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“Lady Fiadh, Prince Revelin,” she says with just enough edge that it could cut a lesser person. “The Queen and King are delayed, of course, with the weight of the realm on their shoulders. But I see you bore your suffering at the hands of the trial with remarkable resilience.”
I smile back, all teeth and malice as I reply, “You mean the magical birthright that had me hunted like an injured animal over multiple lives? Yes, I wear it well now that Faerie has returned me to my lineage. Did your people think I’d come through with a happy jig, or did they expect me not to come back at all?”
The councilors behind her hiss like a field of snakes at my response, and I have no idea if it’s bad or good. One of them ventures, “The Worldroot trial is an ordeal for even the greatest among us. It is not… unseemly… for some to be broken by it.”
I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t an ordeal; it was a death sentence. But here I am, not only breathing but glowing, which doesn’t seem to be a temporary condition. I guess you fucked up, huh?”
Morana’s eyes flicker to the marks along my arms and up my neck. “It definitely appears… permanent,” she says approvingly. “I suspect the court’s genealogists and mages are going to lose their minds as they re-document history now that you have been located.”
“I’d say I feel bad for them, but I really don’t,” I reply. “I’m sure someone, somewhere, kept a detailed record while they were busy erasing my existence over and over. Luckily for you, that’s sort of something I’m working on—not that I knew I was until today.”
That barb lands, and it ripples through the room. The shudders and sidelong looks as my comment tells the court how I was ‘lost’ and why make me smirk. The Vizier steps out from his shadow at the throne, and his smile is almost…proud?
Boy, this is a fucking weird day and I have miles to go yet.
He bows deeply, the effect purposefully theatrical. “Congratulations, Lady Morgenstern. Your performance in the trial was historic, and we are honored to welcome you back into the fold. The Midnight Court has not seen a full heir manifest in centuries, and certainly not with such… flourish.”
He doesn’t mean to be funny, but I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. “Thank you, Vizier. I’m delighted to be your cautionary tale for the next thousand years.”
Khol cackles, which causes a ripple of nervous laughter to run through the room. For a second, the tension almost breaks, but then the doors behind the thrones swing open with slow, measured force. It’s meant to be intimidating, but it fails.
I’m just not afraid of these shitheads anymore.
The King and Queen enter in tandem. He’s in a midnight-shaded suit with a high collar and silver chains, his face set in the grave neutrality of a man who’s eaten more than his share of shit. The Queen is paler than before, her lips almost bloodless, and her eyes flick between my guys as if unsure which is the bigger threat.
I notice she barely skims her eyes over me disdainfully and then returns to eye-balling my mates. Male-centered women always assume the biggest threat in the room needs to have a dick swinging between their legs, no matter how ‘feminist’ they pretend to be.
The usurpers take their seats with ritual precision designed to frustrate me. Once settled, the room’s air chills a few degrees as the Queen speaks first. “The Court recognizes Lady Fiadh Morgenstern, returned from the Worldroot and, as far as we can see, in full command of her faculties.”
It’s almost an insult, but not quite—super on brand for someone who knows their reign is coming to an end as the truth is revealed.
The King follows, his voice low but clear. “Let it be recorded that the bloodline of Morgenstern stands unbroken, and the House is restored to full status.”
He doesn’t look happy about it. He looks like a man who has lost a bet and now has to eat the results. That makes the Fae inside of me gleeful, and I have to softly remind myself not to gloat just yet. We need them to agree to our terms, and rubbing their nose in the inevitable prison term they’re going to serve won’t get me what I want.
I incline my head to the absolute minimum required by etiquette. “Thank you,” I say, then add, “I’m sure the Court will sleep easier now that the true heir is available.”
That starts a sharp rumble of panicked whispers among the courtiers. It’s the word ‘true’ that does it; nobody wants to say what happens to false heirs, but I know what they do to test the real ones. My thoughts of jail are probably a lighter sentence than their laws require.
The Queen’s knuckles turn white on the armrest, and I see Morana smile behind her hand. I turn to look at my men before I continue. Dezi gives me a subtle nod, and Khol’s tongue flickers over his fangs. Revelin looks like he wants to pull his phone out to record this, and I squint a bit to make sure he doesn’t do it. Tiernan is stoic as always, but his gaze says he’s here to support me, no matter what.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself internally. The room is ours for now because the power balance has shifted. Every person in this palace has to figure out, hastily, what it means to have me alive, Fae-marked, and unafraid.
Let them panic; I’m just getting started.
Thirty-Five
TIERNAN
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say every shadow in this throne room is engineered for maximum murder. Maybe that’s just how the Midnight Court prefers to build its ambiance, but I’ve spent my whole life tracking threat vectors—human, Fae, or otherwise—and this place is a masterpiece in the genre.
It will not defeat me, but it’s still impressive.
From my spot on the end of our semicircle, I scan every bit of the crowd I can see in the mirrors and in the periphery. The air shimmers with perfume, and a tang of sweetness that probably means half the room’s wearing glamours designed to disguise their genuine reactions. I can still read even the good ones—shocked, wide-eyed, genuinely unsettled by Fiadh’s return—but it’s the outliers I focus on. The ones who aren’t afraid, or worse, the ones who are hiding their excitement. The only thing more dangerous than a Fae courtier in fear, is one who’s betting on a bloodbath and has already wagered on the winner.
The King and Queen are as still as taxidermy in their seats, holding hands on the arms of their twin thrones. From where I stand, I can see the fine tremor in the Queen’s fingers. Her jaw clenches every few seconds—an involuntary tic she probably thinks is invisible behind her heavy makeup. King Cathán’s eyes flick from Fiadh to the crowd and back, and I have to respect the control it takes not to show a single emotion.
He’s the real threat, but I’d lay even odds he’s scared out of his mind, too.
