Jasmine’s eyes flicked over Gabriel’s face, where golden paint still shimmered beneath the torchlight. She laughed, low and merciless.
“And what in all of Rhidian have they done to you?”
Gabriel’s pointed ears twitched. He touched his cheek, too slow to hide the mark.
“Tradition,” he said smoothly. “It suits me.”
“It blinds me,” she returned, delight dancing in her tone. “You look ready to lead a midsummer parade.”
Gabriel caught her hand in one effortless sweep, bowing just enough to brush his lips across her knuckles.
“And you look…”—his voice dripped honey— “…like the only reason worth marching.”
Viktor leaned back, arms crossed, hiding a smirk.
“Ever the Draekenran.”
Jasmine’s smile deepened.
“Well, dask… I do like trouble.”
Her laughter rang bright and reckless, the wordtroublemade for Gabriel Feindoran alone.
Then the horn sounded—low, resonant, ancient. It rolled through the marble like thunder from the deep.
Silence fell as jeweled doors swung wide.
Zeporah sat high upon her throne, draped in silken black. Her bare shoulders gleamed like carved stone, and wings unfurled behind her—feathered as a raven’s, vast as a dragon’s. The sight of her bent the very air, beauty and dread entwined.
Her smile was waiting.
Chapter Thirty-Two
What the Queen Saw
The queen saw steel, and she saw love—and she clapped for the ruin it would bring.
One breath steadied him—
Viktor crossed the threshold.
Columns rose like black serpents, draped in silks that shimmered with torchlight. Tapestries of the Bloodforge lined the walls—steel, fire, rivers of red. Music throbbed through the cavernous hall, drums pounding like a march to war.
The herald’s voice sliced through the roar.
“Evander, son of Raif, of the noble House of Zrynon, of Rhidian.”
Evander stepped forward to a hiss of whispers. The she-elf on his arm—eyes bright with mischief—waited for Zeporah’s lazyflick of approval, then rose on her toes and kissed him full on the mouth.
Laughter broke like surf.
Evander’s ears went scarlet. He pressed on, spine straight.
“Gabriel, son of Cillian, of the noble House of Feindoran, of Vykenra.”
Zeporah leaned forward, wings shifting.
“Ah,” she purred, voice rippling through the chamber, “a masterpiece of the gods—the Draekenran line at its finest.”
