The first mistake the Night Court made was assuming you were decoration.

Not intentionally or obviously.

They were too polite for that.

But you saw it in the way their eyes moved over you when they entered the meeting room.

Briefly, if not dismissively.

A female beside Eris Vanserra.

Something ornamental, perhaps.

Something placed at his side to soften the image of Autumn’s new High Lord.

You did not correct them.

Eris noticed.

Of course he did.

The corner of his mouth shifted just barely. 

You didn’t look at him.

“Try not to look so pleased,” you murmured.

“I am not pleased.”

“You are nearly smiling.”

“That would be unbecoming.”

“Then by all means,” you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, “continue suffering.”

Across the table, Cassian’s brows rose.

Azriel’s shadows shifted once behind his shoulders.

Rhysand, to his credit, noticed the exchange for what it was.

A warning.

Mor noticed something else entirely.

Her gaze lingered on Eris with the same familiar disdain it always held.

Cold and sharp. Nothing if not practiced.

“You’ve redecorated,” she said, glancing around the council room. “How charming. I almost forgot where we were.”

Eris did not respond.

He only looked down at the treaty papers in front of him.

You watched the movement.

The restraint it took him not to bite at her.

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“We’re here to discuss the border villages.”

“Then let us discuss them,” Eris said.

His voice was smooth.

It always was in rooms like this.

The meeting began as most meetings did.

With maps and numbers. Along with men pretending history had not shaped every inch of land they were negotiating over.

Rhysand spoke well.

You would give him that.

Azriel said very little, but missed nothing.

Cassian shifted in his chair like diplomacy physically pained him.

And Mor…

Mor watched Eris like she was waiting for a monster to show its teeth.

You let it continue for twenty-three minutes.

Twenty-three minutes of clipped words. Quiet tension. Little glances that held nothing but daggers. Along with subtle jabs dressed up as moral certainty.

The last straw was when Mor finally said, “Forgive me if I find Autumn’s sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.”

Eris’s fingers stilled on the paper.

Only for a moment.

You gently set down your tea.

The cup barely made a sound against the saucer.

But somehow, the room noticed.

Mor’s eyes flicked to you.

You smiled.

Not warmly. Not cruelly. Politely.

The sort of smile court ladies were taught to wear even if swallowing poison.

“Difficult to believe,” you repeated.

Mor lifted her chin.

“Yes.”

“How interesting.”

Cassian leaned back slightly.

Azriel’s shadows went still.

Eris did not move beside you.

He knew better.

Mor’s gaze narrowed. “Do you have something to say?”

You tilted your head.

“I was deciding whether it would be rude.”

“And?”

“Oh, it’s terribly rude I’m afraid.”

Rhysand’s attention sharpened.

You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.

“But since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.”

Eris exhaled once through his nose.

Almost amused.

You continued.

“You speak of Autumn’s cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.” Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. “Some of us have spent years removing them one by one.”

Mor’s mouth tightened.

“But what fascinates me,” you went on, voice still calm, “is the Night Court’s remarkable talent for selective outrage.”

Cassian straightened.

Rhysand’s face went very still.

There it was.

The shift.

The moment they realized you were not decoration.

You smiled again.

Softer this time.

“You condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beron’s rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.”

Mor’s eyes flashed.

“Careful.”

You looked at her then.

Truly looked.

“I would advise caution, Morrigan,” you said softly. “Not because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.”

The room went still. 

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

“Careless would be asking why the Court of Dreams feels entitled to sneer at every cruel tradition in Prythian while still ruling over the Hewn City.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed.

Azriel said nothing.

Rhysand did not look away from you.

Good.

At least one of them understood where this was going. 

Mor’s voice was low. “You know nothing about the Hewn City.”

“No,” you agreed. “I know what survived the retelling.”

You tilted your head slightly before continuing 

“Interesting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.” 

Mor stood slowly.

“You have no right to speak to me about what I survived.”

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Your smile faded.

Not because you were afraid.

Because some things deserved seriousness.

“No,” you said. “I do not.”

The room stilled.

Even Eris glanced at you then.

You met Mor’s gaze without flinching.

“What was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.” Your voice lowered. “But your pain does not make every omission holy.”

Mor went utterly still.

“You have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,” you said. “And perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.”

A breath.

Then another.

“But I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.”

Rhysand’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Eris.

Eris remained expressionless.

But his hand had shifted closer to yours on the table.

Not to stop you.

Not to guide you.

Just there.

Mor’s voice was colder now.

“And what truth do you think you know?”

You folded your hands again.

“The kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.”

A sad smile played on your lips. 

“The kind women bury because being believed costs too much.”

For the first time, Mor had no immediate response.

Good.

You had not wanted to hurt her.

Not really.

But you were very tired of watching Eris bleed quietly under everyone else’s certainty.

“You may hate my mate,” you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. “That is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.”

Eris’s gaze moved to you.

You did not look at him.

“But do not sit in his court, at his table, beneath laws he bled to change, and pretend your hatred is the same thing as truth.”

Silence pressed against the walls.

Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.

Azriel’s shadows curled close to his shoulders.

Rhysand leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

You picked up your tea again.

It had gone cold.

Mor did not sit.

Not immediately.

Her face was pale with anger, but beneath it there was something else.

Something older. Something less certain.

Eris finally spoke. Calm and measured.

“My mate raises a wonderful point.”

Rhysand looked at him.

Eris’s eyes did not leave Mor.

“Do you intend to discuss the border villages,” he said, “or continue mistaking personal history for governance?”

Your mouth twitched.

Only slightly.

Mor saw it.

Cassian definitely saw it.

Rhysand looked as though he was reevaluating several decisions at once.

Good.

That meant they were listening.

You took one careful sip of cold tea and set it back down.

“Now,” you said pleasantly, as though you hadn’t just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. “Shall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?”

Cassian muttered something under his breath.

Azriel looked down.

Rhysand looked at you for a long moment.

Then, finally, he said, “The villages.”

You smiled.

“Excellent.”

Beside you, Eris reached for his wine.

Not to drink.

To hide the fact that he was smiling.

You leaned toward him just slightly.

“Poorly done,” you murmured.

His gaze slid to you.

“What was?”

“Hiding your amusement.”

Then, so quietly only you could hear:

“I wasn’t trying very hard.”

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