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And she nearly lost her breath.

It wasn’t the impressive battle-black scaled leather armor, nor the way every step of his pure white horse perfectly complimented his incredible authority. It wasn’t even the power rippling from his sheer presence.

But his eyes …

The way the shadows from his hood swirled in them.

A night-dark cloak draped over his broad shoulders, adorned with an incredible silver clasp that mirrored the glow in his eyes. Formed in the shape of a dragon’s roaring head, it rested to the front of his left shoulder, securing the cloak around his neck. And peaking beneath that cloak, fine wisps of matted, obsidian flourishes covered his armor. Connecting in the middle of his chiseled chest.

A flash of red tore her awareness from him.

In tight formation, three riders trailing close behind were decorated much the same. Only, upon closer inspection, their only recognizable difference was the bright crimson cloaks fashioned around their necks and hoods over their heads.

An icy chill shattered through Alora’s entire body.

The intensity in the stranger’s gaze … it no longer speared the western city gates.

To her horror, that cold attention had drifted.

And now stared at her. Burning shards of ice directly into her eyes.

Her jaw clenched so tight it trembled. There was a moment where she could have run. Long before they had crested the top of the hill. Too slowly, she realized that. And now, there would be nowhere to escape. Not with them on horseback and her aching legs being her only hope.

But the stranger didn’t withdraw his gaze. Not even as they passed by her in the meadow. His muscles rippled with the seemingly effortless movement of shifting in the saddle to peer over his shoulder. The darkened cloak outlined his face, enough that his colorless eyes pierced her. And those eyes never once left their target—her—not until they reached the western gates and disappeared into the city.

Telldaira’s northern streets were crowded in preparation for the Candlelighting: a festival in remembrance of the late High Queen of Elysian, Airathel.

Not much had changed since the first mourning. Zyllyryon’s Queen of Mist and Sea, who was tragically lost nearly sixty years passed, was remembered by pearl-petal flowers. Shaped like a crashing wave, they were draped in lush garlands high abovethe streets and connected to every flaming street torch. In every windowsill, luxuriant vases filled with the same flower were full and lush and beautiful.

Even after all these years, Alora still marveled at every step down the streets. Banners with the High Queen’s likeness fluttered in a warm breeze. Each one a perfect depiction of her kind spirit and generosity. The love for her people gleamed in the brush strokes of teal eyes beaming with flecks of glistening turquoise. With a beauty of no comparison, the envy of golden waves, bright as the sun, curled in long, luscious tendrils around porcelain shoulders adorned in sea-blue lace and silk, gracefully carrying the golden crown molded like waves on her head. A true jewel lost too soon, leaving an entire world to suffer for it.

The entire kingdom, Alora was told, celebrated in such ways. Though she’d never traveled out of Telldaira during the festival to know if it was true. On the anniversary of the High Queen’s passing, the pristine streets of the city would flood with the petals while pyres of sea-green smoke would rise to the night sky. Wishing for another year of bliss in the Stars Eternal and condolences for the life lost.

Alora would sit on the highest hill of Kaine’s estate and gaze out into the distance, searching for the smoke of nearby towns and cities filling the sky.

Tonight, the pyres would be lit. The street would fill with pearlsea petals. And Alora would be stuck inside a filthy tavern stenching of ale and male odor.

At least it was better than being at the manor.The tavern was one of her places of refuge. She was free from Kaine, who would never again step a polished boot inside the threshold, surrounded by faeries to keep her lonely mind occupied. A form of freedom, unshackled from the overpriced prison of finery and luxury, and the only last connection to her old life. This made it even more surprising when Kaine, in recent years, purchased theestablishment and allowed her to continue waiting tables. The betrothed of a lord—Telldaira’s lord—working a lowly job such as this? It was scandalous. But despite her disbelief, it quickly became clear that even if she wished to quit, he would never grant it.

It was quite simple.

The males who visited the tables were all the ilk who were easily influenced and manipulated, to which Kaine could use for his benefit without dirtying his …flawlesscharacter and expensive attire. Some were wealthy business owners, others of small mind, but all had easy pockets to be filled in exchange for services Kaine would never befoul himself with. Best to let the swine bathe with swine.

Luckily, tonight, none of thoseswinewere visiting the tavern. None that she recognized. Any one of those on Kaine’s payroll would loosen their lips about her presence for a payout. But if she had any hope of securing extra coin to aid her escape, tonight would be the last opportunity.

High Queen Airathel’s Candlelighting offered more patrons than most nights of the year. Which is why when Alora pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, she held a charming smile across her face and intended to flutter her eyelashes like any clever barmaid.

“He’s back, Emeline.” Alora dropped her illusive grin with a throaty groan. She walked across the kitchen floor, feeling her obsidian dagger shifting inside her boot, settling three empty tankards in the sink, before twisting, and leaning against the counter with arms crossed.

Emeline, a young and petite golden-haired High Fae, weathered Alora’s side-eye, preparing a simple plate of assorted, thinly sliced meats and an array of crumbled cheeses.

Alora couldn’t help but brush her palm along her tunic, wrinkling the fabric as her stomach announced an annoying beatof hunger. Before long, she glimpsed the street glowing with dusk’s falling golden rays outside the small window above the sink.

“Brassard?” Emeline abandoned the plate, filling two tankards with ale from the wooden cask.

Alora nodded. “He reeks as if he’s been drinking since first light. I have a feeling a fight may erupt tonight.”

“Perhaps a song would lighten the mood? Shall you sing for us tonight, like old times?” Emeline’s smile widened as her eyes glistened with excitement, handing Alora two tankards before strutting toward the door with the tray of food, her amethyst dress fluttering with each step.