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Remy noted one guard wore the crest of the Northern court: a sword crossed with three arrows and a snake coiled around the point where the weaponry intersected. The other guard wore the crest of the Western court: a horizontal battle axe with a ram’s skull over it. They must be the personal guards of the players inside, just as Carys dressed as Hale’s soldier. Technically, the Twin Eagles and Carys were his personal warriors, but Remy had never considered them as such.

As if noticing her thoughts, Carys whispered to Remy, “Guards and weapons have to stay outside.”

“The prince’s witch,” Carys said to the other guards, tilting her head at Remy. Without missing a stride, she pushed open the door for Remy between the two enormous males.

Remy said a silent prayer to Mother Moon as she lifted her chin and strode into the room like a queen holding court. The room was smaller and cruder than she expected. Wallpaper peeled off the walls. The floorboards were uneven. The heavy scent of cigar smoke and heady floral perfume hung in the air. One single, golden lantern hung high above a large card table that took up the entire room.

Seven sets of eyes stared back at Remy. The action of the room skidded to a halt to assess her. The widest eyes were those of Hale. His mouth opened as he scanned her from head to toe. That look made Remy feel like she was the moon in the sky. A tiny flicker inside her hoped that his yearning expression was more than just an act. Remy held his eyes like it was common to glory in those looks from him.

“You called for me?” she said in that sultry bedroom voice she had heard used through the taverns. A madam had never trained her in the art of seduction, but she had watched many a courtesan hone their craft. It was her turn to try her hand at it.

She sauntered over to Hale, making sure her hips swayed. The prince gave her a pleased, predatory grin. Remy perched herself on his lap, placing her arm around his neck. Hale’s warm hand wrapped around her as she surveyed the table for the first time.

Coins, papers, and even a few precious gems littered the table: bets. And in the very center, beyond the reach of any player, was a simple golden ring with a small ruby embedded into the band. There was nothing special looking about the ring, but even with the wardings, Remy felt the ring’s power shuddering out of it in a low hum only Remy seemed to hear.

The Shil-de ring. It was real. It was here.

“You’ve only begun playing and you’ve already lost this much.” Remy laughed in a light, teasing way at Hale. His thumb circled her bare skin in carefree touches. “Looks like you need a witch’s luck.”

“This room is warded against your witch’s luck.”

Remy’s attention snapped to her left. A female fae sat beside them. She had obsidian skin and glowing mahogany eyes. She wore a high-necked gown in a cornflower blue and yellow geometric patterns that showed off her generous curves, ample bosom, and plump belly. She braided her hair up on top of her head, held in place by a golden, diamond-encrusted clip. She dripped in jewelry, every part of her shining with golden light. She must be Abalina Thorne, Princess of the Western Court.

To her left sat a broad-shouldered female with copper brown skin and dark brown eyes. She styled her hair in short corkscrew curls adorned with golden rings, modest but matching Princess Abalina. The female held her cards like a weapon. This was the Princess’ cousin, Delta. The one Bri had been so excited about. Remy understood why. Delta was equally beautiful and handsome. Her strong muscled body could not be hidden under her long-sleeved blue tunic.

Upon a wooden stool wedged into the darkened back corner sat the Heir of Saxbridge. Neelo hunched over a thick book, a different one from the day before. This one had a dragon breathing orange flames on the cover. This was how the Heir of Saxbridge hosted an event. Queen Emberspear was renowned for her lavish parties and revels that lasted days on end. What huge shoes to fill for a quiet, reclusive person. But here Neelo sat, upholding the traditions of the Southern Court, albeit begrudgingly, with a bunch of their royal peers. The Heir looked sideways at Remy, giving her a quick once-over, the only acknowledgement Remy got before Neelo once again pored over the book in their hands.

Remy’s lips twitched at the heir’s response. She looked back at the Western Princess and forced an air of indifference, as though being the Eastern Prince’s witch was equal to being the Princess herself. Remy carefully constructed her mask so they would think her an arrogant, lustful fool: the type of woman who was given the least credit for any sort of crime.

“I am not here for magic,” Remy said, turning her gaze from the princess and back to Hale.

She caressed his neck, threading her fingers through his wavy, brown hair. Pulling his head to hers, she placed a kiss on his neck below his ear. She got a deep whiff of his heady scent that smelled like the salty sea air. It was intoxicating. As she pulled herself away, she found the prince staring at her with a burning, breathless look. His eyes told her he intended to finish what she had started. But he loosed his grip with the hand that had drifted to her hip, allowing her to turn to the princess and say, “I’m only here for moral support.”

A snort came from across the table, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Remy looked to a smirking fae male across the table. He took a long swig from his glass, smiling at her over the rim. His hair was white-blond, glinted with streaks of silver, such a stark juxtaposition to his golden sand skin. His eyes were so light blue they almost disappeared into the whites of his eyes. He looked eerily beautiful. She had never seen anyone look like him. An angry scar snaked from under his jaw to beneath his forest green tunic. This must be Bern. For all his strangeness, he had no menace in him, seeming more like a jolly drunk. “I should really get myself a witch if they all look like you, my dear,” he said with a wink.

“Only royals are permitted witches, Bern.” The sharp voice of the fifth player pulled Remy’s gaze to him at last. She had been avoiding his looks.

Renwick Vostemur, Prince of the Northern Court. The Witchslayer.

He had long, ash-blond hair and pale white skin, his face ruddy from drink. A silver circlet haloed his head, matching the silver rings covering his fingers. There was no kindness in those green eyes as he shifted from Bern to Remy. This was the son of the man who had slaughtered her entire family, her entire Court. The smoke still burned her nose even now; the screams still ringing in her ear.

She wanted to hold her breath, but that light squeeze of a hand on her hip reminded her who she was meant to be. As if sensing her fear, Hale shifted his head, brushing his lips up her neck and planting a kiss on the shell of her ear. Remy shuddered, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. All the fear and those haunted memories pushed into the background as every cell in her body tuned into those lips on her ear. Hale’s fiery breath skimmed across her face. When the prince pulled his head away, Remy felt heavy with desire. She wished every player would get out of this room so that she could finish that kiss.

The Northern Prince’s voice brought her back to her body.

“What kind of witch are you?” He asked in a cold, even timbre.

Remy leveled the Witchslayer with a look even as her heart pounded. “You know what kind of witch I am.” She did not know that warm, sultry voice that came out of her. Her eyes would glow red if not for the wardings on the room.

The cold prince’s lips tilted up at her, though the smile did not meet his eyes.

He looked to Hale, “She’s a good one, well-picked.”

Remy didn’t know what to do with that kind of praise. What did it mean to have the approval of an evil man?

“Can we please get back to this game?” Delta said in a raspy, caustic brogue from across the table. “Are you in or out Bern?”

“Err, out,” Bern said, throwing down his cards. A stack of coins tumbled over as he moved.