Page 90

I take stock of the gathered courtiers. For every two pure fae, I count a wildling. How long before the balance tips, and we are outnumbered?

“The more we struggle to remain as we were, the more we die off,” the Dark King muses. “What was the point of closing the veil, if we were destined for this slow death regardless? Those who stayed behind knew this would happen to us, but our arrogance has us clinging to a path that has proven false.”

I cut him a sharp look. “You’re skirting close to heresy.”

“What will they do?” he asks with a mocking lilt. “Destroy my sithe?”

“They could bind your powers, as they did to the Gold King,” I hiss, uncomfortable to be speaking so directly among listening ears, “and wait for another to take your place.”

Nyctarian sighs and rests his head back on his throne. “Do you not ever grow weary, Brother-King?”

Now, concern fills me. It is not unheard of for the long-lived races to grow tired of existence. The same fate had befallen my father. But Nyctarian is only a few hundred years old. Surely it is too soon to worry.

“Perhaps we might—” I begin, but stop as the air shifts, a current running through the chamber.

My skin prickles with recognition of Silver magic. Behind me, one of the great, mirrored walls begins to ripple, its surface disturbed like water touched by wind.

Every head turns as conversation halts.

“What trickery is this, Silver King?” Nyctarian rises from his throne, one hand raised as his guards step forward with weapons half-drawn.

“Not mine.” I stand as well, attention fixed on the mirror, hope surging through me.

Could it be Elionn, finding his way back to us?

The mirror bulges outward, a silver bubble stretching into the room. Light dances across its distended surface, refracting through the hall in prismatic bursts. The magic builds, pressure mounting in the chamber until my ears pop with it.

Then, with the sound of a thousand goblets shattering at once, the mirror explodes.

I throw up an arm to shield myself as crystal shards spray outward. The sound of tinkling glass fills the silence of the room, and when I lower it, two figures lie sprawled upon the floor, surrounded by glittering crystal debris.

Recognition slams through me. Amalia. Her wild black hair spills across the marble, her body half-covered by the male fae who grips her arm with bruising force.

Relief floods through me at the sight of her alive before it’s crushed beneath the realization that Elionn is not with her.

Amalia struggles beneath her pale captor, her face a mask of fury.

My muscles coil, every instinct demanding I go to her, demand answers, protect what is mine by royal decree and personal choice. I force myself to remain still, though, hands rigid on my thighs.

As much as her return has brought breath back into my body, a king cannot rush. A king cannot show alarm. Not here, surrounded by enemies who watch for any sign of weakness.

The male fae rises with unnatural grace, ignoring the blood that drips from a cut on his temple as he draws Amalia onto her knees at his feet. His tattered coat hangs in strips around his lean frame, yet he brushes crystal dust from his sleeves as if attending a court function rather than crashing through a mirror.

“Kelaros Nyt’Fall.” Nyctarian grips the arm of his throne. “What a surprise.”

The newcomer straightens, offering a bow that manages to be both proper and insolent. “Your Majesty. Forgive the dramatic entrance. Our way back was impeded by…a disagreement.”

Whispers ripple through the courtiers. The name means nothing to me, but the reaction it provokes speaks volumes. This Kelaros holds significance here, and the way Amalia glares at him with murderous intent tells me everything I need to know about his character.

Nyctarian descends the three steps of his dais, moving closer to the pair. “You were thought lost.”

“Not lost. Only delayed.” Kelaros releases Amalia’s arm at last, his attention fixed on his king. “I bring news of my research, and⁠—”

A raw scream tears from Amalia’s throat, a primal fury unlike any sound heard in my centuries of rule.

She explodes from her kneeling position in a blur of tattered silk and wild black hair. Her hand flashes upward, light catching on her blade a heartbeat before she drives it into Kelaros’s chest with a wet crunch that silences every whisper in the hall.

Kelaros staggers backward, shock fracturing his calm as blood blooms across his shirt in a dark stain, spreading with alarming speed. His lips part, but no sound emerges, only a thin trickle of crimson that spills over his chin.