Arther rounds the corner and speaks to Mae in a hushed tone before turning to face us.
“You will bow when presented before the king,” he instructs us, his tone clipped and formal. “You will not speak unless spoken to. You will remain with your assigned fairy at all times.” Then he gives one curt nod before disappearing through the towering doors.
Mae steps forward, her eyes scanning each of us. “Take heart, ladies,” she says. “You were chosen for a reason. Tonight, the rest of your life begins.”
Then she leads us through the double doors, and the ballroom swallows us whole.
Inside, the room is already arranged like a ritual. The Bound Four take up position in the corners, holding them likesentinels.Miss Mae takes her place near the musicians, a quiet axis of calm. Arther watches from a side door. Cassian lounges by the wine, grinning like sin in silk. Lyra sits beneath a ring of candles, her head lifted as if listening to a song no one else can hear.
The sheer scale and grandeur of the room steal my breath. Vaulted ceilings stretch high above, painted with frescoes of dragons, stars, and battlefields so vivid that I swear I can almost see them breathe. Crystal chandeliers drip golden light across a banquet table brimming with roasted meats, sugared fruits, and silken pastries—wealth beyond comprehension. And it’s warm—too warm, like the breath of something ancient is stirring beneath the floor.
Guards line the walls, their obsidian lamellae armor catching the firelight in eerie patterns. Farther back, goblin wardens keep to the shadowed arches, their iron spears glinting as dozens of attendants work to serve the guests. Ceremony and threat, side by side.
But it’s the throne that commands reverence. Perched atop a black marble dais, flanked by two towering golden dragon statues, is a massive obsidian throne veined with onyx and blood-red rubies. And in it, poised like a storm waiting to break, is the king.
We approach in pairs, Seraphina and Elena first, then Cassandra and Vivian. Mariel and I take up the rear. Each step tightens the knot in my stomach. We keep our eyes averted and bow low, falling into curtsies at the base of the steps.
“Welcome to Noctyras,” a deep voice says calmly. “You may rise.”
I lift my head.
And for a heartbeat, nothing makes sense.
My mind scrambles, grasping for some other explanation—another face, another lie, another impossible coincidence. It can’t be. It has to be someone else.
Then his gaze meets mine.
Storm-blue eyes, ringed with gold. Dark lashes. A familiar steadiness I’d started to trust.
No.
My breath catches. My pulse stutters.
The gardener.
The word flashes through me first, desperate and foolish. The man in the soil-stained boots. The quiet voice. The patient hands.
And then the truth crashes down, merciless and absolute.
No—the king.
He’s the king.
My thoughts splinter into chaos. Every careless word I threw at him in the garden rushes back in a wave of heat and shame. Every challenge. Every joke. Every moment I thought I was safe.
My pulse thrums wildly, panic tightening my chest until it’s hard to breathe. My muscles lock, as if my body itself understands what my mind is only just catching up to. If my fate wasn’t already sealed, it is now.
And worse yet, he lied. He lied about who he was, lied while I opened up to him, lied while I trusted him, danced with him, almost kissed him.
And he’s not just the king; he’s a monster. A monster who commands the dragon that haunts my dreams.
My breath catches as his eyes lock onto mine. Heat licks up my spine, stealing the air from my lungs.
He stands, firelight catching on the gemmed crown atop his head, obsidian and gold. The gold-threaded dragons curling along his dark tunic. Dark waves of hair fall untamed around his face. The top buttons of his tunic are undone, revealinga glimpse of tanned skin beneath. He’s absurdly handsome—broad-shouldered and towering, a cliff unmoved by the tide crashing at its base.
But it’s more than that.
The room shifts around him as if it knows he is the storm, and we are only leaves in his wind.
