The city of Dominveil glittered below like an expanse of dark jewels scattered carelessly beneath the pale silver glow of the full moon. From high atop the rooftop garden of the Veiled Conclave, it seemed deceptively peaceful—a tapestry of shadows and secrets, stitched together by unseen forces. Far to the north, the dark mirror of Silverrow Lake caught the moonlight in fractured ripples, its frozen edges wreathed in the soft white hush of Eclipsend snow. Beyond it, jagged mountain peaks cut sharp silhouettes into the horizon, their bases veiled in winter mist. And there—if one knew where to look—the faint, wavering shimmer of a Veil fracture bent the air like heat over stone, a reminder that the city’s borders were never truly fixed.

The city of Dominveil glittered below like an expanse of dark jewels scattered beneath the pale silver glow of the Eclipsend moon. Winter air swept in from the Veilfracture harbor, sharp with salt and frost, curling around the rooftop garden of the Veiled Conclave. From here, the city seemed deceptively peaceful—a tapestry of shadows and secrets, stitched together by unseen hands.

Elias Quinveil stood near the railing, fingers curled loosely around a crystal tumbler of expensive whiskey. The amber liquid caught the lamplight, but his gaze was fixed on the skyline, every glimmering spire and shadowed alley a chess piece in a game most of its inhabitants didn’t know they were playing. Diplomacy was its own battlefield, and tonight’s opponent was particularly dangerous.

Most humans never learned what truly moved beneath Dominveil’s streets. They didn’t see the threads of magic wound through its foundations, didn’t notice the pockets where the world bent and bled into something older, vaster. The Fae kept it that way—hiding their true forms behind glamour, their magic behind sleight of hand and convenient explanations. Elias knew better, though not because of any gift or heritage. He believed himself only a man—human, mortal—but one positioned high enough in the city’s political echelon to be allowed a glimpse behind the curtain. And once you glimpsed it, you could never unsee it.

“Admiring your city, mortal?”

The voice slid from the shadows like silk over steel, rich and decadent, its warmth edged with a sharpened blade.

Elias turned slowly, every movement deliberate, to meet the gaze of the High Lady of the Unseelie Summer Court.

“Dominveil is no one’s city, Lady Firebrand,” he replied evenly. “It belongs only to itself.”

Seara Firebrand stepped forward, her glamour shedding like the husk of a lie as soon as the last mortal servant had retreated indoors. The air shifted with it. One heartbeat she appeared merely extraordinary—an elegant, sharp-eyed woman in gold. The next, she was Fae in truth: too luminous, too precise, every movement a calculated lure.

Her gown clung like molten gold poured over her body, catching the garden’s enchanted lamplight in ripples of fire. Copper hair spilled over one shoulder, deliberately baring the curve of her throat. Amber eyes, bright as banked embers, fixed on him with predatory interest.

“How poetic,” she murmured, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “And yet here you are, offering me pieces of it as if they were yours to give.”

Elias inclined his head, respectful but unyielding. “I offer stability. Cooperation. You know your court’s encroachment into mortal territory risks igniting chaos neither side can afford.”

“The Summer Court thrives on chaos,” she countered, drifting closer, each step a statement. “Why would we abandon what feeds us to soothe mortal fears?”

“Because chaos without restraint consumes its master.” Elias stepped in as well, until the faint heat radiating from her brushed against the winter air between them. “Dominveil’s humans may not know you exist—but they are not powerless. Push them too far, and you risk exposure. And exposure your people cannot afford.”

For an instant, something flickered in her gaze. Respect, perhaps. Or curiosity. Then she reached out, one finger gliding down the front of his jacket—a touch like a test. “You overestimate your kind, Elias Quinveil. Humans are frail. Temporary. Easily broken.”

He caught her wrist—not harshly, but with a firmness that spoke of steel beneath the surface. The contact sent a jolt through him, warm and dangerous. “Perhaps. But glass, under the right pressure, can still draw blood.”

The air between them thickened, a quiet arena where challenge and something far older circled each other. Seara’s eyes dropped briefly to where his fingers wrapped around her, and her mouth curved again—slower this time. “Do you mean to draw mine, then?”

“Only if you force me to.”

She withdrew, her fingertips dragging across his chest in a way that was anything but retreat. “I would never force your hand. It’s far more interesting to see what you offer willingly.”

She moved to a table set against the balustrade. Two goblets waited, filled with golden liquid that shimmered faintly with enchantment. Faewine. Dangerous, intoxicating, binding. She held one out to him.

Elias hesitated. Refusal would be weakness; acceptance, its own kind of risk. He stepped forward, fingers brushing hers as he took the glass. The contact sparked heat up his arm.

“To dangerous alliances,” she said.

“To necessary risks,” he countered, and drank.

The faewine slid over his tongue like honey hiding fire, heat pooling low and steady. When he lowered the glass, her eyes were sharper, as if the wine had stripped away one more layer between them.

“You intrigue me,” she said, stepping in until her breath stirred the air against his skin. “Most mortals crumble. Yet here you stand.”

“Perhaps you haven’t met the right mortals.”

Her laugh was low, dangerous. “Arrogant. Controlled. Ambitious. Admirable in a Fae. Dangerous in a human.” A pause. “What do you truly desire from me, Elias Quinveil?”

“Cooperation,” he said, though the word was already weighted with something more.

She leaned closer, lips nearly brushing his. “Lies are unnecessary here, in this place between worlds.”

His hand came up, brushing her jaw, trailing to the pulse in her throat. Her breath caught—not much, but enough to tell him she wasn’t entirely in control. He tilted her chin. “Honesty, then. Tonight, right now—what I want is you.”

Her lips parted, eyes darkening. “And if I grant it?”

“Then I’ll see it through.”

He closed the space between them. The first kiss was a test—light, deliberate, tasting the wine and something wilder beneath. She melted just enough to pull him deeper, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. The Veil seemed to hold its breath.

The kiss deepened—measured dominance meeting equal challenge. When they broke, just enough to look at each other, her eyes were heavy-lidded, lit from within.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she murmured, her body pressed to his.

“Everything worth winning is dangerous,” he breathed against her skin.

Her hands slid over his shoulders, claiming. His traced the lines of her waist, memorizing. Breath quickened, control frayed. She shuddered against him, and he turned her until the balustrade met her back.

Another kiss, harder now. Her hands tugged at his jacket; he let it fall. Her fingers skimmed his chest, nails teasing. His own found the bare skin of her shoulders, and she gasped softly as he lowered his mouth to her throat.

The rest of the world fell away. The garden, the city, the winter chill—all gone. Only heat, and want, and the Veil’s silent watching.

Beneath them, unseen, reality shivered. Threads of fate tangled tighter.

They lingered, foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling. Elias’s eyes locked on hers. “Whatever happens after tonight, we chose this.”

Her lips curved, defiant. She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Then make it unforgettable.”

His mouth claimed hers again—slow, searing—as the night folded itself around them. Somewhere, deep within the Veil, a spark caught flame. The stars did not yet know her name—

but they would.