“Minor goblin infestations near the east glade,” I begin, falling into the familiar rhythm of a report I’ve given dozens of times before. “Three nests cleared, no casualties. Whispers in the roots again, stronger than last month. Something about old blood rising, old debts coming due. Nothing conclusive yet, but the magic feels unsettled. The trees are restless.”
There’s a murmur in the court at my words. That always happens when I mention the roots and their whispers. No one likes to think about what sleeps beneath us, what ancient powers might be stirring in the deep places where even fae magic fears to tread.
I pause, knowing what comes next and dreading it.
“And?” the King prompts, leaning forward slightly. He knows there’s more.
I glance up, meeting his gaze for just a moment before looking away. “Mageetha came through the portal.”
That gets their attention like a thunderclap in the sudden silence. The volume spikes immediately, whispers, gasps, half-formed questions that die on lips as people remember where they are. Queen Lucelle’s fingers stop toying with her hair to grip her armrests as she leans forward, her opal necklace flashing like warning lights.
King Ayla lifts a hand, and silence returns like a curtain dropping. “Alone?” he asks, though something in his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
I want to respond with something sarcastic.If she was alone she would have come directly to you and my father because that’s her duty.Of course, I think better of the clapback. I think I have need to keep my tongue in my mouth if I want to keep it at all.
“No,” I reply, the word falling into the silence like a stone into still water. “She brought two with her. At first I assumed they were mortal refugees, seeking sanctuary. But. . .” I hesitate, unwilling to say it. I don’t want to give voice to what I’ve seen, what I’ve felt, but I have to, and that pisses me off more than I can express.
“But?” the king presses, his eyes sharpening with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“One is a shifter. Wolf-born. Male. Elemental Magic.” I grit my teeth, forcing the next words out. “The other. . . a witch. White hair like starlight. She was unconscious when they arrived, barely breathing. Mageetha took them directly to Cashira’s home.”
The room erupts in a cacophony of noise at my reply, voices rising in shock and speculation.
Cashira’s name is a spark to dry kindling, and I watch the fire spread through the court like wildfire through dead grass.
Queen Lucelle’s expression curdles like spoiled milk as she cuts her eyes toward the king, her blue gaze blazing with something that might be fury or fear or both. My father stiffens behind the throne, his hand moving instinctively to rest on his sword hilt. It’s the King’s reaction that catches my attention though, I see the flicker of something more in his eyes, something complex and carefully hidden that he masks before anyone else can catch it. Something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Cashira,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement that somehow sounds like both relief and pain at the sound of hername, like he’s been holding his breath for years and can finally exhale.
I nod. “Yes, my king.”
The murmurs rise again like a tide, speculation and gossip flowing through the crowd in waves. My father steps forward and bellows for order, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
King Ayla waves them all off with a gesture that brooks no argument. “Leave us.”
“But—” Queen Lucelle starts, scowling down at me like his dismissal is my doing, like I’m personally responsible for her exclusion from whatever comes next.
“Now.” The single word carries enough power to make the air itself tremble.
The room empties in a rush of fancy fabric and wounded pride, courtiers filing out with indignant expressions and backward glances. Rue catches my eye as he’s ushered out with the rest, mouthing something that might be ‘don’t die’ or ‘good luck’ before the doors slam shut behind him with a finality that makes my chest tight.
The king rises from his throne, the movement fluid and predatory. “Walk with me.”
I follow without question. So does my father, of course, because he’s incapable of letting me breathe without his supervision, let alone have a private conversation with the king.
We move through a side corridor, leaving the grandeur of the throne room behind for something more intimate and infinitely more dangerous. The walls narrow until we’re walking single file, past tapestries that depict the Night Court’s greatest victories and portraits of long-dead kings whose eyes seem to follow our progress. The temperature drops as we move deeper into the castle’s heart, away from the warming spells that keep the public areas comfortable.
We emerge into the king’s private solar, a room I’ve been in exactly three times in my life, each visit marking a moment of significant consequence. Sunlight filters through stained glass windows, casting strange colors on the floor, deep purples and midnight blues, silvers and golds that shift and dance as clouds pass overhead. The room is smaller than the throne room but somehow more imposing, filled with the weight of decisions that have shaped our realm.
King Ayla doesn’t waste time with pleasantries or political dance.
“Bring her to me,” he says, turning to face me with an expression I can’t read.
I blink, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“The witch. This Esme, you said her name was?” His voice is careful, controlled, but there’s something underneath it that makes my skin prickle with unease.
My eyes widen but I quickly school my expression because I didn’t utter her name, not once during my report. The slip feels unintentional, but he continues like this bit of important information isn’t a significant bomb drop. Does he know her? How?
