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I dislike his choice of words. Wildling is the lie we gave him, deliberately broad and beholden to no court. Darkling turns that lie into a claim of allegiance, one Amalia has never sworn and the Dark fae has no right to presume.

His interest, as does Nyctarian’s, settles on her with an intensity I dislike.

The fight leaves Amalia, but not the fury. It still burns through her, pricking at my senses. At her wrist, the sithean stone pulses, no longer entirely Silver.

Color moves through it in an oily shimmer, there and gone before I can name any single hue.

I release her wrist and catch her chin, turning her toward me.

“Silver King?”

My breath stops.

Through the fae glamour cast upon her human features, I see what no one else in this chamber can. One eye remains the dark brown I remember, but the other…

I stare into an opalescent orb that shifts through colors no living creature should possess.

Not an iris of flesh and blood, but a crystalline window through which I catch glimpses of an ancient realm paused on the brink of dying. The eye of the Opal Court itself, watching me through this fae-touched witch.

“Amalia Wolf,” I breathe, unable to mask my horror, “what have you done?”

Her trembling intensifies, yet she holds herself straight, chin lifting with the stubborn pride that first drew my attention to this strange human hunter. “What you brought me here to do.”

I cannot deny the accusation. I did sanction this mission. I allowed Caelan to drag her back across the veil, and then I coerced her into finding my brother with no true understanding of the danger.

My thumb shifts along her jaw. “Amalia⁠—”

“I found him.” Her throat works. “I freed him.”

Tears well, rainbows catching on her lashes.

“And Kelaros put him back.” Her composure fractures. “He traded Elionn for me.”

Behind her, Kelaros shifts toward us, avarice in the way he stares at Amalia.

“So,” the Dark King says softly.

Kelaros stills.

I turn enough to find Nyctarian studying his returned healer. “What precisely did you bring back for us, Kelaros, to make all of this disruption worthwhile?”

Kelaros bows. “Knowledge, Your Majesty. As promised.”

“Then I am eager to hear every detail.”

“Of course.” His attention returns to Amalia. “The darkling should be examined. Her condition may be relevant to my report.”

“Touch me and we’ll see if you can grow back a hand,” Amalia hisses through clenched teeth.

One black brow lifts in disdain. “Was not one murder attempt enough?”

“Apparently not.” Her fingers twitch toward her knives.

“I need to speak with my agent,” I tell Nyctarian, my hand catching and holding Amalia’s hand. “Before we continue our negotiations.”

Nyctarian considers the request. “There is still the matter of her stabbing my healer.”

“Your healer is doing just fine.” I cup Amalia’s cheek. “And this wildling is under my protection.”