I gape at Kassandra, but she turns away in dismissal.
Briar and I stagger into the shadows, reaching for a pillar. I place the tray on the ground, then flop down next to it, panting.The plane stills further, a muffled, cold thing, like a stone slab sliding over a sarcophagus.
Cool crystal presses against my arm. I glance down as Briar offers sparkling wine. I grin, lowering my voice. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’ll dull your senses. Might be easier if we can’t sense the plane at all.” An endearing half smile melts years off her face.
We clink and sip. The wine fizzes on my tongue, crisp and light. Sharp like biting into an apple, but with a soft aftertaste. As I drain the glass, I realize she was right—my hold on the plane slips away, and so does the disorientation.
The music strikes up again, warbling this time, trumpets wavering. A ripple goes through the crowd as High Fae step back. Leaning against the column, I haul myself to my feet. Briar comes up next, swaying.
A masked figure stalks through the hall, towering a head above most other fae. A black cloak whips and snaps behind him, its hood pulled over his face.
The only member of the House of Death not banished to the borderlands.
The king’s executioner.
He takes his place on the far right of the dais, leaving an empty space next to the throne. My heart stutters. I’m not sure what I suspected under that hood—a skull? A monster? But not a male whose face is wrapped in black cloth save for a slit of olive skin and amber eyes that survey the room. From this view, I spot an enormous sword slung low on one hip.
Briar hiccups next to me. Those amber eyes slice to us. My blood chills under my skin and Briar gives a clumsy curtsy, grabbing the tray from me.
“Look busy,” she urges, face red.
“You took my tray!”
“It was mine first.”
That gaze slides to the rest of the room until finally, something shifts.
A deep vibration arises from the earth. My eyes flick to the windows, but the night is clear and starry beyond. The candles wobble, some extinguishing. The chandeliers clink and the tiles beneath me tremble until I feel a reverberating energy deep in my bones, skin tingling.
Everyone drops to their knees, High Fae included.
This is Reign magic. Royal power.
Footsteps. I keep my head down, staring at the ground before me. My teeth chatter with the energy.
The footsteps grow closer. Two sets.
Sneaking a glance, I watch the king’s advisor, Hector Vandorne, step up the dais, red robe billowing behind him, gray hair pinned back behind large ears. Of mixed noble heritage, he comes from the House of Reign and the House of Healing. Reign may be the oldest and most powerful House, but it’s also the smallest. To have a fae with pure Reign blood is an anomaly. It is said there is only one left.
My body shakes as Crown Prince Maxian Vandorne, son of the Sun King, passes right in front of me.
The entire room quakes as the prince climbs the steps and turns, facing the crowd. Impossibly tall and broad-shouldered, the Reign fae has tan skin, honey-brown hair, and a set of piercing violet eyes unlike any color I have ever seen before. They catch the candlelight, glimmering with gold. He wears a robe of the same shade.
I suppose there are worse males. And worse-looking,Kassandra had said. Perhaps she views him like a sibling the way he does her. Or perhaps it is the dirt in me, the faerie, that feels stunned by his terrifying radiance. Whatever the case, Kassandra was misleading.
Prince Maxian Vandorne—Maxian the Mountain—is utterly, brilliantly beautiful.
The ground stops quaking. The plane’s energy dies down to a hum.
No one lets out a breath.
“You may rise,” he thunders, yet his voice is rich and deep and somehow gentle.
The denizens stand, preening under his attention. Perhaps it’s not that Prince Maxian fucks anyone, as Dominik said. Perhaps it’s that everyone wants to fuck him.
My mistress turns to me. “Get more sparkling wine. In the time it takes for Hector to give his speech, even the children will have gray hair.”
