They are brought through a long corridor of white marble, pillars climbing with vines heavy with bell-shaped blossoms of palest pink. The sound of Y/n's bare feet against the polished stone is the only thing that breaks the silence. The chains are cold. They are heavy. They were designed for a monster.

At the end of the corridor, great golden doors stand open, and beyond them, a chamber that opens onto the sea. A semi-circular arrangement of seats, high-backed and ornate, faces the center of the room. And in those seats, the arbiters of fate.

All eyes are on Y/n. Some curious. Some cold. Some filled with an old, familiar hatred.

When Y/n's gaze finally lands on the High Lord of the Night Court, sitting at the far end with his wings tucked tight against his back, there is no pity in those violet eyes. Only calculation.