“We propose ‘Maxian the Magnificent’!”
No one moves. Then the king nods, face gleaming in the candlelight. “I accept the title.”
The High Fae erupt into cheers and shouts, glasses raised, wine spilling. Someone jostles me from behind, but I plant my feet firmly on the marble. Dominik claps the king’s forearm and raises up his fist. The crowd yells in delight.
“Time for the Housewarming gifts!” the Illusion heir shouts. “And more wine!”
The High Fae around us sparkle with laughter. Kassandra turns to me.
“Time to perform,” she says.
“Time to impress,” I say, ignoring the bubble of nerves.
As the king lounges on the throne, a goblet of wine in hand, the executioner drifts to the bottom of the dais. A pair of servants emerge from the opposite side of the hall carrying a black chest. They lay it before the executioner, who lifts the top. Dominik hovers closer. From my spot up front, I can hear him suck in a breath.
“Three black opals from the House of Death!” he announces.
The shuffling of noble feet, some clapping.
As the chest of gems is placed at the king’s feet, he picks one up, holding it to the light. The midnight-black stone catches the light—laden with specks of crimson and orange and sky blue and mint green. The rarest stone in all of Amyria.
Delegates from the House of Healing present their gift next, a range of the finest spices and herbs from the Healing gardens. In the chaos of the crowd, Briar and Kassandra leave to prepare her gift. I haul a giant bucket of water from the servants’ entrance.
I watch the back of the room, waiting, hoping, praying to the planes that this works. Dominik expects her to conjure little songbirds, but pretty performances and twinkling tears don’t garner favors.
“And the gift from the House of Illusion,” Dominik bellows, scanning the room for his sister.
That’s my cue.
I heave the bucket in front of the dais. It slops down before the set of stairs, liquid teeming over the edge and splattering onto thetiles. My heart pounds, but I meet the stare of the Heir of Illusion. His lupine grin strains as he bends down so that we are eye to eye.
“What are you doing?” he grits out.
“Presenting a gift for the king.”
“Is this some sort of ruse?”
“No.” I smile. “It’s an Illusion.”
“When I get my hands on you—”
“Dom,” a voice calls.
Dominik pulls back. The violet focus of the new king falls on me. I curtsy, tugging up my beige skirts.
“Y-Your Magnificence,” I stammer.
The sound of fabric shifting. My heart drums louder as the thud of boots crosses the dais.
“You’re fucking dead,” Dominik hisses, retreating.
“You may stand,” the king declares. Again that voice, deep and soft like distant thunder. I straighten and keep my gaze fixed on his boots. A faerie had shined them to gleaming perfection. The king speaks again. “You bring water?”
“Your Magnificence, I…”
They are running late. To ensure she doesn’t look the fool and I’m not smitten where I stand, I have to think of something. I think of my mother.
Calloused hands peeling potatoes. A calm, melodic voice, telling of the twists and turns of the palace map. Rubbing small feet, sore from hours of running buckets of water in a sweating kitchen. Taking a breath, I cup the sound of my mother’s voice in my memory. I draw on that calmness, that alluring lowness, the lilt of her sentences.
