Suddenly, I feel eyes on me and I see Khorinea, draped in what looks like the aftermath of a violent tussle between a curtain and a chandelier. She parades past us, her sneer almost as twisted as the nest atop her head. The evil that clings to her—like moss to a dank wall—makes me shudder inwardly. Khol catches my eye, and we share a moment of mutual disdain.
“Regal as a dumpster rat,” I snark quietly, earning a stifled snort from Tiernan.
“Focus, witchling,” Dezi chides softly, but his lips twitch with amusement. “We’re not here to critique fashion disasters.”
Speak for yourself, old man. I’m all about fucking up her day.
My gaze flicks up to the balcony where Amethyst and Ember stand in close conference, their heads tilted together like scheming sisters. The pieces fall into place; Dezi’s suspicions were right. There’s more at play here than just charity and champagne.
“Looks like you were onto something with those two,” I say, nudging Dezi slightly.
“I’m rarely wrong,” he replies, eyes never leaving the pair. “Keep your eyes open and your senses sharp.”
Finally, we’re escorted to our table, positioned strategically with a clear view of the dais. The royal family is impossible to miss, their display of wealth and power as subtle as a sledgehammer. Eightheirs sit like prized trophies, their jeweled crowns catching the light with a blinding sparkle.
“Disgusting,” I mutter, unable to mask my distaste. “Could they be any more ostentatious?”
“Maybe not,” Dezi responds, leaning in close so only I can hear. “But remember, this is a goldmine for information. We need to see beyond the glitter.”
As if on cue, Revelin engages a nearby baron in conversation, drawing attention away from us. Dezi and Tiernan make use of the distraction, moving to converse casually with members of the security team. They’re like shadows—present but unnoticed—as they gather intel without raising suspicion.
“Remember why we’re here,” Dezi reminds me once more before slipping away into the crowd.
I nod, taking a deep breath as I survey the room, the weight of the brass knuckles in my pocket grounding me. For now, I’ll play the part of the dutiful guest, all while watching, waiting for when the masks come off and the actual game begins.
“Fiadh? Oh, Fiadh, wait.”The voice slithers through the din of idle chatter and clinking glasses like a serpent seeking its prey. My name, wrapped in faux admiration, sets my teeth on edge.
Who the fuck is yelling for me?
I pivot on my heel to face the man Revelin introduced as Lord Pemberleigh, his oily smile as wide as the sash across his portly belly. He’s the epitome of ambition, a courtier who’d sell his own mother for a whiff of royal favor. His gaze lingers a little too long on the cut of my dress, and I feel the brass knuckles pressing into my palm.
“Lord Pemberleigh,” I acknowledge with a nod, my voice cool.
“Your exploits are the talk of the court,” he croons, stepping uncomfortably close. “Might I entice you with a dance? It would do wonders for my reputation.”
“Sadly, your reputation is not my concern,” I retort, but before I can excuse myself, Dezi is at my side, his arm slipping protectively around my waist.
“Lord Pemberleigh,” Dezi interjects smoothly, “I fear Fiadh is quite spoken for this evening. Perhaps another time?”
Tiernan appears on my other flank, his presence an unspoken threat. Pemberleigh’s eyes narrow, but he knows better than to press his luck.
“Of course,” he says, though his tone suggests anything but acquiescence. “Enjoy the festivities.” With a curt nod, he retreats into the throng.
“Time to get some air,” Tiernan suggests, and without waiting for my agreement, guides us out of the ballroom.
I really might fall in love with this guy if he keeps reading my mind like this.
We enter an adjacent gallery, the sudden quiet a balm to my frayed nerves. The room is vast; the walls adorned with masterpieces that speak of history and wealth. Revelin lets out a low whistle, his grin returning as he takes in the array of art.
“Ah, this is much better than the tank full of sharks we just swam through, don’t you think?” he says, casting a meaningful glance at where we left Pemberleigh behind.
“Agreed,” I say with a sigh, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. Here, among the silent witnesses of canvas and stone, I can pretend, if only for a moment, that the ball and its players are worlds away.
We drift through the gallery, admiring a tapestry here, a painting there. The history of battles and beauty woven into each piece captivates me until we come across a display that demands our collective attention.
“Look at this,” Revelin murmurs, drawing us toward a pedestal where a chalice rests. It’s exquisite, wrought from goblin silver, so pure it seems to glow from within. Jewels adorn its surface, each one catching the light and throwing splinters of color across the room.
“Wow, that’s gotta be centuries old,” Tiernan breathes out, his hand reaching for his phone. Dezi joins him, both angling for the best shot.
