“One distracting dress, coming up.” With that Draven summons the Magician.
He steps forward, his free hand hovering beside me, moving up and down without ever grazing my skin, before lifting to the golden-threaded collar of my tunic. I freeze. A vibrating tingle races along my body wherever the fabric touches, shifting and expanding. The material unfurls around me, tightening orelongating in places until I’m clad in a silver ball gown of smoke rendered solid, laced with spider silk. It drapes across my form, leaving little to the imagination. The color fades as it rises, as if I’m a storm cloud, the hem darkest gray. The dress hugs my waist and chest, while sheer sleeves puff at the shoulders, tapering into tight silver cuffs around the wrists that shimmer in the light as if woven from metal blades. My hands rove across my chest, tracing the neckline that plunges nearly to my navel, and around to my bare lower back. The gown flows to my ankles but slits reach nearly up to my hips, where the fabric pulls tight. There is too much of me exposed to the world.
“You said do my worst,” he reminds me, eyes taking in too much.
“Prick,” I hiss, but I cannot hide the desire written all over me, my breaths too short, my chest too flushed. Our gazes explore the other, leaving me heady. I don’t know when things changed between us—whether it was during those long nights of training or if it’s been subtly building ever since he mentioned he was a changeling, too. When I stopped seeing him as just my captor and instead as someone I want to conquer.
Draven’s lips are inches from mine. His finger crooks under my chin, tilting my head up. This is it. His mouth parts, and I swear I see a glimpse of those fangs, his breaths ragged.
But then my hair is righting itself, the frizz of the day smoothing away, straightening to a silken waterfall down my back, draping well past my shoulders. His fingertips rub against my earlobes and dangling diamonds weigh from them. The lightest touch of his thumb against my collarbone and a choker appears at my neck, and there adorning the center is the pendant my father gave me, somehow elevated by the rest of the riches I wear. When my hand moves against it, my fingers trip over jewels that could’ve bought my kingdom and everyone in it.
“It’s too much.” I feel silly. The woman staring back at me in the mirror is nearly beautiful and dressed like royalty.
“It’s not even close to matching all you deserve.” His breaths caress my neck, his words curling in my ear. “But it’ll have to do.”
“What is this game?”
“I want to remember this. You. Right now. Anytime Nevaeh threatens my people or tries to start a war. I need to know not everyone there deserves my wrath when I’m left to rule.” Draven’s gaze keeps settling on my lips, as though my mouth holds all the answers nestled on my tongue.
“That required all this?” I gesture at the dress, the jewels.
“It certainly helps.” He grins coyly, gaze taking in every inch of me. “My father insisted I bring a worthy date, and it is your last night here.” His shoulders drop as he looks me over. Is it regret lining his ever-changing eyes?
My heart plunges into ice as I wonder if the riches are some sort of misplaced pity.
But then he shakes his head, his voice low. “When I allow my father to hand you to them, I want them to know you hold value, so they don’t try to discard you.”
“And what do you get out of it?” I ask, trying to swallow down the thirst he’s left me with.
“A solid night’s sleep.” His words don’t hold any sarcasm. Instead, his gaze is too full, too wanting, that it snatches my every errant thought. His eyes dart away. “And freedom from my betrothal, of course. There’s one more thing.” He flips the Moon into his hand, and his face transforms to a mask of kohl and bone-white paint that makes him look like a skeleton king. His tone turns soft. “It’s part of the history of the Equinox, the acceptance of the changing seasons, harvests, our own beginnings and endings.”
My hand lingers over his softly now as he traces it up one half of my face, using the Moon to make up mine, too. Split vertically, one half is me, the other his painted match.
He promises, “Just until I let you go.”
I observe myself in the mirror. I look a bit terrifying but for the first time feel as if the intimidating armor I’ve tried to build these last years is finally in place. The shell finally matches the tempest gathering inside.
“It’s time to go. We’re more than fashionably late for the ball.” He holds a hand out to me, darkness wafting off his shoulders, and a portal opens behind him. I gather my dress in my hand, hurrying his way. His arm loops around my waist, his glance stealing the breath from my lungs, like a bellows gathering all the available air.
“Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“It’s good to make an impact.” He passes me an arrogant smile. “First-years are always premiered later in the evening, brought in like treats for the Court to devour.”
My lungs grow tight, and the reality of being transferred into another kingdom weighs on me. I hiss through my teeth, “If anyone touches me, am I allowed to stab them?”
“No, but I can.”
WE ARRIVE INa palace that could fit the Lord of Westfall’s manor within its entry alone. I run a thumb along my father’s pendant to ground me. My nerves fray as I’m drawn between knowing I will miss Sedah and the anticipation of seeing my dad again. I’ve missed him every single day, and out of everyone in my family, he and I were always the closest. For so much of my life, his voice has been the one guiding me toward the moralpath, therightway. A compass always pointing north. I worry my lip when I think about all the morally gray paths I’ve walked to get here.
What if he no longer sees me as the sweet daughter he left behind?
Draven’s gaze travels over me and I clear my expression, asking, “Where are we?”
“The capital of Sedah. This is the Court, one part of the Royal Palace.” He’s scanning me, and I’m unsure if he’s going to ask about the momentary emotion that flits over me. I dance our conversation away from that intimacy.
“You grew up here, Princeling?” It’s opulent to the extreme, the walls black marble, the carpet at our feet plush and crimson, and every accent is made of gold.
“Not in this wing,” he whispers, his eyes bright at the indignation on my face. Entitled, privileged, pampered—“Shields up, love.”
