“No, no. . .taken. The queen sent monsters after her! Right there in front of the king, bold as brass.” A woman with flour-dusted apron shakes her head, her voice carrying the weight of scandal. “What has Vanir come to, I ask you?” As if she doesn’t already know the power-hungry ways of the fae, as if she hasn’t spent her entire immortal life watching our kind play games with lives like pieces on a chess board.
“The king’s sending all his soldiers to fetch her back—” another farmer chimes in, his voice dropping to barely a whisper.
“She’s the heir now, isn’t she?” the woman asks as her wicker basket of grapes overflows, purple fruit tumbling to the cobblestones at her feet like drops of blood.
“Half-bloods can’t rule. It’s not natural,” another older fae woman states from another stall.
“They say she cursed him. That’s why she ran. . .put some witch magic on the king and fled before he could punish her proper,” someone else says beside them.
I don’t stop walking, don’t pause to acknowledge them or correct their wildly inaccurate gossip. I keep one foot in front of the other, my steps measured and casual, letting their chatter fade until I am well out of earshot. Inside, a cold prickle crawls up my spine like icy fingers as I process what I’ve heard. Thecommoners have it all wrong, of course, they always do. The fear in their voices though, the way they glance toward the castle with barely concealed terror, tells me everything I need to know.
The king sent Esme away, he knows exactly where she is and who she’s with. I also know for damn sure the queen wasn’t behind the assassination attempt at the ruined fortress in the woods. No. . .that was all General Erron’s handiwork, according to what Locke said to me that night.
Which means this display of force, the soldiers swarming the roads like angry wasps, oh, he’s planning to go behind the king’s back, hunt Esme down like a common criminal. To what end, I wonder? Death? Capture? Something worse?
The familiar thrill of danger sets my pulse racing as I approach the castle’s outer walls.
Slipping between the veil is like donning a second skin, the magic wraps around me like silk, bending light and shadow until I become nothing more than a whisper of movement. I vanish easily, my form dissolving into the spaces between reality as I make my way toward the imposing structure of Castle Noire. Getting inside is laughably easy when you’re essentially invisible. The guards at the gate nod to no one, their eyes sliding past the empty space where I stand. A breeze shifts a tapestry. A curtain flutters against a hallway wall. Somewhere in the depths of the castle, a serving maid shivers, thinking she’s felt a ghost brush past her in the corridor.
No, darling, it’s just me, little old Rue with his dangerous secrets and pretty smile.
The castle’s interior stretches before me like a maze of polished obsidian and silver, all sharp angles and gothic arches that seem to swallow sound. I know these halls better than my own reflection, every hidden passage and secret door mapped in my memory from years of prowling in the shadows. It takes meless than ten minutes to reach the king’s private study, moving through the castle like smoke through a chimney.
I don’t knock. I don’t announce myself. I step through the shadows gathering behind his massive leather chair and materialize just over his shoulder, close enough to count the silver threads in his dark hair.
He jumps like a startled cat, his quill clattering to the desk as he spins around, cursing like a drunken satyr.
“Gods be damned, Rue! You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days!”
I grin, showing just enough teeth to be dangerous. “Miss me, sire? I’ve been gone all of five days and you’re already jumping at shadows.”
“I ought to have you executed for that little trick.” He clutches his chest in mock outrage, though I can see the genuine relief in eyes. It makes my own chest tighten unexpectedly. When did I become so attached to this stubborn old fool?
“You’ve said that before,” I tease, settling myself gracefully on the edge of his desk, careful not to disturb the scattered papers. “At least twice this month, if memory serves.”
He runs a hand down his face, and I notice the new lines of stress around his eyes, the way his shoulders carry tension like a physical weight. “Report, Rue. Tell me she’s safe.”
I straighten, allowing my mask of playful irreverence to slip just enough to show him I understand the gravity of the situation. “She’s alive. We made it to Galin without major incident, and he explained the trials to her. I left just before the first one began, thought it best to make my way back as I was told. I have no doubt she’s passed, or Galin would have sent word by now. The old seer has his ways of communicating when things go wrong. At least, I think he does. But. . .”
“But?” He knows me too well, can read the hesitation in my voice like words on a page.
“But there were complications. An ambush when we reached Stonehearth, Queen Lucelle’s men tried to take Esme out in broad daylight, bold as you please. Clumsy work really, but dangerous, nonetheless. There was also another assassination attempt before that, much more professional. Locke intercepted it.” I pause, watching his face carefully. “It was a Night Court soldier, sire. One of ours.”
The king stills completely, his entire body going rigid as the implications sink in. His eyes widen with a mixture of confusion and dawning horror. “You’re certain of this?”
“I’m many things, Your Majesty, but I don’t bullshit when it comes to the truth. Locke knew the soldier, recognized him immediately.”
He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, his expression growing deeply troubled. “Sylviane. . .” The name falls from his lips like a curse, heavy with disappointment and betrayal.
“I think he’s planning something, sire. The military buildup, the patrols, the way he’s been?—”
Before I can press further, there’s a sharp knock at the heavy oak door, the sound echoing through the study like a death knell.
My instincts have never steered me wrong, and right now they’re screaming danger. Before the person can swing open the door on the king’s invitation, I slip into the veil once more, my form dissolving into shadow and possibility. The magic wraps around me like a protective cloak, rendering me invisible to all but the most powerful of seers.
“Enter,” the king calls, his voice carefully neutral.
The door swings open with deliberate slowness, and General Erron steps inside like he owns not just the castle but the very air within it. Silver hair perfectly styled, sharp jaw set with military precision, armor gleaming like his damned ego. Everythingabout him radiates controlled power and barely contained ambition.
