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I smooth the fabric down my thighs and force myself to look anywhere but at Sigurd. I focus instead on the attendants and the mingling factions around the room.

A rhythmic, sharp clack cuts through the murmur of the crowd. Solveig sweeps across the stone floor. The kraken matriarch wears a severe gown that mirrors the blue of her skin. Her cane strikes the stone with every step, and the wealthy monsters part before her, offering respectful bows.

Solveig stops beside me. Her glowing eyes scan the crowded hall. She doesn’t look at me.

“The ambient lighting in this hall is always insufficient for a proper gathering,” she says. “But we must make do.”

I square my shoulders to match her imposing posture, refusing to shrink. “The flora provides enough illumination, Madam,” I reply.

Solveig finally looks at me. A few weeks ago, her scrutiny would have terrified me. Today, it feels exactly like dealing with the head of the city council right before an annual budget review.

I know the rules of her House. I spent weeks studying the ancient, water-warded tomes in her archives. She wants to see whether the human librarian cracks under the social weight of abyssal high society.

I hold her gaze without blinking. I won’t fail her test.

“The delegates are arriving,” Solveig says. “Sigurd is brooding, which makes him a terrible host. You will receive them.”

I glance across the room. Sigurd remains tethered to his pillar, apparently oblivious to his mother handing his diplomatic duties to a surface-dweller.

The fact that she trusts me with them steadies something inside me.

“Of course, Madam,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I assume the standard protocols of the Southern Current apply to their greeting?”

Solveig arches an eyebrow. A flicker of approval softens her glowing eyes as she leans slightly on her cane.

“They do,” Solveig says. “Do not offer your hand to the ambassador. They consider it an insult to their fins.”

Rules, protocols, historical precedents. Those I understand. I have spent years managing archives where getting one detail wrong can matter far more than anyone expects.

“I remember Chapter Four,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’ll handle the introductions.”

I step away from the archway and cross the hall to stand directly in front of the grand entrance. The steady hum of the Great Hall swells as the guests nearest the doors step back to clear a path.

A shadow falls over my left side. Bastian, the moray eel majordomo, halts a respectful distance away. The massive creature keeps his hands clasped behind his back, his needle-teeth glinting under the blue light.

“The Southern delegation is approaching the threshold, Madam,” Bastian says. His voice carries a low, guttural click that resonates against the stone floor.

“Thank you, Bastian,” I say, keeping my gaze fixed on the entrance. “Stand by to escort them to the residential wing.”

The great steel doors swing wide. The merfolk delegation glides into the hall. They are shifted into bipedal forms for the gala, adorned in shimmering scaled armor and dripping with chains of raw pearls. A wave of cold air washes over the room, carrying the sharp scent of deep oceanic brine.

The ambassador is tall and thin, moving with a liquid grace I’ve only ever seen in sea monsters. He halts three feet in front of me. His pale eyes rake over my exposed arms and throat, searching for gills or scales.

He smiles. It is a cold, rehearsed expression.

“And you must be Sigurd Eiriksson’s new human mate,” he says. His voice echoes with the slick, shifting cadence of a predator. “What a pleasant surprise. We’d heard of your unusual claiming at Rakan al-Rashid’s wedding.”

He waits for me to flinch. He expects embarrassment, or at least enough uncertainty to make me shrink under the scandal of my claiming.

Maintain eye contact, I tell myself. You’re speaking as Sigurd’s mate.

I don’t offer my hand. Arms at my sides, I execute the precise angle of the Southern abyssal bow. I incline my neck exactly fifteen degrees and hold the posture for a strict count of three. This way, I’m acknowledging his deep-water rank without surrendering the authority of the host.

I straighten and meet his gaze.

“I consider myself blessed to be part of the deep now, Ambassador,” I say, keeping my tone crisp and level. “I’m sure you must concur. Please rest assured that throughout your stay, you’ll be under the best of care.”

The ambassador blinks. His cold smile slips when I don’t falter.