I blinked, then glanced down at my hands. Still mine.
“It didn’t work,” I said, lifting my palms.
Zander chuckled beside me. “Oh, it worked. And it’s weird looking at a man and hearing your voice.”
I frowned and stepped toward the tall standing mirror in the corner.
I gasped.
A middle-aged man stared back at me. Scraggly beard, rough skin, cropped hair just beneath a guard’s helmet. My armor was gone, replaced with a plain but sturdy palace guard uniform.
“That is… unnerving.”
I turned back to see Zander had transformed too. His lean frame disguised in polished leathers, golden-blond hair, and soft, boyish features that made him look deceptively harmless.
“Of course you get to be the cute one,” I muttered.
Alahathrial chuckled behind us. “I chose these forms for a reason. These two guards are always stationed together. I arranged for them to be… occupied this evening. Some private entertainment in the village.”
“Thank you for helping us,” I said, sincerity wrapping tight around my voice.
He inclined his head. “It’s my pleasure, Ashlyn.”
Then his tone shifted, more serious now. “But go. My glamour will only hold for about an hour. You must leave before it drops.”
“What happens if we don’t?” I asked.
“You’ll feel a tingling sensation about a minute before it expires.” He offered a faint smirk. “Don’t linger.”
Zander turned to me, and even in that unfamiliar face, I saw the glint in his eyes.
“Let’s go crash a war council.”
The marble halls of the castle echoed with the quiet murmurs of nobility as Zander and I made our way toward the war council chamber, our boots clicking steadily in time with the other guards that flanked the arriving royals. Cloaks of deep velvet swept past us, voices low and elegant, masks of diplomacy stitched across their faces.
No one looked twice at us.
In these borrowed skins, mine older and grizzled, Zander boyish and bright-eyed, we blended in seamlessly. We walked beside each other like shadows in a procession, each step calculated, purposeful. Guards were expected to be silent. Present but invisible.
Tonight, that worked in our favor.
We entered the chamber with the last of the nobles, a pair of court officials barely sparing us a glance as we moved to the side of the long obsidian table that dominated the room. The walls were high, hung with banners bearing the crest of Warriath and the lesser sigils of outlying noble houses. Candlelight danced along polished surfaces and golden trim.
We took our positions along the far wall, just behind the council table. Several other guards were already stationed there. They barely glanced at us, shifting just enough to make room.
It was a tight fit, and I could feel the press of tension in every breath of the room. This wasn’t a meeting. It was a performance.
Once the final noble took their seat, a herald struck his staff against the stone.
“His Highness, Prince Theron of House Rayne,” the voice called, ringing through the chamber.
The doors opened.
Theron strode in as if the world belonged to him and the rest of us were merely in it. His ceremonial jacket shimmered dark-blue, high-collared and tailored to frame him. His chin was lifted, his pace slow and measured to draw every eye.
At his side walked Inderia, draped in a gown of shadow-silk and starlight, her pale hands resting lightly on his arm. Her expression was poised, serene, but her eyes? They gleamed like frost.
Theron didn’t sit right away. He stood at the head of the table, drinking in the attention like wine.
