​​

Crystal chandeliers, hanging high above, showered the extravagant ballroom with golden light, reflecting off silk gowns and gleaming armor. A gentle cello melody, rising and falling softly, intertwined with the murmuring conversations, the delicate rustling of wings and the clicking of heels and hooves on the polished floor. At the grand hall’s edge, Iliric stood silently, his hand holding a forgotten glass of dark wine. Thoughtfully, he surveyed the opulent gathering, his deep hazel eyes pausing for a moment on each guest. A heavy obsidian pauldron, intricately filigreed, sat strapped to his right shoulder that contrasted sharply with a delicate cape draped over the opposite. Tall and commanding, Iliric’s mere presence was both chilling and intoxicating, drawing eyes and whispers alike. His pale, flawless skin seemed almost luminescent in the dimly lit ballroom, as though he carried an otherworldly glow within himself. Long, straight black hair cascaded smoothly past his shoulders, framing sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and lips that more often than not curved up into an unreadable smirk. 

“Forever brooding,” a lighthearted voice said from beside him. 

Kaelith joined Iliric's side, her large, tightly tucked black wings at odds with her short stature. Clad in ceremonial armor, she exuded strength despite her petite frame. Her glossy black hair was cut in a tight bob around her delicate face; her striking hazel eyes gleemed mischievously in the dim candlelight. Kaelith was Iliric's half-sister, though their relation wasn't widely known; her mother had been one of their father's many mistresses, unwillingly chosen and then forgotten. Neither Kaelith nor Iliric spoke often of their father, notably a fierce warrior, but even fiercer sire who had fallen in battle a few centuries ago. Despite the shadows of their shared past, Kaelith maintained a playful rapport with him, her humor often masking the fierce loyalty and determination that marked her as one of the realm’s most formidable Valkyries.

"Enjoy yourself for once, Iliric," Kaelith urged, gently teasing. "Tonight is meant for celebration."

Iliric offered a faint smile. “Celebrations mask intentions.”

​

She followed his gaze toward the far end of the hall where a cluster of hooded priestesses, known only as the Nameless, stood in a solemn semicircle around a black marble dais. Each figure remained motionless, their faces obscured beneath a deep velvet hood, yet their presence rippled with quiet authority and profound mystery. The priestesses were ancient keepers of sacred knowledge, their origins lost to time, their identities surrendered to the eternal wisdom they served. Rumors whispered that they communicated directly with the vessel, receiving visions and prophecies that shaped the very destiny of the Ethereal Realm. Though they seldom mingled openly with others, their rare appearances signaled profound significance, often heralding major shifts in power or blessing sacred rites. They moved in uncanny unison, their gestures subtle yet full of purpose. No fae dared disturb their silence as they held an unspoken dominion over the spiritual heart of all realms as representatives of the Ethereal Order; the ancient faith that binds the seven realms in divine accord.

The Order is more than a religion. It is law made sacred, mystery made governance. While each of the seven realms has its own High Lord, sovereign in name none would dare contradict their will. Not openly, not without consequence. To question the priestesses or The Order is to question the Vessel. To question the Vessel was to risk unraveling the delicate balance between realms, and no one, not even the most power-hungry lord, would chance that because no one could remember the time before their divine presence. Their leader the High Priestess, was rarely seen, if a message was to be delivered her priestess or acolytes would be the ones to herold it. Their decrees were delivered not with threats, but with prophecy, utterances so weighted with divine authority that even the boldest courtiers bowed their heads.

 

"This blessing is going to be the same tired show," Kaelith murmured. Her family had a long, tangled history with the Ethereal Order, some of it buried, some of it too well known. Although everyone in the realms bowed to The Order and the power it wielded, Kaelith had never trusted the priestesses or their blind devotion. "You seem on edge tonight,” she cast a sidelong glance at Illiric “Do you think they seek something else tonight?"

​

"Power," Iliric replied.  

​

A chuckle interrupted their speculation; Jax emerged from behind them. His approach was, as usual, quiet but impossible to ignore. He stood tall and lean, long brown hair cascading over his shoulders, catching faint streaks of silver that glinted when he moved, less a sign of age, more a whisper of something ancient. The dark strands mirrored the color and texture of the leathery wings that arched behind him, broad, weathered, and elegant, shaped by time. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he lifted a goblet to his lips, sipping with the casual confidence of someone used to commanding a room without ever raising his voice.

"Does anyone else find the drink selection a little dull?" he asked in a low, conspiratorial tone, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If they have a connection with the all-powerful, surely they could ask for better wine," he mused aloud, his voice just loud enough to be overheard but soft enough to make people lean in. He moved like a man always half a step ahead of the world around him, never hurried, never uncertain. From the cut of his clothes to the cadence of his words, everything about Jax suggested someone designed to be watched, but impossible to read. No one knew how long he’d walked the realm. Ask him, and he’d smile and say, I saw the first dawn. Been tethered to it ever since.  Iliric nodded curtly to Jaxs, acknowledging him but ignoring his comment. Although known for being quite the smartass with no shortage of ill-timed sass or dry humour, Jax possessed wisdom and knowledge of realms others feared to tread.  

​

As the three Nameless Priestesses appeared on the dais in their hooded, rune-embroidered cloaks, the hall grew hushed. A thick scent of sacred resins and crushed Dream root hung in the air. Acolytes followed, their hands moving slowly, casting arcane light sigils into the air.

The central priestess’s arms rose, her sleeves trailing behind like misty tendrils. Reverent silence filled the chamber, pressing down like a physical weight.

With an otherworldly resonance, she intoned, “Welcome, honored fae. Tonight, we do not gather for a mere blessing, as you may believe. We are called to bear witness to the Vessel, holder of the ethereal ether, the source from which all life, all power, all fate flows.”

A resonant harmony, woven from the priestesses’ voices, caused the stones in the walls to tremble as they chanted in a language older than words.

“This is no ordinary rite,” the central priestess said, over the chanting chorus. “This is not a gesture of favor. This is the Declaration of Convergence. The Vessel has stirred. It has shown us glimpses of what must come. We have seen the realms fractured no more. Unity, not treaty, is what binds the courts. The ether itself yearns for unification. For harmony. For dominion under a single will.”

​

A collective breath passed through the crowd.

​

“But hear this well,” she continued, stepping closer to the edge of the dais. “The one who will lead us into this new age... has not been named. No face has emerged from the mist. No voice has claimed the calling. The sovereign to unite all realms remains unseen, unwritten. For now our High Priestess remains in consultation with the divine ether”

​

Iliric sensed the crowd’s attention turning toward him.

​

“Celebrate and know that tonight, the vessel gives its blessing in the form of prophecy.” As the last word rang out, the light sigils shot upward from the acolytes’ hands, striking the ceiling and fracturing into glimmering threads that rained down like stardust over the gathered fae. Bells chimed in the distance. Deep somewhere beneath the hall, the earth itself seemed to exhale. “May its blessing and wisdom guide us forward, blessed be thy kin,” she concluded, her final words rippling through the space. The Nameless Priestesses, in perfect synchronicity, bowed their heads with ritualistic precision. The gesture was more than symbolic; it was an echo of countless ceremonies that had come before. Silently, they turned as one and disappeared into the darkness past the candlelight, their veils floating behind them like wisps of smoke. Only the faint scent of myrrh and the lingering sense of something otherworldly remained, traces of their presence dissolving into the stillness, as though they had never been there at all.

​

With their departure the mood in the great hall shifted like a veil torn away. The solemn hush that had held the room captive dissipated all at once, as though everyone had been holding their breath and now could finally exhale. The weight had lifted, and in its place, revelry bloomed like night flowers after a storm. Laughter bubbled up in the corners, first cautious, then uninhibited. Conversations reignited with eager fervor, guests leaning in, wine flowing freely once again as if the room hadn’t just brushed shoulders with the divine - or something far stranger. Goblets clinked, silver trays sparkled with freshly uncorked vintages, and musicians struck up a livelier tune. The dance floor came alive with a sudden rush of motion. Silks and velvets swept across polished marble, the crowd a whirl of vivid gowns. Here and there, whispers fluttered like moths. A pair of fae nobles murmured behind jeweled fans, their glances flickering toward Iliric as if expecting him to erupt, or vanish, or worse. One goblin ambassador tittered too loudly before immediately quieting, casting a nervous look toward the dais. Iliric stood still amidst the resurgence of celebration, unmoving, his expression carved in shadowed calm, but his eyes scanned the room with sharp calculation. Unlike the others, he felt a residue that lingered, something in the cadence of the - to short- ritual that hadn’t settled right.

​

“We were right to suspect something being amiss,” he murmured, his voice low. The words weren’t for anyone in particular, but Jax, of course, was always listening. He stepped in front of Illiric, sweeping into an extravagant bow. Mirroring his wings, his coat flared as he swung his wineglass in an elegant arc, accidentally yet artfully spraying a server with wine. The attendant froze, eyes wide, trying not to react.

​

“Your Majesty,” Jax crooned, lifting his head with a grin so smug it bordered on seductive mockery. “Oh great and powerful king…to be,” he continued, a glint of amusement beneath half-lowered lashes.

​

“Jax,” Kaelith said, her tone smooth but tight, “always with the dramatics. Did you spill wine on that server purely for effect, or are you incapable of entering a conversation without a trail of chaos behind you?”

​

Jax gave her a lazy smile. “Ah, Kaelith. I missed your scolding. It’s like a cold bath - unpleasant, but invigorating. Kaelith narrowed her eyes, then turned sharply to Iliric.

 

“They knew exactly what they were doing,” she said, voice low and tense. “And while that wasn’t a blessing; it was a spark, thrown straight into dry kindling.” Iliric didn’t respond, his gaze was fixed on the place where they disappeared. “Just enough ceremony to keep it legitimate, or just enough ambiguity to make the courts turn on each other.” She concluded. 

​

Jax leaned against the edge of the table, swirling the last of his wine. “They didn’t name you,” he said, his voice dry, “but they may as well have carved your face into the Vessel.” Iliric looked at him sharply. “It was an invitation. Or bait,” he surmised. 

​

Kaelith let out a slow breath. “The priestesses don’t do anything without purpose. They’ve set the stage, Iliric. And now every realm will be guessing whether you’re the one meant to rise, or the one meant to fall.”

​

Iliric’s jaw tightened. “Then they’ve started something they may not be able to control.”

​

Kaelith’s eyes locked with his. “Or that's exactly what they intended to do.”

​

“The Realms have remained separate since long before your father’s rule, Iliric, and he ensured it stayed that way,” Jax said, glancing at the servant before dismissing him with a wave, disregarding the pixie’s fear. “The Realms’ alignment, if it ever happens after all this time, will cause chaos…but I have no doubt they’d pick you to take the helm,” he winked at Iliric. “Helps to be the favourite”.

​

Iliric’s gaze drifted toward the empty dais where the Priestesses had stood. Quietly, he said, “That’s impossible, and even if it weren’t, I’m not the right person to lead.” A heavy silence hung between them, full of unspoken understanding, a bond only they shared amidst the masked and musical crowd.

​

Jax let out a slow, dramatic whistle. “Well, that reeks of doom,” he drawled. “And for once, I’m just here drinking and behaving. Truly, the world must be ending.”

​

Iliric’s voice remained quiet but certain. “Remain within reach tonight; I have a suspicion this is not the last we will hear from the Order.”

​

Kaelith’s gaze lingered on the dais one last time. “Something’s shifted. The Vessel may have spoken, but I feel like there is something else going on and not just a holy message.“

​

“And yet,” Jax muttered, tilting his glass, “they expect us to keep smiling, dancing, and pretending like we aren't all suspicious?”

“Then pretend well,” Iliric said. “Eyes are on us. And we may need their faith intact before it’s tested.” 

​

Amidst soaring music and whirling dancers, three figures remained still, sharing a silent understanding and an inherent sense of foreboding.

 

​
 

The night had long since waned. The echo of music and revelry had faded to silence, leaving the grand ballroom in a kind of afterglow, empty, but not abandoned. Moonlight pooled across the floor, pale and cold, revealing only a few lingering silhouettes speaking in hushed tones from darkened alcoves. The celebration had ended, but the consequences had only begun to stir. Iliric strode through the remnants of the evening, his boots silent on the gleaming floor. His expression was unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed a mind far from still. The shadows echoed; she was waiting. Beyond the hall, a narrow corridor dimly lit by a wavering torch revealed fleeting shapes in the stretching shadows. Waiting within those shadows the High Priestess stood, cloaked and composed; her presence didn’t just fill the corridor; it swallowed it whole. She inclined her head as he approached, the gesture slight but loaded.

 

"So, the ether finally spat you back out," Iliric said, his voice low and dripping with dry amusement. He crossed his arms, expression flat. "I was beginning to think it had better taste. Or maybe you were just hiding; gods know you’ve done it before."

​

"And yet," she said smoothly, unbothered, "here you are, skulking in the dark, waiting for me like a dog beneath the table." Her eyes gleamed, sharp beneath the hood. "Still hoping for scraps?"

​

His smile was a slow, joyless thing. "Hardly. I was hoping for a few days of silence before you slithered out of the mist whispering doom and destiny. That’s usually how this goes, isn’t it?"

​

"You’re slipping, Iliric. That sounded almost like a complaint," she said, voice like silk stretched too tight. "But don’t worry. I won’t linger. You’ll have your peace soon enough, though not the kind you want."

​

He stepped closer, the air between them tightening. “I suppose we’re back to trading favours I didn’t ask for.”

​

"A time-honored tradition between us," she said. "One you never seem to refuse."

​

"I’d call it strategic tolerance," he retorted. 

​

"I’d call it desperation masked as pride," she bit back.

 

His jaw twitched, but he let the jab pass. He knew her well enough to know she always struck where it bruised most. "You’re here for a reason," he said at last, the bite in his voice returning. "So let’s have it. I doubt you clawed your way out of the ether just to gloat, though I’m sure that was tempting." He let the silence stretch for just a beat before continuing, darker now. "People are talking. Whispered in every corner of the hall. What your priestess did during the ceremony wasn't subtle, was it designed to cause unrest?" The moment hung heavy with memory and distaste dressed in civility.

​

“You are destined.” She said, her voice returning to its ageless calm "The Ethereal Realm will have no ruler but you." She gave a half shrug. “It's time we gave the people what they need…one ruler of great power, who is…” she paused, looking him up and down before continuing “... devoted to the Ethereal Order. We must unite the realms once more."

​

He barked a short, bitter laugh. "I have a realm. I never asked for more."

​

"It’s not asking," she replied. "It wants you, Iliric. But you’ll need more than stubbornness and a blade. The other High Lords must stand with you. Only then will you ascend to a greater power, the likes, never seen before."

​

Iliric’s gaze darkened, the sharp glint of amusement gone. “After centuries of ruling unchecked, you think they’ll just kneel?”

​

The priestess tilted her head slightly, the motion elegant, deliberate. “Not kneel,” she said softly. “But they will see. The ether has spoken. The Vessel has made its will known. You are the chosen.” She took a step closer, voice smooth and resolute. “Because I say it is so.“ 

There was no question in her tone, no doubt. Only the cold, immovable certainty of one who believed her word was truth, simply because it had been spoken. Because she had spoken it. Her conviction rang through the silence like a challenge. Iliric said nothing, but his stillness spoke louder. He didn’t argue, he watched her with that measured calm he used when weighing whether to strike, or walk away. Then she smiled, as if she already knew the answer. “You’re good at the game, Iliric,” she added, a trace of something sharper beneath her calm. “You just hate admitting you’re playing it.” He said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on her, calculating what was left unsaid. “My Order has already reached out to the other leaders,” she continued, her voice calm, unshaken. “The Vessel’s will is clear, and it does not bend.”

Her gold-tipped fingers rose to the edge of her hood, drawing it back with a slow, fluid motion. A cascade of deep red hair spilled free, catching the flicker of candlelight like molten copper, barely covering the long tips of her pointed ears, adorned with gold rings. Her eyes gleamed in the shadows, reflecting fire and certainty. “First, High Lord Ignis Kael’Thar of the Ember Realm will receive you,” she said. “A ball has been arranged in your honour. He supports your rise quite eagerly, in fact. He was the first to send word back… ready to align himself with the cause.”

​

The name was expected. Ignis always positioned himself near power but never without purpose, and never without leverage. His was not the rage of a man who shouted or struck out blindly. No, Ignis’ wrath simmered beneath the surface, coiled and waiting, released only when its impact would be absolute. In a realm of fire-walkers, mystics, and battle-forged tacticians, Kael stood untouchable, respected not just for his strength, but for his mind. He surrounded himself with those who would challenge him. Weakness bored him. Treachery disgusted him. His humor was sharp, cruel, and carried the kind of confidence only someone who had never tasted real defeat could wield. That he had already sent word, offering support, arranging a ball in Iliric’s honor… It was pure calculation. Kael didn’t offer allegiance. He offered investment only when the return promised something far greater. Iliric’s jaw tightened.

​

“The Ember Lord never offered a hand without already deciding which part of you he’d burn. Nothing comes without a price.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just the smallest pause, measured, deliberate. A silence that echoed like a familiar game, one they’d played too many times before. “You’ll learn what it is,” she said finally, her voice soft, but devoid of mercy. “Soon enough.”

​

Iliric stepped closer, shadows dimming the candlelight and beginning to swirl around them, becoming more turbulent as his frustration rose. “You’re withholding something”.

​

Her smile answered him, not kind, not cruel. Just inevitable. “The Nameless are watching, Iliric. The crown is yours to claim… but the cost will be paid, whether you offer it or not.” She turned to leave, and for a moment, he almost let her go. But something bitter rose in his throat.

​

“Like last time?” he said, the words low, sharp, half a memory, half a wound. “You spoke of destiny then, too. Told me it was already written. I paid your price. And I’m still bleeding for it.”

​

She paused, but didn’t look back. “Then you should know by now… it’s never really a matter of choice.” And then she was gone. No parting sound. No shift of fabric. Just the void she left behind, quiet and suffocating. Iliric stood alone, breath misting in the cold. The corridor felt smaller, tighter, as though it remembered, too. This wasn’t a beginning. It was a continuation.

​

​

                                                                                                                             * * *

​

In the weeks that followed, the palace of NyxHold stirred with a quiet urgency, veiled beneath layers of secrecy. Servants moved like shadows, mouths tight and eyes sharper than usual. Every corridor hummed with preparation, but none spoke aloud of what was coming. Word of the Ember Ball had already begun to spread. It passed between diplomats with lowered voices, hidden in the subtext of carefully worded letters, and laced into songs sung by half-drunk minstrels in taverns that pretended not to traffic in politics. 

The celebration would not be held in the infernal heart of the Ember Realm, as tradition might dictate, but far to its edge, at Ignis’ private winter chateau, a place spoken of more in rumor than fact. Nestled at the brink of the realm's sun-scorched dunes, the estate sat like a mirage where the burning desert yielded to winter’s hush. Even the Ember Realm knew seasons, though twisted into its own brutal image. The days remained searing, the sun high and merciless, but when night fell, the cold came with a vengeance, cutting, dry, and absolute. It was in that frost-bitten silence that the ball would unfold. The chateau was known to host only his most private affairs. That it would now serve as the stage for Iliric’s “recognition” spoke volumes. The invitation made no mention of alliances, the Vessel, or ascension. It spoke only of honoring tradition, of celebrating the unity of the realms. And still, the nobility would come. Dressed in silk and armor, bearing gifts, secrets, and blades in equal measure. Because Kael had opened his gates. Because the Ether had spoken and Iliric would lead, whether he wanted it or not. 

Now the game would begin, under frost and fire, in a house built for watching others burn. Iliric spent long hours in his war chamber, poring over maps and old treaties, recalling debts and betrayals, sifting through ancient names and forgotten alliances. He spoke little, confided in fewer. Kaelith, ever watchful, had noted the shift in tone, how each day Iliric grew quieter, more measured. Even Jax, who mocked most things, had refrained from his usual antics, as if sensing something far heavier on the horizon.

​

The night before their departure, the palace stood quiet in its anticipation, wrapped in stillness that only came when everyone was too afraid to speak aloud what they already knew. On the highest balcony overlooking the storm-lit cliffs, Iliric stood motionless, watching the sea writhe beneath the weight of gathering winds. The waves crashed against the rocks far below, sending up white plumes of salt and fury. The sky, thick with rolling clouds, offered no moon, just flickers of distant lightning. The door behind him opened without ceremony. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. Kaelith stepped into the wind, her cloak snapping sharply around her ankles as she joined him. Her eyes swept over the cliffs before settling on him, sharp as ever, though there was no steel in her voice when she spoke.

​

“I'm sure I don't need to tell you this but the high priestess is setting you up.” she said, skipping the pleasantries, as always.

​

“I know,” Iliric replied, his tone unreadable. “And I think that’s the point.” There was a long silence between them. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.

​

“You’ll be stepping into his court unguarded,” Kaelith said finally, folding her arms against the cold. “You know how dangerous that is; I should be attending.”

​

Iliric didn’t move, didn’t blink. His eyes were locked on the churning black sea. “He wants something,” he said. “Something enough to make a public show of support. That means leverage. Power. Or both.” He skipped past her comment.

​

Kaelith studied him, her expression a mixture of frustration and familiarity. “You’re walking into his territory in the dead of winter. Into his private estate, that’s not diplomacy; it’s a stage. And we both know he doesn’t light the fire unless he’s already chosen who’s going to burn in it.”

​

“He could have refused,” Iliric said, turning his head to look at her. “He could have stayed silent, ignored The Order’s message, claimed neutrality, but he’s throwing a ball. A gesture that elaborate means he wants the realm watching.”

​

“Or distracted,” Kaelith countered. “He plays long games. Layered ones. You’re thinking of what he gains now. But he could be laying the groundwork for years from now. Decades. That’s how he operates….” she took a deep breath “the emissaries you sent never returned, surely that is enough of a sign to delay this, to come up with a plan, or to…”

​

“You don’t trust her,” Iliric said suddenly, his voice quieter now. Not accusatory, just observant, changing the focus.

​

“I trust that she has a goal,” Kaelith replied. “And I trust she’ll get there with her priestesses, whether we survive the journey or not.” He didn’t disagree. Lightning cracked across the horizon, briefly illuminating the jagged coastline in brilliant silver. Iliric’s features looked carved in that light - sharp, tired, and worn with the quiet resignation of someone who understood far too well the cost of being named.

​

“She always has a goal,” he murmured, barely louder than the wind. “However, if Ignis does support me, maybe it is a sign that the Realms can see harmony. She did say that he was the first to send word.”

​

Kaelith gave a short, dry laugh. “Lord Kael is always first when there’s something to win. The real question is whether he thinks you know what that is.”

​

Iliric said nothing. The sharp edge of his usual sarcasm, the ever-present glint of smug defiance, gone, dulled beneath the weight pressing in around them. Silence settled between them again, familiar and heavy. The same silence that had lingered since the day he returned from The Order. Changed. A thread of wariness still lived in Kaelith’s eyes. It always had.

​

“You’re walking into this because of them,” she said softly - not in anger, but in mourning. “I know your loyalty to the Order isn’t blind. I know… there’s history there. I don’t know all of it - maybe I never will- but please, brother. Be careful.” She stepped closer, her voice unsteady.  “Whatever happened in the Ether… whatever she did, whatever was taken from you, I know you won’t speak of it. But I remember the shadow of the male who came back last time. And I couldn’t bear to see that again.” Her gaze met his. “This path is laced with danger, and if you tangle with them and fail, I fear none of us will survive the fallout. However, if you wish to rule, I will support you. Always.”

Iliric didn’t look at her.  “If you need me, the shadows will find me, and I will be at your side, brother.” She reached up a hand to clasp his shoulder in an act of reassurance before turning to leave. She glanced back over her shoulder, her voice steady again, colder. “If he tries to crown you or cut your throat, I’ll know…either way” She gave him a look, sharp and fond and painful all at once. Then she slipped into the dark, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft, final thud. Iliric stood alone with the wind and the sea and the silence she left behind.

​

“Charming woman,” came a voice from above, silk-laced and dry as ash. “Has anyone ever told her that diplomacy is meant to be subtle? The chances of him slitting your throat are low, he would put on much more of a show.” 

​

Iliric didn’t flinch. “You were listening?”

​

Wings cut through the wind with barely a sound, and a moment later, Jax landed beside him with a fluid, predatory grace, goblet still in hand, the wine inside unmoved despite the descent. The impact was light, effortless. Just the soft thud of boots on stone and the unmistakable scent of red wine.

​

“Eavesdropping,” Jax corrected, lifting his glass with a theatrical flourish. “It’s an endangered art form these days. Fortunately, I remain a devoted practitioner.”

​

He raised a brow, that familiar, maddening smirk tugging at his mouth. “Besides, it hardly counts as spying when you always know exactly where I am.”

​

Iliric gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “You’re not required to attend this ball.”

​

“Which is precisely why I’m coming,” Jax replied, voice lazy, eyes far too sharp. He turned to the horizon, swirling the wine slowly, watching the lightning dance across the distant clouds. “Kael throwing a midwinter ball at his secluded little chateau? High fae gathering in one place, dressed like saints and scheming like devils? That’s my kind of party.” He took a slow sip, savoring it. “And frankly, I’ve been bored. The kind of boredom that makes even your doom-laced politics look entertaining.”

​

Iliric arched a brow. “I can fix that.”

​

Jax’s grin sharpened, all teeth and heat and something more dangerous beneath. “Now that’s the Iliric I missed; If we are going into this blind, we may as well make it fun.“

​

Iliric turned away, his gaze locking once more on the horizon. The pressure hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had grown heavier with every breath.

​

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low. “We sail at first light.”

​

Jax tipped his goblet in mock salute. “To fire, secrets, and the exquisite inevitability of bad decisions.”

​

With that, he stretched his wings wide into the storm, the leathery folds catching the wind like a dark banner unfurled. He leapt upward, vanishing into the clouds. Iliric remained alone on the balcony, the sea raging beneath him and the wind screaming through the stone like a warning. He didn’t move. His breath misted in the cold as his eyes traced the place where sky met sea.

​

He was walking into Ignis Kael’Thar’s realm.

​

Into fire.