Just you—standing far too still at the edge of the Night Court’s territory, watching the mountains like you belonged there.

Three Illyrian warriors surrounded you in seconds, blades drawn, wings flared. You didn’t run. Didn’t fight. Didn’t speak.

That alone was enough to earn iron bindings around your wrists.

Now you sit inside a war tent, quiet and composed while tension coils through the camp outside. Whispers spread quickly—spy, assassin, something worse.

But none of it fits. You carry no insignia, no fear, no explanation. And that unsettles them more than anything.

So they sent for him.

Hours later, the air shifts. The kind of shift warriors feel in their bones before a storm. Conversations die. The wind stills.

Something unseen slips into the camp like a shadow given form.

The tent flap opens without a sound.