Chapter Text
Yule's hands remain steady as she adjusts the silver circlet that marks her as head of House Wintermere, though her heart hammers against her ribs like a caged bird. The great hall of the neutral territory stretches before her, its vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow despite the afternoon light streaming through stained glass windows. Two years. Two years of careful negotiations, of walking the razor's edge between pride and survival, and it all comes down to this moment. She reaches for her magic, letting it flow through her like a cool stream, centering herself against the nerves that threaten to betray her composure.
She takes her place among the other fifteen house leaders, noting how they all carry themselves with the same brittle dignity that she wears like armor. House Nightfall's Lord Kieran stands to her left, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. Lady Morvaine of House Thornwick fidgets with the obsidian pendant at her throat. They are the remnants of Hybern's court, the survivors who bent the knee when their king fell, and now they must face the victors—the same High Lords her brother had called weak, pathetic creatures who had somehow managed to destroy everything she held dear.
The massive oak doors swing open, and Yule steps into the great hall with the other house leaders, her silver circlet catching the light. At the far end of the chamber, seven figures sit at the crescent-shaped table, already waiting like judges prepared to deliver a verdict.
Her eyes move across them methodically, cataloging each face with the cold precision her brother had drilled into her. Know your enemies, he had always said. Know them so you can watch them fall.
Helion of Day sits with his characteristic arrogance, golden skin practically glowing as if the sun itself bows to his will. Peacock, she thinks with disgust. Her brother had called him soft, too concerned with pleasure and luxury to be a true threat.
Beside him, Kallias of Winter maintains his rigid posture, ice-blue eyes surveying the room with calculated coldness. At least he looks like a proper ruler, unlike some of the others. His mate—his wife—sits beside him, her power making frost creep along the edge of their chairs. Strong, perhaps, but Winter had bent to Hybern before. They all had, in their own ways.
Tarquin of Summer appears almost boyish despite his centuries, dark skin unmarked by the weight of true command. Another heir who inherited power rather than seizing it. Her lip curls slightly at the sight of him—this is what passes for strength among the High Lords?
Thesan of Dawn sits with his healer's composure, but Yule knows what lies beneath that serene exterior. Weakness. Her brother had been very clear about that. A male who dedicates his court to healing rather than warfare was no true threat to anyone.
Tamlin of Spring slumps in his chair, golden hair dulled and green eyes haunted. Pathetic. Once, perhaps, he had been formidable, but look at him now—broken by a human girl and his own failures. A cautionary tale of what happens when power is wielded by the unworthy.
Her gaze skips over the Night Court's spymaster and general with practiced disinterest—hired swords, nothing more, despite their fearsome reputations. Even the human-turned-High-Lady sitting among them fails to impress. Feyre Archeron, the great Cursebreaker. Her brother had laughed bitterly when speaking of her, a mortal who stumbled into power and somehow convinced herself she deserved it.
But it's the male at the center of it all who makes her magic flare with barely contained hatred.
Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. The supposed "most powerful High Lord in centuries."
She studies his violet eyes, the casual way he lounges in his chair as if this meeting is merely an amusing diversion, the arrogant tilt of his head that suggests he believes himself untouchable. This is the male her brother had despised above all others—not for his power, but for his weakness disguised as strength. A ruler who hides behind others, who lets his court fight his battles while he plays at being noble and just.
This is what brought down her king? This preening, self-important male who thinks darkness makes him dangerous? Her brother had been right—Rhysand was nothing but smoke and shadows, a coward who had gotten lucky. The real powers, the ones with backbone, had been eliminated or weakened long before this pretender ever set foot on a battlefield.
Looking at him now, sitting there like he owns the world, Yule feels her hatred crystallize into something sharp and cold. She will play their games, speak their diplomatic words, but she will never forget what this male took from her. What all of them took from her people.
The victors, they call themselves. Yule sees only thieves and pretenders who happened to be standing when the dust settled.
The High Lords take their seats at the crescent-shaped table that has been positioned to face the sixteen houses. The symbolism isn't lost on anyone—the victors sit in judgment of the defeated. But there's something in their bearing that suggests this won't be quite the tribunal Yule had feared.
Rhysand leans back in his chair, those violet eyes once again scanning the assembled remnants of Hybern's court. When he speaks, his voice carries easily through the vast hall, rich and measured.
"House leaders of the former kingdom of Hybern," he begins, and Yule feels the collective flinch that runs through her fellow survivors at those words. Former kingdom. The finality of it settles like a stone in her chest. "We gather today not as conquerors and conquered, but as Fae seeking a path forward."
Lady Morvaine shifts beside her, the first crack in the careful composure they've all maintained. Yule keeps her own expression neutral, though her mind races. Seeking a path forward. What kind of path could possibly exist for them now?
Feyre leans forward slightly, her grey-blue eyes serious but not unkind. "We know that many of you fought not out of loyalty to Hybern's cause, but out of loyalty to your people, your houses, your way of life. We know that surrender was not a choice made lightly."
A murmur runs through the gathered house leaders—surprise, wariness, something that might be hope. Yule studies each High Lord's face, trying to read their intentions. This is not the harsh judgment she had prepared herself for.
Helion's golden voice joins the conversation, warm as summer sunlight. "The question before us today is simple: what becomes of your people now? What becomes of your houses, your traditions, your future?"
Yule's composure finally cracks, just slightly. Her hands clench in her lap as she looks around at her fellow leaders. Kieran's face has gone pale. Lady Thornwick's eyes shine with what might be tears. They had come here expecting terms of surrender, expecting to negotiate from a position of complete powerlessness.
They had not expected to be asked what they wanted.
The silence stretches, heavy with possibility and fear in equal measure. Somewhere in the shadows cast by the great pillars, a clock ticks steadily onward, marking time in a world that has irrevocably changed.
And Yule realizes that this meeting—these High Lords, this moment—might be the first real chance her people have had at survival since the night their king fell.
Do not trust them, Yule repeats to herself like a mantra, the words her brother had whispered to her countless times echoing in her mind. They are serpents wrapped in silk, sister. They will smile as they sink their fangs into your throat.
She adjusts the obsidian feathers of her raven mask, feeling the weight of it against her face like armor. The intricate metalwork frames her ice-blue eyes, making them appear even more striking against the black plumage that cascades down one side of her face. The mask matches her gown perfectly—a creation of midnight silk that clings to her curves and dips dangerously low at the neckline, revealing the elegant line of her collarbones and the pale expanse of her throat. It's a dress meant to distract, to disarm, to make enemies underestimate the mind behind the beauty.
Around her, the other house leaders wear their own masks, each one carefully chosen to reflect their house's identity while concealing their true expressions. Lord Kieran's wolf mask gleams silver in the light, while Lady Morvaine has chosen a delicate butterfly design that does nothing to hide the steel in her posture. The masquerade was supposed to be a gesture of diplomacy, a way to ease tensions during the festival and negotiations leading up to tonight's grand ball. Yule knows better—it's just another way for the High Lords to play their games.
The festival had stretched on for three days, a carefully orchestrated dance of diplomacy disguised as celebration. Markets filled with goods from all seven courts, performances that showcased the "unity" of Prythian, and endless rounds of carefully monitored conversations between former enemies. All of it building toward tonight—the grand ball where the real negotiations would take place, where the fate of the sixteen houses would finally be decided.
They think they can charm us with their pageantry, she thinks, watching as Rhysand gestures toward something Feyre has whispered in his ear. They think we'll be so dazzled by their power and generosity that we'll forget what they've taken from us.
A familiar voice slides through her mind, warm and steady despite the distance between them. Calm down, sister. I can feel your anger from here.
Yule forces herself to take slow, deep breaths, letting her magic flow through her veins like cooling water. Sorry, she responds mentally, feeling her brother's presence like an anchor in the storm of her emotions.
Rhysand's voice cuts through the hall, drawing her attention back to the present. "Before we proceed with tonight's festivities, we thought it would be appropriate for each house to introduce themselves properly. We know your names, but we would hear your stories, your histories." His violet eyes sweep across the assembled leaders. "Perhaps we might begin with the eldest among you."
Lord Kieran rises first, his silver wolf mask catching the light as he inclines his head. "House Nightfall has served for over two millennia," he begins, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "We are the guardians of the ancient forests, keepers of the old ways."
One by one, the house leaders stand and speak. Lady Morvaine of House Thornwick, with her butterfly mask and steel spine, speaks of her house's mastery over thorned vines and protective barriers. Lord Aldric of House Stormwind details their command over weather and sky. Each introduction is careful, measured—revealing enough to show respect for the process while concealing the true depths of their power.
Yule watches and waits, knowing her turn will come last. At barely a century old, she is by far the youngest of the house leaders, a fact that had caused more than a few raised eyebrows when she'd claimed her position after her mother's murder. They see her youth as weakness, inexperience as vulnerability.
Let them think that. Let them all underestimate the girl in the raven mask.
The introductions continue, each house leader standing in turn to speak their piece before the High Lords. The minutes stretch on, and Yule feels the weight of anticipation settling over her shoulders like a mantle. Soon, all eyes will be on her.
Finally, the last of the elder houses finishes speaking, and the hall falls silent. Every gaze turns to her.
Yule rises gracefully, her midnight silk dress catching the light as she stands. The sleeping dragon embroidered in silver thread across her bodice seems to shift and breathe with her movement.
"I am Yule," she says, her voice carrying clearly through the vast space. "Head of House Wintermere."
The reaction is immediate. All seven High Lords exchange glances, surprise flickering across their faces. Whispers start among the assembled court members.
It's Eris, one of Beron's sons from the Autumn Court, who breaks the silence. His amber eyes narrow as he studies her, then widen with recognition. "I was not aware of your house, nor your name," he says slowly, "but I recognize that coat of arms." His gaze fixes on the silver dragon sprawled across her dress. "The sleeping dragon. That is the house that Amarantha was from."
A small, cold smirk curves Yule's lips behind her raven mask. "That is correct," she says, her voice carrying clearly through the suddenly tense hall. "After the passing of that cunt of a mother, my twin brother took charge of the house. But as he serves as a general, I have been in charge since. We are the only members of House Wintermere remaining."
The reaction is immediate and explosive. Lord Kieran of House Nightfall shoots to his feet, his silver wolf mask unable to hide his outrage. "You will show respect for the fallen!" he thunders, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Regardless of your personal feelings—"
Yule holds up a delicate hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "My apologies," she says with mock contrition, that smirk never leaving her face. "After that cunt died..." She pauses, tilting her head as if considering her words more carefully, then nods decisively. "Yes, that's much better. 'Mother' was far too offensive a term for her."
The silence that follows is deafening. Even the High Lords seem stunned by her brazen disrespect, her complete lack of shame in denouncing Amarantha so publicly and crudely.
Yule's ice-blue eyes scan the High Lords' faces, cataloging their reactions. Most show shock, disgust, or carefully controlled surprise. But when her gaze lands on Rhysand, she catches something unexpected—a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, though confusion flickers in his violet eyes.
"I was not aware," Rhysand says slowly, leaning forward in his chair, "that Amarantha had children. None of us were." His head tilts slightly, studying her with new interest. "How old are you?"
Yule glances toward Lord Kieran, confused by the relevance of such a question. The elder lord's face is still flushed with anger from her crude display, but he straightens his shoulders and addresses the High Lords directly.
"Her age is of no importance," Kieran declares, his voice dripping with disdain. "She and her brother hold no true honor, young as they are—bastard children at that." He waves a dismissive hand in Yule's direction. "I can promise you that her house has been stripped of any real power. They pose no threat to anyone."
Kieran continues, his voice growing more authoritative. "Their names were changed, even the House name was changed. Their coat of arms was altered." He shoots a withering glare down at Yule. "Her clothing choice tonight was a slip-up. I apologize—it will be addressed."
Rhysand's voice cuts through Kieran's speech like a blade. "I wasn't talking to you," he says, violet eyes never leaving Yule's masked face. "I was talking to her."
As he speaks, Yule feels it—a familiar pressure against her mental shields, subtle but unmistakable. Magic, probing at the edges of her mind, trying to slip past her defenses. But it's not just her—she can sense him testing the other house leaders too, searching for weaknesses, for information.
Just as she and her brother had practiced countless times, Yule slams her mental barriers into place, feeling Rhysand's power slide harmlessly off her shields like water off stone. The surprise that flickers across his face is brief but unmistakable.
"Well," Yule says, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she meets Rhysand's probing gaze, "Amarantha was never an open book." She pauses, letting her smirk widen behind her raven mask. "Though her legs certainly were."
Kieran lurches to his feet again, his face purple with rage. "Enough!" he roars. "This is—"
"There's no point," Rhysand interrupts smoothly, his violet eyes still fixed on Yule with new interest. "It will be a conversation for another time." He leans back in his chair, a dismissive gesture that somehow feels more like a promise than a retreat. "I've heard enough."
Yule lets her gaze drift across the other High Lords, curious about their reactions to this revelation. Most show varying degrees of shock or disgust, but when her ice-blue eyes land on Tamlin of Spring, she finds him glaring at her with an intensity that makes her breath catch.
The one who killed her mother. The only High Lord she had any respect for, the one she pitied most of all.
She had wanted to thank him, if she ever got the chance. To tell him that putting that blade through Amarantha's heart was the greatest gift he could have given her. But the way he's looking at her now—green eyes hard as emeralds, his whole body tense with barely controlled aggression—she can practically feel his beast's teeth at her throat.
He sees only Amarantha's daughter. Not the girl who celebrated the day that monster died.
Do not trust them, Yule repeats to herself like a mantra, the words her brother had whispered to her countless times echoing in her mind. They are serpents wrapped in silk, sister. They will smile as they sink their fangs into your throat.
She adjusts the obsidian feathers of her raven mask, feeling the weight of it against her face like armor. The intricate metalwork frames her ice-blue eyes, making them appear even more striking against the black plumage that cascades down one side of her face. The mask matches her gown perfectly—a creation of midnight silk that clings to her curves and dips dangerously low at the neckline, revealing the elegant line of her collarbones and the pale expanse of her throat. It's a dress meant to distract, to disarm, to make enemies underestimate the mind behind the beauty.
Around her, the other house leaders wear their own masks, each one carefully chosen to reflect their house's identity while concealing their true expressions. Lord Kieran's wolf mask gleams silver in the light, while Lady Morvaine has chosen a delicate butterfly design that does nothing to hide the steel in her posture. The masquerade was supposed to be a gesture of diplomacy, a way to ease tensions during the festival and negotiations leading up to tonight's grand ball. Yule knows better—it's just another way for the High Lords to play their games.
The festival had stretched on for three days, a carefully orchestrated dance of diplomacy disguised as celebration. Markets filled with goods from all seven courts, performances that showcased the "unity" of Prythian, and endless rounds of carefully monitored conversations between former enemies. All of it building toward tonight—the grand ball where the real negotiations would take place, where the fate of the sixteen houses would finally be decided.
They think they can charm us with their pageantry, she thinks, watching as Rhysand gestures toward something Feyre has whispered in his ear. They think we'll be so dazzled by their power and generosity that we'll forget what they've taken from us.
A familiar voice slides through her mind, warm and steady despite the distance between them. Calm down, sister. I can feel your anger from here.
Yule forces herself to take slow, deep breaths, letting her magic flow through her veins like cooling water. Sorry, she responds mentally, feeling her brother's presence like an anchor in the storm of her emotions.
Rhysand's voice cuts through the hall, drawing her attention back to the present. "Before we proceed with tonight's festivities, we thought it would be appropriate for each house to introduce themselves properly. We know your names, but we would hear your stories, your histories." His violet eyes sweep across the assembled leaders. "Perhaps we might begin with the eldest among you."
Lord Kieran rises first, his silver wolf mask catching the light as he inclines his head. "House Nightfall has served for over two millennia," he begins, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "We are the guardians of the ancient forests, keepers of the old ways."
One by one, the house leaders stand and speak. Lady Morvaine of House Thornwick, with her butterfly mask and steel spine, speaks of her house's mastery over thorned vines and protective barriers. Lord Aldric of House Stormwind details their command over weather and sky. Each introduction is careful, measured—revealing enough to show respect for the process while concealing the true depths of their power.
Yule watches and waits, knowing her turn will come last. At barely a century old, she is by far the youngest of the house leaders, a fact that had caused more than a few raised eyebrows when she'd claimed her position after her mother's murder. They see her youth as weakness, inexperience as vulnerability.
Let them think that. Let them all underestimate the girl in the raven mask.
The introductions continue, each house leader standing in turn to speak their piece before the High Lords. The minutes stretch on, and Yule feels the weight of anticipation settling over her shoulders like a mantle. Soon, all eyes will be on her.
Finally, the last of the elder houses finishes speaking, and the hall falls silent. Every gaze turns to her.
Yule rises gracefully, her midnight silk dress catching the light as she stands. The sleeping dragon embroidered in silver thread across her bodice seems to shift and breathe with her movement.
"I am Yule," she says, her voice carrying clearly through the vast space. "Head of House Wintermere."
The reaction is immediate. All seven High Lords exchange glances, surprise flickering across their faces. Whispers start among the assembled court members.
It's Eris, one of Beron's sons from the Autumn Court, who breaks the silence. His amber eyes narrow as he studies her, then widen with recognition. "I was not aware of your house, nor your name," he says slowly, "but I recognize that coat of arms." His gaze fixes on the silver dragon sprawled across her dress. "The sleeping dragon. That is the house that Amarantha was from."
A small, cold smirk curves Yule's lips behind her raven mask. "That is correct," she says, her voice carrying clearly through the suddenly tense hall. "After the passing of that cunt of a mother, my twin brother took charge of the house. But as he serves as a general, I have been in charge since. We are the only members of House Wintermere remaining."
The reaction is immediate and explosive. Lord Kieran of House Nightfall shoots to his feet, his silver wolf mask unable to hide his outrage. "You will show respect for the fallen!" he thunders, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Regardless of your personal feelings—"
Yule holds up a delicate hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "My apologies," she says with mock contrition, that smirk never leaving her face. "After that cunt died..." She pauses, tilting her head as if considering her words more carefully, then nods decisively. "Yes, that's much better. 'Mother' was far too offensive a term for her."
The silence that follows is deafening. Even the High Lords seem stunned by her brazen disrespect, her complete lack of shame in denouncing Amarantha so publicly and crudely.
Yule's ice-blue eyes scan the High Lords' faces, cataloging their reactions. Most show shock, disgust, or carefully controlled surprise. But when her gaze lands on Rhysand, she catches something unexpected—a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, though confusion flickers in his violet eyes.
"I was not aware," Rhysand says slowly, leaning forward in his chair, "that Amarantha had children. None of us were." His head tilts slightly, studying her with new interest. "How old are you?"
Yule glances toward Lord Kieran, confused by the relevance of such a question. The elder lord's face is still flushed with anger from her crude display, but he straightens his shoulders and addresses the High Lords directly.
"Her age is of no importance," Kieran declares, his voice dripping with disdain. "She and her brother hold no true honor, young as they are—bastard children at that." He waves a dismissive hand in Yule's direction. "I can promise you that her house has been stripped of any real power. They pose no threat to anyone."
Kieran continues, his voice growing more authoritative. "Their names were changed, even the House name was changed. Their coat of arms was altered." He shoots a withering glare down at Yule. "Her clothing choice tonight was a slip-up. I apologize—it will be addressed."
Rhysand's voice cuts through Kieran's speech like a blade. "I wasn't talking to you," he says, violet eyes never leaving Yule's masked face. "I was talking to her."
As he speaks, Yule feels it—a familiar pressure against her mental shields, subtle but unmistakable. Magic, probing at the edges of her mind, trying to slip past her defenses. But it's not just her—she can sense him testing the other house leaders too, searching for weaknesses, for information.
Just as she and her brother had practiced countless times, Yule slams her mental barriers into place, feeling Rhysand's power slide harmlessly off her shields like water off stone. The surprise that flickers across his face is brief but unmistakable.
"Well," Yule says, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she meets Rhysand's probing gaze, "Amarantha was never an open book." She pauses, letting her smirk widen behind her raven mask. "Though her legs certainly were."
Kieran lurches to his feet again, his face purple with rage. "Enough!" he roars. "This is—"
"There's no point," Rhysand interrupts smoothly, his violet eyes still fixed on Yule with new interest. "It will be a conversation for another time." He leans back in his chair, a dismissive gesture that somehow feels more like a promise than a retreat. "I've heard enough."
Yule lets her gaze drift across the other High Lords, curious about their reactions to this revelation. Most show varying degrees of shock or disgust, but when her ice-blue eyes land on Tamlin of Spring, she finds him glaring at her with an intensity that makes her breath catch.
The one who killed her mother. The only High Lord she had any respect for, the one she pitied most of all.
She had wanted to thank him, if she ever got the chance. To tell him that putting that blade through Amarantha's heart was the greatest gift he could have given her. But the way he's looking at her now—green eyes hard as emeralds, his whole body tense with barely controlled aggression—she can practically feel his beast's teeth at her throat.
He sees only Amarantha's daughter. Not the girl who celebrated the day that monster died.
🐦⬛ ◦ ◦ ◦ 🐦⬛
The formal negotiations begin an hour later, after they've been ushered into a smaller chamber with a long oak table dominating the center. Yule adjusts the heavy woolen robe she'd been required to don, the coarse fabric scratching against her silk gown beneath. The hood pulls low over her face, casting shadows that mercifully hide her long dark red hair—hair that apparently marks her too clearly as Amarantha's blood.
She complied without argument, though the symbolic erasure chafes worse than the rough wool. Another attempt to make her invisible, to pretend House Wintermere doesn't exist.
The seating arrangement places her behind two other houses—Lord Kieran of House Nightfall and Lady Morvaine of House Thornwick—their forms blocking her from the High Lords' direct view. Hidden, dismissed, forgotten. Exactly where they want her.
But the position gives her something unexpected: a clear view through the tall windows that line the eastern wall. Beyond the glass lies the human lands, and Yule finds herself transfixed by what she sees there.
Snow.
Fat, lazy flakes drift down from the gray sky, each one catching what little light remains of the day before settling on the frozen ground below. She's never seen snow before—not real snow. In Hybern's realm, winter meant bitter cold and killing frost, but never this... this gentle beauty. The snowflakes dance and swirl in patterns that seem almost choreographed, covering the world in pristine white.
For a moment, she forgets where she is, forgets the negotiations droning on around her. Her ice-blue eyes track the path of individual flakes as they spiral past the window, and something inside her chest loosens just slightly. There's a peace to it, a quiet magic that has nothing to do with power or politics or the endless games of courts.
It's beautiful.
The realization surprises her almost as much as the snow itself.
She reaches out mentally, seeking the familiar warmth of her brother's presence. When will you get here?
His response comes immediately, tinged with amusement. Almost there, sister. This snow is cold but... pretty.
A genuine smile tugs at the corners of her mouth beneath the hood—the first real smile she's felt in weeks. Yeah, it is.
The moment of peace shatters as she feels it again—that familiar pressure against her mental barriers, sharp and insistent. Her smile vanishes as her attention snaps back to the room, ice-blue eyes immediately finding Rhysand across the table. He's listening to some proposal about territorial boundaries, his expression perfectly attentive, but she can feel the tendrils of his power creeping through the room like invisible fingers.
He's testing again. Not just her this time—she can sense him probing at the minds of the other house leaders, searching for cracks in their defenses, for information they haven't volunteered.
Without hesitation, Yule extends her own mental shields, wrapping them around Lord Kieran and Lady Morvaine, then stretching further to encompass the other houses within her reach. The effort makes her temples throb, but she holds firm, creating a barrier that turns Rhysand's invasive touch aside like water off glass.
She watches as his violet eyes flicker with surprise, then narrow slightly as his gaze searches the room. He knows someone is blocking him, but from her position hidden behind the other houses, he can't pinpoint the source.
Let him wonder, she thinks grimly, maintaining her protective shield while keeping her expression carefully neutral beneath her hood.
The strain of shielding so many minds reminds her of childhood lessons learned in desperation. This gift—this ability to guard against mental intrusion—is the only reason she draws breath. Without it, and without her brother's fierce protection, the creature who birthed her would have left her to die as a child.
Her brother had been everything Amarantha wanted: power that made the air crackle, beauty that could stop hearts, a title worth flaunting, a name that commanded respect. He was perfection in Amarantha's eyes—her true heir, her legacy, her weapon.
Yule had been nothing. A spare. A disappointment with unremarkable power and forgettable features. Nothing but this one gift that proved useful enough to keep her alive. Just barely.
Amarantha had made it clear from the beginning: Yule existed only because her mental barriers could protect her brother, could shield him from enemies who might try to break his mind the way she broke others. A living shield, nothing more. Disposable the moment she ceased to be useful.
Now, extending that same protection to these house leaders—people who have spent the evening dismissing and insulting her—feels like bitter irony. She protects them not out of loyalty or kindness, but because letting Rhysand rifle through their thoughts would give him too much advantage. And because, despite everything, some part of her understands what it feels like to be seen as expendable.
The mental shields hold firm, even as her temples throb with the effort. She's had decades of practice, after all. Survival had demanded nothing less.
Boredom creeps in as the negotiations drag on about territorial boundaries and trade agreements. Her mind begins to wander, and with it, her curiosity. If Rhysand is so freely probing the house leaders' minds, what about his precious allies? Does the great Night Lord extend the same protection to his fellow High Lords that he denies his enemies?
Carefully, delicately, Yule extends a mental tendril toward the High Lords themselves.
Rhysand's mind is a fortress—dark, layered, and utterly impenetrable. She doesn't even attempt to breach those defenses. But the others...
Helion's mental barriers are strong but focused outward, watching for external threats rather than subtle intrusion from within the room. She slips past them like mist through a crack in stone, touching the edges of his thoughts. —tedious negotiations when we could simply—
Tarquin's mind proves surprisingly accessible, his youth showing in defenses that are powerful but inexperienced. —hope this doesn't drag on much longer, the tides are calling—
Kallias presents more of a challenge, his icy mental walls requiring careful navigation, but she manages to graze the surface. —Viviane will want to hear about the Wintermere girl—
The realization hits her like a physical blow: Rhysand isn't protecting them. The supposedly loyal High Lord, the one who united them all against Hybern, is leaving his allies' minds as vulnerable as he's trying to make her people's.
A cold smile curves her lips beneath the hood. How interesting. How very, very interesting.
But information is only useful if you can act on it. Yule lets her mental touch drift further, probing deeper as she searches for something more valuable than idle thoughts about negotiations. She needs allies. She has no one loyal to her side, no one who would choose her over the established order.
Who among these powerful males would be most interested in causing chaos? Who might be swayed to see opportunity where others see only a bastard daughter in a hood?
Her mental tendril finds its way to Eris, and immediately she senses something different. His mind is sharper than the others, more calculating. Where Helion's thoughts drift to pleasures and Tarquin's to his duties, Eris's mind moves like a chess player contemplating his next seven moves.
—foolish to trust Rhysand completely, he's proven he'll sacrifice anyone when it suits him. The Night Court has too much power, too much influence. These negotiations are just another way for him to consolidate control—
Yule's interest sharpens. There's ambition there, yes, but also resentment. Frustration with the current power structure.
—the Wintermere girl is more than she appears. Amarantha's bastard daughter, but who sired her? She's young, maybe a century at most, but there's something about her that doesn't fit. Father would have me eliminate any potential threat from that bloodline, but perhaps... perhaps there's another way to play this. The mystery of her parentage alone makes her valuable—
Her pulse quickens. He's already thinking of her as a piece on the board, not just a problem to be solved. In Eris's mind, she glimpses something that looks almost like opportunity.
Something that looks like the potential for an alliance built on mutual benefit rather than loyalty or fear.
She pulls back from his thoughts carefully, but keeps a light touch on the connection. Eris, it seems, might be exactly what she's looking for.
Taking a calculated risk, Yule lets her mental voice slip directly into his mind, smooth and controlled.
Taking a calculated risk, Yule lets her mental voice slip directly into his mind, smooth and controlled.
Taking a calculated risk, Yule lets her mental voice slip directly into his mind, smooth and controlled.
My mother told me stories of my father, she begins, her mental tone carrying bitter satisfaction. How he made the minds of others into husks, how he broke people for her entertainment. She said I inherited his talents and her ruthlessness. A weak male who served her well. The words flow like poison honey. Apparently, I am just like both of them—whoever he was. She pauses, letting the implications settle. Are you interested in an alliance, Eris Vanserra?
She feels his shock ripple through the mental connection—not at her intrusion, which he handles with admirable composure, but at her words. At the twisted version of events her mother had fed her, at the implications of what she believes about her own heritage.
But beneath the shock, she senses something else. Recognition. As if pieces of a puzzle are clicking into place in his mind, forming a picture she cannot see.
Eris's mental voice, when it comes, is carefully controlled. Your mother told you he broke minds willingly. It's not quite a question, more like he's testing her understanding of it.
She said he was very good at it, Yule responds without hesitation. And if you're thinking of betraying this conversation to anyone, you should know that I inherited those same talents. The question is—do you want an ally who can turn the Night Court's greatest weapon against itself, or do you want to keep playing by their rules?
The silence in his mind stretches for a long moment, and Yule can feel him weighing options, calculating risks and benefits with the same chess-master precision she'd sensed before.
Her brother's voice suddenly cuts through her thoughts, sharp with suspicion. What are you doing, sister? I can feel your magic stirring from here.
Mind your own business, she snaps back, not breaking her mental connection with Eris.
But her brother's interruption makes her pause, reassessing. This was spontaneous, reckless perhaps. She doesn't know how often Rhysand rifles through Eris's mind, doesn't know if this conversation would be discovered later. The smart move might be to make him forget entirely, regardless of his answer.
Even if Eris refuses the alliance, she realizes with cold calculation, she can simply force him to forget this conversation ever happened. And maybe she should, anyway. This kind of information in the wrong hands—or discovered by Rhysand during one of his mental intrusions—could be catastrophic.
She lets that possibility hang in the mental space between them, unspoken but implied. Consider carefully, Eris Vanserra, she adds, her mental voice carrying a new edge. This conversation can disappear entirely if needed. But an opportunity like this... those are rarer than you might think.
The threat is subtle but clear: agree or forget. Either way, she maintains control of the situation.