The Inner Circle lounged at their usual booth tucked into the back corner of Rita’s, Velaris’s infamous strip club and bar, where the music pulsed through the floor and the air buzzed with laughter, alcohol, and barely restrained magic.

The table was cluttered with half-empty glasses, a bottle of expensive Illyrian whiskey, and the remnants of a shared plate of fried something.

Cassian sprawled in his seat, one arm slung across the backrest, his eyes scanning the crowded floor like a predator on the hunt. The brute of a general looked thoroughly at home here, his gaze lingering on the dancing women, already weighing his options for who he might charm—or drag—home tonight.

Across the table, Azriel sat in shadowed calm, nursing a glass of something dark and strong. His hazel eyes were fixed on Rhysand, who spoke low and fast about the last mission they’d wrapped up. Their conversation was quiet, their words clipped and precise, the kind only two warriors with too much shared blood and battlefield experience could understand.

Mor laughed loudly, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder as she leaned closer to Feyre, the two of them deep in excited conversation about the upcoming Summer Solstice party. Feyre’s eyes sparkled with amusement as Mor made a gesture that clearly involved dramatic entrances and scandalous gowns.

It was chaos and comfort all at once. The Inner Circle, gods of war, shadows, and power, tucked into their usual corner of sin, pretending for a night that they were just people with drinks in their hands and no battles waiting outside the door.