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But I wasn’t bringing him anywhere near these people, either. And I hated—hated, deep down in my bones—that the assortment of merciless faces gathered here even knew that my glorious, lovely son existed. Hated that if they wanted me to yield to their desires, all they had to do was get their hands on him.

They knew it. I knew it. And from the tremendous, dark power rippling off Rhys from the moment we’d left Velaris . . . my mate knew it, too. I knew Rhys would obliterate anyone who so much as breathed a hint of a threat, diplomacy be damned.

Thankfully, the present company knew that as well. And powerful as they might be, the beast that prowled beneath Rhys’s beautiful exterior made them think twice.

Not that we hadn’t taken precautions.

The terms for this meeting had been three delegates per group. We’d brought four.

Azriel—no more than a mere shadow—was barely detectible by the sealed stone doors behind me. Only those of us who knew the exact shade of his darkness would ever realize he was there.

But we weren’t stupid enough to think the others hadn’t taken precautions of their own. The inherent magic of Storr’s neutrality oaths kept any sort of wards or magical traps from being laid, but just because I couldn’t sense anyone else in the vicinity didn’t mean they weren’t present. The magic of this place had allowed Azriel in, after all.

“Well,” the golden-haired Queen of Vallahan said, her blue eyes as frozen as the icy mountains of her territory. Nestled in her heavy cloak of furs, a braided circlet of gold across her pale brow and tattooed runes running down her long, bony fingers, she cut an imposing figure. Though no weapons adorned her, there was something about her direct gaze, her stillness, that radiated warrior. Perhaps not one who’d fight on battlefields, but one who would kill to defend what was hers. That gaze now fixed wholly on me. “We have come to the ancient truce-lands of our kind to hear your groveling.” She flicked one of those tattooed hands. “Proceed with your flattering speeches.”

I bristled at the command, the swift assessment of me: that no matter what I had sacrificed, what victories I had achieved, to her I would always be a lowly human girl in fancy Fae clothes. But I kept my face composed, unbothered.

Let her underestimate me at her own risk.

I answered calmly, “Are you in need of refreshment? We’ve brought wine and ripe fruits.” On cue, Rhys bade them appear on the stone table from the pocket realm where he’d stored them.

There were two layers to my words, the food and drink. On the one hand, I was establishing myself and Rhys as the hosts of this meeting. We were not to be commanded.

And on the other . . . the Prince of Vallahan gave himself away first.

He was young, golden-haired and blue-eyed like his mother, and hard-faced like his father. But where his mother’s eyes were a frozen lake, his reminded me of the hottest part of a flame. And they simmered as they lit upon the spread of rare fruits from our fields and hothouses: glistening bunches of red grapes, oranges as round and vibrant as the setting sun, melon halves in alternating hues of sea-green and coral, lemon wedges whose scent brightened the miserable air around us.

Fruits that we knew Vallahan did not have, and could never grow in their frigid climate. Fruits they paid through the nose to import from more southern kingdoms as rare luxuries. And here they were, spread casually before the prince. Had he ever tasted an orange? I doubted that he’d ever even smelled one.

The Grand Vizier of Montesere motioned with a ring-encrusted hand to the glass pitchers alongside the fruits. “Is that watery swill what you pass off as wine these days?”

Rhys smiled coolly. His wings were hidden, but he wore the black crown of the High Lord of the Night Court above his usual dark regalia. “It’s been a while since I tasted Monteserian wine.” His voice was smooth as silk and lethal as a newly honed blade. “And longer since you tasted ours. Maybe we’ve learned a few tricks in the past five centuries.”

The grand vizier scoffed. He appeared middle-aged, which for High Fae meant he was likely very old, and though a jeweled dagger hung at his belt, he had no calluses on his pasty hands, no warrior’s scars to mark him. A male who’d spent his life indoors, fighting with words and ink. But no less deadly than the warrior-duke to his left.

It was that male who now chuckled. Broad-chested, with a crooked nose that even with Fae healing abilities had clearly been broken several times over the centuries, the Duke of Bernion seemed like a fighter who’d been forced to dress respectably. He said wryly, “If this is a ploy to get us to open trade with you once again, you’ll be disappointed, Rhysand.”

Rhys winked at him. “Good thing we’re not here to talk about trade.”

Mother, he was slick. My toes curled in my black silk slippers. This male was my mate—mine in body and soul. Would the thought ever stop kindling such pride and desire?

I glanced at Mor, seated on my left. She wore a variation on her usual red gossamer gowns, with a gold-embroidered jacket lined with fox fur to keep the bitter cold at bay. A black circlet of twining serpents sat on her unbound golden hair—she was a queen in her own right.

It was true, I supposed. The distant ancestors that she and Rhys shared had been the first of the line after the fall of the Daglan. The Asteri, as they were called elsewhere.

But now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Mor continued to stare pointedly at the Queen of Vallahan. Focus, Mor seemed to say, though the walls of my mind were firmly up and she had no daemati abilities. You aren’t here to swap barbed compliments.

I followed her lead. She was right, of course. There was a reason both Azriel and I had come to this meeting, when only Rhys and Mor would have been necessary. A reason urgent enough that I’d left our son at home, and now made myself appear every inch the imposing High Lady that I was, shoulders pushing back, chin lifting.

The duke appraised the group with a sharp-eyed yet cool indifference. “You are here to convince us that allying with you would be better than with these warmongers in the north.”

The Prince of Vallahan scowled. The young prince was a warrior, too—but before the Duke of Bernion, the prince was little more than an angry boy. From the way the duke smirked, I knew he thought the same.

The King of Vallahan said to the duke, “I know you well enough, Valderic, not to take insult.” His queen, however, was filled with the same ire as her son. The King of Vallahan, red-haired and bearded—unusual for one of the High Fae—continued with the calmness of a soldier who’d navigated battlefields his entire immortal existence, “And I know you well enough, Morrigan, to at least consider what your High Lord and Lady have to say.”

Mor offered a slight smile to the king. She was the reason we’d even gotten this meeting—her hard work for months on end, the bonds she’d built in Vallahan. All for this moment.

The prince positively sparked with resentment, especially as his father nodded his respect to Mor. As if my friend had become a rival for his father’s affections. It was a deadly combination: a skilled fighter with the temperament of a sullen teenager.