Page 95 of A Court of Wings and Shadows

The courier flinched, eyes darting between them before he finally spoke.

“To maintain the princes’ political influence. To deepen the kingdom’s division.”

Zander’s flames roared higher. “Which prince?”

The courier blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “All of them,” he admitted. “Including you. Anyone but the current king.”

My voice slipped out in the heavy silence. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. “They never say why. Only what. But the unsanctioned infiltration of theisle?” He glanced at the sealed note still clutched in his trembling hand. “That would sow more discord. Discredit the king. Deepen the cracks between the heirs.”

“He read the message?” I asked.

“He has too. The Blood Fae wouldn’t want him to deliver a message that was of no use to them. Not all correspondence is political.”

I turned back to the courier. “You’re saying,” I said slowly, every word tasting like ash, “that the Blood Fae are manipulating the throne of Warriath?”

The courier nodded once, sharply.

“Yes. They always have.”

A long silence settled between us like dust after a collapse.

Remy glanced over at Zander, his voice low but hollowed by the truth that had just been spoken aloud.

“And all the princes,” he said, “are pawns.”

Chapter

Twenty-One

Riven shook me awake, her palm lightly tapping my shoulder with far more amusement than urgency.

“Damn, this is becoming a habit,” she said with a half-laugh, stepping back as I groaned and blinked blearily into the soft morning light bleeding through the barracks window. “I was asleep when you hit the sack. It must’ve been late.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed at my eyes and swung my legs over the side of the bed, my joints stiff, my mind still half-entrenched in the echo of flames and secrets.

I washed up quickly and dressed in silence, strapping my flight armor into place with mechanical precision. Riven waited by the door, already lacing her boots, her fire-red braid catching the light like embers.

We made our way toward the dining hall, the scent of spiced meats and toasted bread wafting out into the corridor. But just as we neared the wide stone arch, a man brushed past us. His robes marked him as a warder, green-gray with faint runes stitched into the hem.

He didn’t meet my gaze, but his hand reached out and slipped something into mine.

I froze.

He didn’t look back. Just kept walking.

I glanced down.

A small folded note, sealed with wax, an unmistakable emblem embedded into the press.

The Order of Thorn.

My pulse quickened.

Stay vigilant,the note inside read.

No signature. No name. But I knew the handwriting. The slant of the letters. The shape of the “V.”