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“Because time grows short.” The truth emerges before I can consider its wisdom. “And I may never have another chance.”

Her hold on me tightens. “Don’t speak of last chances, Silver King. It invites ill fortune.”

“Theron,” I correct her. “When we are alone, I would hear only my name from your lips.”

A thread of warmth enters her voice. “Theron.”

I step back, breaking the intimacy long enough for reason to return. Moving to the door, I open it to find Thalindor waiting where I left him, his composure impeccable even as he takes note of the flush still warming my cheeks.

“Enter,” I command.

He follows me into the chamber, his eyes flicking to Amalia, followed by a silent question directed toward me that I do not acknowledge.

“Tell us everything,” I instruct her, gesturing for all three of us to sit at the small table in the center of the room. “Every detail, every weakness you discovered, every path that might lead us to my brother.”

Thalindor stiffens. “Us, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” My decision crystallizes, as clear and immutable as the Opal in my witch’s eyes. “I will be going with Amalia this time.”

“Your Majesty, you cannot—” Thalindor begins.

“I tire of you telling me what I cannot do.” I summon the authority honed through centuries of command. “My brother is trapped in a dying court that seeks to consume him. I will not ask others to brave what I lack the courage to confront myself.”

Thalindor wisely closes his mouth.

Amalia does not. “The Silver Sithe needs its king.”

“And I need my brother.” I hold firm. “Besides, Elionn may be too weak when you find him again to open the mirrorways. You will need me.”

“What if the court destroyed the last of the mirrors?” she asks. “It learns from its mistakes.”

“Then we will bring our own reflection.” I spread my hands on the table, palms down, a gesture of finality. “Now, tell us what we should prepare for.”

Her crystal eyes catch the light as she begins to speak, and I see in them reflections of an ancient power that should have died long ago. The Opal Court waits for us, hungry and patient, with my brother at its heart.

And I, who have never sought battle when diplomacy might serve, find myself preparing for war.

27

FAMILY OF BLOOD AND LIES

AMALIA

The double doors to Nyctarian’s meeting hall swing open before us, releasing a wave of cool air that carries mountain stone and damp earth.

I square my shoulders and match Theron’s measured stride across the threshold, though my heart hammers.

Kelaros is among the courtiers gathered along one side of the chamber, some seated while others stand, and his presence ignites my blood all over again.

Our footsteps echo across black marble polished to a dark sheen. Mirrors cover the walls and ceiling, catching our reflections and throwing them back from every direction until Theron and I become an endless procession marching toward Nyctarian’s obsidian throne.

Was the hall this unsettling yesterday?

I was too distracted while I was stabbing Kelaros to notice.

Light fractures between the mirrors, scattering prismatic shards through the twilit chamber and across the gathered fae lining the walls. Every reflection multiplies as the watchers turn our way until the Dark King’s dozens become hundreds surrounding us in glass.

“Remember your promise,” Theron murmurs through almost motionless lips.