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Dru snapped out of her trance as the ground jerked beneath her feet. She caught at Ash to steady herself. He smelled metallic, of blood and steel.

“Dru, we need to leave.” Ash seemed calm, strangely calm in Dru’s opinion, even though the royal blood of the Seelie Queen—his mother’s blood—was spattered across his face and clothes. “My mother said the throne is taken. We need to get to the throne room to see what she meant—”

“Nene,” she said numbly. “We need to bury Nene, or bless her as a warrior should be blessed. She died in battle.”

Ash winced. “Wait,” he said, and walked away from Dru, down to the riverbank where Nene lay, her eyes open, gazing at the cavern roof above. He dropped to his knees and, with great gentleness, laid his hand against her cheek. In a low voice, he said, “Fear not the night, my lady, for you are with the stars now.”

He took a shuddering breath and was back up on his feet in seconds. He jogged up the riverbank and caught hold of Dru’s hand, pulling her toward the exit. She followed reluctantly. There was almost nothing left of the queen now, only bones, which were themselves turning into moths.

As they walked, Ash spoke rapidly. “That shaking you felt underfoot? That was Seelie land responding to the death of a monarch. In moments, everyone will know that the Queen is dead. We must reach the throne room before they do.”

They were back in the familiar corridors of the Court. Away from the river, the smell of blood and moss, Dru’s head had started to clear. “But aren’t you going to inherit the throne anyway?” she demanded. “It can’t be decided on a foot race.”

“You’d be surprised. At the moment, I am not quite King; I have not claimed the throne. If someone were to challenge me before I do, it would mean a battle, a duel, to determine the winner. It would be a mess. And we want things simple.”

Dru suspected there was more to his urgency than just keeping things simple, but she said nothing. They were hurrying along the corridors, passing clusters of fey folk: some weeping, some dancing. Bonecrusher stood in the middle of a hallway, and Dru feared for a moment that he meant to stop them. But as they drew closer, she realized he was frozen in shock, staring straight ahead, his mouth hanging open so far that drool trailed from his lower lip. He didn’t seem to see Dru or Ash as they pelted past.

As they reached the throne room doors, Dru caught sight of a small crowd huddled in front of them. It was the Queen’s handmaidens. Most were sobbing; Dru saw Rathna, attempting to comfort a fire-haired pixie.

“Rathna!” she cried as they reached the group. “It’s all right, we’re here—”

Rathna looked up. She had been stroking the pixie’s hair, and Dru noticed that her right hand was wrapped in bandages. “He’s in there,” she said to Dru. “He’s in the throne room.”

Dru blinked. “What?”

“Who’s in the throne room?” Ash demanded.

To Dru’s surprise, Rathna flinched away at the question, shaking her head.

“You can wait here,” Ash told Dru. “I’ll go in—”

“No,” Dru said. “We are not wasting our time arguing about that. We’re going together,” and she stalked toward the doors, Ash muttering something about stubbornness as they both reached them and flung them open.

Inside, the space was almost deserted. Dru had heard from Jace and Clary, Emma and Julian, Mark and Cristina—well, everyone—about the changing beauty of the Queen’s throne room. Sometimes it looked like the depths of a forest, sometimes a snowy glade, sometimes a butterfly garden. But now, all those illusions were gone, as if a stage set had been stripped of all decorations. Dru was staring at a cavern of bare rock walls, a dirt floor pocked with roots and seedlings. And in the center of the room, a throne.

It sat upon a stone block with stairs leading up to it. The throne was gold, elegantly carved but simple, with a high back shaped like the upcurved wings of a swan. And it was not unoccupied.

On the throne sat Lord Byrne. He wore a mortal-style business suit in dark gray, and he was smoking a cigar. In his other hand was a ruby-hilted dagger, which he was casually flipping back and forth between his fingers.

“Your mother lies dead,” he said to Ash. “I am surprised, which is rare. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to do it.” He glanced down then, and Dru realized that she and Ash were still hand in hand. “Or maybe you weren’t the one…?”

Dru let go of Ash’s hand. “Ash killed the Queen,” she said, her nerves jangling.

Something about Byrne had changed. It wasn’t just that he looked different out of the clothes of Faerie. There was a cast to his face, the way he moved, even his speech. Something she knew.

Something that she had been trained to see.

Ash drew Phaesphoros in one smooth movement. The blade was patched with rusty stains. “Get off the throne, Byrne. If this is a joke, it is not amusing.”

Byrne laughed and kicked his legs like a gleeful child. “I don’t believe you know who you are talking to, little Prince.”

“An upstart,” Ash said. “A sycophant who shared confidences with my mother, and believes that has earned him privileges beyond his station.”

“No,” Dru whispered, hoping only Ash would hear it. “No, there’s something more.”

Byrne seemed to hear her, too. She bit off her words as he grinned, and slowly rose to his feet. It took him longer than Dru would have guessed—he was tall, taller than she’d remembered, and when he looked down at them, orange sparks burned in his eyes.

Sparks. And at that moment, Dru knew what he was, but it was already too late. Between one moment and the next, Byrne changed. It was far quicker than the removal of a glamour. This was something else, as if he had cast aside a mask. Now, behind the unremarkable face of Lord Byrne, she saw his true form, and it took all she had not to scream.