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The sight ahead lifted her spirits immediately.

Colorful ribbons made of sparkling magic floated through the sunlit air above three improbably large, gauzy tents made of spider-silk. Their doors were all drawn open in invitation—and a glittering flood of fae of all descriptions came flying, crawling, and stalking in and out of them and across the wide, flat field beyond like a parade of magical delight and wonder. Tiny sprites with iridescent, insectile wings darted through the air above slime-covered, dagger-toothed swamp fae and past giant, striding figures whose watchful dark eyes peered out at the world from behind their branches of abundant red and gold leaves and dangling acorns.

It had been so long since Lorelei had been able to attend a proper fae festival! She’d almost forgotten the thrill of so much gathered wild magic charging the air, like a wildfire just waiting to be lit.

“Darlings!” Clapping her hands together, she let go of every petty rule that tied her hands in ordinary life and, for once, allowed her full power to burst forth without any leash, showering the entire crowded field with an impossible rain of crimson leaves and golden glitter.

Fae across the field shouted in delight, vying to catch those gifts on their own skin—and each caught offering melted into its recipient’s scaled, furred, or hairless body to leave behind the golden mark of Lorelei’s own personal kiss and her powerful magical blessing. Hunting horns sounded at her command, high and achingly bittersweet, calling on every assembled fae to welcome home the only daughter of their ancient queen, the former princess who had—although they couldn’t be allowed to know it—devoted her life to fighting for all of their sakes in the mortal realm.

An answering roar of feral, wordless joy rose from the crowded field. Every figure dropped to the ground in her honor … except the one silent, unmoving ruler who sat on a tall silver throne at the far back of the field, where they had been hidden from Lorelei’s sight until now.

She felt the Golden Beacon step up behind her, but she didn’t turn to take in his expression. She couldn’t. Every muscle in her back was suddenly knotted tight, ignoring the commands of her better judgement, as she peered through the still-falling shower of leaves and glitter, trying with all her might to make out those final details.

The person who sat on that throne wore autumn’s colors in their flowing robes, just as she’d expected. Their traditional Crown of Autumn glowed fiery gold through every glittering obstruction in the way. But something about those angles …

Aha. As a tall, straight figure rose from the throne, Lorelei’s shoulders sagged with both relief and piercing, irrational disappointment. She might not be able yet to make out his face, but that was an unmistakably male figure.

Queen Morgana was not in attendance after all.

Biting back a sigh, Lorelei lowered herself into a respectful curtsey. Her mother’s latest consort, Lord Reynard, might be depressingly tedious, but he was also quite harmless. All she need do was make a bit of polite small talk and share a public embrace, and she would have everything needed for her plan.

Unfortunately, before she could rise from her curtsey, a different male voice rang out across the field and proved that she had been far too rash in more than one of today’s assumptions.

“Dear sister.” Lorelei could hear the repulsive smirk in that voice even before the last of her falling leaves dissolved to show it on an all-too-familiar fae nobleman’s perfectly handsome—and viciously untrustworthy—face. “How kind of you, for once, to deign to join us in our festivities.”

Fuck. What was Reynard’s son Oberon doing here, wearing the Crown of Autumn as host? Things hadn’t changed this much since she’d last visited Efaelen, had they?

The Golden Beacon’s voice rumbled behind her, pitched too low for anyone else to hear but vibrating through her bones. “I wasn’t aware you had a brother, Your Majesty.”

“I do not,” she gritted, pulling herself together.

… But she had misunderstood the trees’ earlier warning of an enemy lurking nearby.

Lorelei beamed her most glorious smile across the field at the loathsome son of her mother’s consort. Their parents might currently be entangled, but Oberon certainly hadn’t used that fraternal form of address the last time she’d been forced to interact with him, nearly six years earlier. Back then, he’d made a slithering attempt to seduce her by trickery and thus attain a queen of his own to match his father’s accomplishment.

If only Oberon had chosen to follow his father’s example in any other ways—from Reynard’s occasional acts of real, if whimsical, kindness to the simple courtesy Reynard extended to even the lowest fae—Lorelei might not have bothered to humiliate him quite so soundly for it in front of the assembled court.

She couldn’t believe her mother had allowed him to wear the Crown of Autumn for such an important cultural event … but she would not let him think it gave her any pain to see it.

“How sweet to see my mother is indulging you so, Lord Oberon,” she cooed across the field of fae that lay between them. “You must have been wonderfully well-behaved ever since she finally allowed you back into her court.”

Lorelei might have been too busy to visit Efaelen during the last few years of increasing turmoil in the mortal realm, but she still had her own sources in that court—and she hadn’t missed any of the gossip when her mother had risked her consort’s sorrow by exiling Oberon for an unheard-of four full seasons following a series of unforgivable public exploits.

Lorelei thoroughly enjoyed the fury that flashed across his expression at the reminder of his past punishment. Did he not understand how many far more competent villains she had squashed beneath her heels to win her own throne in the first place?

Rapidly revising her plans for the next few days, she said, “What delightful serendipity it is that we stopped by in time for this rare and momentous occasion. I should have hated to miss the sight of you looking so very … well … exceptional in a crown! But we are, I’m afraid, only passing through on our way to—”

“‘Passing through’?” Slowly, tauntingly, Oberon raised a familiar sheet of pale pink notepaper that he must have been hiding, until now, within the sumptuous folds of his robes. “My, my, our former princess. What a way to describe taking on our people’s most sacred challenge! Perhaps you’ve forgotten even more than I’d realized in all your years of running away to play house with the mortals.”

Lorelei was no longer a princess but a queen—and it was only the thought of her own kingdom, and the people there who relied upon her, that saved her now. They would all suffer along with her if she murdered the son of her mother’s consort in public, especially while he wore one of Efaelen’s most ancient symbols of authority.

With an effort, she kept her voice as sweet as honey and batted her eyelashes at him. “Goodness, dear, you really must be bored if you’ve had to turn to reading other people’s private correspondence for your amusement!”

“On the contrary. After Queen Morgana was called away on an urgent matter, I was named her proxy. Thus, it is my duty to open missives addressed to her … at least when they are clearly labeled ‘urgent.’” Oberon smiled back with unmistakable, hateful triumph. “Don’t worry, Sister. Despite the lateness of your plea, I will be more than delighted to accept you and your”—he flicked a disdainful glance at Gerard’s silent, looming figure—“mortal into this year’s Tournament of Leaves, just as you begged in your letter. I see here that you swore to complete it with honor—and never fear, you are just in time to enter.”

With a decisive nod, he gestured for the assembled fae to rise back to their feet and clear the battlefield for combat.

Lorelei swallowed hard. Option after option tumbled frantically through her mind—but she discarded them, one by one, with sickly inevitability.