“Gods—you surprised me! How did you create a portal so quickly?”
My head whips back around toward the door, worried Basten might come back at any moment. Or that his nose will pick up on the fresh fae scent of iron and myrrh.
“I’ve had millennia to learn how to sew.” He stows the needle in his leather vest. “If you’re worried about privacy, I put up a shield. Like before, this visit remains between the two of us.”
He holds a finger to his lips, and guilt burns through me.I’m keeping secrets from my own husband.
“I’ve been practicing,” I start, motioning to the pebbles, but Woudix barely acknowledges my words.
His face is pinched, distracted.
“I didn’t come for your training. I have news to report from Drahallen Hall. Captain Tatarin was successful in finding Immortal Thracia’s resting place.”
My spine pulls straight in surprise. “You mean, her human body?”
He nods. “Her soul slept within the bloodline of a minor royal family along the northeastern coast. The body of a young, godkissed countess. The captain’s faction brought her to Immortal Vale, who awakened her.”
The Northeastern coast?It rings a bell, but I press on.
“And her Gloaming?” My hands shake against my corset strings, remembering when I went through the same agonizing process.
“Samaur is helping her through it, as I helped you. She is adjusting rapidly.”
Something twists in my stomach. Jealousy. That the transition is so much easier for the rest of the fae.
Woudix folds his arms tighter, the line between his brows deepening. His voice falls low. “Thracia woke from her slumber with a taste for war. She’s trying to convince your father and the rest of the court to dismiss the plan for a peaceful welcome to Astagnon. To invade instead.”
“What?” I climb off the bed and grip the bedpost for support. My heart slams in my chest. A dozen questions and protestsfill my mouth, and I struggle to settle on one. “We had an agreement!
“Your father doubts your ability to bend public sentiment in time by the Blood Moon, and he grows impatient.”
“We’re making progress! The public has already embraced me. Look—” I snatch up the clay bird from the breakfast tray. “See? They give me offerings out of devotion, not fear.”
Woudix walks slowly to the map table, dragging his fingers over the carved countryside in relief, along the raised border wall.
“It is not me you must convince. This possibility deeply troubles me—hence why I am here. That much death all at once goes against the world’s balance.”
I sputter, “He can’t attack. Tell him…tell him the full fae court isn’t awake yet! There’s still Alyssantha. And Popelin. And Meric.”
Woudix’s fingers walk their way, feeling over the dips and rises, to the tiny model of Hekkelveld Castle. “Alyssantha and Popelin are not among the more powerful fae. Their affinities are love and pleasure; hardly necessary for war. Mericispowerful,” he concedes, “but has always kept to himself. Traditionally, his resting place is the last found. It could take years more, and Vale grows impatient.”
I press my fingertips to my temples, where the fey pounds beneath my skin.
“Look.” I grab his wrist, squeezing tight. “This city is already in chaos. We have a plan to make the Golden Sentinels surrender, but even if we succeed, the people will be ravished, war-torn. They can’t take more violence.”
“Then what do you propose?” he says.
I release him, flexing my hand from where his fey chilled my own.
Then, I grab the kitchen maid’s clay bird.
“Give my father this,” I say urgently, pressing it into Woudix’s hands. “Tell him that the maid who gave me this must have spent her last coin on the clay. That even tired and during a siege, she woke early to make it for me in the dark morning hours, by her last precious candlelight. That’s the power of true devotion. Remind my father how much more sacrifice he’ll get from mortals when they offer it freely.”
“And if he still doubts you?”
I harden my jaw. “You can assure him that I’ll have the public ready to eat out of his hand by the Blood Moon. Acolytes lined up around the block. Banners rolled out just for him. Events in their honor—games, theatrics, recreations of legends.” I pause, seized by a crazy idea, and grab a handful of dirt out of a potted lily on the windowsill.
“I’ll strike a fae bargain swearing it so.”
