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“I didn’t order this,” Fey said, staring at the drink.

“Vodka soda. From the gentleman,” he grunted in response. He nodded toward someone at the other end of the bar, but Fey didn’t bother to look. She thanked him, picked up the drink, and pointedly set it as far away from her on the bar top as possible.

“Come now, Alex,” someone at Lord Cyanean’s table was saying, but he was interrupted.

“The girl has the mere shadow of her mother’s strength,” Cyanean said, speaking over the other man. “My connections in the palace say she’s not even a true heir…”

Murmurs, some angry. Some intrigued. All dangerous, traitorous.

“He’s right. I’ve heard she can’t move Earth,” someone said, their voice quiet and frightened. “And in the others? Well… the Princess barely has the power to command three elements.”

A man appeared at Fey’s shoulder, tapping the bar in front of her. He stood over her, encroaching on her space, his presence demanding attention.

Well, well, well. This must be Mr. Vodka Soda.

“Hey,” the man said. He was blond and thick-shouldered, and to Fey he looked indistinguishable from every other soldier in the bar. Handsome, but with the undeserved swagger of someone used to getting what they want. “I saw you over here all alone and thought you could use some company.”

“Fuck off,” Fey answered, taking a sip of her drink.

He laughed. “It’s okay, I get it. The tough girl act. You’re a recruit, right?” When Fey didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge the question, he kept going. “I figured since I haven’t seen you here before.”

He sat, uninvited, at the bar next to her, but Fey wasn’t paying him any attention. Cyanean was still talking, and she tuned out the soldier to listen.

“What do you think the other Factions are going to do, when a Queen without all four powers takes over? When the line blessed by the Goddess herself finally breaks?”

“Come on, Alex, power isn’t the same as it was 300 years ago. Witches aren’t as strong as they used to be. Maybe it’s unreasonable to expect the line of the First Queen to be as strong as it once was, huh?”

Murmurs of agreement.

Murmurs of dissent.

“Do you have a sigil yet?”

Fey blinked. Vodka soda was still talking—hadn’t stopped talking, she realized.

“I do,” He answered himself, rolling up his sleeve and showing off the raised scar of a tattoo on his inner wrist. Fey recognized it immediately—the sigil for strength.

She did have the same sigil, on her wrist. Had four others, as well, tattooed up and down her arms. Only Dameon and the other Queen’s Blades were gifted so many and were allowed to hold so much power. Dameon, the Blades, and the Queen herself.

“I’m going to be a general,” Vodka-soda was saying, leaning towards her conspiratorially. “You don’t get your first sigil until you get promoted out of the lower ranks. But, hey, I know it’s tough when you’re first starting, so don’t stress, okay? I can help you out, you know, show you the ropes. I can be good for you, so good. If you’re good to me.” His hand hovered over her knee, as though trying to decide if he was going to touch her.

“I said fuck off,” Fey repeated, tuning him out and focusing on her assignation. He was like an annoying insect buzzing around her.

“The Queen could always have another heir,” someone at the table was saying.

“At her age?” A cruel laugh. “No, that well is tapped. We got two potential heirs, and if the rumors are true, neither was Goddess blessed with all four elements. “

Two heirs?

“How do you think the realm will take it when Amalia is crowned?” Cyanean was saying. “Even if they hide it, even if they keep everyone convinced she can control all four elements, do you think her children will carry all four? The royal line holds the crown because they are Goddess blessed. How do you think the Fallen will react to a Queen who can’t claim that blessing?”

“You’re beautiful, you know,” Vodka-soda said, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat from his alcohol-heavy breath on her cheek. “Your hair… I’ve never seen such a dark red before.”

He reached his hand up to touch her, and Fey’s temper snapped. She snatched his hand out of the air, squeezing his fingers painfully.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped, releasing his hand as quickly as she’d grabbed it. He hissed in pain and anger, but Fey was straining to hear the rest, straining to make out the other at the table. Could she recognize them later? Put a face and a name to the voices?

Vodka-soda’s face was twisted in rage, all that helpful sardonic pleasantry gone in an instant. “Look, I was just trying to be nice,” he snarled. He cradled his hand against his chest. “I’m offering to help you, okay? And don’t act so fucking innocent, you know what you’re doing, coming to a bar and peacocking like this. You’re practically begging for someone to come chat you up, but you don’t have to be such a bitch about?—”