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I hold my hand up, not sure if this is an insult or a test. “Why would you be asking that? I’m a witch from the other side of the Veil accompanying my friend on his tour. How could my blood possibly be an issue?”

Lady Ebonfall smirks, pivoting with military precision to scan the rest of the hall. She points her chin at the leftmost table. “Lord Nightshade—his ties are with the Council, but his loyalty is to older debts. If he moves, assume the blade is poisoned.”

Sassy glances his way, and the old man at the table is already waiting, his smile a slow bleed up his face. Even now, his cane taps out a rhythm that sounds like a countdown.

Ebonfall’s gaze snaps to the Shadowthorn twins, their faces lit by candlelight, every detail amplified. “Those two are private knives. They won’t act unless ordered, but they never fail when they do.” She straightens, tilts her head in a gesture that’s both benediction and warning. “I’ll see you on the other side of this.”

And just like that, she’s gone, slicing back through the crowd with the poise that only comes from killing many people and never being caught.

Dezi whistles, soft and appreciatively. “That’s the opening gambits laid out for you.”

I squeeze Fiadh’s hand again, and this time she doesn’t pull away. “She made you a contender.”

“I don’t want to play this game,” Fiadh whispers, but the way her eyes track the Council says she already knows she doesn’t have a choice.

“Too late, witchling,” Dezi murmurs, and I see her mouth set into a line as he chuckles softly.

The room resets, the courses resume, but everyone at this table knows the game just shifted. If there’s one thing I know about my homelands, it’s that nothing here happens by accident.

The next move is ours, and I plan to make it count.

Thirteen

FIADH

The servers glide in, bearing the last course on plates so dark they absorb the candlelight and eat it alive. The dessert is a hemisphere of something—cake, mousse—a segment of shadow with a sheen of mirror glaze that shivers on its plate even after being set down. When the server in front of me bows, the sound is like a whisper through molars. Her hands are trembling.

It gives me a clue that something big is coming, even if she didn’t mean for that to happen.

I don’t bother waiting for a cue from the host; instead, I lean over my plate and watch as the surface of the dessert pulses. The glaze fractures for a heartbeat, revealing a swirling undertow of silver and blue. I smell bitter almonds and something coppery, like blood on old pennies. I tap the edge of the plate, and it wobbles again. I feel the magic in it suddenly, and I know this isn’t just food.

This is an attack, a challenge, or both. Fuck, these people are exhausting.

Dezi is watching the servers like he’s about to clock one with the water pitcher, so he must sense it. Revelin is performing the perfect bored royal routine, but I note the tension in his jaw and the way he keeps a hand on my thigh under the table. Tiernan and Khol are both on the edge of their seats. Tier has that big-cat ‘poised to strike’ stillness; Khol is flexing his fingers, as if he expects to need claws.

I press my palm flat against my lap, out of sight. The crescent moon mark I made to remind myself glows faintly—that has to be a sign, right? I trace the line with a thumbnail and focus hard on feeling the burgeoning magic inside of me as it gathers. It felt different from the moment I set foot in Faerie, but never more than now. I guess this is my power finally awakening now that I know the truth and I’m having flashbacks?

Hell if I know, but I’m mentally pleading with it to show them what I’ve got if we need to.

I’m going to shatter whatever curse is woven into the food, without attracting more attention. It isn’t something I have any experience with involving Fae magic—only witch-like powers—and I am not sure I’ll be successful. But I have to try; otherwise, we’re going to end up making a bigger scene. I summon what little training Rev and I have worked on since we crossed into Faerie. Before long, I’m adjusting my breathing, visualizing the pattern of the spell, and speaking to my magic as a part of me that wants to help me, rather than fight me. I close my eyes for half a heartbeat and picture the dessert’s aura—slick, black, roiling, but with threads of silver where my own magic licks at the edges.

Rev’s hand squeezes my thigh, and I know he’s figured out what I’m going to attempt. I don’t respond; no, I simply allow his support to buffer me as I focus on the task. Channeling everything into one hand, I open my eyes and pick up the dessert fork to tap the weird-ass Fae trap lightly.

There’s a tiny pop, like a static shock, and the dessert collapses. It sags onto the plate; the glaze pooling like spilled ink around a dry, crumbly core. When it hits the plate, the magic burns out in a hiss of frost that’s visible to everyone. The nearest server goes rigid, then bows away so fast he nearly knocks the next tray out of the hands of his coworker.

By Jove, we’ve cracked it, Watson!

Dezi lets out a long breath, which I think means, ‘Holy fuck, that worked’ in vampire. Tier and Khol keep staring at the surrounding people, but I see the tiny grins on their lips. My prince gives my thigh another squeeze, then looks at the Council, waiting to see who will break first.

It’s not the Council that reveals itself as the culprit. It’s the noble at the table that is three down from ours—Lord Nightshade, they called him. He stands so slowly it makes my skin crawl, and sets both hands on the table in front of him. The rings on his fingers are so heavy that when he taps, it sounds like coins striking a tomb.

I’m gonna fucking hate this dude; I feel it in my bones.

He raises a cane—black wood with a dangerous-looking topper—and taps it three times on the obsidian floor. Every conversation in the hall dies instantly, so he’s definitely a goddamn problem waiting to happen. The acoustics of the hall are engineered for power, and his voice slides under the skin like a cold needle.

“Most esteemed guests. May I propose a toast?”

There’s a chorus of glassware lifted, though it’s only the bravest who actually drink. Some nobles only pretend, swirling their wine and pretending to sip. I see Lady Ebonfall lift her glass, but not to her lips. I see the Shadowthorn twins exchange a glance so perfect, that it must be a signal.