Kyra Wynn woke to a ceiling painted with stars.
Not paint—magic. The sky above her pulsed with constellations, shifting and alive. Moons drifted behind shadowy clouds, and silver starlight poured in through an arched window made of enchanted glass. Everything shimmered like the dream of a god.
But she was awake.
She sat up in a bed too soft, too vast, too foreign. Midnight-blue sheets spilled around her like water, edged in silver thread. The room smelled like lavender and ancient pages. There were no doors. No handles. No windows that opened. Just beauty that felt like a trap.
A golden cage.
Kyra shoved the sheets aside and stood, her feet sinking into a plush rug the color of spilled wine. The ring on her finger pulsed faintly with heat—alive with magic, a constant reminder of what she'd agreed to. Of what she'd lost.
She crossed the room, fingers brushing polished stone walls, searching for any weakness, any sign of an exit. Nothing. Even the towering bookcases and velvet-curtained alcoves led nowhere.
She was sealed in.
Like a prize.
Like a prisoner.
A soft knock echoed, but before she could answer, the door—the wall—shifted. A slice of shadow peeled open, revealing a willowy fae woman with pale blue skin and a spine too straight to be kind.
"You're awake," she said without warmth. "The High Lord commands your presence. Bath. Dress. Do not be late."
Kyra stared. "I have no idea who you are."
"I'm your handmaid. Sera."
"I'm not dressing for anyone," Kyra said flatly. "I'm not some doll to be paraded around."
Sera smiled like someone who'd watched mortals bleed. "Refuse, then. It makes no difference to me. But defiance is… noticed."
The fae woman swept out, leaving the door open in her wake. For now.
Kyra walked to the wardrobe. The gowns were exquisite. Gossamer silks, moonlight-stitched velvet, corsets shaped like thorns. Beautiful and strange—and none of them hers.
She shut the doors without choosing one.
Let him be angry.
Let them all be angry.
She wasn't here to be ornamental.
The Night Court was alive.
That was the only way she could describe it.
Its walls breathed with shadow. Its gardens whispered secrets in languages she didn't know. Hallways twisted back on themselves. Stained glass windows shifted scenes as she passed—wars, weddings, coronations, blood oaths. Every corridor flickered with glamours, illusions too real to dismiss.
Kyra followed the pull of the ring. It guided her, somehow, down to a glittering hall made of midnight crystal and carved obsidian.
Fae courtiers stood in loose circles, elegant and cruel. Their clothes shimmered with magic. Their beauty was bladed. They turned when she entered, their expressions sliding between disdain and curiosity.
"A mortal?"
"His bride, apparently."
"She won't last a season."
Kyra kept walking, head high.
Let them look.
Let them talk.
But the moment she reached the throne dais, the room silenced.
Asher Vale sat there, spine relaxed, eyes unreadable. His black attire clung to him like shadow smoke, threaded with starlight. He looked like a god sculpted from dusk.
"You're late," he said calmly.
"I wasn't given a clock."
He tilted his head. "That tone will cost you."
"I'm sure you'll write it into my skin," she muttered.
The air shifted. Magic stirred.
Several courtiers inhaled sharply.
Asher rose slowly. Walked toward her.
"Careful, Kyra."
He stood a breath away, not touching, but suffocating in presence.
"I allow you freedom," he said softly. "More than most would. But test me in front of them again, and I'll remind them exactly what you are."
"Say it," she snapped. "Say what I am."
He smiled. "Mine."
A heartbeat. Two.
She stepped back before she could do something truly stupid—like strike him. Or worse… tremble.
The second night, she tried to sleep in her own room.
It didn't work.
The ring grew cold—unbearably so—the longer she was away from him. She paced the room, cursing his name. But the pain crawled under her skin like frostbite, burrowing deep. By dawn, she was forced to stumble back to the suite that tethered them. The moment she crossed the threshold, the cold faded.
She didn't ask him why.
She already knew the answer.
The third day, she snapped.
She refused the gowns again. Refused the handmaid. Refused everything.
She sat in the corner of her room in a plain tunic, knees pulled to her chest, the ring burning with silent disapproval.
That was when he appeared.
No knock. No warning. Just a door that wasn't—and then was.
Asher Vale stepped into her room like he belonged there.
And maybe he did.
He looked her over—bare feet, loose shirt, wild hair. His mouth curved, not with amusement.
With threat.
"Is this a tantrum?"
Kyra stood slowly. "You don't own me."
"You're my wife now." His voice was low. Cold. "Don't make me remind them why."
Her heart kicked against her ribs. "You said freedom. You said more than most."
His eyes flashed. "And I gave it. But everything has limits."
She stared at him, heat boiling beneath her skin. "Let me send word to my family. Let me see them."
"No."
"Why?"
"Your brother will inform them. That is sufficient."
Her voice cracked. "That's not your decision to make."
"It is now."
The silence between them pulsed with fury—and something else. Something sharp and molten that neither of them could name yet.
He left without another word.
That night, the shadows turned on her.
Kyra couldn't sleep. The silence felt wrong. She sat on the bed, eyes on the enchanted ceiling, until she felt it—
The cold.
The shift.
The breath that wasn't hers.
A figure stepped out of the wall.
Not fae.
Not human.
A creature made of nightmare and starlight, crawling with smoke and teeth. It slithered toward her bed, low and slow, its limbs too long, its face formless.
Kyra stumbled back, heart screaming. "Get back—!"
She ran. The doors didn't open. She shouted for help—nothing. The creature lunged, claws flashing silver.
And then—
Explosion.
A roar of magic cracked the air like thunder. A wall of starlight slammed the creature back.
Asher Vale stood in the doorway, eyes alight with death.
His magic poured out of him in waves—raw, furious, personal. He didn't chant. He didn't blink. He ripped the thing apart with a flick of his hand, shadows curling into nothingness.
When the silence returned, it was complete.
Asher stood panting. Kyra was on the floor, staring.
He turned to her.
And for the first time, he looked… wild. Not cold. Not cruel.
Just furious. Protective.
"I told them not to test me," he said, voice rough.
"Was that—was it meant for me?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
He knelt beside her instead.
And for a moment—just one—his hand brushed her cheek. Gentle. Almost human.
"You are not theirs to harm."
She should've pulled away.
She didn't.
Kyra lay awake for hours after he left.
Not because of the attack.
But because when she closed her eyes, she could still feel his magic—wrapped around her like armor.
And she didn't know what scared her more:
The monsters outside her door.