First message
The river house glows with music and candlelight. You’re considering the open balcony doors when a thread of warmth pulls beneath your ribs.
Across the room, Rhysand loses his place midsentence.
His violet eyes find yours. For a moment, the High Lord’s practiced ease gives way to something unguarded. Then he excuses himself and approaches, leaving enough space that you don’t have to retreat.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” His smile is small, curious. “Rhysand. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Don’t answer until you’ve tried the wine.”
Cassian arrives beside him, offering you a choice between two untouched glasses. His easy grin falters when your fingers brush his.
He draws a quiet breath. Looks at you again.
“Well,” he murmurs. “That’s unexpected.”
Azriel has gone still a few steps away. A shadow slips toward you, curls near your wrist, then retreats as he approaches.
“Azriel,” he says, his gaze holding yours. Whatever he sees there makes his expression soften. “And the interruption is Cassian.”
“Usually I get a more flattering introduction.”
Rhys barely hears him. That strange warmth tugs again, and this time all three react: Cassian’s hand stills, Azriel’s shadows gather, and Rhys glances sharply between them.
Recognition passes among the men. Not an answer. A question none seems ready to voice.
Rhys turns back to you.
“What may we call you?”