The copper leaves at her throat chimed with each movement, counting down the hours until sunset.
The great hall blazed with autumn fire. Hundreds of candles floated overhead, their light catching on copper and gold decorations that hadn't existed yesterday. Real leaves drifted from the vaulted ceiling, never quite reaching the floor before dissolving into sparks of amber light.
Briar entered flanked by Síocháin and Arachne. The copper leaves at her throat chimed with each step, the sound too bright for how she felt. Her stomach had beenin knots since they'd come for her, and the oil on her skin tingled faintly—a constant reminder of the small rebellion she carried.
Conversations quieted as she passed. She kept her eyes forward, not wanting to see who had chosen Malus, who had traded Eliam's steady rule for whatever this would become. The warmth in her chest pulled southward, always southward, toward stone and iron and silence.
Malus sat as if he'd been carved from the wood itself, dressed in burgundy so deep it looked black until the light caught it. His smile when he saw her was pleased, proprietary.
Beside the throne stood something new—a pedestal covered in midnight blue cloth, concealing an object about the length of her forearm. She noticed others glancing at it, curious, but no one asked.
"Exquisite," Malus said when she reached him. "Turn."
Her body obeyed, the gradient silk shifting from flame to wine with the movement. She hated how exposed the plunging neckline made her feel, how the autumn marks at her throat seemed to pulse with foreign life.
"Come." He guided her to the smaller throne beside his, a queen's chair that had gathered dust for generations. The wood felt wrong beneath her hands, too smooth, too eager to accept her. She sat rigid, trying not to think about what the placement meant.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked, loud enough for nearby lords to hear. His hand settled on her wrist, thumb finding her pulse.
"Yes." The word came out because the bargain demanded it, though comfort was the last thing she felt.
The feast began with wine that tasted of overripe fruit. Lord Pendron made the first toast, and she recognized him as one of the oldest at court, his bark-like skin speaking of centuries.
"To the return of proper order," he said, his ancient eyes gleaming. "To the restoration of what was always meant to be."
Others followed. Some toasts were careful, hedging bets. Others, from the older fae, carried an anticipation that made her skin crawl. They spoke in code about traditions and proper ways, but underneath she heard hunger.
"You're trembling," Malus observed, his fingers still on her wrist. "Are you cold?"
"No." This truth the bargain allowed.
"Nervous then?" He leaned closer, his breath autumn-cool against her ear. "You should eat something. Keep your strength up."
He selected food for her—meat so rare it bled onto the plate, fruits that looked beautiful but tasted of fermentation. She ate because he commanded it, each bite sitting heavy in her stomach. The warmth in her chest recoiled from the food, recognizing something wrong in it.
Between courses, lords approached to pay their respects. Some she knew, their faces familiar but their allegiances shifted. Others were strangers, older fae with eyes that held too much history.
"Dance," Malus commanded when the music began. "Lord Tamlin first, I think."
Lord Tamlin's hand was dry as parchment when he led her onto the floor. She remembered him from Eliam's court, always watching from the edges, never quite participating.
"You look lovely," he said as they moved through the steps. "The autumn colors suit you."
She said nothing, concentrating on not stumbling. The music was different than she remembered—slower, with undertones that made her feel off-balance.
"I remember when humans danced differently," Tamlin continued, his grip tightening slightly on her waist. "When they understood their place in the dance. Perhaps we'll see those days again."
The threat was subtle but clear. When the dance ended, another lord claimed her immediately. Then another. Each partner held her a little too close, whispered things that skirted the edge of propriety. One traced the autumn marks at her throat while they turned, murmuring about how much prettier they were than thorns.
She caught glimpses between partners, the fae lord she'd impaled on thorns, watching from the shadows with hatred in his eyes, Lady Corvaine speaking intently with other older fae. Along the edges of the room the Withered stood so still they looked like strange sculptures until their antlered heads turned to track movement.
When she finally returned to her seat, her feet ached and her skin felt crawled over. Malus watched her resettle herself, something pleased in his expression.
"You're quite popular," he said. "Though you're sweating, perspiration doesn't become you."
He traced a finger along her throat, and she saw the moment he noticed it—the faint residue of oil. His expression didn't change, but the temperature around them dropped.
"I—" she started.
