Locke leans down slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “Ready for this, Starlight?”
I laugh, but the sound comes out shaky and breathless. “Not even remotely close to ready.”
The great doors begin to creak open with an ominous sound that seems to echo through my bones, and brilliant light spills out into the corridor like a golden waterfall, temporarily blinding me. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness, and then gasp at the sheer opulence that awaits.
The Great Hall has been completely transformed into something that belongs in fairy tales rather than reality. The vaulted ceiling disappears into shadows far above, draped with floating silk banners that ripple in unfelt breezes, their fabric shimmering with embedded starlight that casts dancing patterns across the walls. Dozens of massive chandeliers hang at varying heights, each one glowing brightly, captured in crystal and gold. The very air seems to sparkle with residual magic.
Soft, otherworldly music filters through the space from floating instruments suspended midair. Stringed lyres of woven glass, spiral lutes that shimmer with runes, and wind-horns that emit notes like birdsong and thunder all at once. The melody rises and falls in a rhythm I can’t place, both haunting and regal, as if the hall itself were humming in reverence.
Hundreds of courtiers line either side of the long royal blue carpet that stretches like a river toward the throne. They shimmer in silks, velvets, and gemstones that catch the light like a treasure hoard given human form, each outfit more extravagant and impossible than the last. Fae of every conceivable size, coloring, and magical lineage sit in carefully arranged rows on either side of the center aisle, their pointed ears adorned with jewelry that probably costs more than most mortals see in a lifetime. Their skin bearing the subtle glow that marks them as creatures of magic and moonlight.
To the side, obsidian banquet tables are arranged in elegant curves, each one laden with delicacies I had the pleasure of taste testing earlier this week. Bowls of glowing fruit that change color with every bite, pastries filled with dream-root cream. A silky soft, melt in your mouth dark chocolate creation that lingers long after the flavor fades, weaving happy memories and heady dreams that cling to you like a spell. Tall crystal flutes of goldwine that scent the air with honey and frost line the tables. Even the platters seem enchanted, hovering inches above the tablecloths as if reluctant to touch anything so mundane.
Every single one of them turns as one entity and looks directly at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely concealed hostility. The weight of their collective gaze feels like a physical force pressing against my skin. I freeze for a heartbeat, gripping Locke’s arm so tightly I’m surprised he can still feel his fingers. But I refuse to move, refuse to flinch or show weaknessunder the scrutiny of hundreds of magical beings who are clearly still deciding whether I deserve to breathe their air.
Locke guides me down the aisle with steady, measured steps, his presence a reassuring anchor beside me in this sea of judgment. I keep my head high despite the effort it takes, even as whispers begin to ripple through the crowd like water over stones.
“I thought Blue Mountain witches were supposed to have crescents marked on their foreheads, where’s hers?”
“She’s the witch’s daughter, isn’t she?—”
“Look at her, she’s obviously a half-blood. The diluted magic shows.”
“She doesn’t belong here among true fae. This is an insult to our bloodlines.”
“The king has lost his mind, acknowledging a mongrel child.”
Each cruel word hits like a small blade, but I let them wash over me, focusing instead on the figure waiting at the end of the aisle. My father, a man I’m still learning to think of in those terms, commands attention even while seated.
King Rhys Ayla sits upon the obsidian throne that’s been carved from a single massive stone and inlaid with veins of silver that pulse with their own inner light. His robes flow around him the color of captured twilight, deep purples and midnight blues shot through with threads of gold that seem to move of their own accord. His expression remains carefully unreadable, but when our eyes meet across the distance, I catch something warm and unmistakably proud flashing in their depths. For just a moment, he’s not a king looking at a political necessity, he’s a father seeing his daughter.
Beside the throne, Queen Lucelle’s ornate chair sits conspicuously empty, like a missing tooth in an otherwise perfect smile. After her thinly veiled threats and obvious hostility, I expected nothing less than this calculated snub.Her absence should be a relief, but instead it only makes my anxiety spike higher. Even someone as politically naive as me understands that her empty seat represents more than personal animosity, it’s a deliberate slight to the king himself. A public challenge to his authority that every person in this room will note and remember.
Locke stops precisely at the bottom of the marble steps leading to the throne, inclining his head in a gesture of perfect military respect before stepping back.
My legs feel unsteady as I climb the steps, the weight of my elaborate gown making each movement deliberate and careful. The marble is cold beneath my feet even through my silk slippers, and I can feel the collective breath of the crowd held in anticipation. When I finally reach the top and turn to face the assembled court, the king rises with fluid grace, and the entire Great Hall falls into complete, breathless silence.
“Fae of the Night Court,” he calls out, his voice carrying the kind of natural authority that fills every corner of the vast space without seeming to strain. The words echo like rolling thunder.
“Tonight, I have the honor of presenting to you, my daughter. Princess Esmeralda Ayla, born of this court’s ancient blood and blessed with its magic. She stands before you as rightful heir to our legacy and inheritor of our crown.”
A murmur spreads through the assembled crowd like wildfire catching dry grass, and I can almost see the shock and calculation flickering across faces as nobles begin to reassess their political positions. These are the same people who were just calling me every unsightly name they could think of, and now they’re suddenly confronted with the reality that I might one day rule over them.
I turn to address the room as we practiced during our countless rehearsals, drawing on every lesson in deportment and public speaking that’s been crammed into my head overthe past week. My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged bird, but I’m determined to project the confidence and authority expected of someone who’s supposed to be claiming a throne.
Before I can speak a single word, every torch in the hall extinguishes simultaneously, plunging the Great Hall into complete and absolute darkness.
The sudden absence of light is so complete it’s disorienting, like being dropped into the depths of a cave. Confused murmurs begin to rise from the crowd, but they’re cut off by a deafening boom that shakes the massive stained-glass windows in their frames. The sound reverberates through the stone walls like the footsteps of giants, and I feel it in my bones.
The double doors at the far end of the hall slam open with such force they crash against the stone walls, and an unnatural wind tears through the space like the scream of some ancient banshee. The air itself seems to turn cold and poisonous, carrying scents of decay and sulfur that make my stomach lurch.
Queen Lucelle strides through the ruined entryway like a demon finally set free from the deepest pits of hell. Her eyes glow with an unnatural fire-red light that illuminates her face in hellish shadows. Her elaborate court robes whip around her like the wings of some monstrous bird, and the very air seems to bend and writhe in her wake.
Behind her, shadow creatures pour into the hall like a tide of nightmares given form. They’re grotesque things that seem to be made of living darkness, with hollow sockets where eyes should be and mouths that gape wide in soundless screams that somehow still manage to chill the soul. They move with predatory grace, flowing across the floor like spilled ink.
At the sight of these abominations, the room erupts into chaos. Courtiers bolt toward any available exit, trampling over each other in their desperation to escape the monsters that are now stalking slowly toward them with obvious hunger.Elaborate gowns tear, precious jewelry scatters across marble floors, and the carefully maintained dignity of the fae court dissolves into pure animal panic.
Fae guards raise their weapons with trained efficiency, and magic begins to crackle through the air as some of the more powerful courtiers throw up what I can only assume are protective shields. Barriers of light and force spring up around the hall like glowing soap bubbles, but even from my elevated position I can see them flickering uncertainly against the unnatural darkness radiating from the shadow beasts.
