A Court of Dusk and Shadows

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: HIGH LADY

The sea hissed a salty greeting as Rhysand's delegation materialized on the Dusk Court's rocky shore.

Familiar territory, now cloaked in a new strangeness. Where harsh grey had dominated, vibrant greens painted the edges of the swirling mists. This wasn't their welcome mat but a barrier humming with unfamiliar energy.

Beside him, he glanced at Feyre. There was tension lining her lovely face. She, too, had felt the pull, the echo of ancient starlight stirring in a realm long thought dormant. The soft flutter of wings mirrored his disquiet. Azriel, Cassian, Emerie, Nesta—his trusted circle—waited for direction he wasn't sure he had.

"Well, this is new," came Tamlin's familiar rumble as he winnowed in Callisto, a shimmering presence at his side. The High Lord of Spring caught Rhysand's eye—no words were needed but a flicker of a smile confirming mutual purpose.

A ripple of amusement followed.

"Did our dearest princess decide to redecorate?" Helion's arrival carried his customary blend of charm and barbed curiosity. The High Lord of Day shone like a summer sunrise, yet his eyes mirrored the mist's opalescent depths. "Is this her idea of a grand party? Mist so thick you can't see your reflection.? Truly tragic."

Before Rhys could offer a retort, Kallias also materialized, Viviane with him. No easy smiles now, but the calculation of a seasoned player. And his first suspect was the High Lord of Night. "What fresh games are you playing, Rhysand?" he asked.

"Games?" Rhys held his hands high, empty. He forced a mocking lightness. "This wasn't me." As if to prove his, he pushed forward. The mist thrummed against his outstretched hand, sending tremors into his shadows. His power recoiled, not in pain, but as if pushed.

Just behind came Tarquin, his ever-present smile now shadowed with sharp scrutiny. But before even he could offer a comment, Thesan landed softly. "I haven't felt this for...centuries. Not just a ripple, but a shift of the very foundations."

The High Lords and High Ladies of Prythian stared at each other. As if in answer, the mist began to swirl. Not in defiance but as if...clearing a path. Light broke through, and there, silhouetted against the shimmering haze, was a Pegasus.

Its obsidian eyes reflected the starlight, wings held open as if in invitation, while its horn gleamed like the first hint of dawn. A ripple ran through the assembled High Lords, not out of fear but an awe they rarely allowed others to see.

Something had stirred here, something beautiful, untamed...and deeply powerful.

And whoever wielded that power had sent her greeting.

A smile tugged at Rhysand's lips from the sheer audacity of it all. He inclined his head to the gathered assembly, a faint glimmer of amusement behind his usually cold demeanor. "Well, it seems our host prefers steeds to servants. Shall we indulge her whims, my friends?"

The Pegasus let out a soft nicker, then turned and paced through the dissipating mist. Raising an eyebrow, he offered an arm to Feyre. She squeezed his hand in reply, a shared flicker of curiosity dispelling any residual unease.

One by one, they crossed the threshold. The mists swirled as they passed, obscuring the shore behind them until it felt like they'd stumbled onto a land hidden from time itself. Ahead, vibrant meadows rippled under a warm breeze. Crystal streams cut glittering paths through a riot of wildflowers—not dainty blooms, but ones pulsing with soft inner light.

And it was more than just a visual splendor.

Rhys felt it—the power humming below the surface, alive as if the land itself had a heartbeat. The change wasn't merely decorative, it was elemental. This... it mirrored the depths of his own Night Court magic, but more primal, untamed. A blend of star-touched beauty and shadowed depths.