protecting by interrupting that dance, regardless of what Nesta believed she was proving with her performance—
Eris had already seen everything there was to see.
And worse—he understood.
Eris watched as Cassian finally relinquished Nesta to Azriel, his eyes never once leaving her form.
It was about time.
The shadowsinger moved with her across the floor, each step fluid and precise where Cassian had been all barely-restrained power. Eris had genuinely been surprised the Illyrian brute could manage to put one foot in front of the other without shattering the marble beneath his boots. And yet, despite yielding her to his brother, Cassian still surveyed the room like a territorial beast, silently daring anyone to approach.
A cage, Eris thought, watching Nesta's expression as she danced. That's what they'd built around her. A gilded, beautiful cage—but a cage nonetheless.
A female with edges as lethal as Nesta Archeron didn't need protection or containment. She needed space to devour the world.
The realization settled into his bones with a quiet certainty as he drained the last of his wine and set the goblet down. The decision crystallized in his mind, as clear and sharp as the blade Rhysand had gifted him.
He would ask for her.
Not as some gambit. Not as a ploy to gain leverage over the Night Court. But because he recognized what they refused to see—she belonged somewhere that would not fear her fire. Somewhere that would let her rise.
His father would be enraged. Beron's wrath was a problem for another day.
Eris made his way toward the dais where the High Lord and Lady sat upon their thrones. Feyre lounged beside her mate, confident in her power, secure in her position.
But Nesta...
Nesta had stepped away from the dance floor as the final notes of the waltz faded into silence.
She moved to the wine table, lifting a goblet to her lips, entirely unaware of what was about to unfold.
And Rhysand did not summon her.
Did not pull her into his mental web, as he now did with Feyre, with Cassian, with Azriel—their expressions shifting subtly as they shared silent conversation.
Interesting.
Eris allowed himself a small smile.
"All right," he said, sliding his hands into his pockets with deliberate casualness. "You showed me what I can have, Rhysand. I'm intrigued enough to ask what you'd want in return."
The reaction was immediate and revealing.
Feyre stiffened, her eyes widening. What?!
Cassian went rigid beside the throne, his body locking tight like a bowstring pulled to breaking.
But Rhysand... Rhysand merely lounged deeper into his throne, unmoved. Calculating. Eris could feel the weight of their collective focus pressing down upon him, silent but burning.
"What do you mean by that?" Rhysand asked, voice smooth as polished glass.
Eris met his stare unflinchingly, allowing just enough genuine interest to flicker through his carefully composed mask. "I mean that whatever you want, I'll give it to you in exchange for her. As my bride."
He tilted his chin toward the dagger still resting at Rhysand's feet—the blade forged from Nesta's power, from her essence.
"I'd rather have her than that."
Feyre shot upright, her eyes ablaze with fury. Even without access to their bond, Eris could imagine the torrent of rage she was likely unleashing upon her mate.
Cassian's expression remained frozen, his hazel eyes fixated on Eris's throat with a cold, calculating intensity that promised violence.
Rhysand's lips twitched slightly. As though he were fighting back laughter.
Eris nearly pushed harder—just to see what it would take to crack that perfect control.
He had danced three dances with her.
And they believed it meant nothing?
Rhysand tilted his head, the barest flicker of amusement in his violet eyes.
"That's not my decision," Rhysand said, his voice infuriatingly calm. "And it seems foolish for you to offer me anything I want in exchange for her."
Eris kept his expression neutral despite the satisfaction blooming in his chest. "I have my reasons."
He could feel their scrutiny intensify—Cassian's barely-contained rage, Feyre's disbelief, Azriel's silent assessment as shadows coiled around his ankles.
But Nesta—still at the wine table, still sipping her drink—remained entirely ignorant of the conversation. Mor had skillfully joined her at the table, her golden hair catching the light as she leaned in, speaking with animated gestures. A clever distraction, that. The Third's cousin, keeping Nesta occupied while they bartered her future behind her back.
And Rhysand had deliberately kept her from it.
Eris filed that information away, to be examined later.
Rhysand could have drawn her into this discussion. Could have allowed her to speak for herself, to make her own decision.
But he hadn't.
That meant something significant.
Eris pressed forward, unable to resist twisting the knife. "It is a bonus, of course, that in doing so, I would be repaying Cassian for ruining my betrothal to Morrigan."
Cassian finally moved.
His hands curled into fists, his wings tensing with barely-restrained violence.
Eris let his smirk deepen. Let him fume.
Azriel's shadowed hand settled on Cassian's shoulder—a warning, a restraint.
Feyre's mental voice must have sharpened through the bond, her fury evident in the whitening of her knuckles.
Can't we throw him to the beasts under the cell and be done with him?
Eris barely contained his amusement.
Rhysand's lips twitched again.
He was entertained by this.
The manipulative bastard.
"So bloodthirsty," Rhysand crooned, his expression betraying nothing but calculated interest. Then, his gaze slid back to Eris.
"Anything I want," Rhysand mused, "whether it be armies from the Autumn Court or your firstborn, you would grant me in exchange for Nesta Archeron as your wife?"
Eris's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"Not as far as the firstborn," he corrected, refusing to relinquish all leverage. "But yes, Rhysand. You want armies against Briallyn and my father, you'll have them."
He let his smirk return, sharp as the dagger they'd gifted him. "I couldn't very well let my wife's sister go into battle unaided, could I?"
Feyre's next words must have been venomous, judging by the ripple of silent communication that passed between them.
You can return every Solstice present in exchange for letting me tear him apart.
Eris glanced toward Nesta, still lingering at the wine table, still oblivious to the negotiation of her future.
Cassian was watching her—not with jealousy or anger, but with something deeper, something unreadable even to Eris's practiced eye.
Eris had never despised the Illyrian warrior more than in that moment.
But Rhysand was considering his offer.
Not dismissing it outright. Not rejecting the possibility.
Weighing it.
Cassian's rage was inconsequential. Feyre's outrage was expected.
But Rhysand?
Rhysand was playing the game.
"I'll consider it," the High Lord finally said, each word measured, careful. "And I'll talk to Nesta." He nodded toward the dagger still waiting in its ornate box. "Keep it. You might need it."
A gift. A promise.
Eris took it without hesitation, understanding the hidden message.
Not an outright yes.
Not yet.
But soon.
Before Eris could turn away, Rhysand's voice cut through the charged atmosphere.
"My family has a private Solstice event in a week," he said, his tone deceptively casual. "If you are sincere, you can come."
Eris stilled, careful not to reveal his surprise.
Feyre's fury crackled almost visibly around her, her fingers gripping the armrest of her throne until her knuckles whitened.
Rhysand, unmoved by his mate's silent protests, added, "Behave. Your brother will be there."
Lucien.
Eris considered the implications before answering carefully, "I have nothing against Lucien. That is my father's anger, not mine." He let that truth hang between them, a rare glimpse behind his mask.
Rhysand's voice dropped slightly, a warning curling beneath his smooth words.
"Anything said or done there stays there. Understand?"
Eris inclined his head, a slow smile curving his lips.
"I can't wait to see you there."
With that, he strode away, satisfaction warming his blood.
Nesta remained unaware, still sipping her wine, still untouched by the bargain that had just been struck.
For now.
But soon, he would offer her something no one else had—not protection, not salvation, but power. True power.
A throne of her own.
Eris strode through the shadowed corridors of the Hewn City, the distant strains of music from the ballroom pursuing him like persistent ghosts. The servants melted against the walls as he passed, their bowed heads and averted eyes barely registering in his consciousness. The opulent chambers Kier had provided—all gleaming obsidian and blood-red velvet—meant nothing to him. Mere trappings, a façade of hospitality in a court built on secrets.
Once inside his assigned quarters, he sealed the door behind him with a brush of power, weaving a ward complex enough to detect even the shadowsinger's approach. From within his jacket, he withdrew Rhysand's gift—the dagger that hummed with strange, ancient power. He placed it in a drawer and sealed it with a thread of his own magic, feeling the resonance between his fire and whatever burned within the blade.
The dagger was exquisite, a masterpiece of craftsmanship that radiated something both familiar and foreign beneath its surface. But it wasn't the true treasure Rhysand had unwittingly revealed tonight.
No, the real offering had been standing before him on the dance floor, draped in Night Court darkness, a wildfire barely contained beneath a veneer of ice.
Nesta Archeron.
Eris exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible in the silent chamber. Protocol demanded he return to the ball, perhaps claim one final dance before the night concluded. Instead, he found himself motionless, fingers tapping once against the sealed drawer before he turned away.
Rhysand had orchestrated this as a test—an elaborate game of courtly manipulation. Dangle something enticing, observe the reaction, calculate the next move. But the question lingered, sharp as the dagger now hidden away.
Why her?
Why present the High Lady's sister like an offering? Why allow her to step into his arms, to match him step for step in a dance that revealed far more than Rhysand surely intended?
It hadn't been the Night Court that had taught her to move with such precise grace. That much was evident in every controlled step, every fluid turn. That elegance had been cultivated long before immortality was thrust upon her.
When she had still been human.
A human girl, trained to navigate ballrooms and high society as though born to it. As though she had always been meant for thrones and crowns rather than mortality and decay.
But beneath that polished exterior—the ice in her voice, the careful calculation behind each word, the strategic deployment of both speech and silence—that had been tempered here, in the Night Court's unforgiving crucible.
They had shaped her. And yet, they refused to crown her.
Why?
Why elevate Feyre, grant her a throne, a court, a title, while keeping Nesta—with power that made even immortals wary—contained? Controlled?
Feyre had been exalted. Made High Lady, ruling partner, equal. And Nesta—Nesta, who had been transformed into something ancient and terrible, something that made the very air shiver around her—
They had bound her wings before she learned to fly.
And tonight, they had offered her freely.
That disturbed him far more than the weapon Rhysand had presented, far more than whatever alliances or bargains they sought to forge through her.
Eris released a measured breath, adjusting the cuffs of his formal attire with practiced precision. They had positioned a piece on the board tonight, offered it with calculated nonchalance.
But Eris Vanserra did not play by others' rules.
He crafted his own game, with his own pieces, his own strategy.
And he had just determined exactly what move to make next.
With renewed purpose, Eris stepped back into the corridor, returning toward the distant music, toward the light and shadow of the ballroom. Toward Nesta.
There was still one final dance to claim. One last opportunity to let her see what the Night Court had failed to offer her.
A crown of her own making.
As Eris approached the ballroom, the heavy doors swung open before him, spilling golden light into the corridor. The dance floor was still crowded, courtiers and nobles from across the courts spinning and gliding beneath the grand chandelier that cast scattered prisms across the marble.
His eyes found her immediately.
Nesta Archeron was dancing with the High Lord himself, her back rigid, her movements technically flawless but devoid of the fire she had shown with him. Even from across the room, Eris could see the tension in her shoulders, the careful distance she maintained between herself and Rhysand. No warmth, no fondness—none of the easy familiarity that should exist between family.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
He scanned the dais where Feyre remained seated, her face composed into a mask of High Lady serenity. But her eyes—her eyes still burned with barely contained fury. She tracked her mate and her sister as they moved across the floor, her fingers curled tight around the armrest of her throne.
So the mate was still displeased. The knowledge settled like a warm coal in Eris's chest.
He moved through the crowd with practiced ease, courtiers parting before him like water around stone. They knew better than to impede the heir to the Autumn Court, especially after witnessing his dances with Nesta earlier. Whispers followed in his wake, but he paid them no mind.
Rhysand noticed his approach first. Of course he did. The High Lord's violet eyes flickered over Eris's shoulder, a knowing smile curling his lips. He had been expecting this.
Eris arrived at their side as the current song faded into its final notes. He offered a bow—just deep enough to satisfy protocol, shallow enough to remind everyone present of his own status.
"High Lord," he acknowledged, before turning his attention fully to Nesta. "Would you honor me with one last dance, Nesta Archeron?"
Her eyes met his, gray as winter storms and just as merciless. Something flickered in their depths—curiosity, perhaps. Recognition.
As Rhysand's hand slipped from her waist, Eris felt a familiar pressure against his mental shields—the High Lord's power brushing against his mind, seeking entrance. For a heartbeat, Eris considered refusing, but curiosity won out. He lowered his barriers, just enough.
Not yet, Rhysand's voice slid into his thoughts, smooth and commanding. Say nothing to her about our arrangement until we've spoken to her first.
Eris gave no outward indication of the exchange, his expression remaining perfectly composed. Of course, he replied silently. I wouldn't dream of spoiling the surprise.
He felt Rhysand's irritation ripple through the connection before the High Lord withdrew from his mind.
"By all means," Rhysand said aloud, stepping back with a grace that disguised whatever game he was playing. "I believe I've monopolized enough of my sister's time."
Sister. The word rang hollow between them. A technical truth devoid of emotional weight.
Nesta's gaze remained fixed on Eris, her expression unreadable as Rhysand retreated, making his way back to Feyre's side.
"One last dance," she agreed, her voice cool and measured. Not a question. A statement.
Eris stepped into place as the musicians began the opening notes of the final waltz of the evening—a slower, more intimate piece. He placed his hand at her waist, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin velvet of her gown.
"Your High Lord seems to have developed an interest in your dancing skills," he remarked, guiding her into the first turn.
Nesta's lips curved into something too sharp to be a smile. "He was giving me instructions."
"Instructions?" Eris raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"On how to behave around you." She matched him step for step, her movements fluid despite the tension he could feel beneath his fingertips. "Apparently, I'm meant to be charming."
A laugh escaped him, genuine and unplanned. "And how is that going?"
"Terribly, I imagine," she replied, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes now. "I'm not known for my charm."
"No," Eris agreed, spinning her in a graceful turn. "You're known for something far more valuable."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And what would that be?"
"Truth," he said simply. "You don't dissemble or pretend. It's... refreshing."
Nesta studied him, her gaze piercing as if trying to dissect his motivations. "For a courtier, you seem oddly appreciative of honesty."
"Perhaps that's precisely why." He guided her through a more complex sequence of steps, noting how seamlessly she followed. "When you've spent centuries surrounded by lies, truth becomes the most exotic thing imaginable."
The music swelled around them, and Eris was acutely aware of the eyes tracking their movement—Rhysand's calculated observation, Feyre's burning stare, Cassian's barely contained rage from where he stood with Azriel.
But none of that mattered. Only the female before him, watching him with those storm-gray eyes that missed nothing.
"They're selling you short," he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. "You know that, don't you?"
Something flashed across her face—too quick to name, too raw to dismiss.
"What makes you think I care what they think of me?" she countered, her chin lifting slightly.
Eris smiled, slow and knowing. "I don't think you do. That's precisely what makes you dangerous to them."
The music built toward its crescendo, and he spun her once more, bringing her closer when she returned to his arms. Close enough to feel the heat of her, to catch the scent of steel and winter that clung to her skin.
"What if I told you there was another option?" he asked, the words barely more than a whisper against her ear. "One that doesn't involve being contained or wielded like a weapon when it suits them."
Nesta pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes narrowed. "I would say you were playing your own game, just like everyone else."
"Of course I am," he admitted freely. "The difference is, I'm willing to tell you the rules."
Her lips curved, a knife-edge of a smile. "And what would those be?"
The music reached its final, sweeping notes. Eris dipped her slightly, his face inches from hers as he murmured, "Rule one: recognize your true worth. Rule two: never settle for less than a crown."
He straightened, bringing her up with him as the final chord hung in the air.
"And rule three?" she asked, breathless not from the dance but from something else entirely—something that burned between them, dangerous and electric.
Eris released her hand but held her gaze. "Rule three: choose your own chains, or wear none at all."
The music faded into silence. Around them, couples bowed and curtseyed to their partners as the ball drew to its close. But Nesta remained still, watching him with those unreadable eyes.
"Until the Solstice, Nesta Archeron," he said, offering one final bow before stepping away.
He felt her gaze follow him as he retreated, felt the weight of the promise he had just made.
Not a trap. Not a game.
A choice.
The first real choice anyone had offered her in a very long time.