The room was stiflingly warm, the cloying scent of oils thick in the air as they massaged them into her scalp. The sweet, floral smell made her stomach churn. One of them even had the audacity to try brushing her teeth, but Elara snapped her jaws at the girl’s hand, earning a startled yelp.
She’d woken to the sharp scent of salts under her nose, the thick steam of the bathing chamber clouding the air as she blinked blearily at the familiar face hovering above her.
“Saria,” she had whispered, her voice a rasp, thick with pain. The healer had only hushed her, gentle hands smoothing salve over the fresh bruise darkening her jaw. Osin, no doubt, had insisted. His Hallowed couldn’t appear like a prisoner at the solstice.
“Where are the Sidhe? Have you seen?—”
Saria’s eyes had flicked to the door before she shushed her again, this time more urgently. “Later, Hallowed. We will speak later.”
Saria worked with a healer’s precision, her hands deft and steady as she applied salves and pressed a tonic into Elara’s trembling hands—one for pain, one for strength. She gulped them down without hesitation, the bitterness burning her throat. Only to promptly vomit them back up.
Saria, unshaken, handed her another dose, her patience unwavering as she waited for Elara to steady herself enough to keep it down. Even with the salves, the tonics, and Saria’s care, Elara’s body refused to stop shaking. It wasn’t the pain—it was the thoughts she couldn’t quiet.
Reynnar. The Sidhe. What was likely happening to them now.
She forced herself to breathe. Slow, measured breaths. Forced herself to calm, to focus. Because even if Reynnar had resigned himself to his fate, Elara had not.
Saria had lingered for a moment, her eyes soft but filled with a kind of sorrow Elara didn’t have the strength to acknowledge, before leaving her to the vulturous hands of the attendants.
They dressed her in a gown of white silk, silver thread woven through the fabric like strands of moonlight. Icy blue accents shimmered at the hems, catching the light as it flowed around her feet in heavy, endless waves.
Her eyes were painted in lines of white and silver, a frosted look that made them glow, but the rest of her face was left bare, as if they wanted her to look cold, distant—like marble. They pulled her hair back tightly, strands twisted into an elaborate crown with diamonds and pearls woven through, sparkling with every slight movement.
She could hardly breathe, let alone move.
The more they fussed, layering her in this finery, the more restless she became, her skin itching. She needed to get rid of the dress. Somehow, she would have to lose it before the night was over. If she had any hope of carrying out her plan, ofmoving with any speed or stealth, she couldn’t be dragging this monstrosity of a gown behind her.
They’d tried to take her necklace—the red stone too garish, too bold for their carefully curated vision—but Elara’s glare had been enough to stop them. They’d dropped it like it burned them. Now, as five attendants hovered around her, guiding her out of the bathing chamber, their hands fussing over the endless sweep of fabric trailing behind her, the necklace pressed warm against her chest. It hummed faintly, a quiet reassurance, the only comfort she’d have tonight.
The corridors had been transformed, draped in shimmering garlands of silver, blue, and white—crystal icicles dangling from the arches, catching the light in tiny flickers. Frost had been charmed to creep up the walls, giving the illusion that the entire place was locked in eternal winter. It should have been beautiful, mesmerizing even—but it felt vile.
The muffled sound of music and the distant murmur of laughter carried through the halls. Each step brought her closer to the Grand Hall, its doors already open, spilling golden light out into the corridor. The hall beyond was a world of opulence—glowing chandeliers, tables piled high with decadent food, and guests draped in silks and furs that shimmered.
Elara reached for theDraoth Cara, her focus narrowing as she pulled on the thread and it throbbed beneath her skin. Her connection to Ivan was becoming effortless, even if he wasn’t near. She was gettingstronger.
A sliver of tension fell away. She drew one quiet breath and stepped into the hall.
Every eye turned her way, but Elara kept her expression blank, even as the scene before her nearly stole the breath from her lungs. To the left of the hall, an enchanted winter forest stretched out, hauntingly beautiful—a landscape of snow-laden trees, branches weighed down with shimmering frost. The forestseemed endless, with spaces between the trees glittering with ice crystals, tiny frost sprites darting through the frozen canopy.
The hall was laced with the scent of cold pine and winter roses, crisp and sweet, mingling with the warm amber spice curling from enchanted braziers scattered throughout. A thin layer of snow crunched beneath Elara’s shoes as she stepped further in, music thrumming under her skin—a steady, hypnotic beat of drums pulsing through the floor.
She paused, sweeping the heavy folds of her gown to the side as a guest, too far gone on wine and spells, stumbled dangerously close. Crystal goblets tilted, spilling dark crimson liquid onto the pristine white ground in splattered streaks. Their masks—grotesque creations of twisted angels, beasts with too many eyes, demons crowned in iron—concealed flushed cheeks and the frenzied glint in their eyes. They rushed past her, eager to disappear into the maze of trees, like moths drawn to madness.
She felt it too—the seductive hum in the air, the sugary haze of the drug Calista had warned her about. It coiled around her senses, invisible hands beckoning her to let go, to drown in the revelry, to surrender to the heady promise of oblivion.
Elara shook her head.
Just a little longer, she told herself. Calista would be here soon, and then?—
A sudden bump jarred her, sending a rush of air into her lungs, heavy with whatever poison laced it. Her head swam instantly, a dizzy warmth flooding her skin. The man who’d jostled her was still there, blinking at her as though he almost recognized her, a look of vague concentration on his face—then he dissolved into a fit of laughter. And his mirth, wild and bubbling, was contagious, pulling at her mouth until a giggle escaped from her chest before she could stop it. It spiraled out, uncontrollable, and she clamped a hand over her lips.
Get a grip, she told herself, but it was no use. The harder she tried to rein it in, the more it took over, drawing curious glances and amused smirks from those around her.
Elara threw her head back, her entire body shaking with laughter, even as something deep inside her tightened. Her pulse spiked as a distant scream pierced the haze of the party. Fear, maybe. Or excitement. She couldn't tell anymore, couldn’t separate one from the other. The lines between everything were blurring, bending.
Then her gaze lifted, and she froze.
Osin stood above it all on the balcony, wine dangling from his fingers as if he were bored. But his eyes—they were locked on her. Watching. Reveling in the chaos below, in her. Her gaze darted around him, scanning the figures clustered at his back. The High Council stood there, a portrait of power and privilege, and among them, their families. Her eyes caught on Tristan’s dark head, bent in polite conversation with the High Lords. He seemed at ease, schmoozing in the way only he could. Elara’s focus snapped back to Osin just in time to see him raise his glass to her, a mockery of a toast, before taking a slow, deliberate sip.
