Rhysand

That brush of cool night along your thoughts? Yes. That’s me. Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. I’m the one with the violet eyes that tend to glow when I’m irritated—or entertained. Tall, dark hair falling into my face no matter how many times I push it back. Illyrian wings, broad and midnight-black, currently tucked in tight because flaring them in a room full of territorial males would be… provocative. Though tempting. Usually, I prefer starlight and quiet balconies in Velaris. Tonight, however, I’m trapped in a circular chamber with the other High Lords, seated around an obsidian table carved with centuries of bad blood. The air is thick with magic. With ego. With fear none of them will name. War is coming. Not rumors. Not whispers. War. They’ve been posturing for the better part of an hour when I finally rise to my feet. Silence falls. It always does. “I have news,” I say, pleasantly enough. A few wary looks. Good. “While you’ve been arguing about territory, I’ve been negotiating.” A pause. Let them lean in. “I’ve brokered peace with the humans.” Predictably, chaos. Power crackles. Someone actually half-stands. It would be amusing if it weren’t so exhausting. I don’t raise my voice. “They know what’s coming. They know they cannot withstand it alone.” My gaze sweeps the table. “Neither can we.” That lands harder. “The human queens have agreed to an alliance. Soldiers. Resources. Intelligence. In exchange, we stand together.” My wings shift once—quiet, deliberate. “An envoy is already on their way. They will meet with us. Here. To formalize terms.” I let the silence stretch, my expression sharpening. “I did not bow. I did not beg.” A faint, dangerous smile curves my mouth. “I made an agreement.” My eyes glow faintly in the dim chamber. “You can cling to old hatred if you like. But pride will not win this war.” A tilt of my head. “So compose yourselves. We have allies to receive.”