Page 28

The air is heavy with sandalwood and myrrh, layered beneath with the darker bite of belladonna and wolfsbane. The mingled scents dull the senses, sap resolve, and leave a languid pleasure that invites one to lower their guard.

It’s a subtle assault, wrapped in hospitality.

“The king honors us with such accommodations,” I say with careful acknowledgement.

Amalia steps ahead, hand on her weapon, and here in the Dark Spire, the spells braided into her hilt shimmer, a lure for the Dark fae. The courtier’s attention latches onto the blade, and he licks his lips with open hunger.

I was foolish to think Amalia would pass unnoticed. At home, she’s dismissed as a wildling. Here, among the Dark, her kind is valued as highly as any other fae.

“Fresh clothing awaits in the wardrobes,” offers another courtier, his skin flickering between blue and black. “Should you wish to attire yourselves in the custom of our court for tonight’s festivities.”

It’s an invitation to shed our own skins, to let the Dark Sithe remake us in their image.

I incline my head, neither agreeing nor refusing. “The King’s hospitality is generous.”

The courtiers withdraw with bows too fluid to be sincere, their movements sketching patterns in the air, invisible sigils lingering when I blink. A spell of listening, woven into their departure.

The door closes, the click of the latch bouncing off surfaces meant to swallow it.

I move to the mirrored doors, running my fingertips along the frame until I find the tiny indentations where listening spells pulse. I catch Thalindor’s eye and tap my ear, our centuries-old signal.

He checks the other likely points of surveillance while I turn to Amalia, who circles the room, fingers hovering over a table inlaid with mirror shards.

“Not just the mirrors,” I murmur for her ears alone. “The fruit bowls. The wine goblets. Even the air could carry our words.”

Her mouth tightens as she takes in the wine goblets set out to tempt us, the fruit arranged like star charts in an acknowledgment of our Celestial Court, and the flowers, their pollen glimmering in the air, laced with glamour.

Amalia notes the daggers set beside each seat, the lack of windows, and the mirrors angled to reflect nothing of the room itself.

“This sithe thrives on spectacle,” I tell her, quiet despite the privacy spell. “And on knowing things no one has told them. Do not give them more than you intend.”

Her eyes are clear and dark, shoulders tense, feet set with care. She may lack centuries of diplomatic training, but her instincts for survival are as sharp as mine.

Thalindor moves around the suite, checking behind tapestries, under furniture, his hands sensitive to magics imperceptible to most. He gestures toward a cluster of crystals suspended from the ceiling, their facets cut to catch and redirect sound.

I pace the room, activating the protective spells worked into my robes. The silver constellations on my sleeves glow, forming a sphere of privacy that distorts sound for any eavesdropper. It’s not perfect, but enough.

Thalindor removes his cloak, folds it into a crisp rectangle, and lays it across the threshold of the door, a simple but effective barrier to spells creeping along the floor.

He stations himself at the entrance, hand on his sword hilt. A warning to any who might enter unbidden.

“They want us to feel welcome,” Amalia says quietly, “but not safe.”

She has it right. That is the heart of the Dark Sithe, where comfort denies rest, luxury unsettles, and beauty hides danger.

“A successful hunt requires the prey to believe itself secure,” I say, my fingers drifting along the arm of a chair, though I do not sit. The fabric is slick as silk, but it leaves a faint residue on my skin, a tingling, subtle magic that lingers long after contact.

Amalia crosses the room in three decisive strides and throws back the covers of the grandiose bed.

“They think I’m your pet. Or your lover,” she says without a hint of embarrassment. “Or both.”

“They think you’re valuable to me, which means you’re valuable to them.” I move to join her, curiosity tugging at my words. “They will want to know how and why and use that as leverage.”

The admission costs me nothing, and the truth will earn her trust.

She weighs the truth of my words, finds both sincerity and manipulation, and accepts the contradiction as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Turning back to the bed, she peels off her glove and reaches for the bare sheets.

“Do not—” My warning comes too late.