I push through without ceremony.
The interior is just as dramatic as ever, designed to intimidate and remind visitors exactly how small they are in the grand scheme of fae politics. Vaulted ceilings stretch up into darkness that even my enhanced vision can’t penetrate. Columns made of bone-white stone veined with silver rise like ancient trees, their surfaces carved with the history of our people, of wars won, enemies conquered, treaties signed in blood. The floors are polished obsidian that reflect everything in distorted, unsettling ways, and the walls shimmer faintly with enchanted murals that shift depending on who’s looking and what mood the castle is in. Right now, they’re showing scenes of war. Blood and blade and fire, warriors locked in eternal combat, their painted faces twisted with rage and pain. Of course they do. The castle always knows when tensions run high.
A familiar voice echoes off the marble, pulling me from my thoughts of poor decor and the court’s consistently bad taste in soft furnishings.
“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”
I smirk before I even turn. Some things never change.
“Rue,” I say, taking in his typically ridiculous appearance. “I see exile hasn’t improved your fashion sense.”
Rue grins, all teeth and mischief, dressed in his usual too-tight leathers and a shirt unbuttoned just enough to get him slapped by a diplomat’s daughter or earn him an invitation to someone’s chambers, depending on the diplomat. His dark hair is perfectly tousled in the way it takes an hour to achieve but looks effortless, and his eyes sparkle with the kind of trouble that keeps court interesting. He falls into step beside me, the deliberate click of his boots matching mine in an old rhythm we perfected years ago.
“You always sulk like this when you get dragged back from the forest?” he asks, eyebrows raised with mock concern. “Because right now you look like someone pissed in your morning tea and then made you drink it.”
“Only when the forest is more interesting than court,” I mutter, my mood souring further at the reminder of where I am versus where I’d rather be.
Rue snorts, a sound that’s half amusement and half disbelief. “Then something’s definitely up. Usually, you can’t wait to get away from the moss and crawl back into your stone tower of solitude to brood in peace.”
I don’t respond. Just keep walking, my stride steady and purposeful even though every instinct is screaming at me to turn around and go back.
Rue narrows his eyes, studying me with the intensity of someone who’s known me too long to buy my bullshit. “You’re too quiet. Brooding. Even for you. And that’s saying something, considering your usual level of cheerful conversation.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You’re literally brooding right now. I can practically see the storm clouds gathering over your head.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d just rather be in Kasamere than here with you morons. That’s all.”
He chuckles, but there’s an edge to it that tells me he’s not buying my deflection. “Well, brace yourself. Queen Lucelle’s been in a mood for days. That always trickles down to the rest of us poor bastards who have to deal with her poisonous presence.”
“She’s always in a mood,” I say with a huff, thinking of the queen’s talent for making everyone around her miserable. The woman is a self-righteous pain in the ass who treats the court like her personal drama stage.
Rue laughs again, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. “True. And she’s had the court dressing like they’re competing for who can look the most cursed by opulence. Today it’s sapphires and blood-reds with just enough sheer fabric to offend someone’s grandmother. Honestly, it’s impressive in the worst possible way.”
“She’s bored. And bored queens are dangerous,” I reply, meaning every word. A queen with nothing to occupy her mind starts looking for new ways to exercise her power, and that never ends well for anyone.
Rue claps me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my armor. “Then you should feel right at home.”
I grunt and shrug him off as the great hall doors swing open with an ominous creak, revealing the circus waiting beyond.
“I see the mob has already scented my blood,” I whisper, scanning the crowd of courtiers who have nothing better to do than gossip and scheme. “I’m sure they’re not all here waiting for little ole me,” I say, making Rue snort a little too loudly.
“Ass,” he whispers back, but his grin takes the sting out of it.
The throne room is packed with those hoping to appear important. Courtiers draped in velvet and arrogance fill every available space, their eyes glittering with secrets they’re dying to spill and their fingers heavy with enchanted rings that probablycost more than most people see in a lifetime. The air is thick with competing perfumes and the metallic taste of barely contained magic. The queen herself lounges beside the throne like a predator at rest, draped in a form-fitting gold-threaded black gown that clings to her curves and catches the light with every breath. Her throat is adorned with opals that shift color when she moves, cycling through blues and greens and purples like trapped starlight. Long black hair cascades down her shoulders like a dark waterfall, and she absently twirls her long brown fingers around the ends while her bright blue eyes burn into me with unconcealed irritation. She doesn’t smile when she sees me. She never does. Smiling would require her to pretend she finds me tolerable.
Behind the king, my father stands like a statue carved from granite and disappointment, his silver armor polished to mirror brightness and his expression carved from stone. General Erron’s gaze finds me immediately across the crowded room, the barest narrowing of his steely eyes. The only acknowledgment that I’m late and that he’s noticed, catalogued, and will remember this transgression for future reference.
King Rhys Ayla leans forward on his throne, and I’m surprised to find he doesn’t look angry. Instead, he watches me with curious silvery blue eyes and a knowing smirk that suggests he’s seen right through whatever mask I think I’m wearing. Yeah, even he knows I’d rather be anywhere but here, breathing recycled court air and pretending to care about whatever political theater they’ve staged for my benefit. The question of why I’m so reluctant, though. . .well, that’s my little secret. One I’m going to have to come clean about whether I want to or not.
“Approach,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the sudden hush that’s fallen over the room.
I do. Slowly. Every step echoing like a funeral march as I cross the polished obsidian floor. Courtiers part before me like a sea of silk and judgment, their whispers following in my wake.
I kneel at the base of the dais, head bowed with the proper show of respect. “My king.”
“What news of Kasamere?” His voice is deep and slow, carrying the weight of genuine interest rather than mere formality.
