"Quiet." The command was soft but absolute. He stood, drawing her up with him. "It's time."
He moved to the pedestal, one hand keeping her close. The hall's attention focused on them, conversations dying. With theatrical deliberation, he pulled away the cloth.
The box beneath was carved from bone, symbols etched into its surface that seemed to hum with a magic that made Briar take half a step back. He opened it, revealing a knife, its blade seeming to shift between silver and something darker.
"Some of you," Malus said, addressing the court, "remember the old ways. When this blade had purpose beyond ceremony."
She felt the shift in the room, anticipation from some, confusion from others. Lord Pendron actually smiled.
"Long ago," Malus continued, lifting the knife and brandishing it for all to see, "before we forgot ourselves, before we pretended to be civilized, we understood what humans were for. Warmth. Fear." He paused, the blade catching candlelight. "Blood."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. She saw Lord Tamlin take a step back.
"My lord," Tamlin said carefully, "surely you don't mean—"
"I mean exactly what our ancestors meant." Malus turned the blade, admiring it. "The sharing of human essence. The old feast. The true communion. The real reason behind your Wild Hunt."
"This is barbarism," Lord Garrett said from the back, his voice carrying shocked disapproval.
"This is tradition," Lord Pendron corrected, his ancient voice cutting through the murmurs. "This is what we were before we grew soft."
Lord Garrett stepped forward, his young face set with determination. "I didn't support your claim to the throne for this. This isn't restoring proper rule, it's—"
"It's what?" Malus asked softly, still holding the knife. "Do finish your thought."
"It's an abomination." Garrett moved closer, several other younger fae shifting behind him as if building courage. "We're not monsters who feed on humans. That's not what the ForestCourt—"
"The Forest Court," Malus interrupted, "existed long before your birth, young lord. Before we pretended to be civilized and forgot our true nature." He set down the knife with deliberate care. "But perhaps you need a reminder of what we truly are. Of what defiance will afford you."
He made a small gesture, barely visible. The Withered moved.
One moment Lord Garrett stood defiant in his court finery. The next, a Withered had stepped from the shadows behind him, one decayed hand settling on his shoulder.
Garrett's scream cut off almost immediately. Where the Withered touched, his shoulder began to age—the fabric of his coat crumbling, then the flesh beneath going gray, then black, spreading like rot. His skin wrinkled, hair whitening and falling out in clumps.
"No," someone whispered. "No, stop—"
But it was too late. The decay spread down Garrett's arm, up his neck. Briar wanted to look away, to close her eyes, but Malus wouldn’t allow it.
“Watch,” he said, and so she did.
The fae lord aged decades in seconds, centuries in a moment. His eyes clouded, skin pulling tight over bones that brittled and cracked. He tried to pull away but his body was failing too quickly, muscles withering, tendons snapping like old rope.
When he fell, he was already crumbling. Not dead, something worse. He was still aware as his body became dust and memory, consciousness trapped in failing flesh until the last possible second.
The Withered stepped back, returning to stillness. Where Lord Garrett had stood, only the tattered remnants of clothes remained around a pile of gray ash and bone fragments.
The hall was silent.
"Anyone else," Malus asked pleasantly, "have objections to tradition?"
No one spoke. Even Lord Pendron looked unsettled, though whether by the method or the waste of fae blood, Briar couldn't know for sure.
Malus raised the knife to her throat. "Now, where were we?"
The attention in the hall shifted back to Malus, to her. Briar closed her eyes and held her breath, bracing herself for the sting of the cut. The blade touched her skin just below the copper leaves, and slid off.
He tried again, pressing harder this time. The knife skittered across her skin like it was polished glass, leaving nothing behind, not even a scratch.
