I dismount swiftly and barrel toward the announcer’s balcony, grabbing my father’s cape.
“Father—you have to stop this!” I throw out a hand toward Artain’s puppet show. “It’s going to ruin everything!”
“I never agreed to this,” Vale snarls, his anger aimed at Artain and Iyre, not me. “These idiots decided to put on a show behind my back.”
“What’s the problem?” Artain sputters with a hiccup, as though it’s all just a lark. “These naive sheep swallowed the first lie without choking—that we supposedly avenged them, hunted down their great tormentor. Why not feed them another?”
“Because there’s a difference between vengeance and brutality!” I yell. I spin on Woudix, my breath catching. “And you? Are you a part of this, too?”
He shakes his head, slow and calm. “A Deathraiser—it had to be. It was not me.”
“You asses!” Vale roars.
An argument erupts between the fae, while Samaur and Thracia drunkenly make out at the other side of the box, oblivious to anything but their own wanton lust.
Was I wrong about the fae? To think they wouldn’t mess everything up?
“Listen closely.” Rian suddenly appears at my side, and for once, he doesn’t seem as drunk as the others. “This was a bone-headed move by Artain, but even shit can be made to look like gold with enough paint. Get every fiddler in this city into the streets. Pay heralds to retell the day’s successes at all hours—the Aron and Aria performance, the goldenclaw rides. Open the royal meadery. Pass around enough gratis booze that even the children are too sloshed to remember this last part of the evening. Or care. They’ll only talk about the good parts.”
I pause, working my gloves between my fingers.
Vale looks at me. “Daughter, what say you to this plan?”
I meet Rian’s eyes, then nod.
Vale snaps into action. With a flick of his hand, guards scatter, and within seconds, the spotlights shining on the grotesque puppet stage vanish.
In their place, the dancers from earlier, hastily dressed in their Aron and Aria costumes, flit back onto the stage, cheeks dotted with painted hearts, smiles a little too wide.
The trumpets strike up a sprightly tune, cheerful and false.
“Sabine—” Basten’s voice cuts through the din as he bursts up the stairs to the Immortal Box, finally catching up to me. He stops beside me, breathless, eyes sweeping the arena. Servants are already rolling barrels of ale into the stands, passing tin cups to cheering patrons like nothing ever happened.
But Basten’s gaze snaps to Artain, and I feel his body stiffen.
Artain is laughing—head tilted back, murmuring something into Iyre’s ear. Whatever it is makes her smile like none of this matters.
I rest a hand on Basten’s arm. “It’s okay,” I murmur, swallowing back a dry lump. “Disaster averted—thanks to Rian’s quick thinking.”
But even as the words leave my lips, they taste wrong.
Like I missed something.
Something…slippery.
Something that can’t be stopped now, even if I wanted to.
Chapter 30
Basten
Idon’t give a fuck about the fae, and I definitely don’t give a fuck about drinking with them.
Still, appearances matter. That’s the thorn in my side ever since taking up the crown; I can’t just saunter off after my royal duties are done for the day and kick my feet up next to a roaring fire. Royal duties areneverdone.
Especially when thegodsare pouring you wine.
So, Sabine and I smile into the late evening on the Immortal Box, pretending Artain didn’t just put up one fucked-up show. Suri returns to the castle to catch up on her Castlekeep duties, but Rian, Ferra, and Folke have never left a party early in their lives.
