For weeks, that stern old guard was my shadow in Sorsha Hall, silently tailing me through the Valvere’s lavish parties, watching me while I rode Myst, serving as prison guard at my bedroom door. Seeing him now—here—breaks the delicate spell I’ve fallen into since entering Volkany. Sure, it hasn’t been all sunshine—I diddie, after all—but at least Basten and I are together.
Now, I feel jolted back to the stark reality that these fragile few days of peace were never meant to last. War has always loomed on the horizon.
My reflection catches on the polished metal frame of the greenhouse, flashing my own glowing fey lines back at me. Quickly, I smooth a sweat-soaked hand over my face and down my arms, willing away the fae until only human skin shows.
Maximan doesn’t know I’m fae, I remind myself.Or that any of the fae court is awake.
Basten wrenches open the greenhouse door, scowling at the old Astagnonian soldier. “Old man, how the fuck did you get all the way to Norhelm without getting yourself butchered?”
Maximan is no fan of Basten’s, either, but when he doesn’t match Basten’s sneer—or even throw off a rude comment about Basten’s bare chest—a spike of fear digs into my chest.
Maximan wipes his thinning gray hair off his forehead and says sternly, “I came to deliver a message. We encountered King Rachillon’s forces north of the border and surrendered. We need to talk, Lord Basten.” His once-blue eyes, now foggy with cataracts, shift to me. “And you, Lady Sabine.”
A painful silence falls around us like snow.
I can feel it. Our beautiful time here breaking, breaking, breaking like ice. Basten and I—we’re finally free. For once, I’m no one’s prisoner. Or pawn. Or bargaining chip. Especially not a naked bride on horseback.
So, of course, Rian would find a way to destroy everything.
I see that the gates of the Twilight Garden are open, and a regiment of twenty Astagnonian royal soldiers stand at attention behind Maximan, along with two enclosed wagons. One looks to be for supplies. The other, however, is the iron-reinforced wagon that Rian used to transport Tòrr.
Except, of course, Tòrr ishere.
Which means something else now prowls in that locked cage.
Curious Volkish sentries watch from their posts at the castle gates, along with gardeners who don’t even pretend to be pruning dead branches. Woudix is among our audience, too, and seeing him makes a shiver travel down my arms, reminding me of his touch that unlocked so much.
I rub my bare shoulders, covered only by thin ribbon straps holding up my gown, which only seconds ago was shoved down to my waist.
“So, talk,” Basten barks.
Maximan clears his throat, a strange waver in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the old soldier wasafraid.
“King Rachillon should be in attendance to hear my message,” Maximan says, eyes sliding to the caged wagon. “It would be against diplomatic policy not to include him.”
“He’s with his generals,” Woudix says smoothly, sauntering up with Hawk pressed to one leg. Like me, both he and his dog wear their mortal glamour. Only, now that I know the truth, it looks wrong on them, like an ill-fitting suit. I can’t believe I didn’t see the truth the first time I saw him.
Luckily, I don’t think Maximan has the eye to spot magic.
“I can speak for the king,” Woudix adds, reaching into his pocket to remove a solid gold calling coin studded with gemstones, the mark of the king’s favor. “I’m one of his three Blades, trusted with every royal secret.”
Maximan’s eyes narrow, ever skeptical. He gives Woudix a once-over, from his dark chin-length locks to the thin metal armor pieces that curve over his chest like rib bones. He might appear human, but the chill rolling off him—laced with the scent of myrrh—makes Maximan flinch back.
“It’s true,” I confirm, tipping up my chin. “And, as the king’s daughter, I give you permission to speak freely.”
Maximan lets out a tense exhale before pointing to two of the royal soldiers. “Private Hammon. Private Flynn. Unlock the cage door. The rest of you, at attention. Secure the chains.”
Basten’s nostrils flare—he scents something with his godkiss that makes his hand fall smoothly on the knife sheathed at his side. Always a huntsman.
Maximan signals to the soldiers. “Open the cage.”
Private Hammon shuffles forward, trying to hide his shaking fingers as he pulls out a heavy keyring.
Basten slips his hand into mine, gives a grounding squeeze. “Little violet,” he murmurs. “Check yourself.”
That’s when I realize that I’ve let my glamour slip—the fey lines on my hands are glowing. Quickly, I summon my disguise back.
Fortunately, no one’s eyes were on me except for Basten’s.
