Deep within a dense forest, Manasa stood in the heart of an ancient, hidden temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. She had come to pray, though she wasn't entirely sure what she sought. Still, a feeling lingered—an unmistakable mixture of excitement and foreboding, as if something monumental hovered just beyond reach. The sensation was intoxicating, like the air before a storm—charged, electric. And some part of her welcomed it.
This temple wasn't just sacred; it was hers by blood. After her mother's death, Manasa had inherited its guardianship—its power, its secrets, and the duty that came with both. Now, at twenty-four—the age when a naagin's beauty settled into its eternal form—Manasa was the very embodiment of ancient allure and quiet danger.
Her kohl-rimmed, almond-shaped eyes were mesmerizing, marked by a striking contrast: one obsidian black, the other a silvery grey. The rare heterochromia was the unmistakable mark of her mixed lineage—human cunning and serpent divinity fused into one. Thick jet-black hair cascaded down her back in waves, framing sharply elegant features: arched brows, full lips, a subtly pointed jaw, and a tiny gold nose pin that glittered under the moonlight.
Her figure moved with effortless poise, an hourglass silhouette tempered by the controlled grace of a predator. Around her neck rested a fine gold chain bearing a rudraksha bead and a tiny trishula—amulets steeped in ancient magic and passed down through Naga royalty. Silver kaapus adorned her ankles, relics of the serpent clans, and they jingled softly with each step, melding with the whispering wind and forest night.
After finishing her prayers, Manasa stepped outside the temple and slipped into the driver's seat of her sleek black car parked near the entrance. She exhaled deeply, tipping her head back against the headrest to stare at the dark, quiet sky. She ruled a vast business empire, a legacy built through blood, intelligence, and discipline. Yet here she was, lingering in the stillness, delaying her return to boardrooms, negotiations, and constant responsibility.
She had brought a book with her—A Court of Thorns and Roses. It had become a hot topic among her female employees, who practically swooned over some man named Rhysand. Or Rhys. She still hadn't decided how the name was meant to sound.
Halfway through the book, she was… unimpressed.
Every few pages, she muttered with growing irritation:
"Why can't they let the poor girl paint in peace? What in the name of Mahadev is happening?"
"Who the hell is Tamlin? And why so much money wasted on clothes? Hey Bhagwan—invest, build assets—don't just wait for someone to feed you."
She huffed.
"My papa would never let me sit around like that. He taught me to take losses head-on and rebuild."
Her commentary continued:
"Feyre, for the love of logic, stop walking into danger because someone told you not to. Use your brain."
Then—deadpan:
"So… it's just an orgy? That's the grand plan?"
When Rhysand finally appeared, her brow arched.
"This one? The villain? Really?"
She scoffed.
"Villains being attractive is a trend now, I suppose."
A few chapters later:
"Ah, yes. Impossible quest achieved because destiny said so. Someone please teach this girl strategy. And literacy."
Finally, she snapped the book closed and stared at the cover with mild betrayal.
"Well. That was… something. Traumatic for nineteen-year-old Feyre if anyone asked my opinion."
She glanced back toward the temple and whispered softly,
"Har Har Mahadev."
The moon above was full—brilliant, ancient, watching. It was the longest night of the year.
Just as she shut her car door, the air around her trembled. A portal shimmered into existence—not dramatic, but irrefutably real.
Manasa barely had time to blink.
The world folded—
—and she was gone.
********
Back in Velaris.....
Rhysand had brought Feyre to the Night Court—bound by the bargain they had made, yes—but there was more to it now. Trust had begun to grow between them, slow and uncertain, like the first fragile leaf pushing through winter frost. And today, for the first time, he was confident enough to introduce her to the people he trusted most—his Inner Circle.
They stood in a spacious room overlooking the breathtaking Sidra, moonlight pouring in through glass windows like liquid silver. The atmosphere was warm yet charged, as if every person present carried a history sharp enough to cut.
Rhysand spoke first, his voice smooth as night itself.
"Feyre, meet my Inner Circle."
She swallowed hard.
Rhysand gestured toward a broad-shouldered male—massive, lethal, and radiating raw power as effortlessly as breathing.
"This is Cassian—my General."
Cassian flashed her a grin that was equal parts arrogance and charm—like a warrior who had bled a thousand times and still laughed through it.
"Hello, Feyre," he said, tone playful.It wasn't mocking—it was… welcoming. In his own boisterous way.
Before she could respond, Rhysand motioned to another male, standing just slightly in the shadows—as if the darkness itself bent respectfully around him.
"And that is Azriel—my Shadowsinger and Spymaster."
Black hair, scarred hands, siphons glowing faintly on his leathers—
Azriel looked carved from silence and war memories. Regal, dangerous, unreadable. He nodded once—a quiet, cautious acknowledgment. Not hostile—but guarded, as someone trained to distrust before accept.
His shadows curled around him like living smoke.
Next, Rhysand pointed toward a petite silver-eyed female lounging with unsettling stillness.
"Amren—my Second in Command."
Amren looked Feyre over—not in curiosity, but in evaluation. Her silver eyes gleamed with something ancient and unfathomable, like a creature who had seen worlds rise and fall.
Her smile—if it could be called that—was a thin, predatory curve.
Feyre's stomach tightened.
She's like a serpent waiting for the precise moment to strike—beautiful, terrifying, impossible to ignore.
Somewhere deep inside her, instinct whispered:This one is not just Fae. She is something else. Older. Hungrier.
Feyre forced herself to return a polite, uncertain smile.
Rhysand's tone softened slightly as he motioned to the stunning golden-haired female beside him.
"And finally, Morrigan—my Third in Command, Emissary, and cousin."
Mor smiled brightly—red lips curved just enough to convey warmth, but not so much that it masked the sharp intelligence behind her eyes.
"Hello, Feyre, darling. I hope my cousin hasn't been too unbearable. You can call me Mor."
Her smile wasn't false—but it wasn't entirely genuine either. Feyre recognized it instantly.
It was the kind of smile traders used when offering half the worth of her furs—polite, charming, and ready to test boundaries.
Everyone stood around her now, forming a loose but unmistakably strategic circle.
A pack evaluating a new member.
Or a court assessing a potential threat.
Amren clicked her tongue."Let the poor girl breathe, Rhysand."
Rhys only smirked.
Moments later, he clapped once."Let's eat."
They moved to the long dining table. Feyre hesitated, expecting Rhysand to sit at the head—like Tamlin always did.
But he didn't.
He simply chose a seat at random among them, like he was equal—not ruler.
Or so it appeared.
Because even sitting casually, one knee propped, Feyre could feel it now—the power beneath his skin, the effortless command, the quiet danger.
Not loud or flamboyant.
No throne needed.
His presence alone was throne enough.
Rhysand wasn't feared because he claimed power.He was feared because he was power.
Velaris hummed quietly beyond the windows, stars glittering above like a promise and a warning.
And Feyre realized something else:
This court was nothing like the Spring Court.
Here, everyone at the table was dangerous. Intelligent. Chosen.
Here—power wasn't displayed.It was felt.
And for the first time since crossing the wall into Prythian…
Feyre wasn't sure whether she was safer than before—or in far, far greater danger.