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“Huh.” She lifts a hand, fingers brushing the ear cuffs that hide her humanity. “What does Oberyn think of that?”

My focus cuts to her, sharper than I intend. “You are overly familiar with the Ruler of the Wild Wood.”

Her attention snags on a slimy puddle glowing a faint purple. She studies it too long before saying, “He propositioned me to be the consort for him and his knights. It lends to familiarity.”

I stiffen. So the Oberyn has set his sights on her. “And you turned down the offer of a crown?”

My question finally draws her attention from the puddle. She frowns. “Did Elionn not tell you?”

“My brother keeps me informed when necessary.”

“Huh.” This time the sound holds weight. “It seems you and the prince disagree on what qualifies as necessary.”

“It would seem,” I bite out, sharper than I intend.

Her lips part as if to share more, but she shakes her head and turns away, and I find that I do not like the loss of her attention.

I wait, knowing silence can draw more truth than questions.

At last, she says, “It was a bargain where all the gain was his. I don’t make such foolish deals.”

I study the line of her jaw. “That is not what you intended to say.”

Her attention cuts back to me. “We are not so familiar, King Theron, for you to presume upon my thoughts.”

She is right. And yet, she almost revealed more than she meant to. Whatever it was, I will have it in time, along with everything else she hides.

But her revelation fills me with unease.

The Oberyn saw enough in her to offer his court, and others may yet do the same.

Amalia is not Silver, not bound to my sithe by oath or blood. She carries Elionn’s stone, but does not have one of her own upon which to swear her intentions. What exists between us is a claim offered, not returned. If another king pressed his own, I would have no right to deny her the choice.

Ahead of us, the forest thins, giving our first view of the Dark Spire. It rises from the earth, black glass fused with obsidian to form a fortress that swallows light and twists the sky’s reflection into warped shapes.

Music drifts from beyond the walls, strange chords played on bone or glass, beautiful and broken. The sound scrapes across my senses, a reminder that in the Dark Sithe, nothing is ever in tune.

“We should expect a welcoming party,” I say, smoothing my robes with a practiced gesture. “Do not eat anything they offer unless you verify it with either Thalindor or me. Do not accept gifts. Do not draw the king’s interest.”

“I thought that thing about fae and food was a myth,” she mutters.

“Some of what they eat will give you hallucinations or act as aphrodisiacs,” I murmur. “They are indulgences here, but we cannot predict how they will affect you.”

“Got it.” She rolls her shoulders. “Good thing I’m well practiced at going hungry.”

The casual confession disturbs me, but now is not the time to indulge in inquiry. Not so close to the Dark King’s lair.

We approach the massive gates, which are a marriage of wrought iron and black glass. They stand open, with no soldiers to flank the entrance, and no weapons bristling from the walls.

This lack of obvious defense speaks volumes. The Dark Sithe needs no visible protection because only the foolish would step inside.

Movement stirs in the trees, and Thalindor’s hand drops to the pommel of his sword. Amalia mirrors him, gripping her dagger’s hilt, both moving to guard me as if they’ve fought together before.

Courtiers slip barefoot onto the moss, black liquid oozing between their toes, a faint purple glow tracing their passage. Silks that catch no light cling to their forms, their colors shifting at the edge of sight. Their skin ranges from pale to midnight blue to the deepest violet, some tones so ordinary they might pass unnoticed on the human plane, while others are unmistakably fae.

Their faces never quite hold still, features sliding in ways that make the eye doubt itself. One wears a crown of shattered mirror shards, another’s irises change with every blink, and a third’s talon-like nails glint with tiny moving scenes.

They circle in a loose ring, never quite closing, movements liquid and unhurried.