Aurelia
We approached the palace with hoods pulled low against the swirling snow falling in thin, icy flakes. All around us were Autumn citizens headed for the castle, hoping to get a closer look at the royal wedding. I winced at the sight of a young Autumn fae girl clinging to her mother, both with wreath-crowns in their hair and bright smiles on their faces. If I lost control today, these fae would pay the cost.
I could not—would not—let that happen.
A layer of ice crept along the fountains and gutters we passed. The wind dug in through the holes of my cloak, wringing any warmth from my skin. But the crowd did not seem deterred by it. The mood was festive. Hopeful.
If only they knew their king did not share that hope.
I clung to mine like a precious thing.
“Final chance to back out,” Slade murmured at my elbow as we walked. “No shame in fleeing. I hear Vorinthia has lovely beaches.”
But beneath the humor, he was coiled, ready. Shadowsclung to him like oil. Thorne walked on my other side, quiet strength radiating from him like a heartbeat.
I took a breath that did nothing to steady me.
Tomorrow wasn’t promised. Tonight wasn’t promised. I was about to come face-to-face with the woman who had cursed my kingdom, ripped wings from the backs of my friends, tortured a hundred others, and nearly killed me multiple times.
If I died today, it had to mean something.
“Slade,” I said softly.
He turned, eyebrows lifting at the shift in my voice.
“If I don’t make it out of this?—”
“Stop.” He lifted a hand.
“I need you to tell Rydian?—”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” His tone sharpened. “If you die, I’m dying too. Because Rydian will murder me for letting it happen. So really, it’s in everyone’s best interest that you stay alive.”
“Slade—”
Thorne stepped closer, voice firm. “None of us is dying today.”
I looked between them—the soldier who joked too much, the warrior who spoke too little. My friends, whether I’d meant to make them that or not.
“All right,” I whispered, breath hitching. “Then let’s crash a wedding.”
Slade grinned. “Nowthat’sthe spirit.”
We broke off from the crowd one at a time, converging at a servants’ entrance Callan had described. Hidden beneath an archway of carved oak leaves, it looked innocuous—locked, unused. But when I pressed my palm against the etched wood, the latch clicked open.
He’d kept his promise.
Inside, the corridor was dim and narrow,the air heavy with wax and wine and a hush of anticipation from the grand halls above. The muffled sounds of a crowd drifted in from the back gardens.
Slade peeked around the corner. “So far, so good.”
We moved fast.
Up a spiral staircase. Across a gallery lined with portraits of former kings. Through a narrow linen closet with a hidden second door that Callan had sworn would be unattended—and thankfully, it was. There was no time for nostalgia or memories, not even when I found myself noting familiar sights inside the secret passages or the main halls.
Twice, we were stopped by guards who demanded our business here. But when we pulled our hoods back to reveal our faces, they waved us on without delay.
The closer we got, the colder it grew.
