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Two members of lesser noble houses based in the east, bannerfae to House Ithamai. Father continued to rattle off names, ending in five matches, and finally the tension in my shoulders eased. The crowd clapped for the newly betrothed.

Father named no Sacred Eight, none of my friends—no one who had witnessed my wedding to Neve. The matched couples even looked pleased.

Father too. No doubt those matches would benefit our house, though I wasn’t sure how, but Father always had a plan.

“Now,” the king proclaimed, lifting his glass. “Let the play begin.”

Chapter 22

NEVE

On the stage, the actors raced and whirled and swung their fake weapons. Occasionally, false blood sprayed, and someone fell. All of this was, somehow, still done in time with the orchestra despite the scene depicting the sheer chaos of the White Bear’s Rebellion.

Before coming to this kingdom, I’d never given much thought to the rebellion. Now, though, the signs of it were everywhere. The White Bear’s Rebellion had restructured the kingdom in ways the fae of Winter’s Realm hadn’t seen since Queen Sassa Falk unified all the high lords and ladies. She gathered the many kingdoms and queendoms of Winter’s Realm, all under her banner—the Falk banner.

The events playing out before me only solidified the rebellion’s importance.

Two greater houses, gone from this world. Villages and smaller cities leveled. A king fell, a king rose, and thefabric of the kingdom tore and knitted back together with royal blue and gold threads.

But this play didn’t just tell the story of House Aaberg, of how the White Bear, King Magnus, brought together many noble houses and obliterated the Cold King Harald Falk. No, it focused on the people of Winter.

I’d wondered about my own losses, the family I might have had once upon a time, and this play made it clear I was far from the only one who had lost loved ones.

In the center of the stage, Avalina Truso played a mother kneeling over her lost son. A son who had fought for the White Bear and died for him. The mother was the narrator in the story, the voice of the commonfae, and I could see why Avalina had been cast. Why the queen and Saga favored her.

The dryad possessed a presence that none gracing the stage could match. Even as the play drew to a close and the chaotic final battle of the White Bear’s forces whirled and fought around Avalina, I couldn’t tear my eyes off her.

“Burning moon, she’s too good,” Saga whispered, her voice tight as tears ran down her pale cheeks. Was she moved by the truth of the performance or merely the performance itself?

Vale, unlike his sister, had been relatively silent for most of the play, sometimes leaning closer to me, whispering historical additions to scenes.

Still, quiet as he was, emotion rippled across his handsome features. He’d been too young to fight in the rebellion, but he’d been in battle since. How many mothers hadhe seen kneeling over their loved ones? Mourning the losses of their children?

My questions dissolved as the music below swelled, stealing the very air from the room as the soldiers on stage cleared out. Only Avalina and the actors portraying the White Bear and King Harald Falk remained. They fought one-on-one, two white-haired warriors, covered in fake blood, fighting for their lives and circling the distraught mother.

Avalina Truso didn’t seem to notice the males. She continued to wail, to cry over her son’s body. The long white dress she wore, stained with red from the fake blood that had flown off prop weapons, only added to the chills rushing through me.

Then, in perfect timing with the epic music, the White Bear stabbed the Cold King, and as King Harald fell, the music dimmed too.

One would have expected the actor playing King Magnus to stand over the fallen king, to proclaim his right to rule. Perhaps for the lords and ladies who had supported him to appear from the sides and kneel.

There should have been pomp. There should have been a celebration for ending a cruel tyrant. A king who, by all accounts, had turned on his own people during the end of his rule. Instead, the faelights blinked out and the White Bear left the stage. The fallen body of King Harald remained.

As did Avalina Truso and her dead son.

The music played on, soft now, haunting, and as Avalina’s wails died out, I held my breath.

The dryad was silent for a moment, her gaze still on her son, her body trembling. I leaned forward, as did a hundred others. We waited for her to speak, to rise and follow the king, to doanythingbut kneel over her son’s body.

So when Avalina raised her tear-streaked face, she had everyone’s attention. With a haunted expression, she stared out at the crowd and opened her mouth. The orchestra stopped playing just as her song filled the room.

“We love our land. Our people. The frost and snow and ice and storm of Winter’s embrace.” Avalina’s voice was clear and bright, yet also contained depths I’d never heard. She had to have been gifted such a voice by the dead gods. It was simply that lovely.

And it was not only her voice that held us enthralled, but her words, which were spoken not in the common tongue, but in High Fae. A shiver ran down my spine at the ancient language, one that Yvette, the human woman who had acted as my mother, had learned through books. This was the language of my ancestry, taught to me by a gracious and brilliant human. Understanding it required me to perform clunky mental translations and yet, the language still struck my heart. I fell a sentence or two behind in Avalina’s song, but the words didn’t fail to move me. They were simply so much more poetic than the common tongue.

“But our land and people are dying a true death. A final death.”

“We must rise.”As she sang,Avalina Truso rose and swept in a circle around the stage, gesturing gracefully to the depiction of Winter’s Realm. To where the fallen hadlain not long ago and where pools of fake blood still stained the wooden planks of the stage.